APOCALYPTOGENESIS NOW

I found a security breach as we were leaving. A snail had gotten inside the shutters of our living room window.

As we headed north, clouds brushed the mountain tops. The rain had created impromptu rivers and waterfalls. I kept expecting to see a yeti hitchhiking to Shangri-La.

We had breakfast under two Kent Bash prints at the Galaxy Diner. Kent did illustrations and covers for Amazing Stories when Elinor Mavor was editor, back when she bought my first published story. Make way for the Synchronicity Express . . .

We ended up in Flagstaff because we took a wrong turn turn as Em told me of her recent sacred apocalyptic kachina dreams.

There was foamy, café au lait water everywhere.

Later we had burgers at the Cowboy Club in Sedona. Was that a real gun that busboy was wearing? Could be. This is Arizona, after all . . .

In a shop window down the street, we saw Christmas lights made from shotgun shells. At the motel we caught the news that Trump wanted more nukes. What a brave, new world . . .

The wi-fi stopped working. A hard rain was a-falling.

The next morning we watched the sun slowly illuminate the fantastic view out our window. We sipped coffee and snubbed the news. Clouds caressed the red rocks. Colors grew more intense.

Clouds embraced the hills all over. Sedona had become Shangri-La. We had breakfast at the Coffee Pot, watched over by kachinas. Any yetis must have been in disguise.

Some of the busboys wore post-manbun poofs like the topknots in High Aztech.

We saw a big, fat rainbow. It ended in the middle of a street. There was no sign of a pot of gold.

On a twisty mountain road, we saw a white pickup that was flying a full-size American flag. But then, maybe it was something else – instead of red, white, and blue, it was black and white. A political statement? The banner of a new nation? A visitor from an alternate universe?

In Jerome there was a hand-painted sign saying GOD HELP US, and building labeled GRUMP TOWER.

We drove home under low clouds, taking a “scenic route” that was often totally obscured as we drove through the clouds, into a mysterious white void, to the future, and home.

CHICANONAUTICA GIVES PACO COHEN AN INTERPLANETARY IDENTITY CRISIS

Paco Cohen has hijacked Chicanonatuica, over at La Bloga.

It's all about Mars (sort of):

Mariachis:

21^st century normal:

And Latin@ Rising (formerly spelled Latino/a Rising):

LATIN@ RISING IS HERE!

Look, I got mine! You should get yours, or even give them for gifts this season!

That's Latin@ Rising: An Anthology of Latin@ Science Fiction and Fantasy, edited by Matthew David Goodwin, with an introduction by Frederick Luis Aldama, with a wonderful selection of imaginative fiction by authors of the Latinoid diaspora including, Kathleen Alcalá,

Sabrina Vourvoulias, Junot Díaz, Daniel José Older, others you'll be glad to know, and – oh yeah – me.

Here's your chance to read, “Flying Under the Texas Radar with Paco and Los Freetails,” another adventure of Paco Cohen, Mariachi of Mars. This one's a prequel about his early life in Texas, and why he decided to take off for Mars. And it's suddenly timely!

So buy it now, while this sort of thing is still legal!

CHICANONAUTICA PHONES A CHICANA ATTACKED BY A MONSTER

The Terrible Twelves on Tapastic is announced in Chicanonautica, at LaBloga.

It's the story of a young Chicana:

Who has monster problems:

In a new frontier for books:

You can read it on your phone:

READ THE TERRIBLE TWELVES ON TAPASTIC

The Terrible Twelves cover art by INOGART

You can now read -- with the help of modern technology -- a new novel by me, and my wife the fabulous Emily Devenport.

It’s called TheTerrible Twelves, a YA about Bea Garcia, a girl from a Chicano family, who starts getting attacked by a monster on her twelfth birthday, so she has to go live with her aunt and uncle in Arizona. Then she finds out just how unusual her family is . . .

(Note: The Terrible Twelves is a work of fiction. It is NOT based on a true story. Any resemblances to persons or families living or dead are purely coincidental!)

And it’s not a book or an ebook, or even an audiobook! You can read The Terrible Twelves through the modern miracle of Tapastic -- a website that now features mostly comics, but is expanding into other things. Once you get the app, a whole new universe of entertainment is open to you.

Yes, this is another experiment on the new frontiers of publishing, in the tradition of BrainpanFallout, because we’re such hearty pioneers.

I WROTE CORTEZ ON JUPITER ALL BY MYSELF!

First, let me take this time on Cyber Monday to ask you to consider buying and giving my books during this seasonal consumer orgy. Now, for an important message . . .

Honestly, it was just me, all by myself. I'm extremely proud of the fact that I wrote my first published novel as a solo effort. Just look at all the editions of it. None of them list anybody as the author but me.

But still, it keeps showing up on the interwebs, Cortez on Jupiter, listed as being by Katherine S. Hogan as well as yours truly.

