Chicanonautica: Carlos Castaneda’s Very Weird Shit

by Ernest Hogan 

 

I can’t ignore Carlos Castaneda. Not only was he a bestselling author from the Latinoid Continuum, a big influence on pop culture (the Force in Star Wars is based on power), and a lot of scifiistas. He also encroaches on my territory. So when I heard about Ru Marshall’s American Trickster: The Hidden Lives of Carlos Castaneda, I knew I had to read and review it.

It’s a thick one and it took me a while, mostly because it kept giving me a lot to think about. I’d read a little, and have to stop and let my brain chew on the chunks of weird shit.

And what weird shit . . .

Telling women his semen would instantly give them shamanistic power. Having another man impregnate his wife so he could have a blond son (he was el Negro of his family). His “I am in Peru or Mexico" gag. Immortality. Travel to other dimensions . . .

I had always thought Hunter S. Thompson summed him up in a letter to Oscar Zeta Acosta: “Very weird. The old man really fucked the kid around, eh?” Only now it looks like don Juan didn’t exist. Just who was doing the fucking around here? I have to reconsider my thinking.

It’s that kind of book.

It triggers memories of the world since the Sixties. As the Father of Chicano Science Fiction, I have a unique perspective. Yeah, he wasn’t quite a Chicano in the sense of a Mexican choosing a non-Anglo identity. He was from Peru, but told people he was Brazilian–how do you think people saw him in SoCal? He was cut off (though largely by his own choice) from his family/tribal/ancestral roots, living between cultures, creating his own identity–that’s Chicano.

Also immigrants who can’t fully assimilate tend to become Chicanos.

I read his first two books back in the Seventies largely because they were unavoidable. They were entertaining. I didn’t consider them fiction. 

Since I find the idea of a know-it-all telling everyone what to do a turn-off, I went no further. Besides gurus were–and still are–crawling out of the woodwork.

I don’t believe in gurus.

Thank Tezcatlipoca for my built-in bullshit detector!

Also every Yaqui I’ve met who’s heard of him thought he was full of shit.

Sometimes his name comes up when people try to describe my work, though I’m probably closer to Oscar Acosta, but that’s still misleading.

Sometimes it’s easier to let people have their misconceptions of me than to explain my Chicano-is-a-sci-fi-state-of-being reality. It’s not really lying. What do you do when they don’t seem to be capable of seeing the truth?

Maybe I am un poco like him.

Unlike him, I am not a pathological liar. Apparently, he lied constantly. Ru Marshall did an amazing twenty-year job of sorting through this man’s work and utterances, cross referencing it with interviews with people who knew and encountered him and coming up with an epic biography that is, in my humble opinion, more interesting and fantastic than Castaneda's books. 

He lived writing fiction in his head all the time. So do I. I am painfully aware of where my real life ends and the sci-fi begins. I have no interest in making others live in my fantasies.

It is impressive that he got anthropologists at UCLA to give him a doctorate for a novel, though the fact that he was a rich, bestselling author probably breached the experiment. It’s not surprising that Simon & Schuster didn’t care any more than his readers did. Fiction? Nonfiction? They only care if the books sell. I’ve heard that there are people who read all his books then start over. They fill a need that I don't have.

I think.

This is all amusing, up until you get to the mysterious deaths and disappearances following his death, but I wouldn’t be surprised if we see successful media adaptations. The chapter about the fucking around with Fellini alone would make a wild and crazy movie. In all, it’s a bizarre soap opera dealing with the Great American/Latinoid Spiritual Crisis.

The peoples of the United States of America have a strong lust for spirituality. It’s a product they keep trying to buy. It makes them prey to the manipulations of narcissistic sociopaths. We need to learn to recognize and resist them.

And stop electing them.

Be careful out there.

Ernest Hogan’s New, Improved Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom is not a cult. When he finds himself sounding like a guru, he laughs. Or is that the laughter of Tezcatlipoca?

Chicanonautica: Making Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom New and Improved

by Ernest Hogan

Look out, aspiring writers and seekers of knowledge, I will be committing a series of deliberate acts of unregistered education again at the Fall 2026 session of the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop, on the Saturdays and Sundays of October 3-4 and 10-11, on Zoom, so you can do it in your pajamas or underwear, though I plan on wearing a nice shirt. 

This time I’m calling it New, Improved, Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom.

So, why make the Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom new and improved? 

Well, it’s because it’s got ancient roots, it’s working on the future and constantly mutating.

