Ernest Hogan's Blog, page 24

CHICANONAUTICA GETS HIGHAZTECHIZED

 

At La Bloga, Chicanonautica looks at news that sounds a lot like High Aztech.

 

Who remembers Tenochtitlán?

Aztec culture is not dead:

New technology is bringing back the past:

And the culture wars go on:

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MEMORIAL DAY AMID ARIZONA RUINS

Trying to avoid traffic jams on the day to honor fallen warriors, we headed north into cooler weather, toward the remains of lost civilizations. It was the beginning of the almost, not quite post-pandemic summer. NOW HIRING signs were replacing MASK REQUIRED. Everybody was ready to jump the gun while the Delta Variant lurked in the dark corners.

People had come to do the trails around Walnut Canyon with the Sinagua cliff dwellings, but not enough to crowd things. The 736 step (that’s just one way) vertical hike is quite a work out. Emily had to rest. I can still do it without getting winded. The visit to a lost world makes it worth the effort, though.

Then we went to Flagstaff, and just for the hell of it, down Route 66, to pass the site of the late, lamented Galaxy Diner--and lo and behold! It was back from the dead, fully resurrected, and back in business. There was live music and the joint was rocking.

Lost worlds do come back. Better keep an eye out for Sinaguans and Anasazis . . .

We still had time so we visited the lava fields of Sunset Crater and the buildings and ball court of Wupatki, that got me thinking about that ball game novel I want to write.

It was a day in worlds lost and found, old and new . . .

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CHICANONAUTICA FORGETS THE ALAMO

Actually, it's a Chicanonautica book review, over at La Bloga.

This one is making news:

Fighting the Hollywood myth:

That’s engrained into Americano culture:

Soon folks will be singing a different tune:

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KISMET IN PRESCOTT

Emily and I have been feeling restless lately, the need for impromptu road trips keeps overtaking us. This time, after coffee and quiche at a place I won’t mention because they have been getting too crowded lately, she looked at me and said, “Let’s do something!”

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It was as if a djinn was whispering in her ear.

Soon we were on the 89, past Wickenburg. There were still Trump flags dotting the rural landscape. Trump country, with roadside datura.

We ended up in Prescott, poking around the Whiskey Row antique shops, not really expecting to find anything, just fooling around . . .

I was disappointed in a bookshelf where I had found interesting oddities--counterculture relics, ancient pulp fiction, accounts of cannibalism--in the past when Emily blurted out, loud and serious, "Ernie, you have to come over here!"

I rushed over expecting to have to rescue her from some unlikely situation, but there she was in front of another bookshelf. She was pointing to an impressive set of books. It was the 1950 edition, leather bound, of Sir Richard Francis Burton's translation of the Alf Layla wa Layla, or The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night, popularly known as The Arabian Nights, with all the fascinating footnotes, and all but one of the supplements. The price was $75 dollars.

I've wanted this set of books ever since I checked volumes from the West Covina Public Library in my 20th century youth. Reading Tahir Shah’s account of acquiring a copy in his own Arabian Nights further stoked that fire, but it was a "one of these days" things. 

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Now that I'm a Medicare card carrying senior citizen, I realize that putting things off can mean it will probably never happen. I didn't hesitate. The incomplete set was very soon mine.

Kismet was in the air.

 

Then we went to lunch to celebrate. Whoopie!

 

We had ordered, but before our meal could be cooked, it was announced that there was a computer outage, and the restaurant would only be able to accept cash. We didn't have enough cash for what we ordered.

I hung out at our table while Emily did a run to the nearest ATM. She came back empty-handed. The outage had knocked out the internet in the entire city of Prescott.

If it had happened about an hour earlier, I wouldn’t have been able to make my purchase.

Guess it was just meant to be.

Luckily, they let us change our order to something that took just about all of the few bills the two of us had on us.

Somehow, we made it home without running out of gas.

