Ernest Hogan's Blog, page 25

CHICANONAUTICA SHADES MEXICO CITY IN NOIR

 

Chicanonautica review Silvia Morena-Garcia’s Velvet Was the Night, at La Bloga.

It takes place in Mexico City:

In the 1970s:

Is noir:

And Mexican comic books are an influence:

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ZIGZAGGING TO LAS VEGAS AND BEYOND

 

The news was full of protests as we got up early for a gonzo run from Vacaville to Las Vegas, past the rice paddies of Sacramento, into Gold Rush country, into the Sierras, past lakes, into snow, the Yuba River, and yes, Donner Pass, where there’s now a ski area.

And then, Reno, into Nevada, past a gigantic Barnes & Noble distribution center in the middle of nowhere. We barely had time to contemplate why when we were in Carson City.

The Prius said it needed oil, so we searched for a Jiffy Lube, but couldn’t find one.

Then we zagged back into California, but did stops at Mono Lake and Panum Crater, then it was a zig back into Nevada along the Grand Army of the Republic Highway.

Soon we came upon Tonapah, home of the famous Clown Motel, where bikers are welcome.

And it’s right next to an authentic Wild West graveyard. The entire town looked like it was designed by Stephen King, and would be the perfect location for a horror film, though the only place to eat seems to be the Burger King.

After more wide open spaces populated by wild donkeys, and towns that were like low-rent versions of Tonapah, near Beatty, we came across the battered sign from the abandoned Angel’s Ladies Brothel, next to which was a crashed plane, stripped of its engines and covered in graffiti.

I can’t help but imagine the scenario:

“Sir, I’m afraid we’re out of gas.”

“There’s an extra hundred in it if you put us down within walking distance of the whorehouse!”

Soon we made our day through the post-Apocalyptic squalor of the desert to Las Vegas’ grotesque caricature of the American Dream, to a chunk of its own new, improved variant of suburban sprawl spewing out of ever-growing, cancerous freeways. Technically, it’s called Henderson, and Mike has a house in an eco-friendly section called Green Valley Ranch where the neighborhood association spends a lot of money on replacing flowers, where we finally found a Jiffy Lube and got the Prius its self-suggested oil change. 

“This thing is basically one big battery,” said the woman in charge while a homeless guy did a non-stop interpretive dance and conversation with invisible personages.

The manicured theme park look eventually gives way to a ticky-tacky dystopian overgrowth that thins out into desert and the spectacular geology of Red Rock Canyon, where we did a pit stop at a scenic view area. Emily caught a guy taking a selfie in the gender neutral restroom, where there was political graffiti disputing the recent election.

Back outside, a young man on a bicycle screamed “THIS IS AMERICA!” in disapproval of our masks. Most of the other people there were modern day, middle-class motorcyclists.

The trail around Calico Hill is great!

Then we went back to Vegas to the Art District with its many murals, antique and thrift stores, and bohemian atmosphere. We bought some cool clothes. A lady in one of the stores told me, “You’re really rocking the bandido look.”

The next day, as we left Vegas, I saw another Pinches Tacos. Later I looked it up. It’s a chain.

Back through the desert, on I-15, there were a lot of billboards for something called Alien Fresh Jerky. I figured we must have been close to Area 51.

Near Whisky Pete’s and Buffalo Bill’s Casinos, lighthouse-like light concentrators glowed and towered over solar collector fields. Apparently, these energy farms are raising the temperature, changing the climate. Somebody needs to work on collectors that absorb sunlight without kicking out a lot of waste energy . . .

Finally, in Baker, we found Alien Fresh Jerky. It’s a clever tourist trap where you can actually buy the touted jerky--no claims that it is made of any kind of aliens--and other wacky trinkets and snacks amid kitschy sci-fi decor. You want photo ops? 

And there was no sign of the “excellent seafood” or “landcrab” mentioned in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas.

Once again, Nevada is surpassing Hunter S. Thompson’s wildest hallucinations.

There are abandoned motels and other empty, dilapidated structures all over this desert. Not just ghost towns. Nevada is either frenzied artificial economics or closed and disintegrating in the sun.

We took Kelbaker Road through the Mojave Desert Preserve. The naked desert in all its glory.

We got home after Derek Chauvin was found guilty on all counts. Things were oddly calm after that.

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CHICANONAUTICA EN EL RADIO GARDEN

Chicanonautica listens to the radio, at La Bloga.

In the Radio Garden:

On the air:

On line:

And at KUVO, where they play this a lot on Sundays:

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IMPRESSIONS OF POST-TRUMP CALIFORNIA

Emily's brother Mike had to go to California on business, so he invited us on another road trip. We've been doing a lot of road tripping lately. Maybe it's addicting.

The sun was going down when he picked us up in his Prius Hybrid. Soon we were heading westward into an interstellar blackness. We arrived in Barstow after midnight.

In the morning, Barstow seemed deserted in a post-Apocalyptic manner. We got coffee at the same Panera we did last time we were in town. I already had stains on my pants and T-shirt as we got back on the road.

