Chicanonautica: An Election-Invaded Road Trip

by Ernest Hogan

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.

Chicanonautica: Dispatches from the Xicanxfuturism/Ciberbandidx Front

  

by Ernest Hogan

Chicanonaut to Headquarters, do you read?

So ends the first summer in 112 years with no hurricanes. None. Zero. Zip. Nada. Not that hurricanes are necessarily a good thing, but they are part of the natural order. Some serious changes are going on folks. Pay attention.

Have I ever got weird feelings about the rest of 2026. 

Meanwhile, the Palabras del Pueblo class I was going to teach in October has been canceled. Only one person signed up. It’s happened before. This year I understand folks not having the spare cash or time to learn about writing. 

I’ll try again next session. Stay tuned. Hope things get better.

Speaking of better, I was interviewed by a pair of students from the University of New Mexico (they haven’t changed it to New America) for the Ernest Hogan Archive they’re putting together. Academics, even young ones, can ask three or four questions in one sentence. They were also very enthusiastic. It was like being interrogated and psychoanalyzed at the same time.

I thought that they just wanted background on my books and some of my art that will soon be displayed at one of their libraries, but this session was about my life from birth to when I started writing -- and they want more. If anyone ever wants to write my biography, their research is being done.

If I haven’t already mentioned it, Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex II finally has a release date: December 15, 2026. Watch this space and my social media for updates on how to pre-order, and anything else that develops. 

I keep trying to retire to write my bucket list novels but surviving in this world gone mad keeps getting in the way.

By the way, Codex I has received an honorable mention from the International Latino Book Awards in two categories!

In the meantime, I’m trying to get ahead of my blogging, so I don’t have to worry about it all on the next road trip that will be happening before I know it. Not only will it be Hispanic/Latino/Chicano month (should I make the os into xs? Has there been a pronouncement from Headquarters about that? Who is in charge of all this? That is the question . . .), including Halloween/Dia del los Muertos/Dead Daze, but we’re having the Midterm election from Hell. Colorful folk art clashing and intermingling with corporate appropriation while an abortive (I hope) attempt at a Nazi takeover and assorted factions go after the power like a school of starved piranha . . .  

Whither goes thou, America? Where for art thou? What the chingau are you transmogrifying into? Gonna have to take notes, and photos, maybe even doodle some ideas for cartoons, get ideas for stories, even novels.

As if I didn’t have enough to do.

Ernest Hogan isn’t just a Chicanonaut. He’s also the Father of Chicano Science Fiction and a participant in Xicanxfuturism and Ciberbandidism, because the world needs more of these kinda chingaderas. 

 

THIS JUST IN: His books are once again through Amazon and now Barnes & Noble! 

Chicanonautica: 2025: A Road Odyssey: The Mexica Return to Mormonland

With certain archeological discoveries in recent years, the idea that Aztlán is located in Utah is getting more popular. Mexican-looking people are everywhere, mostly working, building, making a new home for themselves and the "native" Mormons. Even in Kanab, that was once where Hollywood crews would stay while making westerns because Monument Valley is prettier than Texas.

At the office of the Days Inn, a huge screen showed Fox News’ alternate universe, a world that was begging for Trump to save it.

If people just looked around, they would see all the Mexica/Aztec faces. The New Pilgrims. Future Thanksgiving feasts will become more and more . . . Mexican? . . . Native? . . . American?

Kanab doesn’t serve breakfast until 11AM. We were up way early. Luckily, Mike was raving about a restaurant in St. George. It was a bit of a drive, through towns scattered in what I call psychedelic geology. We got coffee in Hurricane.

 

The restaurant was First Watch—a chain that I hadn’t noticed because of the name. Mike had the steel-cut oatmeal. Emily had the Chile Chorizo omelette. I had the Farm Stand Breakfast Tacos. The non-traditional Mexicoid fare was delicious. We ate there several times on this trip.

After we cruised some thrift stores, I saw books by my editor/mentor/friend Ben Bova. A message from the great beyond, from a deeply materialistic hard science writer . . .

Then we hit Snow Canyon. The landscape in its fantastic glory, shining through the fading Uto/Mexica memories and crumbling Mormon/Hollywood visions. Rocks churning up cosmic truths from the center of the Earth.

