Author: RonnieHays

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: The Bright Line

Ok… a couple matters causing major concern: 1.) A Christian Nationalism (CN) movement, starting with Ronald Reagan, Paul Weyrich, and Ralph Reed, has been slowly advancing most of my adult life. and 2.) it appears some loony-toon MFer tried to punch a hole in Mr. Trump’s puss (07-13-2024) at his Pennsylvania rally…. gaaahh!

Regarding concern #1, national politics have progressed in predictable ways with the pendulum swinging between slightly right and ultra-right over the last 30+ years. A gradual rightward shift of the Overton Window has been a back-burner concern for me. Nothing so alarming as to get me digging into the inner workings of religious right’s takeover of local media (Fox/Sinclair)… DOH! I mean, yea, i’ve been a wild-eyed dime-store soothsayer warning of a dangerous erosion of the bright line that is supposed to separate church from state. But… distracted… i’ve been focused on my knitting and avoiding the hornet’s nest of evangelical zealots (no time for bashing my head into brick walls). So, when Mitch McConnell pulled his Machiavellian maneuvers, denying Obama a final SCOTUS pick (one-year lead time), then followed up by ramrodding two ideological picks for Trump (one of them within weeks of the next presidential election), in fact, subverting the very rules of decorum cited by McConnell in the first place. For my part, regarding the deep and troubling irony of his (McConnell’s) flip flopping positions, i realized these people were not at all that interested in integrity, or good faith dealing. They’re only interested in gaining and holding onto power at any cost.

The overturning of Roe-v-Wade, despite confirmation pledges to leave settled law alone, apparently gave CN rank-and-file the victory they so desperately craved…so, now what? Is this the end of the story? Hell to the no! They’ve been working on a slow motion coup against US democratic checks and balances for decades. They want a favored candidate (chosen by God) installed as emperor for life, because they know CNs can no longer prevail in democratic contests. They are dead serious about dismantling democracy altogether. And it looks as though they might actually pull that off. The minute they settled on a willing lackey able to energize a multi-million-voter base, they found a way to tie the carnival barker to their biblical mumbo jumbo despite the fact he (Mr. Trump) is the furthest thing from embodying their conception of morality. Brilliant! Take a popular “reality” TV star, and tie him to the same cause as popular TV preachers and… well… they beat Hillary Clinton’s potentially historic presidential bid…so there’s that.

Some say elevating an African American to the White House was a great backlash energizer…the final straw. Democracy has to go. And, i have to say that i agree. I agree that’s what’s at stake here. I said it in 2020, i’m saying it again. The choices are clear, a.) pluralistic secular democracy or b.) authoritarian Christian theocracy… time to choose.

As for concern #2, it’s tempting to ridicule anti-right wackos as the 07-13-2024 shooter apparently let several rounds loose with only one getting close to Mr. Trumps vitals. Contrast this with the anti-leftist wackos when they want leaders dead. They (anti-leftist wackos) operate with the cool efficiency of military snipers… JFK & MLK didn’t have a chance. RFK and Malcom X, toast. Reagan…? Merely wounded. Yes, tempting, but we won’t go there today. And though this talk about “false-flag” staged July Surprise nonsense is also tempting. After all, the subject is a malignant narcissist who would unhesitatingly stoop to any limbo setting needed to win. Seriously, i wouldn’t be shocked if the final dispatch came out that way. But since news reports have the shooter dead as well as at least one bystander and another injured, it (false-flag conspiracy) is likely not the story here. Nevertheless, the event is now part of the 2024 Election year story… oy.

Adding fuel to the fire, some unsettling words accompanying the Heritage Foundation’s POTUS marching orders, “Project 2025.” Yea… everyone needs to know about this. These people still have Reagan Derangement Syndrome, they worship his legacy like a religious icon. Anyway, Heritage was fairly new in 1980. They handed Reagan a “wish list” and got a lot of what they wanted from his administration. So now, they’re ready for PuppetPOTUS (part II), but this time, it’s for KEEPS, Baybay!

And… so… what to do… keep quiet and go along, or stand up and defy this movement with all the tools at our disposal? And before you ask, YES…YES! We consider violence an illegitimate method of political discourse, and yes, we welcome CNs into our messy kaleidoscope of personal philosophy, religious beliefs, ethical codes, and moral fiber that make up the USofA… our country tis of thee.

The chaos has to stop. We have to get back to the rule of law. What keeps the peace and civility in our nation? Laws. Laws are drafted, proposed, and codified by elected leaders. It is the democratic process that brings lawmakers to City Council, County Commission, State House, Capitals, Governor’s Mansions, and the White House. Please understand… we (people of the USofA) will NOT submit to a particular religion’s anointed emperor. This nation is the gold standard city on the hill. Everyone wants to be here…to be the lucky ones able to dream that American Dream. It may be more like a bait-and-switch now days, but we still have that sliver of possibility…it still happens.

So…to answer Heritage’s Kevin Roberts’ cautionary quip about bloody revolution, yes, this national transformation will be relatively bloodless as whomever believes they can persuade with terrorism will be promptly rounded up and sequestered from the rest of the peaceful population (regardless political affiliation). Yes… the current phase of our nation’s history will be bloodless… and if everyone will just step off their outdated notions of inherent superiority, that’d be great.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Rohlfie Begs Your Pardon

APOLOGY:
Heads up… it appears i’m behind on the “Chool Bus” weekly entries. I have no excuses, but here’s the reason: i decided to forego extravagant 2026 fuel prices by packing my “normie” stuff and moving it to a neck of the woods closer to my kids. 

