Ernest Hogan's Blog, page 8

CHICANONAUTICA EXPOSES POETRY AND/OR VIOLENCE IN LA GALLERA

A bold, new crime novelreviewed in Chicanonautica, at La Bloga:

It’s noir:

There’s cockfighting:

Cocaine:

In Spain:

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SOMEBODY LIKES MY BOOKS

You really know you’re a writer when you have these needs.

First, you need to write. Duh, but it’s amazing how many wannabes I’veknown over the years beat themselves up trying to become a writer withoutwriting.

Next you need to get published. If I haven’t been published in awhile, I get depressed. This year I’m feeling good, with a Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, “Lost in Trumptopia”in Our Creative Realidades: A Nonfiction Anthology, and (a drum rollplease) “A Wild and Woolly Road Trip on Mars”—a new Paco Cohen, Mariachi ofMars story–coming soon in Chicanofuturism Now.

If I have a long dry spell, it can get pretty grim. I have to remind myself that I actually have a career. Bloggingand social media help, but there’s nothing like getting published. Talk aboutaddiction.

But, still, that isn’t enough. You need to have people read andreact to it. It's nice to be called a genius, but I even like it when someonegets pissed off or offended.

And then, oh yeah, there’s making money, but that's a whole otherpendejada.

I’ve been nervous about Guerrilla not getting “real”reviews, but meanwhile, I’ve been getting proof that people like it.

Like Jan Karlo, one of my students from the Gonzo ScienceFiction, Chicano Style class He was impressed enough to go on to read Cortezon Jupiter, which was based on the title story of my collection and do anInstagram story on it. He also did one about Guerrilla.

I was delighted and put them both on Facebook and Twitter. Andhere at Mondo Ernesto.

Self-promotion. It becomes a way of life after a while.

It also makes me feel good, in the mood to get back to making myPaco Cohen stories into a novel . . .

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CHICANONAUTICA PRESENTS THE 2023 EXTRA FICTION WINNERS

You can read them via links inChicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Examples of the Chicano renaissance:

With Santa Ana winds:

Swordplay:

And aliens:

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CONFESSIONS OF A DOPE DILETTANTE, PART TWO

 
I left you hanging with a mention of another drug that I didn’t giveup after the bad trip.

That was caffeine.

(I never got into tabacco products. Nicotine had no allure for me,but that’s another story . . .)

I wasn’t a coffee snob being persnickety over the specifics of aconcoction with lots of milk products, flavoring and spices. This was drugabuse. My relationship with caffeine was what allowed me to write aboutaddiction. Again, research. 

I liked it black—what the baristas these days call “cafeAmericano”—and strong. I couldn’t imagine starting a day without a few bittercups to get my nerves jangling.

At home, I would use instant coffee, which the current generationfinds shocking, but when you don’t care about esoteric taste sensations, itprovides a way to bring on a buzz that has near-hallucinogenic effects.

Another perk is that it’s legal, and socially acceptable, apsychoactive drug with an entire industry devoted to making it available.Imagine an alternate universe where addicts on the street consume superchargedcrack/fentanyl-like caffeine products while law-abiding citizens enjoycigarettes and chewing gum laced with coca and opioids. There but for the graceof Xochipilli . . .

After a while, I began to notice the jitters making me sloppy, inwriting, and my day job at Borders, where they provided free coffee for theemployees—fiendish, huh? At my yearly doctor’s checkup my blood-pressure was alwaysa little high.

“Did you have any coffee today?” the doc would ask.

When I said yes, he’d tell me to skip it tomorrow and come backand I would be okay.

Then my dad died.

He had high blood pressure, and heart disease got him.

I remember a high school teacher saying, “For a lot of people,their first sign of heart disease is their death.”

I made some adjustments in my diet and decided to give upcaffeine. And since my wife, Emily, had decaffeinated earlier, and was sneakingmore and more decaf into my (now non-instant) brew, it was easy.

It hasn’t seemed to affect my writing. Most of the storiesin Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song were written under the influence.The later stories are different in that I’m an older writer who has managed tolearn a few things. I must admit that my first drafts aren’t quite as messy asthey once were, sort of . . .

I still drink coffee, decaf, and I seem to get a placebo-effect buzzoff it.

Sometimes when in an outback areas where they have religiousobjections to decaf, I’ll down some regular–because I believe that Puritanismis a bad idea, never say never–and it’s . . . fun!

