Chicanonautica: Apocalyptic Independence Daze

by Ernest Hogan

Not many signs of the apocalyptic holiday as we drove up. Only one flag along the I-17. A modest sprinkling of them in Sedona. And we were still free enough to have tacos on the 4th of July.

From our hotel balcony, we watched the clouds change color on the Red Rock Mountains as dragonflies and bats flitted by.

The night was quiet. No fireworks. No manifestations of a deranged election. Just what we needed as Phoenix cooks in the killer heat.

The next morning I looked at photos and videos that my family texted me from California.

On our way to the Coffee Pot for breakfast, a coyote dashed across the road. Emily saved its life with horn honk. I had huevos rancheros. MuyAmericano.

The streets were empty, quiet. Everybody was still asleep. What do they do here for the 4th?

At a Goodwill, I found a copy of Man and Impact in the Americas by “veteran space reporter” E.P. Grondine about “the effects of asteroid and comet impacts on preColombian cultures, including the Maya, with “eyewitness accounts” of Hopewell societies and the Mississipians. Like someone left it there for me. Again.

We did a quick hike along Midgley Bridge until it got too hot, then cruised Oak Creek Canyon.

What a beautiful country. Too bad all these assholes want to convert it all into liquid assets. Assets for assholes. What ya gonna buy when the planet's gone?

Once again, the Sedona political signs were names, smiling faces–and female!--and Wild West iconography.

We approached Cottonwood, ZIPPERMAN, CONSTITUTIONAL CONSERVATIVE country. On the road to Jerome a brand-new house flew the traditional stars and stripes and the black, white, and blue fascist version underneath.

In Prescott, the World’s Oldest Rodeo was still going on, Whiskey Row was a mob scene with flags, but not as much as it’s been in the past. There was no parking, so instead of having lunch there, we went to Bill’s Grill and had burgers.

As we left, there was a LET’S GO BRANDON sticker on a pickup. All the political signs were local. One candidate declared TRUMP APPOINTED in small letters.

There was one Kari Lake sign. Kari who?

Gigantic flags did look majestic billowing in the wind.

At the newly remodeled Sunset Point Rest Area there was a poster reminding us what to do in case of a disaster. 

It got hotter as we returned to Phoenix. No sign of asteroids or comets. Or Maya or Hopewells or Mississippians. No hints about the future, either.

Ernest Hogan is the Father of Chicano Science Fiction. Read his Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song while it’s still legal. In October, he will be teaching his “Gonzo Science Fiction,Chicano Style” online at the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop—apply now!