No loss. The “Hot Springs or Busk” tour lasted roughly two years with a visit to all 48 mainland United States. I hope to emerge from the experience with a book based on these and other experiences accumulated over several lifetimes (6 7 trips around the solar system).

NOBODY GOING NOWHERE:
It’s my nature…because i don’t know who or what may emerge from any given earthly moment. Try as i might, i can’t direct the waves of fate…it doesn’t work that way. One peak…one trough…one breaker after another is the only available option.

I sail Rocinante chartless, because i must. Others may choose a more popular guided cruise and if that’s your jam, by all means, knock yourself out. Just keep in mind…if you choose the chartless path, this is what it’s like.

And make no mistake, letting go of expectations isn’t the easy path, but it keeps you on your toes. You are compelled to ride with open eyes, attentive ears, and a stout heart. Where it leads or what happens along the way can’t be known by you or anyone else. Maybe a wipeout…maybe a tempest… maybe a wildlife encounter…or maybe none of the above. In any case, it’s not special…just a mystery through and through, and everything you’ll ever need.

Either way, we share the planet with restless souls…haunted by dread and dream…like bobbing corks on the sea of fetters…awareness desperately hampered by limited perceptual bandwidth.

But love is out there too…and love is nothing if not restorative…and vital.

AM “I” IN CONTROL?
No one is special…cognitive scientists don’t even KNOW what an “I” really is. But we enter and exit this mortal existence in similar fashion with exactly the same ultimate result. So…am i the master of my fate? Am i a pinball subject to the push/pull of external forces? Or could it be a little of both?

PRO TIP: When in doubt, i run the questions by Occam’s Razor…from there, i find the simplest explanations usually more than satisfying.

And it can even be funny! I imagine a wry smile on the universe’s face as i succumb to ego-driven thoughts aimed at looking or seeming a certain way…that smile that says, “Oh, yeah, you’re doing that again.” … 😛

What…me worry?
 
Do caterpillars fret over transformation details…or does it just happen?

And so…going forward in blissful obscurity…the modus operandi of my 15th life (take that, felines) i will be traveling, chartless, in a perpetual state of wonder…nobody going nowhere. 

The weekly dispatches will resume once i’ve settled into my new homebase…it shouldn’t be much longer.

See ya soon… Rohlfie

The Chool Bus (ch25)

CHAPTER 25: After a hair-raising taste of narco-political street chaos, the Forks finally make it to Vegas. But none of them survived the day unfazed.

Decompressing that first night in Las Vegas, Billie opened her laptop for some virtual sightseeing and to give her father an update on her adventures with the Forks. But that wasn’t the full story as she had this nagging growth gaining in size and pressure in her bosom with each passing day. 

TO: Daryl (Dad) Schmidt
FROM: Billie Schmidt
SUBJECT: Mayhem South of the Border

Hey, Pops…

By now you’ve probably heard the news from Mexico. I want you to know we were never in any real danger, but gunplay did get a bit close for comfort. We were enjoying some small world conversations with a bunch of New Zealanders enjoying a port-of-call visit. You should have seen the look on their faces when the sounds of gun play wafted into the cantina. By then, our waiter had translated the general “shelter in place” order. It seems no one warned them (the Kiwi tourists) this kind of thing could happen so close to the US border, but here we were. Talk about a buzz kill… 😉

Truthfully, i wasn’t scared. You know me…i’m a troubleshooter. But the new guy, Buck…he impressed me as someone who never walks into a strange situation without scoping escape routes or items that might make effective self-defense weapons. He reminds me of…me in many ways, and frankly that scares me a bit. Sometimes i get kinda choked up when he snaps into guardian mode. And now, for God’s sake, when i hear certain music. You know, that high lonesome sound, it reminds me of that big Texas lug and i go all a flutter, feeling kinda empty and babbling. You know that’s not like me. I guess this all means something, not sure what, but don’t be surprised if i end up bringing him around for your inspection. 

With all my heart,
                        Billie

P.S. You know, New Zealanders love to mess with tourists. For example, one of them tried to tell us there was a secret underwater tunnel connecting New Zealand to Australia, another tried to tell us native Kiwi birds are ground up for meat in fast-food burgers…duh…everyone knows Kiwi birds are a protected species. And so…the clueless tourist jokes were on them when the dookie hit the rotating air displacement blades…it would have been funnier if the locals didn’t seem so uncertain of the outcome.

Billie’s father was relieved to hear from her. He had seen news reports of unrest south of the border, but he had hoped the gang would stay away from the worst of it. And they did, but some of the minor skirmishes had occurred too close to the tourist centers for comfort. And Billie’s mention of having feelings for the new guy gave him a strange sensation. Almost as if his soul was exhaling after all those years of holding his breath for her. Ever since she came out to him, he worried she would never find the kind of love he had been lucky enough to experience with her mother. He had seen Billie’s lovers come and go but he never sensed there might be a future with any of them, but her email gave him hope.

TO: Billie (Pumpkin) Schmidt
FROM: Daryl Schmidt
RE: Mayhem South of the Border

My Dearest Daughter…

Thank you for taking some time to put our minds at ease. We saw the news reports, and though most of the really bad news was coming from areas further south, i know there is a thriving arms trade at the border. I know those guns are going to cartels and their rivals, so quite frankly, i wished you and your bat-shit crazy friends would just leave the border uncrossed. That said, i also agree with Mark Twain, you know, that stuff about travel being the best cure for bigotry.

