ED NOTE (oh boy... egg on our face):
   
You see, R.H. has always gotten Iowa and Ohio mixed up, so when we actually rolled into Ohio and learned it was the REAL "Buckeye" state, Ronnie felt some nostalgic pains for the days when publishers could afford to employ fact-checkers AND copy editors.
   
Anyway, the egregious error has been corrected, and apologies all around to the Cardinal AND the Buckeye states. We'll try to do better going forward, but will probably continue to do our best proofreading after hitting "publish".... Oy vey.
    
ONE MORE THING:
We think it's important to note, among the hubbub over AI wrecking creative and journalistic landscapes, the abovementioned error (confusing Ohio's with Iowa's state icons) was an all-too-human error.
   
Yes... we leverage AI tools to generate loopcircus content, but we aren't in it for monetary gain, and we don't ask Siri's drunk sister to invent stories out of whole silicon/digital cloth.
  
We do this because R.H. says he HAS to. Call it a pursuit of self discovery, call it vanity posting, call it what you will. R.H. calls soul-work, and the speed in which these little soul-work nuggets are produced is greatly increased using available AI tools.
   
Furthermore, we don't take a position on the relative goodness or badness of the introduction of these tools, but with that said, we recognize the direction of the wind, and if you can't catch it (the wind), you might as well hoist and trim the sails.
   
Onward through the fog... loopcircus

Duluth, Minnesota. A granite jaw jutting into the maw of Lake Superior. They say it’s a stone’s throw from Dylan’s stomping grounds. We’re in no rush. Time is a river here, meandering leisurely through a landscape of pine and granite. The locals, bless their frostbitten hearts, seem to operate on a different clock altogether, a sundial perhaps, or maybe an ancient Norse timepiece that only reads ‘winter’ and ‘summer’.

Our encounter across this land of sky and water began with the stories from Ronnie’s first college mentor. A woman of the theater. She’d painted the Twin Cities as a glittering metropolis of culture, a place where the soul could stretch its legs and breathe. The Guthrie, she’d called it, a temple to the spoken word. A siren song, it was, luring us to the heart of Minnesota. But the fates, or perhaps our wounded mount, Rocinante, had other plans. So, we veer west, towards the iron-rich womb of the state, Hibbing. A pilgrimage, you see, to the birthplace of a bard.

Minnesota, a land of paradox. Its people, a curious blend of Nordic stoicism and Midwestern warmth. They speak of a quality called “Minnesota Nice,” a veneer of sugarcoating that hides a core of sturdy, salt-of-the-earth practicality. It’s a concept as elusive as the Northern Lights, shimmering on the horizon but always just out of reach.

The state itself is a canvas painted with extremes. Winters, a brutal siege of ice and snow, when the land lies dormant beneath a thick, white blanket. Summers, a riot of green, when the air is thick with the sweet scent of pine and the relentless hum of mosquitoes. These are the beasts that rule the North, tiny tyrants demanding tribute in blood. It’s a wonder anyone stays. Perhaps it’s the lure of the lakes, those crystalline jewels scattered across the landscape like a giant’s spilled treasure. Or maybe it’s the promise of a quiet life, far from the maddening crowds.

Yet, amidst the frozen tundra and the mosquito-infested marsh land, a surprising bloom of culture thrives. Colleges dot the land, nurturing young minds in the heart of the country. And from this unlikely soil, literary giants have risen. Sinclair Lewis, a bitter pill of Midwestern realism. Garrison Keillor, a gentle humorist who found poetry in the mundane. And then there’s the music of Prince and the troubadour, Dylan, a cosmic wanderer who carried a piece of Minnesota with him to the farthest reaches of the world.

So, we press on, into the heart of the land, armed with bug spray and a healthy dose of curiosity. Hibbing awaits, a chapter yet to be written in the Hot Springs or Busk adventure.

Way up north…
You’ll find the great lakes…
If you’re not careful…
You’ll make a big mistake…
So don’t you hurry…
Don’t give to worry…
Minnesota neighbors feel your pain.

Onward through the fog… R.H.