in the loop

info waves collapsed into whizzing particles

The Chool Bus (ch13)

CHAPTER 13: The Forks and Buck witness the nation’s fibrillating heart a little more directly than anticipated in the Pacific Northwest.

The Forks had a few days to make the trip to Coeur d’Alene where the next set of interviews were scheduled to be conducted at the University of Idaho. After breakfasting at a Salt Lake mom & pop pancake house, they set off for Missoula, Montana. It would be nearly eight hours on the road, but Billie was up for the challenge as some of the nation’s finest hot springs are located there. She was excited to check out some of the less developed spots for a truly unique communion with mother nature. 

Toward the back of the Chool Bus, the hypnotizing hum of rubber and asphalt lulled Professor T to some fitful napping. He remembered at least three moments between sleep and wakefulness where the dream, or nightmare, stuck to his conscious memory like peanut butter on the roof of your mouth when there’s too much PB and not enough J. One of these, in particular, had the good professor sort of dreading this push into the Great American Redoubt (GAR), an area of the country deeply steeped in apocalyptic religious fundamentalism.

Now, Professor T is a live-and-let-live secular humanist at heart, one hundred percent in support of the 1st Amendment’s explicit provision of religious practice free from government involvement (for or against) but the folks in the GAR of Northern Idaho, Eastern Washington/Oregon, had been slowly creating a space where their brand of apocalyptic Christianity was seeping into a cultural dominance. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, thought Professor T, as long as they don’t try to draw everyone into their oxygen deprived world view. He wasn’t worried for himself so much as for Billie’s safety as a person of gender fluidity. 

It didn’t help that Professor T was watching a documentary on YouTube about the GAR, drifting in and out around the point where some of the worst extremists urged followers to seek out and identify Communists, Jihadists, Antifa & BLM. When responding to a critique over the white nationalist flavor of their apparent political goals, they loudly declared their token black pastor negated all claims of their wish to establish a white ethnostate set to secede from the union like those southern states in the mid-19th Century. Of course, that separation led to a bloody civil war and the radical element of the GAR seemed anxious for a rematch. 

In that misty state between wakefulness and dreaming, Professor T heard voices declaring California and the i25 corridor in Colorado the playground of the devil… spiritual warfare … good-vs-evil. There’s mention of a manifesto that reads like the Anarchists Cookbook for prepper GAR compatriots… lots of tactical advice. For example, in The Biblical Basis for War: A Plan For Creating a New Theocracy Through Violence. First, “Make an offer of peace before declaring war.” This offer would not be a negotiation or compromise of perceived righteousness. Non Christians MUST surrender on terms of the GAR’s brand of justice, including the halting of all abortions, same sex marriage, idolatry, occultism (read: no Wicca, or anything resembling paganism), no communism (whatever that’s supposed to mean), and all must obey biblical law (like the Taliban in Afghanistan). Those who comply must pay the GAR’s taxes and those males who refuse… will be killed… read that again… they. will. be. killed!

“Comply or die.” Jack was hip to the irony of folks displaying Gadsden Flags with a snake expressing a desire that tyrannical government entities refrain from stepping near them… the folks who trumpeted warnings of a nationwide gun confiscation and establishment of concentration camps by the previous administration were now silent as their own political party’s federal government was snapping up abandoned warehouses for the stated purpose of facilitating mass deportation of illegal immigrants. As well, sending divisions of armed goon squads into cities run by political opponents.

“Irony is dead,” Jack mumbled as Professor T voiced his increasing apprehension approaching the GAR. 

“Yes, dead, but unacknowledged irony doesn’t mean mixing with the folks in the GAR could be dangerous… yet.” Professor T cued up an interview featuring a librarian from the Coeur d’Alene area who had spent time in law enforcement during the bad old days when Neo-Nazi groups had set up compounds in the area, some taking their views to extremes with the murder of 1980s talk radio personality, Alan Berg. She said she was certain Idaho would not allow that sort of militant activity again. 