Holy Hell! What’s a worried father to do?

Anyway, it sounds like you’ve found a kindred spirit in that Buck Wellstone fella. I would love to meet him, even if these feelings don’t progress into something more serious. He sounds like a stand-up guy. The story of how you met him, really stands out in my memory. The way he was able to deescalate that dust up with your professor friend really impressed me. So yeah, bring him around at your earliest opportunity. In the meantime, we’ll just keep on keepin’ on here at the dealership. Things are slowing down a little with all the inflation and volatility aggravated by the Orange Casino Slayer. 

You know, i’ve always respected the Iranians. Their society is thousands of years old, and that’s nothing to sneeze at. Yes, nuclear weaponry is a potential species killer, but if Iran’s enemies have the bomb, why the hell do we think it’s important one of the oldest still-functioning societies should be prevented from having that particular method of self-defense? It’s only fair. Of course, i won’t be able to develop any hope for the human species until such time as we are able to work together WITHOUT those ultimate doomsday devices, mutual deterrence notwithstanding…but i digress.

Thank you for the update… 

Love from home…
            Papa Schmidt

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks go their separate ways in Vegas. Jack Dean crashes out speaking at a New Media convention addressing the Artificial Intelligence sector and Chinese models achieving major progress on the cheap.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch24)

CHAPTER 24: The detour to Ensenada is ill timed as the Mexican Government cracks down on a notorious cartel kingpin and all hell breaks loose.

Rolling into Mexico at Tijuana was an eye-opener for Billie and Buck. The long lines of vehicles were met with street vendors, flowers, jewelry, mariachi singers, hand-made trinkets, and much more for sale, some of the vendors, small children, each with their own unique pitch. “What the hell?” said Billie. “That kid can’t be more than ten-years-old. He’s selling balloons like they’re goin’ outta style.”

“Right,” said Buck. “Gotta love unrestricted capitalism. Seems kind of messed up to me, but i’m sure there’s a reason for it.”

Billie shrugged. “But…they’re everywhere. Maybe the cute kids and the little old abuelitas are the best border vendors… i just hope those kids have a safe place to go at the end of the day.” Billie was feeling a little emotional about young kids out there soliciting the gringos in their fancy cars. Billie was thinking about the migrant families she knew in Kansas. That is before the ICE-cold goon-squads started sweeping them up and shipping them off to El-Salvadore. She couldn’t imagine any of those kids among the long lines of cars with god knows what kind of psychos driving them.

Once through the border gauntlet, The Forks made their way along the Mexican coastal highway, a little over an hour and a half to Encenada where Professor T, on the advice of a US Navy veteran, steered Billie and the Chool Bus to a popular cantina. The cantina was within walking distance of a cruise ship docking area so lots of people from around the world come and go.

After finding a place to park the bus for an overnight stay, the gang made their way to the cantina. Once seated, they struck up a conversation with a group of cruise passengers from New Zealand. Turns out, one of the New Zealanders had spent a few years in the Denver Tech Center working for an engineering firm. He knew several of Jack’s Denver friends, and so the Forks and Buck found themselves at a raucous table of jabbering small world stories. Jack noticed a “bachelorette party” special on the menu, and suggested pooling resources. 

“You can really tie one on here,” said Mort T… fifty beers, a bottle of Don Julio 7, and a plate of guac and chips at the table…a bangin’ party for ten people. Five beers, a shot, and some guac for good measure… not that cheap, but super convenient.”

So Jack passed the hat, ordered up the special, and the party began in ernest. Around the time this impromptu group started giving way to slurred conversations, a small team of federales entered the cantina. They spoke with the manager in hushed tones for a moment, then left abruptly for the next-door business. Presently, the manager made an announcement that there had been a raid in a nearby town where the government targeted a narco-kingpin, killing him and his family and others. The response was spreading like wildfire. Buildings were bombed, vehicles torched, rival gangs were joining the chaos, and battle was breaking out all over the land.

“Damas y caballeros,” the cantina’s public address system amplified the manager’s voice. The waiter translated for the Forks’ table… “We have been advised to encourage everyone to shelter in place until this wave of retaliation subsides and it’s again safe to go out on the streets.“

“Holy crap!” Buck seemed almost excited about the development…scanning the Cantina for escape routes and hiding places. He decided to save the beers for later when a loud explosion shook the table.

Buck made his way to the window to see if he needed to go into fast-action mode. But the smoke was several blocks away.

Just then several pops, like black-cat fire crackers cut through the din, and Buck saw a couple of dark figures a couple blocks away. It looked like they were exchanging fire with a group of federales taking cover behind a black SUV. This is where someone from the New Zealander party directed the gang to hide in a dry goods pantry. A couple other parties joined them and twenty-five souls huddled together among the bags of pintos, cans of tomatoes, and bins of dried peppers. No one was feeling safe and everyone was sobering up, fast.

“Relax, everyone.” said one of the New Zealanders. “They won’t attack the cantina. They don’t want to hurt the tourist trade. I asked the manager if there were any cartel types hanging around. He didn’t think so…hopefully he’s right and we can get back to the ship unmolested.”

After a couple hours of tense waiting, the manager announced the danger had passed. The attacks in or around the area were few, but the gang passed a couple burning vehicles and there was evidence of gun play, spent casings, pools of blood, crime-scene tape, and local emergency responders running to and fro.

