We had already done the early voting thing. This election was on our minds more than usual on this annual Aztlán/Sasquatchlandia search-for-America jaunt. My notes were more chaotic than usual. The following was adapted from my mentions of politics.
Back in the Phoenix Metro Area, you could hardly tell there was an election going on. Not many signs, no graffiti . . . if it wasn’t for the media and gas being over 6 bucks a gallon you wouldn’t know Trump was president.
When we arrived in NorCal, by way of Barstow, Emily said, “I’m glad we’re traveling though Liberal Land.” And “We’re entering the Zone of Fabulosity.”
In Crescent City gas was $4.89 a gallon, but in Gold Beach it was $6.99. Glad we were in her brother Mike’s Prius Hybrid.
We passed through Newport, Oregon, in time to drive, honk, and wave through the No Kings Protest. Yeah, fabulosity.
A lot of flags were at half-staff. Oh yeah. School shooting. Another one. Remember when they were a big deal?
Next morning, in the breakfast room in a Comfort Inn, we caught up on the news. Yeah, there was an election going on. Some of the local races were heated, especially for sheriff. They vote totally by mail in Oregon.
There were some election signs by the highways. A black helicopter hovered over a field on our way to Tillamook. Then a red one zoomed over Lincoln City.
That night I had a dream: A fragment of something I probably shouldn’t write. Young revolutionaries surf something they don’t have the bandwidth to understand, unzipping the timespace reality code. Somehow it was my fault. They left messages in lockers–I’d open them and torrents of 3x5 cards would pour out. Do they still make 3x5 cards?
After the dream I came up with a universe-eating, Groucho-headed Buddhaoid and a tsunami of post-consciousness.
In Washington some signs about the sheriff races, some yard art, a plastic headstone: STILL WAITING FOR HONEST GOVERNMENT.
Not much Halloween yard art–economy? Not feeling celebratory?
A road sign on the way to Aberdeen near Shelton declared IN MEMORY OF THOSE KILLED BY ILLEGAL ALIENS. It was paid for by some gal running for Congress.
Then a handpainted sign: VOTE FOR MIGUEL, with an old-fashioned peace symbol.
There were firework stands that were all closed.
We found Bend to be a fun, hip, arty town. It was the place where the school shooting took place.
Antique Alley, in Prineville had a TRUMP 2024 THE RULES HAVE CHANGED sticker on the door. It was Americana gone berzerk. Everywhere you look was a surrealist composition. Hopi Kachinas. Faux Mayan masks. Wild West and Confederate nostalgia. Mysterious artifacts of cultures and technologies past. Ammo autographed by John Wayne. Whither went thou, America . . .
Just out of John Day, a town named for a guy who was robbed and stripped naked by Native Americans on the Columbia near the mouth of John Day River was another handpainted sign: MAGA!
In Ontario, not far from Idaho, gas was $5 a gallon. There were lots of weed places near the border. Like going from a free state to a slave state. Will the new Civil War be over marijuana?
There were more political signs. Also, something called “faith-based banking.”
Local TV news told of a movement to make English the official state language.
A cloud shaped like a flying saucer followed us into Utah. When I reached for my phone, it disintegrated. Extraterrestrials, or maybe AIs trying to influence the election?
Utah didn’t seem much different from Idaho at first. The kids look more neoGoth/hip than Mormon. A son and dad had matching Marilyn Manson caps.
In the Grand Junction, next to the Red Roof Inn, there was no sign of the “Hispanic” evangelist/politician holding a circus–with tents! Guess he couldn’t get a hold for Trump's coat-tails.
In a small town there was a handpainted sign on a little house: VOTE FOR TRUMP PLEASE.
We kept running into guys in camouflage. It was hunting season. A thrift store had a whole rack of cammies. Restaurants had signs WELCOME HUNTERS.
A modern Elmer Fudd would wear cammies–would he join ICE? Is Bugs Bunny the American Pink Panther? Be vewy, vewy quiet–I’m hunting . . .
In Montrose, we pick up some of Don Gilberto’s incredible burritos. Maybe next time Emily and I will split one–they are gigantic. Also picked up the Edición Especial Ontoño 2026 of Enterate Latino.
In this part of Colorado there are more cannabis stores than Starbucks.
St. George was pleasant in a disturbing way. Learn to enjoy the dystopia–or maybe I should say dystopia in progress. Construction is installing Philip K. Dick conapts in every available piece of real estate. Your needs will be met if we can figure out what they are. Soon it will look like West Covina on programmable AI-designed hallucinogens. Franchises anyone? How about “botanicals?”
Back in Arizona, Prescott, we ran into another protest. Funny how most of the protesters these days are old folks like us . . .
We planned to have our final breakfast of this vacation at the Dinner Bell in Prescott but there was an official note on the door explaining that they were shut down–permanently. Another victim of Trumponomics. So, we did the Wild Iris instead.
Near the end I told Emily “I’m afraid to say it, but I’m feeling optimistic.”
After a while she said, “Me too.”
Once again, we were coming home to a world transmogrified . . . or rather in the process of transmogrification. The process will go on for a while, maybe to 2028, and beyond . . .
Ernest Hogan, Father of Chicano Science Fiction, is once again merrily running amok, having visions of new worlds.
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