Believe it or not, I don’t like to write about myself. I’ve been me all my life, so I don’t find myself that interesting. Yet people keep telling me that they wished they led an exciting life like mine.
The problem is, I’m a writer. People read my stuff, get their minds blown, and have questions about what kind of twisted mind can come with stuff like Cortez On Jupiter, High Aztech, Smoking Mirror Blues, or “The Frankenstein Penis.” They figure I must be a really far-out character, like the ones I write about. Surely, I must get up in the morning, have dried peyote with my corn flakes, sharpen up my ceremonial obsidian blade, fire up my lowered ‘57 Chevy, and go hunting for virgins that I can sacrifice.
Actually, though most people find me “eccentric,” I tend to be a friendly fellow who tries to get along in this crazy world. People who only encounter me as my secret identity, Ernie, the Humble Bookstore Clerk, are disturbed when they meet Ernest Hogan, International Cult Author. I guess the fact that they can’t see what’s going in my head creates this discrepancy.
Rick Cook says I have a “weird field” around me. Again, since I’ve lived in it all my life, I don’t really notice it. What I am aware of is, what I find interesting or entertaining, other people find weird and disturbing. When I was younger, I went on Kerouacky journeys from the streets of San Francisco, to the deserts of Arizona, to the Mayan ruins of the Yucatan, and I must admit, I was seeking out weirdness. And I found it, too. In recent years, I find that all I have to do is sit in my living room, among the books, art work, and exotic masks, relax, and something weird will come out of my wife’s Venusian Jungle of a garden, crawl in the window and challenge me. Sometimes it’s mild amusement, other times I have to bash its brains out on the kitchen floor; if it’s really good, it causes something to start growing in my brain that will turn into a story, novel, cartoon, drawing, or something.
It happens just about every day. Some people call it weird. Others might call it research. It might just be an excuse for me to indulge my morbid curiosity. The result is I keep finding myself wallowing in things that tickle my joie de weird. It keeps me sane, and it’s where I get my crazy ideas.
I’ll try to keep it entertaining, and am presenting it for entertainment purposes only. Please don’t try to use any of this to attain any kind of enlightenment. I am not trying to save the world. I know a few things, I pass them on. Maybe you’ll get a few laughs.
And if something weird starts growing in your brain – well, I warned you.
Now, please excuse me. There are sacrifices to be made.
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Convincing writers, like my friend Ernesto, often create fans who completely believe he must be just like his wacky characters. Did you people never hear of imagination?? This guy walks down the street and you can actually see word bubbles above his head filled with bizarre cartoons and words in brilliant colors that keep spilling into and pushing the borders. I ask you, is that normal?
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