The Forks made their way back to the bus… feeling fortunate the action hadn’t got closer. It was a tense ride back to the RV park in San Diego and no one slept easy that night… definitely one to remember.   

NEXT WEEK:
After a hair-raising taste of narco-politics and street carnage, the Forks finally make it to Vegas. But none of them survived that day unfazed.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch23)

CHAPTER 23: The Forks take a few days detour South to San Diego, then across the border to Ensenada before the next round of focus group interviews in Las Vegas.

“La Holla?” Buck Wellstone mispronounced the words.

“No… say it like this,” said Jack. “La HOY-uh… it’s based on a Spanish phrase la joya, which means ‘the jewel’. This might, of course, be fake news as another Spanish term, la hoya, refers to a geographic hollow. Or… ‘the holes,’” Jack burst into a juvenile fit of laughter, then composing himself after wiping away tears and blowing his nose. “Sorry, i get a kick out of the way people tend to jazz up the mundane. I mean, the neighborhood around UC San Diego is straight-up gorgeous…pristine beaches, perfect weather, marine life out the wazoo…but it’s really nothing more than a neighborhood of San Diego. Some refer to La Jolla as a State of Mind. And no one really knows why anyone would literally call it ‘the holes,’ perhaps they’re referring to the sea-level caves that can be seen from La Jolla Shores.”

With that, Jack closed his US road atlas, Billie punched the address into Siri’s Drunk Sister maps app, Professor T was engrossed in a book, earbuds on blast, and with that the Chool Bus was underway. Roughly four hours…straight south. They would arrive in time for supper in La Jolla, get a good night’s sleep then up and at ‘em early for the first round of focus group interviews at the university.

***

Buck Wellstone had grown accustomed to accompanying Billie in the passenger seat, keeping her company and exchanging music playlists. Now, Billie has never been a country music fan, but Buck was serving up the classics and where Billie was familiar with pop-country playing on radio stations, Buck was showing her, for the first time, deep Appalachian “old-timey” Mountain fare, and the open-range cowboy singing poets exemplified by the likes of the Carter Family, Patsy Cline, Hank Williams, etc. 

“Why, this sounds like the tunes they used for that Coen Brothers movie…the one critics said was loosely based on Homer’s Odyssey,” said Billie. The actual music was not all that exciting for her, but she didn’t let Buck in on that as she was starting to warm up to Buck himself. In fact, she was getting a bit worried she might be in danger of falling for the big fella. While first impressions lead folks to regard Mr Wellstone imposing and dangerous, he was actually quite gentle, compassionate, and somewhat vulnerable. Billie, in a word was starting to fall for him.

Now, Billie is very good at mental multi-tasking, and as she steered the Chool Bus southward through Pasadena then Irvine she was able to pay attention to Buck’s occasional commentary and his old-timey playlist while her non-binary nature was waging a vigorous debate over the relative merits of sparking up a conventional relationship with… a guy.

First, was she thinking about committing to a person or a type? She knew that dating Buck meant committing to a specific person, regardless of gender. Like, he was never going to understand her on the levels of her female lovers. Does she run the risk of growing tired of that, or can the relationship grow stronger over time like her favorite aunt and uncle…despite the annoying gender-specific quirks to which many hetero couples must grin and bear?

Does going hetero erase a part of me? Her thoughts were working overtime. After all, the common fear is that settling with someone of the opposite sex would make others perceive her as “straight.” She worried whether entering a monogamous relationship would alter how she, or the world, view her identity. So many questions: Did she explore enough? Does she need a more polyamorous arrangement? Would Buck be able to trust her? So many questions. It was getting harder to continue the illusion of full attentiveness and Buck was starting to notice from the broken dialog and self-interruptions. Billie was making more apologies for unfocused responses. She knew she was spreading her awareness too thin for safe driving…she would have to focus on the wheel in the urban traffic zones. When a feeling of tightness in her chest pushed her into a defiant mood, she said something rude to Buck and both went silent for a long moment.

Meanwhile Jack and Professor T were having a spirited debate about the nature of good and evil. Every once in a while one of their voices would cut through the bus’ engine and tire noise. It must have been a banger of a debate. By the time the four hour stretch was through they arrived on a logical equation, an accord, a compromise. This was it: The pursuit of self-interest PLUS aggression or violence MINUS basic human compassion EQUILS generic evil.

As Billie steered the bus into the RV park on the outskirts of Sandog SoCal, Billie apologized for the rude outburst and Buck assured her he was not even remotely offended, he wasn’t explicitly lying as her sudden inexplicable rudeness did hurt a bit.

He too was sliding down that slippery slope…he felt as if it were possible he could fall fairly hard for this contradictory bundle of gentle, fair, beautiful, tough-as-leather, one hundred percent bad-ass bitch.

He never thought he would meet, let alone get hung up on someone identifying themself among the rainbow LGBTQ coalition…but here we are.

Rolling into the UC Sandog Student Union parking lot, the Forks prepared to roll out the schtick. It was time for everyone to put on their most professional and focused masks. Time to gather some qualitative data from this affluent Southern California corner of our spiritually ailing nation. There would be a week break between San Diego and the next research destination, Las Vegas. In the meantime, the Forks would dip their toes in to the sands of Mexico… they gonna fuck around and find out.

