Author: RonnieHays

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter I (the purge)

Happy Funday, loopers! And buckle up, because there is much to do and only months from embarking on a journey of radical proportions… not just to small and medium size college towns across the contiguous 48 (United?) States of America, but into the hitherto uncharted territory of extreme minimalism. You see, before your host can Kerouac across state lines with his trusty guitar and tricked-out sprinter van, he’s gotta Marie Kondo the hell out of his already semi-tidy lifestyle.

Now… purging “stuff” without resorting to a Tyler Durdenesque eruption feels like wrestling a hydra with a shopping cart full of expired coupons. At every corner, another forgotten set of martini glasses, shot glasses, cocktail shakers, beer brewing kits, fondue forks shining with the accusatory glint of a thousand bad decisions… can you relate? Remember that popcorn maker you bought on a whim after a particularly potent batch of brownies? Or the ceramic Elvis bust your aunt Mildred bequeathed you, its rhinestone sunglasses perpetually mocking your life choices? They all gotta go, loopers, jettisoned into the great beyond of thrift shop purgatory.

It’s a Sisyphean task, let me tell you. You purge until your arms feel like overcooked linguine, only to discover a forgotten stack of Wired Magazines leering at you from a box in the guest-room closet, their splashy geek-chic advertisements reflecting the hollowness of consumerism. But with each item exorcised, a strange lightness washes over you. It’s like you’re chiseling through layers of a self-made sarcophagus, emerging, blinking, into the sunlight of… how did William Wallace put it…?

!!FREEEEEDOMM!!

But let’s not sugarcoat this thing. Saying goodbye to stuff feels like attending your own estate sale, inviting strangers to paw through the detritus of your life with the dispassionate curiosity of vultures at a buffet. You see your cherished pulp-n-ink books, once bastions of knowledge, amusement, and inspiration, now reduced to dog-eared doorstops. Your carefully curated vinyl or CD collection? Frisbees… or kindling for a transhumanist bonfire. It’s enough to make you nod along agreeably as Barbara Ehrenreich describes a bait and switch formerly known as the American Dream, built as it is on an ever-expanding foundation of stuff.

But amidst the chaos, there’s a perverse joy. A giddy dance with absurdity as you realize you haven’t worn those bitchin’ parachute pants since the Clinton administration, and that t-shaped sub-woofer cajone, got more use as a foot-stool than a musical instrument.

So, as i stand amidst the ruins of my former semi-tidy life, surrounded by mountains of “maybe someday” and “what was I thinking?”, i feel a strange sense of liberation. The micro-bus, once a gleaming symbol of woodstockian wanderlust, now beckons as a deep-space “stealth” ship (a name… hmmm… let’s see… how about “Rocinante?”).

Anyhoo… no more will i be tethered to the tyranny of things. The open road awaits, and i, with Rocinante, and only the essentials (and maybe a slightly dusty foot-stool), am ready to answer its call.

This, loopers, is not just a trip to the thrift shop. It’s a baptism by Marie Kondo, a communion with the open road, a middle finger raised to the gods of consumerism. It’s the year we trade stuff for possibility, and let me tell you, the view from here is anything but beige. Stay tuned, because Rocinante has yet to commence the metamorphosis… the adventure is just beginning!

And so… it begins!

Greetings, Loopers…
And great day in the morning!
Finally… a break from that weeks-long taste of Arctic-brisk.

Argh… over it, i am.

Now, as i was shedding the “bearskin-thick” protective layers, it hit me between the eyes. My 65th birthday and exit from the professional treadmill is mere months away. I promised myself in the doldrums of the post-y2k “dot-bomb” that i would, upon retirement, either A.), buy a wind-powered craft and sail the seven seas or B.) obtain a “Prairie Schooner” and roam the earth like Kwai Chang Caine. Well… the time has arrived, and a few hard truths have forced a semi-sudden pivot with the vehicles i’ll use to fulfill this visualization. For one, this middle of everywhere, landlubbin’ flatlander is a horrible candidate for single-handed sailing, and two, the pop-up tent/awning solution i, only last year, acquired for prairie schooning will work only in perfectly temperate zones. So… people i trust were advising i go the “stealth urban camper” route of acquiring a converted cargo van and turning it into a rolling tiny home. So, i started researching turn-key options and came up for air gasping at six-figure price tags… GAHHHH!