“But still,” Jack’s 6th sense was tingling. He was worried they might run into some trouble poking around asking questions of the GAR locals. 

“Not to worry,” Buck was listening to Jack and Professor T’s conversation. “I know plenty of rodeo dudes from Northern Idaho, and they say all of that great secessionist redoubt talk is empty bluster. You know, like in Iran when they chant ‘Death to America’. Really, all they’re saying is they don’t like our one sided approach to Middle East diplomacy. It’s how they express dissatisfaction.”

“Take the goddamn next exit,” Sam Jackson barked from Siri’s Drunk Sister’s bluetooth audio link.

“Well, i don’t much care about politics, but i am hungry,” Billie had to weigh in as she steered the Chool Bus into a truck stop somewhere around Idaho Falls. “Let’s get some truck stop food.”

NEXT WEEK:
Professor T steps in it again, and Billie arranges a mineral hot spring rendezvous with a kindred spirit.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch12)

CHAPTER 12: The Chool Bus survives a torrential downpour and Buck is treated to a personal data colonoscopy.

It was late afternoon and storm clouds were gathering, a June rarity in Salt Lake City. So the Forks rode together to a designated brewpub near the capital. After some post-interview observations discussing the unique character of the locals, appetizers and beers were ordered and the Forks endeavored to dig into the personal history of their fuckin’ new guy as Billie would put it, FNG for short. It was going to be a long year and Buck Wellstone had some catchin’ up to do with this tight-knit trio. So Jack kicked the game into play with the first question. “Tell us about yourself, Buck, and give us a sense of your personal influences,” Jack anticipated a painful norm of reciprocity exercise as he expected everyone to be as reticent as himself.

“Sure,” Buck began. He was grinning as if he had endured this kind of personal colonoscopy before. Taking on a subtle shift in affect, perhaps channeling campfire moments among his early adulthood classmates and friends back home, he launched into a lyrical monologue. 

“Likely as not, you’ve got me sized up already, ‘account of me hailin’ from South Texas and puttin’ in my time up there in Wyomin’. Fair enough. I don’t much hide the way i was raised. But i’ll tell you straight… i ain’t never crossed trails with a man who looks a lick like that fella on the billboard. You know the one… stiff-jawed, a smoke hangin’ just so, and a sunset that looks like it was painted on by someone who never broke a sweat in his life. The truth of the matter is, a modern cowboy doesn’t just sprout from some fancy marketing scheme. No, sir. We’re a uniquely American gumbo… a rich stirrin’ of traditions that surely don’t require the blessin’ of a Madison Avenue suit to know who we are.”

This piqued the interest of everyone. Professor T remembered his childhood, watching all those black & white westerns on one of the only TV channels that came in clear, Gunsmoke, The Rifleman, Bonanza, and Rawhide. Jack was partial to the Coen Brothers’ take on the 1970s classic True Grit, and Billie’s schema of American cowboys came from movies like The Urban Cowboy, The Midnight Cowboy, The Power of Dog, and Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid.

The pints and bites had arrived, and as the Forks split rapt attention between sips, nibbles, and Buck’s verbal tapestry, the minutes flew by between distant peals of thunder. “You see, when it comes to rodeo culture and cowboys in general, there are two flavors. You’ve got the ones who take it all quite sober, lookin’ at a steer like a geometry proof that has to be solved in less than eight seconds. Then you’ve got the others… the devil may care thrill seekers in it for the grins, giggles, and enough cold beer to drown a water buffalo.”