NEXT WEEK:
The detour to Ensenada is ill timed as the Mexican Government cracks down on a notorious cartel kingpin and all hell breaks loose.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch22)

CHAPTER 22: The Forks head south venturing close to LA via Santa Barbara and Moorpark, then, a taste of the Bakersfield sound at the Merle Haggard Museum.

As a prelude to the gang’s sweep through sunny Southern California (SoCal), Buck Wellstone dialed his all-access music smorgasbord to classic Bakersfield jams…Buck Owens…Merle Haggard…Dwight Yokem…the works. He knew they’d be on this road for a while. After all, California posts higher annual gross domestic product than major powers such as the UK, Japan, and France. There is much to discover and SoCal is no slouch for quality of living, despite stratospheric costs.

For example, Santa Barbara…sometimes referred to as The American Riviera: though evidence of human habitation of the area begins at least 13,000 years ago, it finally joined the Union in the mid-19th Century. During the Gold Rush years and following, the town became a haven for bandits and gamblers…it was a dangerous and lawless place…now a veritable paradise on the West Coast.

The gang didn’t have focus group interviews scheduled in Santa Barbara, but it (Santa Barbara) was on the road to Moorpark, a fairly newish LA-area enclave and home of Moorpark College, known for high rates of degree completion. Moorpark is also known for a unique program, The Teaching Zoo. One can imagine an inevitable mishap where people learning the exotic animal ropes lose control of their prickly critters. In this case, a Siberian tiger escaped a local resident’s confines.

Tuffy the Tiger met with an untimely demise as authorities were not privy to the animal’s history (Tuffy was declawed). Other reports indicate authorities couldn’t get a favorable angle for tranquilizer dart effectiveness, so they opted for deadly force…no more Tuffy…and the incident caused a bit of an uproar as the cat was on the loose for weeks. Escaped tigers not withstanding, Moorpark is said to have the lowest crime rates in Ventura County.

Anyway, the gang HAD to do some exploring in Santa Barbara. An area boasting a climate often described as Mediterranean with a strikingly beautiful view. The hillside community just north of downtown enjoys a sweeping view of the Pacific Ocean and Santa Ynez Mountains. With Mediterranean-style white stucco buildings topped with red-tile roofs reflecting the city’s Spanish colonial heritage. Billie was aware that she was missing most of the spectacle due to keeping her eyes on the road. But Buck was taking note, and when they finally got to stretch their legs and do some exploring provided guidance on where to go.

Movie buff, Professor T recalled his time in a class exploring the history of electronic media. He knew that Santa Barbara housed the world’s largest movie studio during the era of silent film. Flying A Studios and others produced over a thousand films during their tenure in Santa Barbara. While the massive American Film Company lot (which once dominated a full city block) was mostly torn down in the 1940s, a few key pieces remain: The Main Surviving Building…a one-story, Revival–style office located on Mission Street is still standing and meticulously preserved. It was once the actors’ green room, dressing rooms, and lounge, and now operates as the office for an architecture firm. When the Forks got there, they saw the original Flying A logo on the front of the building, the prominent arched windows, and the vintage entry light sconce…Mork Thompson was pleased. And once Professor T’s curiosity was satisfied, the gang trudged up the hill to Belmond El Encanto Dining Room in the Mission Canyon foothills, a gourmet lunch with incredible views.

***

Fed and edified in Santa Barbara’s alternate universe, the Forks made their way back to the Chool Bus and embarked for Moorpark…a couple days for focus group interviews at Moorpark College before pushing on to Bakersfield, a geological engineer’s dream museum right there in the same plot with Merle Haggard and the Bakersfield Sound Museum. Buck Wellstone wallowed in the detailed oilfield exploration and drilling exhibits, and the Hard Rock Cafe for country music fans, not to mention Mr Haggard’s boyhood home, fashioned from a vintage railroad caboose.

The flashy Nudie Suits, the back page stories of Bakersfield sound luminaries, the towering palm trees. It was all a bit dizzying for Buck…and he LOVED it.

Bakersfield is often considered to be the birthplace of the different, down-to-earth sound, sort of a rebellious response to Nashville’s highly produced, slick releases. The Bakersfield scene inspired many country artists, such as Dwight Yoakam and The Strangers. Yoakam, alongside Buck Owens, paid tribute to Owens by covering his 1973 recording of Streets of Bakersfield. The cover reached number one on the Billboard Hot Country Singles chart in 1988.

And Bakersfield’s premier luminary, Merle Haggard, was born and raised in Oildale. In the early 1960s, Haggard completed his first single, Skid Row, on Bakersfield’s Tally label. He went on to sign with Capitol Records a few years later. Most of Haggard’s early songs reflect his time spent in prison, farming, and working blue-collar jobs in Southern California, including Bakersfield. But he was more than just a unique interpreter of those lonesome country songs, he could also do amazing impressions of other country stars of the day. You could say he was the Jimmy Fallon of his era.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks take a few days detour South to San Diego, then across the border to Ensenada before the next round of focus group interviews in Las Vegas.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch21)

CHAPTER 21: The Forks interview folks in Redding, Sacramento, and San Francisco before taking some time in Monterey with the Steinbeck vibes on Cannery Row.

