Ernest Hogan's Blog, page 18

ARIZONA FOURTH OF JULY REENTRY

Back in Arizona, gas was $4.99 a gallon. I kept seeing saucer-shaped clouds. Some UFO believers say that they are a way aliens camouflage their vehicles, which is silly. With faster-that-light travel, is that supposed to be the best stealth technology they can come up with?

 

In Flagstaff, we traded the Prius for our Elantra. Gas prices would be more of a concern even though they were lower.

Got on Route 66–the Mother Road is taking on a mystical significance. Maybe we’re seeing the beginnings of a new religion with the slow death of the petroleum economy. Could places like the Galaxy Diner become shrines to departed technologies for pilgrims of the future? Burgers and fries a ritual? It is, in a way, for Emily and me.

 

A young hitchhiker held up a sign: I NEED WEED!

Road construction got us hung up in a traffic jam in Oak Creek. Bored kids kept getting out of their cars and running around, taking selfies. Eventually, we arrived at the Matterhorn in Sedona for Fourth of July Eve.

We had tacos at the Oaxaca. Bliss.

It was a quiet morning in Sedona. We enjoyed the view from our balcony, sunrise over the red rocks, the empty street, a lone guy with a backpack and a dog walking by . . .

Then we went to the Coffee Pot for breakfast. In the mood to break tradition, I tried their breakfast burrito with chorizo y papas. I have a new favorite for the joint!

And I heard people speaking French.

There were some flags in Sedona, but mostly the 4th stuff was subtle.

Gas was $4.83 in Cottonwood.

“Our little spiffer gets good gas mileage!” said Emily. Down the road gas was $4.79 a gallon.

It was $4.95 in Prescott. We got into town at about 9 AM. There was some 4th stuff, but again, more low-key than I expected. Not as many flags. No political signs or opposing demonstrations like we saw in the past.

But then it was early . . .

Turns out this was the last day of Prescott’s Frontier Days, THE WORLD'S OLDEST RODEO. The streets were crowded. People were wearing and selling red, white, and blue, star & stripe spangled Abbie Hoffman specials.

 

Surprisingly, there weren’t any more cowboy hats than you’d expect in Arizona, but an entire family did stampede out of a store with shiny new ones.

And we kept seeing two blondes in mostly white, postmodern cowgirl regalia. They looked like sisters. They seemed to be everywhere. Are they the future of the Wild West?

The only politics came through the radio ads playing in stores. Right- wing businessman/candidates spouting the same clichés that have landed hacks in office for generations, you know, Trump used them a few years ago . . .

 

There also was a metal LET’S GO BRANDON wall decoration for sale.

We found out about the Highland Park mass shooting via Facebook while waiting for ice cream on Whisky Row under a model of P-51 Mustang.

 

Then I noticed a half-staffed flag.

 

We stood at the Hassayampa Inn, a glorious, art deco time warp of a hotel. They play jazz on the overhead, a lot of Cab Calloway, and even some Louis Jordan. When I asked our server at the Peacock Room where the music came from, I got a confused look and an admission of ignorance.

Prescott is still very, very white, old, and Midwestern. We were the youngest people having dinner. The food was great, though expensive.

The festival in the town square had packed up and vanished by sundown. The night was quiet. No fireworks. No music or partying. Old folks have their say here.

We were still full from dinner in the morning, so we skipped breakfast, just grabbed coffee and pastries from the hotel’s coffee shop.

According to a local paper, the Yavapai County election commissioner resigned because of threats from Trump supporters.

Soon we were back in familiar territory with the sun blazing in our eyes.

I’m going to have to stop taking notes and pictures, even through it all seems different now. Things keep getting alien. Another new normal to adjust to.

When when got back to Phoenix gas was $5.45 a gallon. The only place in the country where it was higher was California. And it was $5.27 at Safeway.

Yeah, it is still not quite post-Trump/Covid America. 

CHICANONAUTICA SEES DEMONIC POSSESSION IN ARIZONA POLITICS

Chicanonautica sez it looks like demonic possession in Arizona, over at La Bloga.