When we got home, I did some Googling I found out that complete sets go for around $400. Copies of single volumes are about $30. 

I’ll have to keep an eye out for the missing volume, but that just gives me another excuse to go out and have more adventures.

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CHICANONAUTICA SEEKS ATLANTEAN-BRAZILIAN WHITE PEOPLE

 

That’s right, in Chicanonautica, at La Bloga . . .

Down South American way:

Evidence of strange things from a long time ago:

In the Amazon:

Is there an Atlantis connection?

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TERRIBLES, FOUR AND COUNTING . . .

 

Another Ishmael Reed novel! Why aren't people dancing in the streets?

They were just celebrating Juneteenth without masks, but dammit, the release of a new novel by the last man standing of America’s literary 1960s generation shouldn’t get lost in the interweb media shuffle. It’s also the continuation of his Terribles series, a futuristic caricature of modern America and an attack on Christmas--the season when bookstores make most of their money--and how it's central to western civilization. What more can you ask for in these apocalyptic times when transformation is the order of the day, every day?

Yes, NeoHoodooism is alive and well. It’s also Afrofuturistic, and Afrosurrealistic. Science fiction is just a small part of what’s going on here, and it doesn’t trip over itself like a sci-fi nerd stumbling onto the dance floor. It plugs into the myths that run our lives, our world.

It shows how even during the absurd Trump era, Ishmael Reed had no trouble coming up with material more outrageous than the evening news. This church and business-friendly dystopia would actually be appealing to some right-wingers. It goes beyond the Book of Revelations.

Not to commit a spoiler, but Nance Saturday turns out to me more than he appears to be.

In preparation, I reread The Terrible Twos and The Terrible Threes, and couldn’t help noticing that these books, like all of Ishmael Reed’s fiction, aren’t structured like conventional fiction. We don’t see the shootouts, chases, and sex/love scenes that all good bestselling pageturners are supposed to have. The Terribles are more like jazz (a blurb from Max Roach says: “. . . the Charlie Parker of American fiction”), and visual art with variations on themes and information-rich, complex compositions like those of Hieronymous Bosch, Diego Rivera, and cartoonists like Jack Davis, Will Elder, Spain Rodriguez, and S. Clay Wilson.

 

He did learn cartooning while writing his novel Juice!, in which the main character is a cartoonist. He illustrated Fours photo-montage cartoons.

And of course, it’s not static like a painting or mural; these tableaus move in long paragraphs and short chapters that set the skull spinning.

Then there's all those weird characters, all talking and acting out bizarre scenarios.

You can’t read these books too fast, you’ll miss the hilarious details, often several ideas on a page that other writers would use for entire novels.

 

Dare I imagine all the Terribles as an animated miniseries that send Netflix and Amazon into a bidding war?

Meanwhile, The Terrible Fives is in the works . . .

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CHICANONAUTICA ASKS IF A CHICANO CAN BE MAINSTREAM

 

Chicanonautica, at La Bloga, asks if a Chicano can be mainstream.

Yes, there are Chicano writers.

Could one write the Great American Novel?

Should they write science fiction?

And for those of you who want advice on writing:

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RECONNOITERING IN UTAH: PART TWO

Bicknell is past Torrey and a field of grazing bison. It’s where a state-run liquor store is, where we--after days of searching--found wine for Emily’s mother years ago. The highly recommended restaurant next to the Aquarius Motel was shut down, so we had lunch at Sunglow Drive-In (where we dined in).

The Capitol Reef Inn & Cafe was as arty as ever, and “Closed for the Season,” and seemed to be having construction and renovation going on.

There were tourists, mostly Americans. This is a change from the past in Utah, when we’d see mostly Europeans and Asians.

I had to take a picture of the Aquarius Motel sign because people probably wouldn’t believe it. It’s named for the Aquarius Plateau.

The next day, as Emily put it, “We spent a lot of time this morning stumbling around.”