The gang enjoyed some pizza and a couple beers with Professor T’s relatives in Redding before getting a good night’s sleep ahead of the next grueling leg of the tour. Sacramento, and San Francisco would challenge Billie with their traffic. She learned a thing or two about urban congestion in Portland and the lessons stuck…they were no longer having to apologize for late arrivals. Of course smoothing things over would be much easier if Professor T could take his diplomatic approach up a notch or two, but it’s all in the rearview as Billie was getting real good at choosing alternate routes offered by Siri’s drunk sister now programmed with Rosanne Barr’s salty voice.

“Are you blind AND deaf?”
Roseanne barked at Billie whenever she missed a turn. 

***

It took a full day to finish at State University in Sacrimento, then it was off to one of the most storied, cosmopolitan cities in the US. The interviews were to take place at the University of California, Berkley, and this was an eye-opener for the flatlanders riding in the Chool Bus…oh yeah. See, weather in the Bay area is famously mild, a fact that hadn’t gone unnoticed by the nation’s many…many unfortunates living out of cars, vans, and motor homes. 

Buck Wellstone could hardly get his jaw off the floor as the Chool Bus past block after block of hovels lining the sidewalks. Vacant lots filled with RVs and tents…small cohorts of unhoused individuals tightly clustered in pungent slapdash micro-communities. It’s a bit much for a Big Sky Texas cowboy to take in.

The mix of folks appearing for the interviews was as diverse as the city itself, and once the final round was complete, the gang was more than happy to be moving on. Not out of any fear or loathing for an overwhelming presence of the nation’s down and out, rather the unsettling juxtaposition of some of the best and brightest cohabitating a mere’s security door from the nation’s doomed, not simply there because Mother Nature’s wrath is less prominent, no…it’s San Francisco…one of the world’s most celebrated cities.

At the end of the day in Berkley, Billie met some of what she considered the most interesting people she had yet to encounter in all her years on the high plains. One was preparing an IPO for his artificial intelligence development company, another impressed Billie with wisdom beyond years, and nearly penniless. She and her rescue dog had been living in one of those tent cities for the past several months. Not sure what to do next, but inclined to hop a cargo freighter to Viet Nam. Clear-eyed about the downsides of life in a communist country, but at the same time, done with the zero-sum, social darwinist hunger games of capitalism. 

“Why Viet Nam?” said Billie. 

“Not one hundred percent sure,” said her new companion. “I’ve always felt we Americans should try to do something…anything to help folks in South East Asia recover from the devastation the American war did to their land. So, i signed up with an international NGO to help the locals plant a billion trees.  

“Trees?” said Billie.

“Yes, even though there’s no way for us to mitigate the human losses, we certainly can help to repair damage to nature’s oxygen-generating forests and urban greenspace. So… we’ll see. Right now looking to get myself and my dog, Buddy, vaccinated for the stay, however long it may end up being.”

Billie smiled, “That sounds like a worthy adventure.”

Billie’s new companion continued: “Proud to be an American, land of liberty within the confines of total freedom and absolute justice.” She went on. “And so, if total freedom ends in anarchy and absolute justice to tyranny, i choose a little of both…liberty. I plan to give way to contrition with mine, and not just for the people of Southeast Asia, but to the land we shredded with our bombs and weaponized herbicides.”

***

Later, on the road to Salinas, Professor T was reacquainting himself with John Steinbeck’s Cannery Row characters and settings as the gang agreed to spend the next day in Monterey soaking in the atmosphere, trying to overlook the touristy vibe and really get emersed in the world created by this great American storyteller.   

For one, Professor T, contemplating the tent enclaves in Berkley’s vacant lots, couldn’t ignore a sense of deja vu. How there must be similar stories in there. On Cannery Row the nation’s doomed found ways to thrive through interconnection and mutual support. Necessity giving folks on the waterfront row and in the Bay Area canvas-roof enclaves license to give in to the better angels of human nature. Prostitutes, drifters, iconoclasts, and rebels forming surrogate families protecting inhabitants from the devastating isolation of the modern world.

***

Presently, Professor T turned his thoughts to the brewing storm waiting for him back home in Kansas. His anger was beginning to temper a bit. He thought about the lessons taken from the pages of Cannery Row. Could he beat back the legal attack with angry defiance? Should he put his back into a fight against the natural flow of the universe, or could he defuse Abagail’s attack with acceptance? Regardless of the outcome, could he just simply let things be? He would find out soon enough as he was summoned to appear in court back home because Abigail’s attorneys had filed a suit to collect damages. 

The Zoom conference outburst had not helped his case at the University. He was written up for “chronic low performance,”  a bureaucratic prelude to being subject to an unfavorable post-tenure review, one step closer to being dismissed. Scheizer & Bok will use this bit of unfortunate news in their case for damages. 

“You have ARRIVED, dummy!” Roseanne Barr’s voice barked as Billie steered the Chool Bus into the Salinas RV park where the gang would spend the night.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks head south (SoCal) venturing close to LA via Santa Barbara and Moorpark, then, a taste of the Bakersfield sound at the Merle Haggard Museum.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch19)

CHAPTER 19: The White-Knuckle Storm Crawl Continues… Tales of Ghosts and Mass Sociogenic Hysteria in Coquille. 

At forty miles per hour, the trip from Florence to Coos Bay took every bit of two. For Professor T, the disappearance of what little sunlight was leaking through the bloated clouds resembled a gray leviathan slowly swallowing the sky. The colors bled out, leaving behind a dark and angry deluge of cold, suffocating water. Professor T hoped Billie wasn’t feeling something similar… an overwhelming sensation of being waterboarded by Posiden. 