Solution? Acquire an empty van as blank canvas (see above), design, and construct the interior myself (project to begin post-haste).

Once that is accomplished… strap in, loopers, because this ain’t your drunk uncle’s road trip. We are professionals… we have “objectives.” This is a 52-week, 48-state odyssey through the heart of American academia, fueled by equal parts French Roast, guitars, and pure, unadulterated curiosity. We’re hitting Hays America’s sister cities… public college towns, mind you, the kind where dorms smell like stale pizza and regret, and the professors are either jaded veterans or wide-eyed grad students with tenure dreams as fragile as a bong hit in a mosh pit.

But hold on, this ain’t just about singing for my supper in college-towns across the nation. It’s also a quest for the literary Grail, a boozy, bookish bacchanal that’ll have us chasing Hemingway’s ghost in Key West, Kerouac’s shadow in Desolation Peak, and Faulkner’s phantom in Oxford, Mississippi. We’ll be spelunking through dusty library stacks, communing with ghosts, and trading wild stories like currency in smoky campus dives.

And when the sun sets on another day on the road, we’ll seek solace in our nation’s natural cathedrals: Yosemite’s granite giants, Yellowstone’s geyser symphony, the Grand Canyon’s mile-deep abyss. We’ll soak our grumpy bones in hidden hot springs, letting the geothermal magic mend our aching glutes and rekindle our wanderlust.

But be warned, this isn’t for the faint of heart. This is a road paved with potholes and detours, populated by characters as colorful as a Thompson-esque fever dream. We’ll encounter campus radicals and redneck renegades, peyote-toting professors and chain-smoking librarians, all with their own stories to tell, their own demons to chase.

So, are you ready, loopers? Ready to trade textbooks for bibles, lecture halls for dive bars, and term papers for loopy podcasts? Then buckle up, grab your Delta8 Vape, and let’s hit the gas on this loopcircus odyssey across the American landscape. We’ll be blogging our descent into madness every step of the way, so stay tuned for dispatches from the fringes, where academia meets anarchy, and the pursuit of knowledge gets a whole lot more interesting.

FOR EXAMPLE: Appalachian Ambiance and Moonshine Melodies

This stop begins in the misty hills of Boone, North Carolina, home to Appalachian State University, a haven for bluegrass pickers and outdoorsy types. We’ll be swapping songs for sammichs, trading Chaucer for cheap moonshine, and getting our Thoreau on in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain. Stay tuned for tales of wildlife encounters, existential campfire chats, and communing with the local legends who call these mountains home.

This is just an example, loopers. We’ve got 47 more states to explore, 48 stories to tell. So keep your eyes peeled, your minds open, and your courage prepped for the mother of all road trips. Because in this loopy odyssey, the only constant is the open road, and the only map we need is a tattered paperback with a dog-eared page for every adventure.

Cheers… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk Chapter I =>

Still on the Line

Well now, loopers, let me spin a little yarn on this snow-day. You see our fair cities, the grand ol’ bergs we call home, they’re not just bricks and mortar, steel and glass. Nope, they are living creatures, grand ol’ critters with heartbeats like thumpin’ bass guitars and nervous systems strung with cat-5 cables and WiFi. And just like all good critters, they’ve got their own little ecosystems, swarms of cells all working together to keep the whole thing humming.

You got your everyday Joes and Janes, artists and accountants, waitresses and truck drivers. They’re the cells, the building blocks of the beast. They hustle and work, carryin’ their little buckets of dreams and anxieties, building families and businesses like honeycombs. They’re the muscle and sinew, the folks who keep the city pumpin’.

Then there’s the organs, the big beaters that keep the whole thing ticking. The hospitals, the schools, the power plants, the fire stations… they’re the lungs and kidneys, the stomach and the brain, churning and processing, keeping the lifeblood flowing. They’re the gears and pulleys, the hidden heroes who make the magic happen.

But here’s the thing, loopers, here’s the rub. We get so caught up in the everyday dance, the hustle and bustle, that we don’t see the real heroes, the white blood cells of the city. I’m talking about the constabularies patroling the streets, the firefighters scaling smoke-choked ladders, the nurses wiping fevered brows, the linemen battling blizzards to keep the lights on. These are the antibodies, the tireless defenders, the ones who dive headfirst into the muck when the storm clouds gather.

