Chicanonautica: Election Flashes on the Road

by Ernest Hogan

Of course, on a vacation you’re supposed to get away from it all, but I rarely end up succeeding. I am a writer, and the road trips I indulge in with my wife and her brother Mike always have an element of research in them. 

More than one writer has told me that writing is just an excuse for research. 

And when the world is in all kinds of turmoil, like an election going on—even one that isn’t spilling out into the streets like this one—the weird shit, that is the stuff of art and drama manifests, often in your face.

It can be unpleasant, but it can trigger inspiration. 

Call me perverse, but it’s my idea of a good time.

We found out about the second assassination attempt while leaving Filmore, California. Emily read us a news story off her phone. We got gory details of the Israeli/Hezbollah pager bombings in a thrift store in Garberville, CA.Then there was Hurricane Helena devouring the South like the ultimate kaiju–and I didn’t find out about the weather-control conspiracy theory until later. Batshit craziness fills the air. There is no escape.  

My trip notes are sprinkled with such things . . .

The election would manifest now and then.  

Like the donut shop woman who responded to one of Mike's quips about Trump with a defense of the man’s predatory sexuality. Pobrecito, all those awful women who don’t have the decency to just say no. His life must be a living hell . . . (Snicker-snicker . . .)

Occasional signs and bumper stickers. A Harris sign on a Buddha statue in Santa Barbara. In rural areas Trump signs popped up. Then there was a house flying the Confederate flag and a Trump flag, and a Harris flag . . .

Another Confederate, on a pickup truck, passed us when we reached Brookings, Oregon. Not very South . . .

In Bandon, OR, a thrift store attached to a deli that offered “artisan” sandwiches had come to hard times since we visited last year. The deli was boarded up. The giant JOE BIDEN SUCKS sign was still in place, but the store was going out of business, too. Everything was $1. Lots of LET’S GO BRANDON and other Trump paraphernalia were gathering dust. All books were free.

Back on the 101, I saw a TRUMP/VANCE placard, but no real enthusiasm for the election.

I thought a TRUST JESUS sign said TRUMP JESUS before my eyes properly focused. 

A sign with the photo of bloody-eared Trump and a FIGHT! FIGHT! FIGHT! headline stood in the countryside along with a faded LET’S GO BRANDON flag.

This was as we were heading north to Washington, where we saw SAVE OUR DEMOCRACY–VOTE HARRIS/WALZ, along with Trump signs. 

As we zigzagged along the jagged coastline, there was strawberry roadkill, bikini espresso with cannabis on the side -- or was it the main course? On San Juan Island, I overheard people bitching about how there isn’t a state where you can go and get a good job and buy the American Dream anymore. Maybe they’ll just go to Mars with Elon Musk. Why not? The first vehicle off the ferry we got on was a Cybertruck.

Will cannabis be legal on Mars?

Even up near the Canadian border, Mexican restaurants are plentiful. Immigrants coming in, starting businesses. Meanwhile, Trump and Vance scream about rape and murder, with visions of mass deportations dancing in their heads. Can cannibalism and human sacrifice be far behind?

Are mass deportations possible without a pre-existing police state?

And what’s with all the Confederate flags? What country is this?

The Stars & Stripes–the American flag–what does it mean these days?

Are the Sasquatchlandia Trumpers an organized community, a mere sprinkling of rugged individualists railing against what they see as their oppressors?

Near the Obsidian Flow Trail in Oregon, we met a woman who wore a Harris button, and later saw a lone pickup flying the Stars & Stripes and a TRUMP TRAIN flag.

Back in NorCal: GOD, GUNS, & TRUMP and TRUMP FREEDOM, HARRIS COMMUNISM signs, and a ripped, faded Stars & Stripes.

As we made our way back through Nevada, in a rock shop, a Jeep had a Stars & Bars plate, and a Hispanic-looking customer wore an I CHOOSE THE FELON Trump T-shirt.

I can hardly wait for my early ballot to get here.

Ernest Hogan, the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, is the author of Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, and is damn proud of it.