In our post-COVID-19 world, small towns are no longer ready to go at 6 AM. A local told us: “Tourists come here and expect to get coffee at eight o’clock in the morning.” The Wild Rabbit in Torry had a huge crowd of people waiting outside, and Austin’s Chuckwagon was crowded with Americano tourists, and no masks anywhere. We donned ours and grabbed some turnovers to go and a heap of napkins. This must be the “unprecedented tourism” we heard about in Kanab.

Finally, we got in the line at the drive-thru at Dark Sky Coffee, where they had decaf and bear claws.

We sent most of the day hiking at Capitol Reef, where there were NO HUMAN WASTE IN TRASH stickers on the trash bins (yeah, it must be a thing). The otherworldly landscape was inspiring. Literally. Emily got ideas for scenes for her novel. Good. It’s working.

We ate at the Sunglow Drive-In again. Neither of us wanted to try the World Famous Pickle & Pinto Bean Pie.

And at the Aquarius Motel, a peacock could be heard calling.

Next morning, Torrey was still all closed up at 6:40 AM. The parking lots of all the motels were all full. Deer browsed in a front yard.

On Highway 24 we soon saw Martian cliffs glowing in the light of the rising sun. A lone man on a bicycle rode across the fantastic landscape and morning haze slashed with low-slung shadows. There was a Cathedral Valley, and Luna Mesa. Suddenly, I had the “Welcome to Mars” song from Cory McAbee’s Stingray Sam going through my head.

At the junction with the 95, we just had to stop at one of our favorite towns, Hanksville. We took a lot of photos at the dazzling and always inspiring Carl’s Critter Garden. 

And we finally found a place to get breakfast, Duke’s Slickrock Grill, that’s also a shrine to John Wayne with its menu items named after his movies. San Juan de Hollywood is becoming the Patron Saint of Traveling Caucasians. His images is everywhere. He seems to be saying, “Don’t worry, pilgrim, I’ll protect you from these here natives.”

Our next stop was another favorite, Hog Spring Recreation Area. The river was low, so we got to walk the Hog Canyon Trail.

Emily summed it up: “Route 95 kicks butt.”

At Natural Bridges National Monument, we went all the way down the Sipapu Bridge Trail. Sipapu is a Hopi word for a hole in the bottom of a kiva, or pithouse, that symbolizes the portal from which their ancestors came into this world. It was a Journey to the Center of the Earth-type experience.

We met some Korean tourists on the trail.

The CDC’s announcement didn’t change things in the Navajo Nation. Masks are still required. The lockdown is still in effect.

When we checked into the Kokopelli Inn, we were told that the Twin Rocks Cafe was closed Sundays, so we went to Comb Ridge for dinner. They didn’t have Navajo tacos, but I tried the Baja Tostada, that was more “Latin inspired” than Mexicanoid, and Emily got the Whiskey Burger, that didn’t have any whiskey in it.

The restaurant and the tiny town of Bluff were crowded, even with the pandemic still going on. America seems willing to come back with a vengeance. White people are eager to go out and spend money. And this isn’t even summer yet.

We headed home the next day, taking the 261, the scenic route through Monument Valley.

There were some masked hitchhikers on the Rez, unidentified roadkill at the roadside, a solar farm, microwave towers, as the cinematic monuments melted into shark-toothed mountains. Everything was turning into something else. An endless process. We’re just seeing one frame of the movie . . .

Then, I got inspired. 

Suddenly, my brain was flooded with ideas for a sequel to High Aztech. I had thought about it before, but it was all without form and substance. Now I had workable ideas. I took some notes.

I really don’t need another project right now, and I don’t know how marketable it would be, but things are in flux, opportunities are opening up, better be ready.

Yeah, these places are just plain inspiring. These rocks have things to say. We better listen to them.

