Chicanonautica: Looking for America in Aztlán

by Ernest Hogan

On the weekend of the 250th 4th of July celebration of the original No Kings Day, Emily and I took off to escape the friendly neighborhood afternoon-to-dawn fireworks orgy. Did the usual cherchez le weird and looking for America in the heart of Aztlán, finding some strange shit as we drove toward the Pocket Fire.

Sounds so cute and harmless. Aw. Let’s take it home . . .

In Prescott, crowds were there for the rodeo and parade. Flags were everywhere, black pickups and jeeps flew them full-sized. The fascist black, blue, and black version, too, sometimes painted on. 

And an ULTRA MAGA t-shirt.

Even the tourists were festooned with “patriotic” clothing, including Abbie Hoffman Special flag motifs.

I had a lot of wacky, incoherent dreams . . . At one point at the Hassayampa Inn, while Emily heard the sobbing of a ghost in the Art Deco hallways, I found myself in Nairobi buying a popular treat that looked like a white powder in big, transparent capsules . . . What dreamest thou, America?

On the 4th, we spent a quiet morning in Cottonwood’s Iron Horse Inn, relaxing in their Intergalactic Courtyard. Maybe the Surrealistic Burrito Western of My Dreams can have a sequence where a huge starship hovers over the courtyard and beams up a passenger . . .

Chilaquiles are like huevos rancheros, a good thing to order on the road because you never know what what you’ll get. After some fantastic chilaquiles at Creama (I prefer those of Bitzi Mama’s back in Glendale because they’re the way my mom made them, but these were good) a little old lady on a bench on Main Street told us, “You have to sit long enough on enough streets in enough towns to take it all in and you get an idea of how many trees are dying . . .”

A distortion of her will end up in either the sequel to the novel I’m having trouble selling or the Surrealistic Burrito Western or both, or maybe she deserves a story all her own.

Next day, after killing time among the plastic skeletons of Jerome, we drove to Sedona, into the smoke bank of the Pocket Fire that was blazing in Oak Creek Canyon. The 89A was cut off and the canyon evacuated. No crowds crowding Slide Rock. Sedona was quiet–not quite empty–for both a holiday and a Saturday. We could indulge in the illusion of having the place to ourselves.

By the afternoon, the smoke cleared, red rocks glowed again.

The crowd was different. More diverse. No more New Age White Spiritual Wonderland like back in the Nineties when I’d feel like I was there as part of an affirmative action program. These days they’d say DEI.

Somebody complained that there weren’t any good Mexican restaurants. I said, “Maybe they should let a few Mexicans move in.”

While waiting for pizza I scrolled into the picture of masked Patriot Front thugs surrounding that defiant Black woman on the DC Metro. When I looked it up later, I noticed that the press has gone back to capitalizing Black. Is there something in the air beside smoke?

A flyer caught my eye. For a local place called Don Diego Mexican Cuisine.

The words Mexican and cuisine just don’t sound right together to me, but I’m an old Chicano.

I shouldn’t be surprised that someone would insert Zorro into Sedona’s magical mystical ambiance, but there are problems. First of all, Zorro/Don Diego was a fictional character who first appeared in the novel The Curse of Capistrano that was first serialized in All-Story Magazine in 1919. In 1920 it was made into the silent film The Mark of Zorro and published as a book by that title in 1924. It was inspired by the legendary (his “reality” is widely debated) Joaquín Murrieta. The Mexican Joaquín was whitewashed into white Hispanic Zorro. Zorro was one of the inspirations for Batman–yes, the whole American superhero tradition has Chicano roots!

Historical accounts say that California Ranger Harry Love decapitated Joaquín in 1853, and went on to display the head. The original Zorro novel takes place in the 1820s. Sedona was founded in 1902. The timeline doesn’t work out.

Unless Joaquín/Zorro is a time traveler . . . Hmm . . .

I guess it’s better than when there weren’t any good Mexican restaurants in town.

The wind changed in the morning, bringing the smoke back.

When we got home, a huge drone was patrolling the area.

Ernest Hogan’s books are temporarily unavailable on Amazon due to corporate peculiarities. Watch here and his social media for updates.

 AND: I screwed up, did two Mondo Ernestos in a row and threw myself off schedule. A big apology  to Daniel Cano for stepping on his post for today. I'll do another Chicanonautica next week, and get myself back in the groove.

It's a wacko summer . . .