Buck took a long, thirsty pull from his pint of pilsner, dipped a fried mushroom in the ranch dressing provided and resumed. “I find myself reminiscin’ about a particular gentleman… a steer roper by trade… who held the firm conviction that every livin’ soul on God’s green earth, whether man or beast, ought to be tempered as stout as a well-worn saddle. One fine afternoon, he invited a rather refined city fellow out for a ride through the brush. They journeyed until the shadows stretched out as long as a California Sequoia, at which point our prankster looked that dandy square in the eye and said, ‘I’m afraid we’ve lost our way, friend. It appears we’ll be beddin’ down beneath the stars tonight, much like the range riders of old.’ And indeed they did. They made do with naught but sweat-dampened saddle blankets for their pillows and their covers. That poor fellow endured the night, tremblin’ with the chill and feelin’ a mite worse for wear, likely contemplatin’ the series of unfortunate decisions that led him to that patch of dirt. When the sun finally graced the horizon, they crested the very next rise… and lo and behold, there sat that scoundrel’s bunkhouse, not a mile’s distance away. It is, i suppose, a rather stern lesson that the ‘good ol’ days’ were often seasoned with a generous helpin’ of most disagreeable circumstances.”

Just then a bolt from Zeus’ quiver slammed into something not but a few blocks away. The thunder crash rattled the custom mugs hanging from hooks above the bartender’s head. It was like a jump scare moment in a horror movie, but Buck was unfazed. “The cowboy itch hits everyone different. Like me, some apply to the University of Wyoming after catchin’ the fever at Frontier Days in Cheyenne. Now, that’s a tradition that started back in 1897 when the cattle barons wanted to lure in some new blood and get their city noticed. They organized a little get-together, a few thousand folks showed up, and a century later, the cowboy games show no sign of lettin’ up. Today, you’ve got young people and city folk comin’ for the buzz, all united by stubby-bottle banquet beer, coiled ropes, and lonesome hopes.”

“I’ve heard a little about the Cheyenne Rodeo. I’ve always wanted to go, but haven’t made it yet. Tell us about it, Buck.” Professor T wanted to hear it from someone with actual experience.

Buck took a measured breath, offerin’ a polite nod as he gathered his thoughts. “Well now,” he began, “it all commences with a grand parade, much like that very first gatherin’ back in eighteen-hundred and ninety-seven. The thoroughfares are fairly teemin’ with… well, pardon my bluntness, but there’s a fair amount of hoss apples and a great deal of ranch finery polished to a high shine for the occasion. You’ll see the Miss Rodeos from every state in the West, perched high in their saddles, sparklin’ in sequins and Stetsons, callin’ out to the crowds with the most marvelous, wild enthusiasm. But, you see, a rodeo simply isn’t a rodeo without the livestock. Behind those chutes, there lies a labyrinth of what one might call restrained fury. You’ll find bulls that possess the sheer, muscular presence of a behemoth wrapped in rawhide, and broncs that seem to be patiently waitin’ for some unsuspecting tourist to lean just a bit too close… providin’ them the opportunity to make a quick meal of a fine straw hat.”

Another not so distant peal of thunder, then the sky opened up like the Jolly Green Giant dumping a bucket on the roof.

“It’s a partnership of sorts.” Buck was unshakable. “Though a violent one. Half a rider’s score depends on the animal’s performance. These bulls and broncs are athletes… and believe me, they’re just as keyed up for the clash as the riders are. The cowboys themselves? They’re friendly, they’re nervous, and they ought to be scared shitless to be strappin’ themselves to a ton of fury that wants ’em gone by any means necessary.”

“BOOM!” bellowed Mother Nature.

 “Should we be checking the bus for leaks?” Professor T was worried.

“Naw.” Billie saw the storm coming. She made sure all of the windows and ceiling vents were closed before retiring to the pub. “I did an idiot check, and the roof fixtures are made with the latest weatherproof sealant. It better not be leaking. Please, Buck, continue.” Billie was riveted by Buck’s back story.

“Anyway…” Buck was sufficiently warmed up. “The gate swings, the announcer’s voice twangs over the PA, and high-energy rock music blares loud enough to rattle your fillings. If the cowboy hangs on for the required eight seconds, they might get a commemorative belt buckle. If not? They get lashed, whiplashed, and finally just throwed.”

“I’ve seen video of modern rodeos, the cowboys wear kevlar vests and face masks to guard against getting gored,” Jack remarked.