[image error]  Things got less ghost towny as we sped deeper into California, and my non-decaffeinated (they didn’t have decaf, as is often the case in the outback) Americano did its legal psychoactive number on my brain. Everything seemed futuristic, another brave, new world.

Soon we went past Edwards Air Force Base, and the Neil Armstrong Space Research Center.

They are near a helluvalot of modern windmills--Don Quixote's worse nightmare updated for our times.

Then the desert filled up with more airliners than I’d thought could reasonably exist. A sign said it was the Mojave Air and Spaceport. Perhaps, hidden among all those planes, is something capable of achieving orbit.

We stopped at Francisco’s Fruits in Filmore. It was festooned with murals we just had to photograph. We got some of the fresh edibles, and I grabbed a bottle of habanero hot sauce, and some “Chili y Limon” peanuts.

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Santa Paula, where my Hogan grandparents lived back in the Sixties, was unrecognizable. Change keeps running amok. That’s the way it is in California.

Amid the “serious treeage” (as Mike put it) of Ventura we discovered that three thrift stores he wanted to show us were closed. Another pandemic phenomenon. “They just open when they show up,” we were told. Downtown was closed off to cars and converted for masked shopping and outdoor street dining. Adjustments have been made.

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Santa Barbara is gorgeous, a lush, Mediterranean-ish earthly paradise for those who can afford it. The California Dream incarnate.

We took lots of photos at the Santa Barbara Museum of Natural History--they had lots of dinosaur statues, some of which moved, and other wonders. 

There were lots of WE BELIEVE BLACK LIVES MATTER, LOVE IS LOVE, WOMEN’S RIGHTS ARE HUMAN RIGHTS, SCIENCE IS REAL, WATER IS LIFE, INJUSTICE ANYWHERE IS A THREAT TO JUSTICE EVERYWHERE signs on expensive houses in the twisty hills. Not to mention the occasional estate sale.

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We had dinner on the patio of a seafood place with relatives as the breeze from the ocean cooled everything down.

Beyond the Chuma Reservation it suddenly looked like the African veldt, blending into wine country.

We stayed at the La Quinta in Paso Robles AKA El Paso de Robles (The Pass of the Oaks in English.)

 

The marine layer was lifting as we heard news of another mass shooting. I had a bear claw from DK’s Donuts.

Downtown Salinas was also retrofitted for the new reality. In a huge antique mall, I found a book: Explorations into Chaokia Archaeology: Bulletin 7 Illinois Archaeological Survey. Realities come and go.

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We passed a cannabis field on the way to Monterey, near Carmel, where Clint Eastwood was once mayor. In Carmel, we went to upscale thrift stores. I found The Mysteries of Ancient South America by Harold T. Wilkins.

 

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Then it was across the Golden Gate Bridge to San Francisco for the business reason for the trip: Mike had to deliver a large, combination coffeetable/drum to a client. The guy’s apartment was on a steep hill, as is most of SF, and next to a huge TV broadcast tower that penetrated the overhead clouds. This city is always something different.

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We spent the night in Petaluma, at a Quality Inn. Tried to call El Ranchito for food, but it rang and rang, and no answer. Finally went there, and found the place to be doing fantastic business that had spilled over into their parking lot. They had a DJ blasting loud Neo-Latinoid dance music so we had to scream our order. “We’re too busy to answer the phone,” informed an employee. Everyone was masked, but social distancing was collapsing under the crush. The tacos, beans, and rice were good, though.

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Next morning it was quiet in Petaluma, except for the sounds of other motel guests getting up, distant traffic, and nearby roosters. I wondered about the Post-COVID-19 world. What places will still be in business? What will thrive?

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Then we got news of still another police shooting, and more protests. When we got back on the road, flags were at half-staff.  Whither goest thou, America? And all that jazz . . .

Got our on-the-run breakfast at the Donut Den, that also serves Chinese food.

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Under the cover of the marine layer, we made our way through Coatati and farmland to Sebastopol, that is brimming over with folk arty stuff. Robots and other weirdness in the streets.

 

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Folks were demonstrating in support of Black Lives Matter. The place has character.

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Santa Rosa, the birthplace of Charles Schulz, has statues of Peanuts characters everywhere. 

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There’s also a pandemic masked shopping area with a lot of fun stuff, but nowhere to go to the bathroom. Three cheers to Dan Taylor’s Omelette Express, that lets visitors use theirs if you ask nicely, like we did. Emily did buy some coffee. The food looked and smelled great, so we’ll have to try it next time we’re in town.

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Then it was wine country again.

There are a lot of Mexican food joints in Sonoma. And another pro-Black Lives Matter demonstration in Napa.

We ended up in a Motel 6 in Vacaville. My Panda Express fortune cookie said: STAY CALM THROUGH CHAOS.

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CHICANONAUTICA PERSISTS WITH QUIJOTE

Chicanonautica finally gets around to The Man Who Killed Don Quixote, at La Bloga:

El Quixote rides again:

His spirit became the vaquero and charro in el Mundo Nuevo:

Which became the mythic Americano cowboy:

And the mutations keep on coming:

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STRIP-MINED EAST ARIZONA

 

We took Grand Ave. out to the 60, past the Superstition Mountains, and Apache Junction, through the desert, into more mountains, to a town called Superior. There it got surreal . . . Lots of abandoned motels, middle-aged/middle class bikers and their shiny machines all over, plus old, rusty mining equipment on display. Magma Avenue! A monument to fallen miners makes it even more surreal . . .