But whatever it is, the more you use, and the older you get, itgets less fun.

George Carlin in his old age would keep one joint in his house,and when he’d get stuck writing, he’d light up, take a toke, and get back towork. That’s the way I am with caffeine these days.

Because it’s the work that’s important. And who knows what kind of“research” it may require.

Speaking of which, I have more research I need to get back to . ..

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CHICANONAUTICA GOES BEYOND ARIZONA 1864

 

Chicanonautica about Arizona politics again, over at La Bloga.

Some folks were partying like it's 1864:

It's religious frenzy time:

And people are getting hot and bothered:

Kinda Buñuelian:

CONFESSIONS OF A DOPE DILETTANTE, PART ONE

Since Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories came out, people probably think I’m on drugs. I’ve neverneeded drugs to have visions. Hallucinogenic imagery has always come easy tome, even as a toddler when I spent most of my time playing with imaginaryfriends. My imagination never stops. 

I suppose that most people don’t have weird shit dancing throughtheir brains 24/7. That’s something I have a hard time imagining. Must be boring.

If the police ransacked Hacienda Hogan they wouldn’t find anythingthat would get me locked up. Sure, there’s some cerveza, but I write sober. Andstill I make incredible typos.

What is a gonzo Chicano science fiction writer? People probablyimagine me sprinkling genetically engineered peyote powder on my Cheeriosbefore I go out in my low rider hovercraft to cruise the barrio in search ofvirgins to sacrifice to Tezcatlipoca with electrified accordion psychedeliccumbias a-blasting. Maybe some even believe it.

Still, drugs and Xochipilli, the god of mind-altering substances,have not been totally absent from my life—after all I came of age during theSeventies, in Southern California, when you needed a gas mask to avoid thecoke and pot in the air. It was part of what was happening, man! And as awriter, I felt it was my duty to be hip to what was going on, so I could writeabout it.

I was what we used to call a social drug user. At parties andother gatherings of long-haired, freaky people, funny cigarettes and pipeswould be passed around . . . in pre-Star Wars fandom, the stairwells of convention hotels would fill up with smoke. 

But I digress . . .

I have to admit that pot, grass, weed, what we called cannabisback then, was fun. But it was me hoping that marijuana (or mariguana, as theSpanish-language press spells it) would make the conversations moreinteresting. Without the “dope” most of those events would have been dull.

After a while, I realized that instead of bringing others up to mylevel, it was dragging me down to theirs.

But that wasn’t why I gave it up.

One night, over at a friend’s house, I took a few tokes. I assumedit was good ol’ pot, but there was something different this time. I got thisbuzzing–WAAAAH! . . .WAAAAH! . . . WAAAAH!--going through my head. Thingsstarted to look different–focus and colors looked weird. Then I started pukingmy guts out. Must have been somekinda unidentified psychedelic whatchcallitmixed in. That was the thing about illegal drugs–you never knew what you were reallygetting. Also, I seemed to be disconnected from my body, could barely talk,and walking was . . . those several puke-runs to the toilet were . . . interesting.They eventually gave me something with opium in it, and I slept it off.

It was the classic bad trip I had heard so much about. I didn’treally want to go through it again.

Also, I was going through a lot at the time, realizing that if I’mgoing to do the creative stuff that I do, I absolutely had to keep my brainand body in good condition. I decided to give it up.

By it I mean the stuff with laws against it.

It was pretty easy, I just started saying no when it was offered.Nancy Reagan would have been proud.

Besides, the times I tried cocaine–which made me feel good and soself-confident that I committed a crime someone asked me to (I see how it couldmess up your life)--and speed (which was like coke, but not as pleasant) Iwasn’t left hungering for more.

And I had done enough research in that area. Sorry Xochipilli, but you don't get to eat my brain.

But then, there was another drug, however, that I did not give upfor another decade or so . . .

To be continued!

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CHICANONAUTICA GONZOS WHILE CHICANO IN CLASS

Chicanonautica examines my lateststint as a teacher, at La Bloga:

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I was never comfortable in aclassroom:

I never wanted to be a teacher:

I don’t believe in gurus:

I do have a lot of bizarre experiences:

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AN ERNESTOID INTERLUDE

Whew! I need to take a long, deep breath. Or maybe a loud, noxiousfart will do. 