No. Wrong. I am a the sole author of Cortez on Jupiter! I never even met Katherine S. Hogan, much less wrote a book with her. And once someone made the assumption that she was my wife, and said so online, to add to the confusion.

Katherine S. seems to be a nice person. According to her Amazon Author Page she's a former high school teacher, has written three editions of Barron's GED Writing Workbook, and Take the Lead: Make Youth Sports What They Were Meant to Be, and lives in Virginia with her four children. All noble pursuits.

I have never been anywhere near Virginia.

And please don't bother her about this. Chances are it wasn't her fault. Somewhere along the line, somebody put the wrong Hogan down in the wrong space, and now she's listed as my co-author on sleazy little websites that will probably put insidious malware on your computer, just like those ones that offer free PDF ripoffs of my books.

It's best to stay away from that stuff.

And I had thought I had taken care of this years ago, but it keeps popping up, Guess I have to keep on explaining it . . . what a world, what a world . . .

CHICANONAUTICA REMEMBERS THE ALAMO

Blame it on television, Chicanonautica is about the Alamo, over at La Bloga.

It's a great Americano myth, from John Wayne:

To Walt Disney:

Good thing Lalo Guerrero did his take on it:

And now it's getting sci-fi on us:

NOTES FROM TRUMPTOPIA

It didn’t take long. BLAM! Here we are, Trumptopia. Folks are grumbling about moving to Canada. There are protests across the country. The bigots are feeling empowered and their hate incidents are too numerous to keep up with. 

The Klan and the Nazis are happy, though. 

Call me old-fashioned, but if the Klan and the Nazis are on one side, put me on the other. Please.

And this is all just the reaction to the election -- just wait until he’s inaugurated . . . And if you thought that the election campaign was off the wall, wait until the batshit craziness of the Trump administration kicks in.

I’m not scared. I’m mad. I’m not running for a safe zone. I’m standing my ground.

Trump is a con man. He tells people what they want to hear, takes the money, and runs. He’s notorious for not paying for things. He’s over a billion dollars in debt. He’s not even a real billionaire. He can attract attention, but he ain’t no leader.

What he never does is deliver.

We’re not going to see a wall at the border. There is not going to be a deportation force taking people away. His dubious allies in Washington can’t agree about how to do things.

Yeah, his fans are running amok. There will be damage. I blame him for that.

He doesn’t have a master plan to install a fascist state in a hurry. What I see coming is chaos. It won’t last long, because it’s unstable as a bomb made by amateurs. It’ll come crashing down, leaving a big, ugly mess. 

I’m reminded of Apocalypse Now. When Brando asks, “Do you find my methods too extreme?” 

And Martin Sheen says, “I don’t see any method at all.”

Then we’ll all have clean it up, as usual.

CHICANONAUTICA HAS A TRANSDIMENSIONAL VIDEO CHAT

Deadlines make it weird on Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

Because what is utopia to some is dystopia to others:

And vice versa:

So the help of someone – or something – like Victor Theremin is needed:

And who knows what the future will bring?

¡FELIZ DEAD DAZE!

Argh! The whole Halloween/Día de los Muertos/Dead Daze (see Smoking Mirror Blues) complex snuck up on me this crazy year, under the nefarious stealth of political turmoil . . . Don't let all this 2016 shit get you down! Remember your dead loved ones. And let your imagination run wild . . . In times like these we really need it.

CHICANONAUTICA TAKES ON TOM SWIFT

Chicanonautica exposes racsim in the original Tom Swift novels over at La Bloga.

Tom Swift is considered to be popular Americana:

Nostalgic proto-steampunk stuff:

A far cry from Afrofuturism:

And in other news:

VOTE!

Growing up in West Covina, California, voting was no problem. The folks in charge of our local precinct knocked on our doors and let us know where the polling place was. They practically came over and walked us there on election day. They didn't care what party you were with, or who you were voting for. They wanted you to register and vote, dammit!

Ah, America!

Then I moved to Arizona. Just about every election, they moved your polling place, and finding it was a job in itself. It was like they didn't want you to vote. After several hectic election days, and horror stories from friends who didn't make it in time to cast their ballots, my wife and I signed up for early voting.

We get our ballots in the mail, fill them out right away, and mail them immediately. We have already voted in the upcoming election. It feels good. Voting always give me a natural high.

Yeah, I know some of you don't think there's anybody to vote for, and the system is so corrupt that it doesn't matter. The way I see it, democracy is like pinball: huge, multi-million player pinball. You shoot the ball in, thwack it in the direction you want, and hope it doesn't go tilt. Sure, there's a helluvalota interference from all the other people who are voting, but that's life. It's not about you, or me, it's about us.

And that's never easy.

And if you don't get your thwack in, you're not participating. You're hiding under a rock, letting everybody else decide what's going down. If it all goes tilt, you didn't do anything about it.

You may think you're high and mighty, above it all, but you look pretty low to me.

Pardon me, but I have some more thwacking to do.