As par usual, Buck was playing a reassuring role in the passenger seat…his low-key southern gentleman’s confidence bolstering Billie’s stoic resolve. Of course, they had no choice as darkness was near total and the lonely forty-eight mile stretch was mostly devoid of pull-over spaces. 

They HAD to soldier on. 

Contributing to Professor T’s claustrophobic dread was a combination of Buck and Billie’s hushed tones and Jack’s untroubled snoring. It was disconcerting for Mork T as he could not imagine how anyone would be able to sleep through the pounding of drops the size of small water balloons, peppered by the occasional flash-bulb appearance of Zeus’ shocking bolts, and the delayed crashing of the Olympic bowling alley. Professor Thompson felt as if he had survived a staredown with the abyss in the two-plus hours it took to cover fifty miles… not to mention the hairy beast he could have sworn he saw lumbering through the lightning flashes as darkness was closing in.

As Billie guided the Chool Bus through Mother Nature’s extreme water hazard, she kept her eyes peeled for the sudden appearance of animals, vehicles, debris, or God forbid, people in the road. And though this may have been the most intense rain dump she’d ever had the chance to conquer, she was confident in the advice her grandfather gave for inclement weather.

“Never mind the posted speed limit… keep your wheels on the road, and keep your speed within the bounds of ‘reason and prudence.’” This advice served to earn Billie the gang’s trust as a calm, vigilant, responsible, True Blue Chool Bus pilot.

By the time the gang finally rolled into Coos Bay, the downpour had settled into a gentle, steady shower. The drops pattered on the roof most of the night and the soothing ambience served to lull all into a deep, dreamless slide into comatosity. When the morning sun finally made an appearance in Coos Bay, the gang took some time in the twenty-four-hour fitness center where they had parked for the night. Once all had their morning necessaries completed, some light breakfast food, some coffee, back on the road ventured the Forks. 

It was a clear sunny day when the bus rolled into Coquille. First stop? The home of Jack’s cousin, Janice. She and her sizable extended family were happy to welcome the Forks to their quaint little Oregon town. After introductions and some familial catch-up, Janice, tipped off by anecdotes of the gang’s time in Seattle, was reminded of the local Pho restaurant…all agreed…lunch at the Coquille Pho House.

Now, many consider this signature Vietnamese dish more than a nutritious, delicious meal, but also medicine. And with this medicinal dish, there is a process. First, the host brings each diner a plate with juicy wedged limes, a handful of fresh bean sprouts, a few sprigs of fragrant basil, and for those who believe their meal should have an opportunity to bite back, several slices of fresh jalapeno peppers.

Once the bowls arrive, diners prepare their medicinal Pho (oxtail soup) to their personal tastes. The proprietor furnishes accompanying spices at every table, hoisin sauce (seasoned soybean paste), chili sauce, Sriracha, fish oil, sugar, etc… you can gauge each diners’ capsaicin tolerance by the color of the oxtail broth. If it’s red it’s hot baybay. Now that the accompanying spices, herbs, and citrus had been added, one engages in a graceful ballet which involves chopsticks, and soup spoons. Swimming in the broth, noodles, and vegetable additions, depending on the order, will be your choice of meat: brisket, shrimp, beef tendon, tripe, mystery meat balls, etc.. Some like to enjoy the medicinal qualities of the hot broth, soaking in the healing steam, draining half of it before digging into the noodles and meat. These folks generally consume the whole bowl, noodles, broth, herbs, peppers, citrus and all. Others go right for the solids, sometimes leaving half a bowl of the healing liquid unconsumed. Professor T always shakes his head when he sees so much medicine wasted.

***

Back at Janice’s secluded house deep in the woods, the gang sat on lawnchairs in the warm June sun among romping children, goats, and pecking chickens. The conversations were easy and breezy. At some point, Janice’s brother, Jason, was chatting with Professor T about a land deal he was trying to secure. It was a plot in the wilderness that was rumored to be haunted by the tortured spirits of a recently demolished insane asylum. Now, Janice’s brother doesn’t believe in ghosts. In fact, he hosted a “paranormal activity debunker” podcast for a time… till he got board with it and decided to get a job in the sawmill as it paid a whole lot steadier. His real motive was triggered by another rumor, that gold could be found on the plot. He said it would take some digging and due diligence to determine the reality of that rumor.

As for the hauntings, all Jason could muster was a grunt of incredulity, trailing off to a smirking chuckle. “Seriously?” Jason sounded somewhat defensive. “I’ve interviewed dozens of folks convinced of spectral hauntings. After a while it gets predictable and boring. Do you remember the Scooby Doo cartoons? Of the ghost stories i investigated, way too many of them resembled stock characters and plots from that wildly entertaining Saturday morning diversion. Some corrupt opportunist or even local official is responsible for one of several outrages: environmental damage, estate dispute, businesses gone bust, almost always the motivation is financial. Some desperate grasping inspires an elaborate ruse involving a haunting of some kind. In the end, they either get away with their caper by way of mass sociogenic hysteria, or they make a mistake and get busted.” 

“Too bad we don’t have more of those precocious, inquisitive kids looking for mysteries to crack,” said Janice.

“Good luck with the site survey… i’d love to help pan for gold nuggets,” Billie was on autopilot, she was making sounds in order not to look bored.