Been up to my orejas in the Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Styleclass for the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop during which I wrote a storywhile delivering play by play reportage on my creative process. I also got tovisit an alternate reality where I am famous, and an influence on a lot ofwriters in the planet-spanning reaches of the Latinoid continuum. It was greatand had me feeling like I can take on all the madness that I see building upand threatening to erupt in the rest of the year. 

I don’t want to be a guru. I don’t believe in gurus. I do haveexperience that can help people who have chosen to take the path I have taken.I’ve been around on this merry-go-round a few times.

Meanwhile, Our Creative Realidades takes its place next to GuerrillaMural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories as something I'vegot to hype. Yes, I’m a sort of a gonzo journalist–or is it anthropologist?--fromtime to time. And I do know the differences between fiction, and nonfiction,sci-fi and reality. I think. Maybe I’m just a clumsy slapstick comedian.

Then there’s my novel Zyx; Or, Bring Me the Brain of Victor Theremin. Still trying to get an agent who will be willing to run itthrough the gauntlet of the big New York publishers because I can’t give up thedream of making a wad of cash and retiring to write my bucket list novels anddo art rather than work far into my old age. Creativity can be a bitch.

I could probably find a publisher for Zyx (did I evermention that it rhymes with sex?) in a few weeks if I didn’t care about money. Unfortunately,I need money to survive. I won’t rule it out. Like I keep saying, I keep onefoot in the underground, so when the shit hits the fan, I’ll have a place tostand. What is that stuff flying around?

Speaking of novels, mine, High Aztech, Cortez on Jupiter,and Smoking Mirror Blues made David Bowles’ List of Mexican American Futurism. I’m down as Nestor Hogan, but people still get confused when yougo against their handy-dandy stereotypes. Nestor, Nesto, Ernesto, I’m myperplexing Ernestoid self. Buy my books and figure it out yourself.

The election and politics are getting weirder than ever. Grotesquealternative universes battling over which one we’ll live in. Your favoriteutopia d’jour ain’t one of the choices–guess what, it never is, and be carefulif it seems to be. Meanwhile, I recommend voting against the guy who the Klan,the Nazis, and the governments of Russia and China want in the White House.

Ah . . . I’m feeling better. More focused. What was that I justdid? Maybe it was deep breath and a fart. Is it possible to do both atonce? Nah, it would probably cause serious injury, and I’m actually feelinggood.

I’ll just keep doing my Ernestoid thing in the face of a futurethat promises to be crazier than my wildest dreams, because I have some dreamsthat are pretty damn wild that I haven’t shared yet.

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CHICANONAUTICA EXPOSES OUR CREATIVE REALITIES

Realities get creative in Chicanonautica, at La Bloga.

Fiction, nonfiction:

Creative:

Magical:

And gonzo:

SLITHERING INTO A WEIRD SPRING

 

Maybe all Springs are going to be weird after 2020. Here in the Phoenix Metro Area it keeps warming up, delivering beautiful, sunny but mild days, then we get more rain, cooling, then it warms up again. 

Also I keep expecting something to happen, something big, and scary. Still haunted by that bizarre day I showed up for work, and two supervisors in masks were at the door, making sure they had my correct phone number, and telling me to wait for further instructions.

Besides, by the time you read this, I’ll be in the middle of my “Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style” class, trying to write a story to demonstrate how I do the voodoo that I do, exposing my creative process for examination. Which will be strange because I don’t think much about it—I just do it. I never tried to be gonzo, but looking at it, it does make a handy label to put on it.

I’ve already come up with an idea. I tried not to, but all this stuff is bombarding me, bubbling over in the back of my brain . . .

It’s inspired by the election. Sorry, I couldn’t help it.

The truth is, I don’t have as much control over this as I would like to believe.

Now, some students will know, and tomorrow, the world . . .

And me, naked before it all.

We are all naked under our clothes. We are all skeletons under the skin.

It’s what I get for agreeing to play teacher. Me, one of those kids who never liked school.

Maybe I’m more of a mentor than a teacher, but then labels come and go.

It’s not up to me to explain this. I’m the phenomenon, not an observer.

And it’s another gorgeous day with a blue sky peaking through fantastic cloudscapes. For now. Meanwhile, the news is full of hellscapes worthy of Hieronymus Bosch. Have a nice day anyway.

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