Oddly, there were no Trump signs. Somehow, I was expecting them.

Along Highway 177 we say the results of extensive strip mining, and bleak towns that weren’t ghost towns, yet. I got ideas for sci-fi planets, entire worlds sucked dry of all resources, nothing but ugly, collapsing dunes of slag, patrolled by the stubborn mutant ancestors of the original miners.

Past the town of Oracle was a sign announcing a road to Biosphere 2, continuing the science fiction mood in my head leaking into reality. There were Joshua trees along Route 77, showing that different ecosystems do intersect. The Tom Mix monument wasn’t very impressive—like a tacky ornament that would decorate a neglected Scottsdale front yard. The desert was scarred, yet beautiful the way a disfigured face and deformed body can be beautiful. 

Florence has some Southwest charm, but the prison that shared its name and was the main industry gave it a miasma of quiet misery. We had lunch at Lidia’s Cocina at the Old Pueblo—home of the “eggschalada”—and there were motorcycles parked out front, and guys in black leather in the bar. This region is ideal for the twenty-first century biker.

Instead of going back the way we came, we took the Old West Highway. With the exception of images on some tacky signs, anything Old West was long gone. It was all shopping centers, bar/restaurants (with more bikers), motels, trailer parks, abandoned businesses that got more franchise contemporary as we got into Mesa and met up with the light rail.

For a while we were behind an SUV, its rear window decorated with GIRLS FOR TRUMP and grinning skulls.

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CHICANONAUTICA RATS ON ARIZONA (AGAIN)

Chicanonautica is about rotten Arizona voting laws, over at La Bloga.

Of course, this is nothing new:

Latino votes matter:

Really:

But this is dangerous territory:

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SOUTH (ALMOST TO THE BORDER)

 

Emily said, “I’ve lived in Arizona for sixty years and never been down this way,” so we headed south on Highway 85. We passed a Circle K with an ORDER AT AMAZON, PICK UP HERE thing attached to it. Then we went through an Amazon complex as we left the Metro Phoenix Area.

Soon we were on a long drive through lots of largely unspoiled desert surrounded with jagged mountains. Now and then we saw something like the Lewis Prison, warnings not to pick up hitchhikers, and the Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range.

Rumor has it there are secret military bases. Will the real Area 51 please stand up?

Just the sort of thing to get you out of the urban mindstate.

In Ajo, a charming town whose major industry seems to be Mexican auto insurance, we spotted a mural with angry-looking giant rabbits. Turns out the classic schlock sci-fi flick Night of the Lepus was filmed there, and Roadrunner Inn bears a mural in its honor. They also sell donuts and espresso.

There are a lot of murals for a small town like Ajo. They must have artists, too.

Beyond the Why Not Travel Store in the town of Why, we reached Organ Pipe Cactus National Monument.

It was well worth the drive. We’ll probably be going back.

 

It’s right on the border. I got a text welcoming me to Mexico and offering a deal on Mexican cell service.

After a fantastic hike, we were hungry, so we went back to Ajo and found Arriba Mexican Food. The people didn’t mind wearing masks and practiced social distancing. The tacos, beans and rice were good, too.

As we headed back north, there was roadside graffiti: FREE CHAVIZO . . . FREE MI HERO . . .

Further north, there was a Border Patrol checkpoint. They believed us when we said we were U.S. citizens.

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CHICANONAUTICA UNPLUGS WITH GÓMEZ-PEÑA

 

Chicanonautica reviews Gómez-Peña Unplugged, over at La Bloga.

A new book from Guillermo Gómez-Peña:

He has an interesting take on things:

A man about la Cultura:

And master performer:

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MASKED YEAR

 

Been wearing masks for over a year now. It’ll probably be for a bit longer.

I’ve kind of gotten used to it. Accidentally rushing out with a naked face feels weird.

I’ve actually rather enjoyed it.

When it all started, I dug up bandanas that had been stuffed in a drawer since back in the days when Emily and I were janitors. This time it was different, tying ‘em over the face bandido style instead of around the forehead in the careful workingman’s manner that my grandfather taught me. Now I’m covering my mouth instead of soaking up sweat.

Since then, I’ve acquired a large array of colorful bandanas, and more conventional masks.

When you put something on your face you take on a new identity. Sometimes you feel different, other times it’s just other people are seeing you as somebody or something else. It’s a powerful magic that even works in modern, commercialized rituals.

It’s probably the real reason why the anti-mask folks object. They don’t like having to throw a monkey wrench into their fragile façades. Sketchy identities are easily warped, and sometimes the effects can be permanent.

I’ve enjoyed going from loyal worker to postmodern bandido to explorer of the stargate corridor to agent of the psychedelic bat squadron. I think it’s only made me more loco Ernesto than ever. But then I’ve always known who and what I am.

Others have undergone changes, some that they didn’t want, or aren’t even aware of. 

The world has changed. 

I think it’s a good thing.

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