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 . . .  

Chicanonautica: 2025: A Road Odyssey: In the Gringo West

 

by Ernest Hogan

And suddenly, Idaho! The Gringo West. Away from Aztlán and the influence of Uto-Aztecan cultures. Still Sasquatchlandian, but away from the Pacific Ocean. No mermaids in this cool desert. Speed limit 50 mph on the 84 East. A different culture in the Great American Rasquache Mix.

I spilled coffee on my sketchbook in the gonzo tradition.

It got warm. I had to ditch my jacket while marveling at possible locations for the surrealistic spaghetti western of my dreams when I spotted something truly unexpected. A sign: MIRACLE HOT SPRINGS–CAUTION: ALLIGATORS.

Is that where they get the alligator meat for the jerky I keep seeing advertised?

Scenes of an alligator ranch flashed through my brain.

I Googled it–it’s real. There used to be an alligator farm in the area, which you’d think would be too cold. They have had gators since 1959. Now they only have one alligator, called Lola and then Alfie in two articles for 2024. Another mystery . . .

And not enough for the wide-screen reptile stampede I was imaging. Oh well . . .

Next was Burley. Mike pointed out a trucker driving and drinking a can of Coors as we approached via I-84.

I shed my overshirt and rolled up my sleeves. Saw a cybertruck, presumably on its way to Mars. There were lots of Chinese and Mexican restaurants, thrift stores, and weird photo ops in a post-apocalyptic environment. 

I also found some emergency replacement sunglasses.

However, there was no deli in Rupert.

Then I put my overshirt back on. Those icy Idaho winds. Soon we were in Utah, home of the Utes, upper edge of Uto-Nahuatl country.

Of course, now there’s a strong Mormon influence, men’s and women's restrooms are on the opposite sides of buildings. It’s the same with the clothes in the thrift stores. The prophets forbid a young man might decide to try on a used temple dress. They would probably give Calamity Jane a bad time.

Then it got warm, I took off my overshirt again.

Farris Ice Cream in Ogden has a good selection of sorbet and sherbet for my lactose- intolerant guts. There were also full-size skeletons in Halloween drag. An employee and some local kids passing by were in punk/goth regalia. Looked like it was the local hip hangout, across the street from a Mormon temple.

Brown folks were on the streets and working in stores.There was also a spectacular neon dragon, and signs of Día de los Muertos. Could the fusion into Dead Daze happen here in a few years?

There was even graffiti in an alley.

Finally, Wyoming, and another cultural vibe. Billboards for cannabis, fireworks, and vaping were right across the border. I imagine the ice cream shop hipsters making pilgrimages.

We ate at a Costa Vida (the Mexican Panda Express). I asked for their hottest sauce on my burrito. Any sign of chili was overwhelmed by the barbecue sauce on the sweet pork. Like I said, the Gringo West.

Ernest Hogan's latest story, "Doula," is in Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra, now available to buy in paperback or download as a free ebook. Another adventure of Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars, will be in Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow/Codex II in February--meanwhile buy Codex I, where he's mentioned and there's a lot of stuff that will inspire you to survive 2026.

Chicanonautica: 2025: A Road Odyssey: Impressions of NorCal

by Ernest Hogan

In the Quality Inn in Tulane, California, I woke up from a dream where a secret society gave me an award for Cortez on Jupiter. Wondering what it meant, I made my way to the breakfast room that was full of Indigenous-looking, Spanish-speaking construction workers. Is California being reconstructed, too?

After a while a few Euro tourists showed up. Maybe they were Scandinavian. I couldn’t understand a word they said.

Being a born in East L.A., a SoCal guy, NorCal has always been strange. The cooler weather and different cultural mix throw me.

A cluster of Tikis that seem to want to become totem poles in this climate,

a dead pizza joint waiting to be studied by the archeologists of the future,

painted metal monsters—the farm business being hijacked by whimsy.

Then, a true enchanted forest gem, Kaweah Coffee Roasters! The art had a raven theme—kaweah meaning crow or raven cry. They have a great selection of eye-catching T-shirts and the coffee is good.

Sequoia National Park—was also “free” due to the government shutdown.

After the park, high in the mountains. Near an ice-cold river, we were all so dazzled that we hadn't noticed that the Prius had almost run out of gas, and the electricity was almost out. And gas stations and towns were sparse. Luckily, the gal working at Borden Cavern took mercy, and when her shift ended, went off and came back with a can of gas!

There are heroes out there.

Next morning, there was live international polo in the Tulare Quality Inn’s breakfast room.

Back in our room MSNBC explained that bailing out South America is preventing China from taking over South America.

Then we took off northwards across the Central Valley farm/ranch country and were soon in Coalinga.

First there were all these banners with a cartoon horned (yeah, I know that most people say “horny”) toad, high school’s mascot. They also have annual horned toad races.

An antediluvian gas station was being refurbished.

After getting out to take a lot of pictures we discovered that it was part of the R.C. Baker Museum.

It takes up several blocks.

One of those places that’s almost as good as having a time machine.

We’ll probably go back some day.

Checked out thrift shops in Carmel and other towns.

The ghost of Philip José Farmer left a copy of his novel Flesh in a place that was a combination thrift store and shrine to Koringa, La Femme Fakir, who not only hypnotized reptiles, but fought in the Resistance against the Nazis in World War Two–I imagine her having Mandrake the Magician-type adventures.

I also found a copy of Elena Zelayeta’s Elena’s Favorite Foods California Style, and some other treasures . . .

Next morning we went north on Highway 1 into the fog,  stumbling into what Em calls “fabulosity.”

Fantastic murals and art in Pacifica and Santa Cruz:

a giant octopus,

mutant mermaids,

ceramic fish.

Emly said, “It feels good to be in Liberal Land.”

Skeletons ran wild in Pacific Grove for Halloween and Día de los Muertos, and Phil Farmer’s ghosts left a copy of Finnegan’s Wake. (His “Riders of the Purple Wage” was inspired by Wake.)

Later Emily said, “The tech bros like Trump because they think he’ll let them make their murder robots.”

“They also think he’s promised them Mars,” I replied.

This triggered visions of Mars crowded with murder robots. Maybe that could be worked into the Cornelius/Duke/Theremin story . . .

It was overcast all day. No need for sunglasses. Not at all like Arizona. Like Venus in a 1930s science fiction, as Farmer once described.

There are lots of Priuses in NorCal.

And no cell service zones. All those hilly coastal regions.

The first two rooms they gave us at the Oceanside Motel in Ft. Bragg weren’t cleaned, and there was no working heat or air-conditioning. They said the cleaning woman had walked out.

Then through a wet, misty forest to the 101.

They had great huevos rancheros and a lot of murals of cows.

Ferndale, “A Victorian Town,” had a colonial downtown, and lots of skeletons, and a theater doing The Rocky Horror Show.

Eureka had lots of murals, and more dispensaries than liquor stores, but then they are pretty close to Oregon, and Sasquatchlandia.