AN ERNESTOID INTERLUDE

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

Been up to my orejas in the Gonzo Science Fiction, Chicano Style class for the Palabras del Pueblo Writing Workshop during which I wrote a story while delivering play by play reportage on my creative process. I also got to visit an alternate reality where I am famous, and an influence on a lot of writers in the planet-spanning reaches of the Latinoid continuum. It was great and had me feeling like I can take on all the madness that I see building up and 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 have experience 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 Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories as something I've got to hype. Yes, I’m a sort of a gonzo journalist–or is it anthropologist?--from time 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 it through the gauntlet of the big New York publishers because I can’t give up the dream of making a wad of cash and retiring to write my bucket list novels and do art rather than work far into my old age. Creativity can be a bitch.

I could probably find a publisher for Zyx (did I ever mention 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 one foot in the underground, so when the shit hits the fan, I’ll have a place to stand. 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 you go against their handy-dandy stereotypes. Nestor, Nesto, Ernesto, I’m my perplexing Ernestoid self. Buy my books and figure it out yourself.

The election and politics are getting weirder than ever. Grotesque alternative universes battling over which one we’ll live in. Your favorite utopia d’jour ain’t one of the choices–guess what, it never is, and be careful if 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 just did? Maybe it was deep breath and a fart. Is it possible to do both at once? Nah, it would probably cause serious injury, and I’m actually feeling good.

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