I was going to say “evolving,” but that’s a slow process, and what’s happening with all things Chicano lately is sudden and unexpected. ¡SAS! Like a loose gamma ray zapping a DNA sequence causing something . . . weird.

You’ve probably noticed that these aren’t great times for Chicanos. Not only are Hollywood and New York avoiding putting out creative works on the diverse global market and making us rich and improving the overall quality of life and culture for the human race, but we are under attack.

 

There. I said it. I shouldn’t have to go into details-just plug into a random news source . . . 

Meanwhile, we still have these incredible imaginations because of the complex, constantly changing cultural mix that we . . . are. I’ve been doing it most of my life. Chicano is a sci-fi state of being. Xicanxfuturism refuses to die. Ciberbandidos arise . . .

My bizarre experiences have taught me, and I need to help those who dare to write while part of the Latinoid continuum. I’m one of the more successful Chicano writers of my generation. I don’t have any secret formula for writing success, but I have a career beyond the expectations of most of the people I know. I learned a few things along the way.

I also try to keep it entertaining.

My warped brain will also be available for picking while I create a new story over the two weekends and share my unconventional creative processes.

Yeah, I meant it to be plural.

And I’m not giving up on creating new worlds.

From the markets of Teotihuacán to the farthest edges of the Intergalactic Barrio.

Some find it inspiring.

So sign up now!

Ernest Hogan is trudging through this infernal summer, besides the abovementioned class, Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex II finally has an official publication date–December 15, 2026!--so get ready for another Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars adventure, as well as some interesting things brewing in the University of New Mexico. Stay tuned ciberbandidxes! (Pronounce that ciberbandidEQUISES.)

Chicanonautica: ¡Tonk You, ICE!

  

by Ernest Hogan

 

Who would've thought that ICE had a secret word that they call their victims and potential victims? They’ve been keeping it to themselves. Giggling about it in private like the cowards they are.

I only know about it because Gustavo Arellano spilled the beans in the L.A. Times. Thanks, Gustavo, keep up the good work.

This new word is tonk.

Yeah, it’s pretty lame, but we aren’t talking about witty, imaginative types here. 

I wonder why they can’t seem to come up with a workable slur for us?

Greaser is misleading. It was what they called the sombrero-wearing villains in the first silent movies made in Hollywood. It was never clear what kind of grease they meant. And it’s become antiquated. Would young Latinxes know that they’re supposed to be offended?

Beaner is also awkward. Yup, I eat beans, and like them. You gotta problem with that? I’ll just fart in your face.

Then there’s spic. Growing up on SoCal, I never heard it until the original West Side Story was shown on national television. No knee-jerk reflexes for an East Coast chingadera. 

And it sounds like part of a word. Maybe spicko or spickie or spicker would be more appropriate. Or maybe not.

So now we have tonk. It started as an onomatopoeia. What ICE does to people: TONK! Like in the old Sixties Batman. 

Also like egghead, that came from the Nazis referring to those whose skulls they were cracking open on the sidewalks. Funny how these things keep going back to the Nazis . . .

The n-word doesn’t have to worry about the competition.

(Funny how the n-word has become more forbidden than the f-word . . .)

I think some preemptive strikes are in order. Pick up this grenade and throw it back at them. Remember, Chicano and pocho were originally slurs our South of the border hermanos used against . . .  us. What goes around comes around. Besides, racists hate it when their magic words don’t do what they want them to.

We should turn it back into a verb. Four letters ending with a k. It rhymes with the f-word! A perfect stand-in.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if Tonk you, ICE! started appearing in walls all over the land?

It could be said, shouted, chanted, when they come after someone.

Oh, for someone telling them to go tonk themselves on a video that goes viral!

It’s what all those tonksucking, mothertonkers deserve.

Ernest Hogan has been called the n-word so often that when he hears it, he assumes they're talking about him--and is usually right. He's working on his New, Improved Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom for the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop. Because pendejos are trying to exterminate us from the future . . .

Chicanonautica: Grumbling in an Extreme Heat Warning

by Ernest Hogan

Another Extreme Heat Warning. There’s a joke going around that it will last until November. That’s life in the Phoenix Metro Area, the Valley of the Sun, where the Heat Island Effect goes wild in the summer.

It was 117 degrees (Fahrenheit) the other day.

What’s the Father of Chicano Science Fiction to do? Más cerveza? Té helado? Agua?

Yeah. Water. Gotta stay hydrated. If you’re wondering if you’re dehydrated, you probably are.

