Chicanonautica celebrates V. Castro, over at La Bloga.
She wrote a novel about Tlazolteotl, the Goddess of Filth and Depravity:
And one about everyone’s favorite gal from Aliens:
Because a little Santa Muerte goes well with your dystopia:
Haven’t you noticed? This stuff is taking over the world:
We started at Kiss the Cook. I had the special, a chili and beans omelet. Delish.
Having survived our Covid Christmas, we headed north. Snow dusted the mountain tops as a bomb cyclone closed in on the California coast, bringing rain that would catch up to us soon.
We stopped at Walnut Canyon. It was cold and snowy. The Island Trail was closed. No climbing down into the Sinagua cliff dwellings this time.
Then on to Sedona, which was below the snow line. Low clouds gave it a Shangri-La feeling.
Breakfasted at the Coffee Pot. Three buckwheat pancakes are enough for me these days.
Then it was to Prescott and the Hassayampa Inn. The clerk told us that our room was on her favorite floor, the fourth, where the ghost of a woman who killed herself in 1927 “lives.”
Down Whisky Row, I got a T-shirt at The Palace (“The Oldest Bar in Arizona”) where the likes of Wyatt Earp and Doc Holiday used to hang out.
No visit from the ghost that frosty night.
In the morning we had coffee in the lobby while Cab Calloway played on the overhead. We had the whole, spacious Art Deco joint to ourselves.
Soon we were back home, which, as usual, looked different in the new year.
Chicanonautica unloads about the whole Chicano/Latinx pendejada over at La Bloga.
Because Chicanos ain’t what they used to be:
And Latinos are everwhere:
And what’s with these Hispanics?
And then . . . Latinx:
Do viruses have souls?
I like to take pictures of text in this time when we text each other pictures.
Another year like being shipwrecked.
Weird shit makes the world go round.
Sometimes everything I do becomes a Buster Keaton routine.
Or course, we should realize that the weirdness has just begun.