Professor T was taking it all in. He considered Jason’s cock-sure outlook regarding mysterious phenomena a little too certain. In other words, Professor T was skeptical about Jason’t iron-clad skepticism. But turning his thoughts to Abigail Weiser’s inexplicable attack on his workplace integrity gave him pause. He was starting to wonder if he could accurately gauge the veracity of anybody’s fantastic story at face value. It seemed he was waking up to the depth of people’s public facing masks. He was starting to understand how the onion-like layers of personality can run deep and pungent.

Regardless, open-minded or not, Professor T considered the paranormal rumors about as real as Scooby Doo himself.

NEXT WEEK:
The gang lands in Eureka, NorCal, a beach town crawling with under-employed pirates giving the gang the heebie-jeebies, pushing them on to Redding.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch18)

CHAPTER 18: The Forks crash through dense Oregon forests dodging Sasquatch and Mother Nature.

As the research tour meandered through Pacific Northwest territory, the Forks made their way to scheduled stops from Seattle to Tacoma, from Portland to Eugene, and Oregon’s Lane Community College…a last stop before taking some time to visit Jack’s cousin in Coquille. The pace was frenetic as Portland’s traffic congestion affected the itinerary in ways not accurately factored by Jack and Billie. And though she was able to stay calm, Billie was hard pressed to hit all planned destinations on time. The stretch from Corvallis to Eugene was a welcomed respite…the gang was ready to let their hair down and enjoy some down-time in Coquille. 

From Eugene, they made their way to Florence and though running late, they decided to push on down the 101 Coastal Highway to Coos Bay where they could settle at the local 24-hour fitness club. Again, the gang was running late. The sun slowly disappeared, a soupy fog/biblical downpour rolled in, visibility inched ever closer to nil, and Billie was obliged to nudge the Chool Bus through this leg of the trip slowly, hazard flashers blazing. It was a white knuckle stretch for Billie but Jack was snoozing in his sleeping berth, Buck was in the passenger seat providing moral support, and Professor T was anxiously staring out the window hypnotized by the downpour, the claustrophobia-inducing tree walls persisting for miles and miles.

In this somewhat nightmarish crawl through the sodden darkness, Professor T’s thoughts ran wild with replays of conversations involving Abigail’s attorneys and the court-appointed mediator. On one hand, Professor T understood the #metoo movement was a necessary seismic correction in gender relations. It wasn’t just about high-profile takedowns… it was a fundamental demand for dignity and the right to exist in professional and private spaces without the threat of predatory behavior. It forced long-overdue conversations about consent, power dynamics, and the invisible labor women have historically carried. 

On the other hand, the rise of the “Manosphere”…the world of Alpha-grindset podcasts and “bro” influencers…seemed a bit more than a random backlash to Mork Thompson. More like a symptom of deep-seated identity metamorphosis. Professor T recognized traditional roles (provider, protector) were becoming less tied to economic reality. Where many were feeling disempowered at best, their very existence increasingly viewed as inherently problematic at worse. He felt his fellows were looking for a script that could provide purpose, strength, or at least, a sense of belonging.

He considered himself savvy to this dynamic and viewed himself sympathetic to the plight of women. He recalled John Lennon’s song, Woman is the Ni***r of the World. Professor T’s take was that, due to their willingness to sign up for nature’s demands in the process of proliferating the species, they should be more accurately be considered heroes of the world. Not to mention the monthly pain of simply existing. In short, Professor T considered himself in league with the ladies. 

Abigail surely knew this about him, so all things considered, Professor T concluded Abigail’s campaign was a setup. He suspected she was caught up in a nefarious plan hatched by the ethically challenged duo, Scheizer and Bok. In the beginning he experienced self-doubt, he truly wondered if his outlook had been so out of whack that her case was legit, but then he recalled an encounter with the shysters where they appeared to be provoking him. Scheizer, with his fragile and bony constitution always ended up standing behind Bok, pasty, bloated, and shabbily dressed.

It seemed they were trying to provoke Professor T to assault one of them. He even thought he heard Scheizer say something to the effect of, “Does this inquiry anger you? Perhaps you would like to give my partner a shove, or maybe a poke in the jaw?” 

Of course, Professor T could only look on with astonishment. In his thinking, members of the professional class, doctors, teachers, lawyers, etc. were always well intended and professional in their day to day interactions. When it appeared someone with the privilege of representing clients in a court of law was exhibiting grasping and corrupt behavior, he experienced a shock of cognitive dissonance. Always wary of falling into a trap of fundamental attribution error, Professor T’s response, when encountering corruption, was quick to explain it away by acknowledging everyone has their share of battles, telling himself he must be misinterpreting motives of those who appear to be behaving in less than ethical ways. 

***

Breaking Professor T’s reverie, a thunder crash rattled the cabinets. Billie confessed later it gave her a good jump scare. But just before the crash, in that instant of bright illumination, Professor T could have sworn he saw a lumbering, hairy figure in the trees. And for the rest of the stretch to Coos Bay, he scanned the fog and rain obscured dense tree belt for more evidence of forest dwelling wookies. Of course nothing more would appear in the good professor’s visual field. He decided to keep this sighting to himself as it would never do to have a respected academic confessing belief in the Sasquatch mythology. It was difficult to hold his tongue, but he was traveling with friends so he resolved to make a joke about the sighting over dinner once the Chool Bus was parked for the night…a trial balloon to check his traveling companions’ reaction.

NEXT WEEK:
The White-Knuckle Storm Crawl Continues… Tales of Ghosts, Toxic Waste Contamination, and GOLD in Coquille.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links