Buck took a moment, his expression softenin’ with a touch of gravity… he’d seen too many good men broken by those temperamental beasts to ever treat the matter lightly. “Now, you must understand,” he continued, “these measures were put in place followin’ some truly somber tragedies. More importantly, we must consider the modern bullfighter. And i beg of you, don’t go doin’ that man the disservice of callin’ him a clown. He is, in every sense that matters, a soldier draped in denim and cleats. He performs a most perilous dance between a thunderin’ bull and a fallen rider, actin’ as a courageous decoy. He moves with the nimble grace of a varsity halfback, pivotin’ and spinnin’ away from those brutes… creatures that acknowledge no rules of engagement, possessin’ naught but pure, unadulterated fury. He’ll willingly place himself in harm’s way to shield a man he might’ve only just met over a cup of coffee at the snack bar. They may well paint their faces and employ a few colorful barrels for the sake of the children’s amusement, but mark my words: their true callin’ has precious little to do with provokin’ a laugh.”

“I love to watch the rodeo clowns… they’re like clairvoyants anticipating the animals’ play.” Billie appeared to be a closet cowgirl, something she had yet to reveal about herself as country music was mostly the subject of caustic ridicule in the Grunge-Metal community.

“Anyway, my dad is the most influential person in my life, and he loved the cowboy mythos. I’m more than happy to follow in his bootsteps.” Buck was winding down. “It’s a bizarre world, this modern West. We’ve got city dandys in snakeskin boots browsin’ ropin’ tutorials on YouTube and TikTok. Sorta like that movie Billie mentioned, the one with that disco dancin’ dude, what’s his name?” This rankled Jack as one of his favorite movies is Pulp Fiction, and EVERYBODY knows John Travolta, right? 

“You mean Urban Cowboy John Revolta, don’cha?” Professor T was starting to get a little tipsy.

“Nobody’s expectin’ any of this to make any sense,” Buck said. “And when the dust settles and the games are played out, there’s usually nothin’ left to do but get drunk and talk about what might’ve been. See, my dad says the mythical cowboy will be with us for a long, long time. Like the outlaw biker, he’s here for the perpetually alienated to appropriate, defy, or reclaim as we all squint against the fog of this ongoing culture war… what does Professor T call it?”

“The fibrillating heart of our divided nation,” answered the good professor.

Buck, eager to dive into the food, put a lid on his monologue, “For some reason… maybe it’s the dirt, maybe it’s the danger, or maybe it’s just the hat… we just can’t quit the cowboy mythos. And it’s a long way from 1897, but the spirit’s still the same… life is tough, the ground is hard, and ya better hold on tight.”

“Here here,” Professor T hiccupped. 

“Thank you for your patience,” said Jack. “I have a greater appreciation for cowboy culture. Maybe we can catch a rodeo somewhere on the tour. There’s one in South Florida in January. That ain’t a bad place to be in the dead of winter.”

As Billie and Jack conferred over the next leg of the tour, Professor T motioned for the check. Mother Nature had finally let up on the rain, and the Forks plus Buck would make their way to the campground for a good night’s rest, providing they don’t find puddles in their sleeping bunks.

NEXT WEEK:
Idaho enroute to Washington State

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch8)

Chapter 8: The Forks prepare for a long swing through the western states, Professor T ponders a vivid dream, and Abigail Weiser takes advantage of his unsuspecting nature. 