CHICANONAUTICA STEALS THIS CIVILIZATION

It's recomboculturism versus cultural appropriation in Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

Who's afraid of dealing with other cultures?

Does Tenochtitlán translate into Hollywood?

Who are these turkeys?

We need to get down to business.

A WEEKEND GETAWAY FOR THE HELL OF IT

It was a dark and stormy night. Really. And the sky turned white in the middle of the night, just like in Captain Beefheart's “The Floppy Boot Stomp.” Emily and I had booked this getaway a while back, and it came just as the presidential race was getting tight and scary. Outrageous weather was a relief.

The next morning, there were problems with my Chicanonautica post getting up on La Bloga. Or maybe it was just me tripping on Google's security protocols. One way or another, it went up just before we left the motel, into the rain, for a rock 'n' roll breakfast at the Galaxy Diner.

Outside Flagstaff, there was a hand-painted sign: TRUMP! SAVE THE U.S.A.

We took a walk through the lava around Sunset Crater, enjoying the eerie beauty.

Stopped by Walnut Canyon, walked a trail we've never been down before, with more Sinagua ruins.

Strolled through downtown Flagstaff and got red mud on El Troque's tires. Had an early dinner at Dara Thai.

The next day, steam rose from piles of logs at the side of the road. There ware patches of snow, too. Em told me that there was snow on El Troque in the morning.

While waiting to be seated for breakfast at the Coffee Pot in Sedona, I saw a young guy in an NRA T-shirt, and an old man with scabs around one eye.

I took pictures of some Kandinskyoid Indian art – one that was signed with glyph-like symbols, the word HOPI, and the copyright sign. And the men's room had gone 21^st century with waterless urinals and air blade hand dryers.

After some aimless driving through the spectacular Oak Creek Canyon, we hiked for about an hour in Red Rock State Park. Red mud on our shoes makes us happy.

Then we took the 89A to Cottonwood – which is colorful, and hippie-dippy, and worthy of further investigation – and stopped at Adventures Unlimited Books, where I bought The Lost Tribe of Coney Island by Claire Prentice.

There were political signs in Jerome: WE LOVE BERNIE, BUT WILL VOTE FOR HILLARY and WE SUPPORT HILLARY, so big it went all the way across the front of a house.

In Prescott, where Trump would be holding a massive rally soon, we ate tacos and carnitas at El Charro, on Montezuma Street, while the the music of Johnny Cash and Willie Nelson played overhead.

We left into a downpour. There were scattered downpours all the way home.

In memory of Søren Heinecke, who enjoyed these little travelogues.

CHICANONAUTICA TELLS A JOKE

It's the story of a joke in Chicanonautica, over at La Bloga.

I also give some rare writing advice:

Get inspiration from the road:

And politicians:

As for the promised wall, we should listen to the singing cowboys:

HOMEWARD, AFTER A SPECTACULAR DETOUR

We continued our detour up to Utah. There was a place called Valley of the Gods on the map that sounded interesting.

Meanwhile, we cruised through the Navajo Rez. There is a McDonalds in Shiprock – actually there are McDonalds in most of these Indian towns, announced by large, well-maintained billboards. We passed another Burritos y Más, could it be El Uno? Could one be coming soon to your town? And what about the store with the mythic name of Monsterslayer?

I made a joke about how in Trump's America they'll have to hire illegal aliens to do all the deporting, and they'll take turns arresting each other. Em ordered me to write the story. The problem is by the time I finish it, the election will be over, and the gag will either be irrelevant or illegal.

There are a lot of Navajo murals around Shiprock. A good subject for a photo essay or a documentary. America is creating new cultures and doesn't even know it. Then we passed the headquarters of Navajo Nation Shopping Centers Incorporated. Once we got into Utah, but still on the Rez, a sign said, VOTE FOR FAY BLUE EYES.

And there was datura blooming everywhere.

Unfortunately, the Valley of the Gods was unpaved, too primitive for our vehicle, but the stuff near it was fantastic! Gooseneck State park was amazing!

 

We stood at the Kokopelli Inn in Bluff, Utah, established in 650 A.D.(the town, not the motel). The password for wi-fi was in Navajo.

The next morning was cool and cloudy. Native American flute meditation music accompanied the free continental breakfast. The motel was linear and symmetrical, so I got lost. It was time to head for home.

As we left Bluff, Highway 163 was lined with datura.

The 7-Eleven at the Mexican Hat gas station sold coonskin caps. I decided not to get one. It never gets cold enough for them in Phoenix.

Then we went down through Monument Valley, that Hollywood uses as a stand-in for both Texas and Mars, back to Arizona, through the Rez, and Hopi, where a lone llama was surrounded by cows, and just before Tuba City was a hand-painted sign for dinosaur tracks. What? A Hogan Family Restaurant? Then the Painted Desert, where someone named Jamesita was running for office.

Eventually, it got familiar. Still weird, but familiar.