Somebody wants to declare an invasion:

Erase history:

And how about rocket launchers for everyone?

She’ll probably lose some friends in the process:

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CHICANONAUTICA HUNTS GOLD, GREASERS, AND YAQUIS WITH ZANE GREY

Chicanonautica looks at Desert Gold, both the movie and book, at La Bloga.

The movie stars Buster Crabbe:

The book was written by Zane Grey:

The book features Yaquis:

And Greasers:

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A SPECTER IS HAUNTING SASQUATCHLANDIA

We spent the night in the Super 8 Motel in Ontario, Oregon, back in Sasquatchlandia.

Native American kids seemed to have taken over the coffee stalls. Emily also grabbed me a Jimmy Dean croissant from the Super 8 breakfast room–it tasted like an Egg McMuffin, or some other mutation.

The streets were bumpy. I spilled my decaf Americano. What would people from a hundred years ago think that we have the technology that makes such things possible? Michael noticed a yard sale where two women had paper towels. We pulled in, and offered to buy the whole roll. The women spoke Spanish, and offered to sell us pan dulce. Things worked out, and the conchas were better than the pseudo-croissant.

Then we took the 201 along the Snake River to the 84.

We had to stop in Baker City with its animal and arachnid statuary.

And La Grande with some nice thrift shop with plastic dinosaurs.

Further westward on the 84 through grasslands, the new wine country and new communities are being installed. America is being rebuilt, but according to whose design? Does it have to be anybody’s? What if we just let it grow?

Then something set off Michael’s radar, a strange store with a big, handmade FRUIT ANTIQUES sign. We got out and I took a pic of the glorious ruin across the street. They actually were a combination fruit stand, antique store, and supermarket; they even had books!  I was tempted by some ancient sci-fi paperbacks. We got some snacks. Later there were more FRUIT ANTIQUES stores. It must be a chain.

As we headed into more open spaces, I saw the first Trump sign of the trip. It was an old un-defaced TRUMP/PENCE. Were the owners keeping up with the January 6 hearings, or did they just not care anymore?

We arrived at the Super 8 in Issaquah, Washington at about 8 PM, before sundown. Saw brown people, heard Spanish. A black van in the parking lot was emblazoned with DON’T PRETEND YOUR RACISM IS PATRIOTISM/BLACK LIVES MATTER.

In the morning we headed for Seattle, passed the Space Needle to take the ferry across Elliot Bay to Bainbridge Island. 

An explosive (is “bomb” considered to be insensitive these days?) sniffing dog made its rounds, sticking its nose in the Prius’ undercarriage. 

Motorcycles and pedestrians boarded first. 

Signs announced that terrorism was a big concern. 

Once we got going, Emily, the essential desert girl, adapted to having the cool salt wind in her hair. 

Among other things, we could see Mt. Rainer. 

“I hate to say this, but if that ever erupts, this would be a great place to watch,” Emily said, going into geologist mode.

As we went through Bremerton, Emily cracked us up reading the news about the January 6 hearings.

Found some estate and yard sales, and thrift stores. In an estate sale, the departed for some reason saved the L.A. Times from days of the explosion of the Space Shuttle Challenger and 

Bill Clinton’s impeachment. Further along was a house with American and Trump flags.

Did a pit stop at a gas station with an unusual restroom feature: a sink made from a tire, with a gas nozzle for a faucet. I predict that someday it will be in a museum as an artifact of the Petroleum Age.

Fat Smitty's caught Michael’s eye. It was the sort of place he looks out for. Big, painted wooden sculptures like rural yard art gone wild. The joint radiated personality. There were dollar bills, a lot of them defaced, hanging from the walls and ceiling, and a big sign declaring CASH ONLY! by the register. Very caucasian people filled the place.

 

After we ordered our burgers, Michael decided to take a walk and look around. It took a while for us to get our order. When he came back he looked pale. He had seen the TRUMP KEEP AMERICA GREAT! 2020 sign in the window and the array of signs for right-wing political candidates. He couldn't bring himself to eat his chicken sandwich.