Later Emily’s sister Carol caught up with us. We had dinner at a place called Los Tapatios that has a great taco plate. Mexican restaurants in Utah used to be such a joke. The times they are a-changing, amigos.

 

That night, Yamamoto led the Dodgers to a victory, sending them to the World Series. I was reminded of the words of the Firesign Theater: “The Tokyo Cubs had won the Series, and mustaches were out of style, and believe me, the dames looked better without ‘em.” 

 

Also, No Kings protests were scheduled all over Utah. Saw a sign declaring that St. George was “Utah’s Dixie.” 

We took Carol to Snow Canyon. She was wowed.

Then we went to Kanarra Falls, crisscrossing the icy river into a dazzling slot canyon. Here we go, I thought, the Senior Citizen Adventure Club. Mike had broken his toe in the hotel, but it didn’t slow him down. I took a tumble at one point, but somehow did an automatic tuck-and-roll, so there was no pain a few days later.

A dead llama was splattered across the road.

Next morning I improvised huevos rancheros with some Cholula packets and pre-cooked eggs in the Days Inn breakfast room. When the going gets tough, the tough get creative . . .

Besides, I needed to get in the mood for the Pink Coral Sand Dunes; a rock shop in the Orwellianly named Orderville served tacos (they’re everywhere), and featured dinosaurs and a Flintstone car.

Then we went to the as-usual amazing Bryce Canyon National Park. No employees during the government shutdown, so it was free, though the trash receptacles were overflowing. The magnificent hoodoos still stood tall.

 

That night we asked a local what the best Mexican restaurant in Kanab was. The name Escobar’s was offered immediately. Once again, good food and funky decor. 

A Uto-Aztecan future in the making . . .

Chicanonautica: 2025: Another Year, Another Odyssey

 

by Ernest Hogan

I’m back from another annual family road trip through parts of Aztlán and Sasquatchlandia in search of America, States . . . United? Altered? And I’m still Chicano AF, as the kids (gimme a break, I’m almost 70, everyone under 40 looks like a child, and most of my friends are dying) say these days.

It’s great to be back, and yeah, it was an odyssey. Homer’s Odyssey was about a guy coming home. So, in 2001: A Space Odyssey, just who is going home to where, Mr. Kubrick? 

Anyway, I’m back, and the world is different, again.

Alvin Toffler was right, future shock is the new normal . . .

So, what’s a Chicanonaut to do?

I carried my virgin passport sandwiched between my wallet and phone, but nobody asked for proof of my citizenship, ICE, National Guard, Border Patrol, whomeverlachingada . . .

Though the country (the world, actually) was ablaze with political turmoil, it was a rather calm trip. There were the occasional Charlie Kirk posters and pro-Trump manifestations, but they seemed more like desperate acts of defiance rather than the cresting of a successful movement. There were No Kings protests, but no violence. I watched it on TV screens in hotel breakfast rooms.

Is politics really the entertainment divisions of the military industrial complex, Mr. Zappa?

What I saw was a number of different cultures. Southern Arizona is different from Northern. Utah–Mormonlandia, and the possible historic location of an historic Aztlán, is undergoing changes as the Mexica return. Nevada is more like a post-Apocalyptic Mars colony every day. California is still another country–going from futuristic, multicultural Mexicoid to Pacific Northwest Hobbiton. Oregon is even more Hobbitish. Washington gets a little more subdued, but cannabis is everywhere. Idaho and Wyoming are more conservative, cowboy, but once you get to Colorado it’s getting artsy-fartsy again . . .

Sort of a continuum, no definite borders, blending into one another. What language do they speak here? Is that legal here? Where are we? What is this, a geopolitical Heisenberg Uncertainty Principal? Dare I be Chicano and say there’s some kinda rasquache going on here? Or should I say Xicanxfuturism?

How can they say if I belong if they don’t know who they are?

My notes tell a strange story with overtones of sci-fi and gonzo. I’ve got some transcribing to do. Did all it all really happen? I do have photos, but they’re a bit surreal.

So, watch for my travelogue, over at Mondo Ernesto and here, depending on how it all sorts itself out.