They’re the ones who show up when the pipes burst and the sirens wail, when the power flickers and the darkness creeps in. They’re the ones who stand between us and chaos, the protectors and defenders, the angels in scrubs, the silent guardians of our daily bread. They ARE the salt of the earth, the grease that keeps the wheels spinning, the invisible threads that bind us together.

So when we finally emerge from this most recent veil of windblown arctic visitation, let’s take a moment to remember these folks. Give them a nod, a smile, a quiet thank you. They’re the ones who keep the city alive, the ones who hold back the tide, the ones who make sure we can sleep soundly in our beds, knowing someone’s watching over us. They’re the under-appreciated heroes, the quiet champions, the backbone of our living municipalities (especially Jr. High teachers… yes, we see you). And believe me, loopers, they deserve every bit of our gratitude. So let’s give it to them, loud and clear. From the bottom of our collective heart… thank you!

Peas and Carrots

In the sweat-drenched arena of U.S. political discourse, two forces clash under a floodlights of existential unease: Traditional Conservatism, a stoic warrior draped in the tattered fabric of custom and belief, and Secular Humanism, a nimble pugilist armed with the rapier of reason and cold logic. Their clash is not a battle for power, but a dance of meaning in the face of the absurd, a silent debate over the fragile scaffolding of morality in a universe indifferent to our struggles.
 
Traditional Conservatism stands rooted in the fertile soil of custom, its roots intertwined with the ghosts of ancestors and the whispers of inherited wisdom. It seeks solace in the embrace of community, in the shared rituals that bind individuals into a tapestry of shared values. For them, morality is not a question mark etched on the blank slate of existence, but a pre-written script, passed down through generations, its lines etched with the blood of experience. Within this script, the individual finds meaning as a cog in the grand machine, a steward of the past, and a builder of a future that honors the whispers of the departed.
 
Secular Humanism, however, steps into the arena with a different swagger. Its gaze, unclouded by the mist of faith, pierces the darkness, seeking meaning not in the echoes of the past, but in the stark light of the present. For them, morality is not a divine decree, but a human construct, a fragile edifice built brick by brick through reason, compassion, and a relentless pursuit of justice. The individual is not a cog, but a sculptor, carving their own path through the wilderness of existence, guided by the compass of logic and the flickering torch of empathy.
 
Their clash, however, is not one of pure opposition. Both, in their own way, grapple with the same existential anxieties, the same gnawing questions about purpose and belonging. Traditional Conservatism offers solace in the shared narrative, in the comforting embrace of belonging to something larger than oneself. Secular Humanism, on the other hand, challenges complacency, urging the individual to stand alone, to forge their own meaning, to find solace not in borrowed robes but in the naked authenticity of their own choices.
 
Yet, neither interlocutor seeks to topple the fragile democracy that allows them to find higher meaning in the contest. Both, in their own way, cherish the freedom of thought, the right to question, to dissent, to carve their own path through the labyrinth of existence. They understand that the alternative, the anointing of an unaccountable dictator, is not a victory for either worldview, but a surrender to the paralysis they have allowed the clash to become.
 
In the end, their dialectic continues under the indifferent sky, a testament to the human spirit’s eternal struggle for meaning. Whether they find solace in the whispers of tradition or the stark light of reason, both Traditional Conservatism and Secular Humanism offer, in their own way, a fragile answer to the question of existence. And perhaps, in the shared arena of democracy, in the clash of ideas, in the constant questioning, lies the only solace we can hope for, a flicker of meaning in the face of an ineffable universe.

Dear Hubris

You humans squabblin’ there with flags and fists held high… pointin’ fingers… buildin’ walls beneath polluted skies… you think you’re callin’ shots… you masters of the show… let me tell you somethin’… Mother Earth don’t hear your woes.

Burn your dino-fuels… choke the air with smog… carve the mountains open… leave a bleeding bog. Fight your petty wars… spread your hate like weeds. Earth shakes it off… got resilience deep.

You think you’re killin’ her with nukes and plastic waste… but she’s seen worse than you… empires turned to paste. Dinosaurs gone… poof… ice caps came and went. It’s a dance of constant change… a cycle heaven-sent.