I had noticed the signs before we pulled in. It piqued my curiosity. And as a veteran of years of customer service, I saw it as an opportunity to interact with “the other side” in a non-confrontational manner. Let’s just do our business as human beings–which is what we’re supposed to do all the time, isn’t it? The bikerish women–they seemed to be mother and daughter–who worked there smiled with the right amount of expected flirtation. 

The other customers did keep looking at me, curious, with strained smiles. I had received this look before. They were trying not to notice my skin color. It’s rather creepy when a whole room of people look at you that way.

I must warn other travelers that they have something against public restrooms along the 101 in this part of Washington.

Theme there was another house with Trump flags. And a pickup with a Trump bumper sticker. And a TRUMP 2024 sign.

Washington seems très Republicano. There are a lot of clear-cut forests.

That night we stood at the Rainforest Village Resort, on Lake Quinault. Sasquatches decorated and were for sale in the lobby. 

The frogs sounded like they were right outside our window, and the Wi-Fi was lousy, but the lake was beautiful.

We needed that kind of environment that morning. We were bracing ourselves for political turmoil. Roe v. Wade was overturned, and it was Pride weekend. KOMO news did a dubious story of “local Antifa” attacking a guy with part of a barricade–it looked more like a clumsy comedy routine than a real act of violence.

Soon we were going down the coast on the 105, in search of coffee and pastries.

There were no political signs. Just things like the Cranberry Museum and some funny yard sales. 

A thrift store in South Bend played “Bigfoot Radio,” while another had two different “Jesus culture” stations. 

We found no public restrooms, and no pastries.

Chinook had a cool mural.

And an interesting display with a robot in front of the Shipwreck Cove Antique Store.

 

Finally, we took the Megler Bridge across the Columbia River, back to Oregon.There was no parking at the beaches. We were in and out of Tsunami Hazard Zones. And no cell service in parts of the 101 in Oregon.

Then four emergency vehicles with lights and sirens a-blazing blasted by. The first we saw on this trip.

In Grants Pass we ended up in a suite bigger than our house in the Travelodge, thanks to overbooking.

The next day on the 62, heading for Crater Lake, with Mt. Shasta looking on at the horizon, there was a VOTE TRUMP sign flying over a farm. There were flags of all kinds everywhere, even one that said ESPRESSO next to a zombie dwarf sasquatch.

And along the Rogue River there was a Trump sign that was almost completely faded out.

Of course Rogue Gorge was a must-see.

As was Crater Lake.

We went from a Tsunami Zone to an Avalanche Zone.

A strange object was abandoned by the snow.

 

Annie Falls could be seen through a weird tree.

Past 140 was more flag-flying farm country. Actually a bit bland, lacking in weirdness, then:

A MOVE OREGON’S BORDER sign. Turns out it's a nefarious plot to gerrymander things to send more conservative representatives to Washington.

Other flags were Trump, LET’S GO BRANDON, and a very faded TRUMP 2020.

And Oregon still doesn’t want you to pump your own gas. A smiling guy comes out and rips the thing out of your hand.

East of Lakeview on the 140 a stagecoach sculpture on Cave Creek Ranch East looked like  a timewarp as we headed for Winnemucca, Nevada.

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CHICANONAUTICA RISKS HAZARDS OF WRITING WHILE CHICANO

 Chicanonatica is all abut hazards, over at La Bloga.

Even for a writer, they're part of the job:

And writing has it's own:

Combine that with being Chicano:

And get ready for exhaustion:

OFF INTO NOT-QUITE POST-TRUMP/COVID AMERICA

Emily and I left Phoenix at about 6 AM. The sun was rising. Gas was $5.69, a little lower than it had been. 

Intersections bristled with signs for the upcoming election: Tom Horn was running for Superintendent of Schools so he can STOP CRITICAL RACE THEORY. Former TV newscaster Kari Lake, a loyal Trumpite running for governor, was being smeared for having once donated to Obama. 

Political tensions were high with the Supreme Court ready to go on a right-wing rampage, and owners of automatic weapons declaring open season on school children and innocent bystanders. We were also heading into a long, hot summer, and not just with the weather.

 

How long has every summer been hotter than the last?