At least the Mexican restaurants I keep finding everywhere are getting better. I’m gonna need some tacos, beans and rice to get me through this.

Ernest Hogan’s new story “Doula” is in the Center for Science and the Imagination’s Sound Systems: The Future of the Orchestra, which is available as a free ebook. His new Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars story will be in Codex II of Xicanxfuturism: Gritios for Tomorrow, meanwhile buy and read Codex I.

Chicanonautica: Traveling While Chicano in Trumptopia 2.0

by Ernest Hogan

Once again, my wife Emily and I are getting ready for another road trip with her brother Michael Theile. I love these crazy excursions out of our usual stamping grounds, Arizona, Aztlán, searching for the latest version of the dream called the United States of America. This time, however, it’s different.

We did trips in the height of the pandemic. It was weird, but in a fun way. Like being in a science fiction story. Something else that is my idea of a good time.

We have traveled during the first Trump administration, which was both dystopian and enlightening.

Now we’re well into Trumptopia 2.0 . . .

I must admit, it’s kinda scary.

Emily and I got the latest flu and Covid shots and I got a passport. What the hell, I may need it for other reasons that keep coming up.

Then the events of the last few months came about. 

The passport may be necessary on this side of the border.

Traveling while Chicano never has been an issue in the past, but now . .  .

People have been doubting my American citizenship all my life.

I’ve resented it every time. Isn’t my SoCal accent enough? What makes you think you look more American than I do, paleface?

There could be another “national emergency” and the National Guard could be sent into a part of the Wild West that we’re passing through.

It might be like a scene from my new story “Once Upon a Time in a Mass Deportation”:

“We stopped this guy at the checkpoint, asked him for his ID, then things got . . .” Rodriguez paused and gulped.

“Weird,” said Garza. 

Sarge looked the Tacoma man over and got a sharp-toothed grin for his trouble.

“Okay, okay,” the Sergeant said, “how weird?”

“Well, first,” Garza handed over a card. “Take a look at his ID.”

Sarge grabbed and squinted. “Pop-o-ca—”

“Popocatepetl.” The moustache stretched again. It started Po-po. The tl sounded like a t and the l was swallowed.

 

Sarge’s nostrils flexed like he smelled something awful. 

“Muldoon?”

“Yeah, that’s my last name.”

“Isn’t that Irish?”

“Sure is.”

“But Popoca–uh . . .”

“Aw, just call me Popo, it’s easier.”

“Isn’t that Spanish?”

“No, it’s Nahuatl.”

Sarge took a deep breath. “Nah-what?”

“It’s the language the Aztecs spoke,” interjected Rodriguez.

“They still do.” Muldoon said it with a smirk.

“So, you’re an Irish Aztec?” asked Sarge.

“Sorta,” said Muldoon. “But I consider myself a Chicano.”

Sarge squinted again. “Yeah. You do look more like a Mexican than an Irishman.”

“I’ve been told that.”

“How did you get the last name Muldoon?”

“My great-great-great–I’m really not sure how many greats– grandfather was Irish.”

Sarge shook his head. “How did that happen?”

“He jumped ship in San Francisco, and ended up in New Mexico–one of the New Mexico Irish, you know, like Billy the Kid.”

Sarge’s brows made a V between them. “And this is your ID?”

“My Arizona driver’s license. Says right there.”

“That would make you seventy,” said Sarge. 

“And you don’t look that old . . .” He turned to Rodriquez and Garza. 

“Run a check on him. See if he’s registered for the draft.”

 

Rodriguez winced.

Muldoon shrugged. “Nobody knows what to do with an Aztec leprechaun.”

Not bad. Wonder if I can find someone crazy enough to publish the whole story? Or will it just get me deported?

Like a proper Xicanxfuturist and Father of Chicano Science fiction, I choose to boldly go into the strange new world. If I get in trouble, I’ll scream bloody murder across several social media platforms.

Buhahahahahaha!

Ernest Hogan wants you to buy his books while you still can. Buy Xicanxfuturism: Gritos for Tomorrow / Codex I, too (Codex II will be out in February with his new Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars story, “A Wild and Wooly Road Trip on Mars”).