So go ahead and frack her dry… let oceans rise and boil… she’ll sprout all new continents… on volcanic fertile soil. Poison every river… turn forests into ash. She’ll just shrug it off… like sprouts in a fiery crash.

Don’t lament the future… though your tears fall like rain. She’ll weather every storm… endure greater pain. Go ahead… rage and fight… throw your puny sprees. She’ll just abide and bide your time as vapid history.

Burn it down… you tiny ants… empires crumble fast. Rebirth will rise from the ashes… the only thing that lasts. With mountains carved by glaciers… oceans vast and blue. She’ll be here… my darlings… when you’re just dust and dew.

So go ahead and blame “others” for your woes. Earth dances on… laughing as your petty drama goes. Forget your gods and demons… your flags and walls so high.

Change is the only constant… beneath the endless sky.

Irony is Dead (v42a)

Ah, the irony, it burns like a habanero dipped in turpentine! These self-styled patriots, these bastions of bootstrapped prosperity, these impotent congress-critters, now want to pull the ladder up behind them, leaving the rest of us to drown in the fetid swamp of their hypocrisy.

For decades, they’ve feasted on the fruits of immigrant toil, their pockets lined by the sweat and tears of folks who crossed deserts and oceans for a shot at the American Bait-and-Switch. They’ve built their empires on backs bent under the sun, minds dulled by the drudgery of minimum-wage purgatory. All the while, they (the ruling elites) sang hymns to liberty and opportunity, their forked tongues dripping with a molasses-thick patriotism that choked on the merest whiff of diversity.

But now, the winds are shifting. The browning of America, once a distant tremor, is an earthquake at their door. The faces they once exploited, the hands that picked their crops and cleaned their toilets, are no longer content with crumbs from the master’s table. They dare to aspire, to dream of a slice of the pie they helped bake. And that, my friends, is the real culture war.

Suddenly, the land of the free morphs into Fort Knox, the Statue of Liberty replaced by a gargoyle with a padlock for a mouth. Walls rise like monuments to their own fear, moats filled with the crocodile tears of those who once swore by the great American melting pot. They rail against “invasion,” these architects of exploitation, while forgetting the original sin – the forcible dispossession, the bloody conquest that birthed their precious nation.

The irony is enough to make a jackass weep! These masters of the oligarchy, these captains of energy-independence, these dismantlers of democracy, now reduced to trembling toddlers clutching their sandcastles against the tide. Their gilded cages, built on the backs of the forgotten, suddenly seem awfully fragile. And as the waves of change lap at the ramparts, they scream for walls, for moats, for anything to keep the ghosts of their own greed at bay.

But let them not fool you, these wall-whiners, these moat-mongers. Their fear is not of immigrants, but of justice. Their gated communities are not sanctuaries, but confessionals, where they whisper the sins of a nation built on stolen land and desperate workers. So let the walls rise, let the moats fester, for in their fetid depths lies the true face of American hypocrisy, a monument not to liberty, but to the fear of its own shadow.

Irony is Dead (ch42)

Ah, the self-checkout. Symphony of beeps, purgatory of plastic bags, and the Mona Lisa of retail scams: the ol’ banana-on-the-sensor switcheroo. You gotta hand it to Buffet, the ol’ bastard knew what he was talking about. Class war, indeed. Only now, the battlefield ain’t some picket line in Detroit, it’s aisle number six at the super-center, and the weapons are kale chips and discount laundry detergent.
 
See, the suits figured they were playing checkers, right? Replace checkers with cashiers, cut costs, boost profits. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Except, these aren’t checkers, folks, this is three-dimensional chess played with avocados and expired yogurt. People get creative, real quick. Bananas become batteries, steaks into socks, and suddenly, that self-checkout scanner becomes Robin Hood of the corporate super-mart.
 
Take Mildred, bless her lace doily heart. Sweet old lady, wouldn’t hurt a fly unless it was buzzin’ around her gingerbread house. But stick her in front of that self-checkout screen, and suddenly, she’s MacGyver with a coupon for cat food. Scanning a grapefruit for a Granny Smith, weighing a cantaloupe as a zucchini – it’s like watchin’ a hummingbird rob a bank vault, one avocado at a time.
 
And the irony, oh, the irony! Suits pattin’ themselves on the back for saving a buck on payroll, while Mildred’s walking out with enough T-bone to feed the bingo hall. It’s like they built a casino and forgot to lock the doors – except instead of poker chips, it’s Brussels sprouts and frozen éclair bites.
 