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CHICANONAUTICA COMMITS A BLATANT, UNASHAMED ACT OF SELF-PROMOTION

Chicanonautica, at La Bloga, is all about the upcoming publication of my story “Those Rumors of Cannibalism and Human Sacrifice Have Been Greatly Exaggerated” in Speculative Fiction for Dreamers: A Latinx Anthology.

 

 

The story is about truckers:

 

And an anthropologist:

In Aztlán:

And New Mexico:

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RECONNOITERING IN UTAH: PART ONE

Our reason for this Utah trip was to research a novel that Emily wants to write. I was along to be a research assistant and creative consultant, Passepartout to her Phileas Fogg. I’m actually pretty good at that sort of thing. Maybe I should go pro.

She picked me up at work, and there wasn't much traffic so we made it to Flagstaff quickly. Emily's brother Michael had Texas-style brisket sandwiches waiting for us. We spent the night in his studio.

We got up early the next morning, a habit we developed during the pandemic, and ended up cruising to Flagstaff for coffee and breakfast. We ended up at an IHOP on route 66. None of the quirky eateries were open at 6:30 am (another post-COVID development?) The scrambled eggs and hashbrowns weren't bad, but the decaf tasted like dishwater.

Soon we were on the 89, going through the Navajo Nation, which is still locked down after taking a heavy toll from COVID-19. A sign announced a NO DRONE ZONE. We stopped and took pictures at the Navajo Bridge over the Colorado River, where they are concerned about people jumping off or throwing objects.

They also don’t want any human waste in their trash receptacles. There’s probably a story behind that. I keep imagining horror movie material.

After the fantastic Vermilion Cliffs, we were soon surrounded by burned forests as far as the eye could see. Natural beauty, then desolation, a different kind of beauty. It took us out of our everyday state-of-mind.

We made it to Kanab early. New structures had appeared all over the small town. Our favorite hotel was under new management. English-speaking tourists were everywhere.

Even though I wasn’t looking for books this trip, as we cruised a couple of thrift shops, I found, and couldn’t resist buying, Thor Heyerdahl’s The Ra Expeditions and Nigel Davies’ The Toltecs: Until the Fall of Tula. Yeah, I could rationalize it as research for my writing . . .

While we were having burgers at Hudson’s Trail’s End, Emily showed me the news of the CDC easing the mask mandate for people who’ve been fully vaccinated. We were both fully vaccinated at this point, but decided that while traveling we’ll carry masks, keep on the lookout for signs and other people wearing masks.

We also picked up some local newspapers for Emily’s research.

We drove out to Coral Pink Dunes where kids had brought their snowboards. We took pictures, but I couldn’t see my phone’s screen in the bright sunlight. It kept switching to selfie mode. Got some shots of me looking serious in a Martian-looking landscape.

Back in town, Emily said, “Kanab just insists on being interesting.”

Still, more of our favorite places were closed or just plain gone. New, modern things had popped up. The Lone Ranger watching an intersection had been defaced. A new world was forming.

Almost immediately after the CDC’s announcement, masks became rare. People reacted as if the pandemic was over. The fact the eased mandate was for the vaccinated was either not mentioned or de-emphasized. The news was full of planned parties and other public events. Then Utah’s Governor Cox said that children could go maskless for the final week of the school year. Just what kind world we would be coming home to?

The next morning, the CDC was thinking about dialing back their announcement.

As we were leaving Kanab, we noticed that a cafe was closed because their staff was overwhelmed by “unprecedented tourism.” NOW HIRING signs were all over Utah. Meanwhile, Governor Cox was expressing concern about “the southern border.”

We passed the Moqui Cave where they serve smoothies and paninis, and there’s a stegosaurus statue out front, and soon we were on the Highway 12 Scenic Byway. A lone Trump flag stood on a hill amid classic, rural Americana and the natural wonders surrounding Bryce Canyon.

“My mind is wandering,” said Emily.

“Mine too,” I replied.

“I’m glad we can have wandering minds together.”

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