As usual, it got cooler as we left Phoenix.

Gas was $4.99 a gallon at the Montezuma Castle/Cliff Castle Casino gas station, and it was the same in Flagstaff where we swapped our Elantra for Emily’s brother Michael’s Prius Hybrid. This trip would not have been possible without the mileage we got from the electric vehicle of tomorrow.

 

Highway 89 was closed due to a fire. We detoured on the 40 eastward. Always be ready to improvise.

Soon we were up on a high mesa. The wide open spaces felt good.

Gas was $4.89 in Winslow. Glad we didn’t have to stop. Then it was north on the 191. 

 

Soon we were in the Navajo Nation, where masks were still required. We had to stop at the Hubble Trading Post, where a Diné park ranger told us of colorful history. We wished we could have stayed longer, but we had to be in Grand Junction, Colorado to meet Michael, so it was off, once again into country we haven’t seen.

This land keeps surprising us. That’s what’s so great about it.

We stopped in Bluff, Utah, for dinner, hoping for Navajo tacos, but the Twin Rocks Cafe was closed. The white woman there explained that they were having too much business, and not enough staff, so they were closed Thursdays. 

Everybody’s hiring, yet still there’s homeless everywhere.

She recommended the Cottonwood Steakhouse down the road, which has great pulled pork. Another couple handed back their menus and went looking for a place with better vegetarian options, but then this was Indian country; vegetarian is for when you're too broke to afford meat.

Still on the 191, we headed north into deepest, darkest Utah. Or should that be whitest Utah? 

Or “U-tuh” the way that Diné park ranger said it.

At one point, Emily said, “Those are the skinniest cows I’ve ever seen–oh, they’re horses!”

Gas was $5.10 in Blanding.

Then it was Mormon farmland, a jarring shift from the Big Rez with its crimson vistas and funky, crumbling charm.

Soon these gave way to fantastic rock formations. Geology always dominates the landscape. Get away from the city and you are reminded that, yes, we live on a planet.

 

  

I thought: “I could take photos of this and do drawings and pass it off as surrealism, the way I describe the world and the way I see it, and pass it off as science fiction.”

Or as Curtis Mayfield put it: “We can deal with rockets and dreams/But reality/What does it mean?”

We went through Moab, still Martian as ever, on the 191, veering onto 128 hugging the Colorado River in the sharp-angled light of the setting sun, all the way up to I-70, where we headed east toward Colorado.

This was about 9 PM. Permanent Daylight Saving Time is causing changes that will produce interesting effects on society, from enforcing children’s bedtimes, getting teenagers to school in the morning, drive-in movie start times, and caffeine  addiction.

It was dark when we hit Grand Junction. We got lost in the tangle of freeway exits, but we made it to the Red Lodge Inn, where Michael had already checked in and talked them into letting him park his van there while we went road tripping.

Had the best night’s sleep I’ve had in a long time. Something about an all-day drive and a good mattress.

Michael doesn’t believe in breakfast, so we did a stop at Einstein Bros. I had a Green Chile Bagel.

Behind the wheel of the Prius, Michael worked his magic and drove us north, and soon we were in the town of Dinosaur, Utah, that was encrusted in funky/folky dinosaur sculptures.

A stegosaurus guards the public library. 

 

There’s a triceratops, and another dino down the street, near the intersection of Tyrannosaurus and Brontosaurus. 

The dispensary has a T-Rex.

This silliness was all just a warm up for Dinosaur National Monument.

Which has murals . . .

. . . and a big display of fossils where they were found.

Some great hiking trails.

And petroglyphs galore.

The town and monument make a great day trip. 

 

And a lot of the other towns have joined the dino statue derby. 

Who needs Disneyland?

While Michael drove, Emily read us a news item off her phone, about freshly developed styrofoam-eating worms. My sci-fi brain kicked in: What if the worms escape, overrun the world, eating all the styrofoam. When they starve, people feel sorry for them, keep them as pets and feed them specially made, expensive styrofoam . . .