So next time you see someone getting the “unexpected item” flag, remember, it’s not just a glitch. It’s a tiny act of rebellion, a hint of class warfare in the aisles of capitalism. And who knows, maybe, just maybe, it’ll be enough to tip the damn scales, one avocado at a time. Now, if you’ll excuse me, i gotta go practice my quiet patience while “help is on the way.”

Kanorado Freezeframe

Kanorado Freezeframe

In a cathedral of frost… my boots, skiffs displacing virgin snow, crunch the hushed promise of beginnings. In the days between Christmas and the New Year, festive proclamations of peace and goodwill hang heavy in the air, yet this quiet reverie also thrums with the abyss of rancor and bottomless strife. The Prankster’s Acid-Test, once a rainbow promise, now shimmers with a metallic tang, a reminder of Heaven’s sublime dance with chaos.

And so… beneath this ecstatic surface, the dark melody plays. The white expanse becomes a battleground etched with the scars of faraway Abrahamic conflict, a canvas stained with generations of blood and tears. The echoes of Bethlehem and Calvary bleed into the whispers of jihad and herem, a cacophony of holy war that stretches across millennia.

My relatively carefree steps become a pilgrimage through this frozen labyrinth. Each crunch, a requiem for peace, a prayer for a future where faith isn’t a weapon, where love doesn’t wear the armor of hate. The silence of good fortune, once a haven, now amplifies the cries of fallen multitudes, urging a reckoning, a cleansing flood to wash away the bloodstain of ages.

As i walk deeper into the white embrace, the visions fade, leaving behind a stark clarity. The snow, a baptism of truth, washes away the sugarcoated sermons, the justifications for endless war. This bittersweet echo, a reminder of the fragility of peace in a world consumed by selfish animus.

And i, a pilgrim in this realm of white, carry the weight of both faith and fury. My steps, a testament to the long arc of justice, where holy fires stay home, where love’s ecstatic whirl upstages drums of war. In this winter cathedral, i dance with the ghosts of angels and demons, a testament to the omnipresent struggle for a world where peace isn’t just a Christmas platitude, but a lived reality.

Myopedamania

Well… there’s a feelin’ Grandpa says he gets before a cloudburst hits the farm. And after forty years of drought, he says the big one’s comin’ on. And wise ones say the best of times need a storm to wash away… the filth of the entropy gone before… bring it on is what I say… and let it rain!

Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers? Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers?

Could it be there’s a basic need for some measure of control… and when that need goes unfulfilled we fall to actions bold… and use whatever power at hand bending others to our will… and if that don’t work we just take ’em out… in a storm… the blood runs cold?

LET IT RAIN!

RAIN
RAIN
RAIN

When children led by authority… whether real or just perceived… abandon compassion and empathy… you set the stage for evil deeds. And empires through the sands of time… use violence to pave their way… then the violence turns in on themselves till the empires washed away.

SO LET IT RAIN!!

Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers? Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers? Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers? Don’t you know the springtime flowers always need the April showers?

April showers…
Bring me flowers…
………………………April showers.

Spotify link… HERE

MOAB

I’ve had this feeling since i don’t know when
pushin’ out my game from a 12 gauge pen…
I’m restless… don’t know why.

It’s hard to anchor to a holograph
hard to carry toonage in a holey sack…
I’m racked yea

Ready to ride

But ridin’s kinda pointless when there’s nowhere to go…
An endless field of strangers from above and below…

Weightless

And prayin’s not an option when you can’t find a soul…
When the naked truth exposed reveals a gaping hole…
I’m paid out…

Ready to ride

Got a black bomb and it’s tickin’ away…
Gonna take it out on the blue highway.

Gonna make a change… gonna start today…
Gonna tie the branches up and throw them away…
I know…

Overdue

Try… try… try again but just can’t see…
Someone pulled the rug out from under me
I swear…

Don’t know who

I had myself convinced it was the real deal…
And how can one resist such a strong appeal…

GUILTY

But somewhere deep inside I know I’ll find some truth…
And hold it high so everyone can see it too…
The pearl… from the shoe…

Got a black bomb and it’s tickin’ away…
Gonna take it out on the blue highway

Blue highway…
Ready to ride.