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 never needed drugs to have visions. Hallucinogenic imagery has always come easy to me, even as a toddler when I spent most of my time playing with imaginary friends. My imagination never stops. 

I suppose that most people don’t have weird shit dancing through their 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 anything that would get me locked up. Sure, there’s some cerveza, but I write sober. And still I make incredible typos.

What is a gonzo Chicano science fiction writer? People probably imagine me sprinkling genetically engineered peyote powder on my Cheerios before I go out in my low rider hovercraft to cruise the barrio in search of virgins to sacrifice to Tezcatlipoca with electrified accordion psychedelic cumbias 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 the Seventies, in Southern California, when you needed a gas mask to avoid the coke and pot in the air. It was part of what was happening, man! And as a writer, I felt it was my duty to be hip to what was going on, so I could write about it.

I was what we used to call a social drug user. At parties and other gatherings of long-haired, freaky people, funny cigarettes and pipes would 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 cannabis back then, was fun. But it was me hoping that marijuana (or mariguana, as the Spanish-language press spells it) would make the conversations more interesting. Without the “dope” most of those events would have been dull.

After a while, I realized that instead of bringing others up to my level, 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 assumed it was good ol’ pot, but there was something different this time. I got this buzzing–WAAAAH! . . .WAAAAH! . . . WAAAAH!--going through my head. Things started to look different–focus and colors looked weird. Then I started puking my guts out. Must have been somekinda unidentified psychedelic whatchcallit mixed in. That was the thing about illegal drugs–you never knew what you were really getting. 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’t really want to go through it again.

Also, I was going through a lot at the time, realizing that if I’m going to do the creative stuff that I do, I absolutely had to keep my brain and 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 so self-confident that I committed a crime someone asked me to (I see how it could mess up your life)--and speed (which was like coke, but not as pleasant) I wasn’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 up for another decade or so . . .

To be continued!

CHICANONAUTICA GONZOS WHILE CHICANO IN CLASS

Chicanonautica examines my latest stint as a teacher, at La Bloga:

I was never comfortable in a classroom:

I never wanted to be a teacher:

I don’t believe in gurus:

I do have a lot of bizarre experiences:

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.

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.

CHICANONAUTICA OGLES GORGEOUS WIDESCREEN MAYASPLOITATION

 

 

Chicanonautica unearths a lost movie about Mayan culture, at La Bloga:

It's The Living Idol:

From the director of The Picture of Dorian Gray:

And the director of Night of the Bloody Apes:

Starring the Jaguar God himself:

IMPRESSIONS OF NORTHERN ARIZONA

If Emily and I don’t go on a road trip every once and a while, we get cranky. We just did one up to Sedona, through Jerome, and back through Prescott. We discovered a great restaurant, a fantastic beer, and a kick-butt hot sauce, among other things. And took a lot of pictures. 

I could show them in order with a blow-by-blow record of it all, but that can get boring. It’s the mistake most people make when doing travelogues.

What I’m doing here is mixing it up, writing some sideways thoughts, and putting it all together like a surrealist collage.

Surrealism is a hundred years old. Journalists use the word to describe current events. Pay attention, mon amis, Le Revoluçión has just begun. Muhuhahahahahaha!

I love when a road trip is like exploring a surrealistic landscape. Arizona is good for that. I learned that from Mexico—it makes Salvador Dalí look like an amateur.

It can also get stark, raving sci-fi. Futurism new and old, Pre- and Post-Apocalypse scenes, impressions of intergalactic, transdimensional, and time travel.

Guess it helps to have a killer imagination.

And no drugs are needed for these kind of trips.

Like when we end up in one of those shopping centers that keep popping up along the highways that crisscross the wide open spaces. Install all the usual corporate franchises and the suburban sprawl will grow around it like a cancer.

This is probably how it’ll happen on Mars. Monstrous, sharp-toothed machines will be sent in advance, chew up the real estate, and shit out printed stores, restaurants, and parking lots. They will also build robots, who will welcome and provide customer service to the first astronauts who will argue over which fast-food joint should host their press conference.

How long before the robots will look at the humans, and ask, “What do we need them for?”

Within a generation, young “natives” will be dying of boredom, lusting after something to consume that will make them feel alive.

Meanwhile, others will be going on cosmic road trips, keeping their eyes out for the weird.

CHICANONAUTICA SENDS DISPATCHES FROM ARTSY-FARTSY COWBOY LAND

Chicanonautica reports from Sedona and Prescott, over at La Bloga.

Post-New Age shop-a-rama:

Southwestern Art Deco splendor:

Political theater:

Is it the medium or the message?