That night, in Vernal we stayed at the Dinosaur Inn which was not festooned in dino-kitsch, except for their cartoony sign. The decor was otherwise plain, practical, and very clean. Our room smelled of fruit-scented cleaning fluid. All very Mormon, but if we looked out the door of our room we could see dinos fighting in a nearby park as a giant wooden Indian looked on.

And gas was $5.04 a gallon.

We ate at Raza Mexican, that had good carnitas, tacos, beans and rice. And a Mexican staff. The incursion into Utah is succeeding. Look out Mormons!

The next day was the first day of summer, though in Phoenix it had felt like summer for weeks.

 

In the Dinosaur Inn breakfast room, a couple showed up that could have been Irving and Zelda from Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin, the novel had just finished. I hope it was a good sign.

Then the Prius’ backseat ate my pen, and I had to borrow one from Michael.

Down Highway 40 we passed a sign that said UFO Valley, and another monumental Indian greeted us in the Ute Nation.

A  convenience store sold beard oil–$9 for a tiny bottle. None of the beards I had seen in these parts looked oily.

Then Emily found my backup pen.

We went east on the 80, then onto 84 to Ogden where at Sam’s Club gas was $4.05 a gallon.

We entered Idaho along the California Trial in the footsteps of the pioneers. And like I’ve said, one person’s pioneer is another person’s illegal alien.

And more great hiking country. 

Castle Rock State park is worth a stop.

And City of Rocks is spectacular.

Then we made our way through rural Idaho toward Oregon as the sun slowly set according to Permanent Daylight Saving Time. Pitstopped at a truckstop in Jerome. Drove through the mesas slashed by shadows cast by the setting sun. That’s the real American, self-styled “patriots!”

We drove into the sunset. The sky finally turned black as we arrived in Oregon.

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CHICANONAUTICA SEES MAYA UNDER THE VOLCANO

 

Chicanonautica reviews Ixcanulover at La Bloga.

It’s a movie:

And I attempt to debunks some myths:

Because the Maya are still around:

Maybe in your hometown:

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BACK IN THE BURNING DESERT

I’ll be just back from another epic road trip when this goes up. Back home in the burning desert, Hacienda Hogan, home sweet, strange home. Like an Afro-Mayan Mars colony, if we can tolerate the word in an age of decolonialization.

Wise entities, tinted with oxidation, know that in the Spanish-speaking world, “colonia” means neighborhood, and is used the way humble pochos would assume they would “barrio.”

It all flows, changes shape, distorts . . .

And ya gotta watch out. Constantly. Forever. Everywhere.

Read the messages in a new language, metamorphosed, reversed, refocused, and projected into a new reality.

Time for new identities. Like sci-fi cartoons.

It colors the environment anew.

Flowers reach out to deliver a message to an old icon. How long will it take to decode it? Will the news be good?

Meanwhile, things lurk in the shadowy corners of the cozy abode.

While flowers burn and shrivel up in the glorious radioactivity.

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CHICANONAUTICA SEES CARTEL 2045 EXPLOIT ITSELF

Chicanonatuica reviews Cartel 2045 at La Bloga.

It’s a movie with Danny Trejo:

From the Trump era:

With killer robots:

Meawhile, back in L.A.:

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MUSINGS ON SURREALISTIC VEGETATION

A three-head beast roars at the blazing sun and greets me as I return to Hacienda Hogan.

Springtime in the Sonoran desert. The cacti are flowering, their sexual apparatus fully aroused and functioning. So beautiful. People would think you were a pervert if you took such pictures of animal genitalia.

But then, the Monstrose don’t need no stinking flowers to get surreal. It just needs to grow, bake in the sun, crack and break. Nature going wild. Never fails to make a good picture.

Sometimes you have to get in close. Let the sacred energy vibrate your eyeballs.

Limbs can spontaneously amputate, then grope around for sustenance, blurring the border between the plant animal kingdoms, in keeping with Aztecan beliefs.

Slow-motion, self-inflicted flaying/crucifixions decorate the arid landscape.

 

Flowers glow like lukewarm fire.

Others arise with the serpentine.

Beauty does improve after a night of smoldering debauchery.

And finally, the desert becomes a jungle, threatening to devour the city.

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