I’m doing my best. Don’t want to be another body on sidewalks that you could fry eggs on.

The library where I work is also a Heat Relief  Center, so there’s plenty of water and the air-conditioning is killer.

Still, the purple sage is blooming, and my wife texted me a picture of a rattlesnake cooling off in the dark corners of her workplace.

 Photo by Emily Devenport

And the monsoon has brought tropical moisture from down Mexico way. Towering clouds bubble up and bring rain that completely evaporates in an hour. For a while the temperature drops into the 80s. Maybe I should dig out my jacket.

Life’s getting sci-fi. Chicano is a science fiction state of being. 

Got air-conditioning in your flying lowrider, ese?

Brains bake. Pedestrians go zombie-eyed. I feel more like chilling in a cool spot and watching some wacko cartoons and movies or maybe read. Right now I’m switching between the new Carlos Castaneda bio and Ishmael Reed’s Terribles books, but it’s hard to focus for long.

Maybe I'll do some Zen and the Art of Microwave Burritos. Got Spanish Style Rice, a Chicken Burrito Bowl, and Habanero Hot Sauce from Trader Joe’s, some Pace Picante Sauce, a can of  “traditional” refried beans, and some Lala’s Traditional Style Tortillas from Safeway. 

Then I can unwind, think about my unfinished Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars novel, check for news about the Xicanxfuturist front, think about what to teach in my "New, Improved, Ancient Chicano Sci-Fi Wisdom" class in October, not to mention what’s going down on the streets all across the land.

I’m feeling funny about sending any of my work out. Publishing is not doing great lately. I keep waiting for a sign of how the living hell things will go.

No news about the FBI investigation of shots fired at the Phoenix ICE office. The wars are getting hideous. The politics are insane. I keep having visions of weird shit, dreaming with my eyes open, sci-fi rasquache percolating.

Better watch out. I could come up with an idea for a story or novel or something . . .

Ernest Hogan is waiting for his novels to return to Amazon. Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song is still available (I think--maybe I should check again). Tezcatlipoca help him.

Chicanonautica: A Whole Lotta Little Apocalypses Going On

  

by Ernest Hogan

There’s a whole lotta little apocalypses going on. Apocalypcitos? Apocalypsettes? Apocalypsoids? Another interlinguistic breakdown?

Not only did I mess up my schedule last week, but there’s smoke from wildfires darkening the skies, ICE is shooting people, the denizen of the White House continuously secretes incoherent stream-of-semiconsciousness, the wars are getting worse . . . keeping up with it all is becoming impossible.

Meanwhile, while the rest of the planet has been following the World Cup, I’ve been checking YouTube for coverage of the running of the bulls at the Fiesta of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain. More happens in one encierro than in entire shelves of novels. I’m reminded that modern life is running through crowded streets with dangerous beasts. It always blows my mind, as we said back in the 1900s.

I also get ideas for my sci-fi bullfighting novel–something that the world doesn’t seem to want, but that probably means it’s what it needs. Maybe if I pitch it as being about a woman on a spiritual quest . . .

I’m also getting ideas for a sequel to my unsold novel Zyx; or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. Anybody out there interested in publishing a Chicano vs. AI novel? I’m wondering how long the publishing industry as we know it will continue to exist. 

Who knows when my books will go back online on Amazon again . . .

I’m seventy years old. I’ve given up on trying to be commercial in a world where the corporate masters of global culture are being taken over by hallucinating AIs. And I keep getting all these ideas! This deranged world is a treasure trove of inspiration!

Guess I should just keep going, work on my bucket list novels, and keep looking for openings in the chaos that will allow me to sneak in, cause a little trouble because it happens to be the right thing to do.

And the really weird thing is I can’t stop. My monstrous imagination never sleeps, it has no off switch. I’m just going to let it go wild, do my best to make what it produces into something that someone will be amused or terminally disturbed by. 

Maybe it’s my real job.

If I need diversion, I’ll read more of Ru Marshall’s American Trickster: The Hidden Lives of Carlos Castaneda. Does Carlos count as a Chicano or a Latino? Is Peru the Mexico of South America? A Chicano does seem to be someone who pushes the limits. Latinos are what show biz thinks they can sell. And Hispanic is what law enforcement calls us.

I knew some Castaneda fans once who were . . .

There goes my brain again.

Ernest Hogan keeps on writing. The Father of Chicano Science Fiction refuses to die!

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 . . .