Mork T’s eyes popped open around midnight. He hadn’t felt this giddy since The Forks’ early days. That is, before the charms of his post-punk song & dance routine began to wear thin. After an obligatory visit to the toilet he would try to get right back to sleep as tomorrow would be a long day of travel along familiar highways. Sometimes however, the call of nature sings subtly, not loud enough to force an immediate nocturnal trip to the commode… just enough to invoke that foggy state of consciousness where textures, moving objects, interactions, and colors are vivid as ever with your waking mind present enough to recognize the dream state and, depending on the desirability of the images, works to keep it going. In this straddled state, Mork T witnessed a stunning tapestry of swirling figures, all moving in color-streaked spirals around his awareness. A hurricane of sensation where the locus of observation was like the cockpit of an aircraft in the eye of a category-5 storm. He saw artifacts of human progress; he saw the icons of religious tradition; he saw labs of scientific inquiry; he saw spires of great cathedrals, microscopes, holy books, high-tech weapons, bottles of communion wine, communication satellites, pipe organs, advanced medical imaging machines, and gilded pulpits swirling around him in an ever expanding spiral. And just as Professor T’s awareness worked for a finer focus at these swirling shapes, the dream state evaporated like so much morning fog. As he reached for the flush handle, he tried to focus his bearing toward slipping back into a cozy position in bed in order to get right back into the dream state. Before pulling the covers and placing a pillow between his knees, he made a mental note to take up the dream impressions for later ponderings.  

And now, in the department office, taking care of final details, Abigail Wiser, long-time office administrative manager, approached Professor T with Buck Wellstone’s application paperwork. Just a couple more signatures and the process would be complete. She approached him with a Mona Lisa smile. Had Mork T been more aware of his surroundings he would have noticed Abigail’s attire was a tad more provocative than usual. She knew the rest of The Forks and Buck Wellstone were to meet in the office at noon. They would grab a lunch in the university cafeteria one last time before boarding the Chool Bus and striking west for Salt Lake City by way of Glenwood Springs, Colorado. Abigail was hovering a bit closer to Professor T than usual, but he thought nothing of it since he believed their relationship had settled into a strictly professional mode years ago. Little did he know, but Ms Wiser was setting him up to be caught by his traveling companions in the act of misconduct clearly prohibited by the policies of Title IX.

As Billie, Jack, and Buck entered the closed door of Professor T’s office, what they witnessed would be hard to interpret as purely innocent.

She tripped, fell against him, he caught her, hands around her waist and just as the Forks were entering the room, Abigail struggled against Professor T’s hold as if to escape an unwanted groping. As the Forks stood there, jaws agape, Professor T tried to maintain a dignified countenance, but Abigaile played her part with great panache. “This isn’t what it looks like,” said Professor T looking wide-eyed at his companions.

“Have a great trip,” said Abigail with a cold sneer as she elbowed her way out of the office.

After an awkward, silent beat, “Well… who’s hungry?” Jack enthusiastically inquired, eager to get past the chilly silence. 

“Right… shall we?” Professor T gestured toward the open door, leading the gang toward the cafeteria.

It was a perfect day for a road trip… evening was approaching as Billie steered the Chool Bus into Silverthorne Colorado. It was time to pull over for some rest before pushing on to Salt Lake City where their next focus group interviews would be conducted on the campus of the University of Utah. 

In a quiet reverie, with the hypnotizing sound of rubber to the road, Professor T recalled images experienced in the early morning hours of this day. It seemed as if his unconscious was sending him messages related to the research he was conducting. For most of his adult life, Professor T would be dismayed at the behavior of his fellow Kanoradians. Staunchly conservative in rural areas and moderately progressive in the population centers. Even so, there was much in the way of rancorous discontent between neighbors, even family. Some folks driven to the point of insisting the only solution to this stubborn culture clash would be a rematch of the Civil War. And with the rise of Social Media’s dominance of the Internet, these divides grew worse with each passing year. Professor T dubbed this the fibrillating heart of our divided nation and he hoped his findings would help people see a way out of this corrosive state of affairs. And so, the image of a swirling vortex of science and religious icons spinning around as if attracted and repelled simultaneously held some hinting charm in his mind.

Then the memory of Abigail Weiser, someone with whom he had years of shared professional experience, inexplicably forcing a close unwelcome physical encounter within eyeshot of witnesses had him puzzled. He knew she had crushed on him many years ago, but believed she had grown to accept the fact that he was not open to that kind of relationship, especially with co-workers. The encounter caused no great consternation and so his thoughts drifted back to the research project.

The sound of Sam Jackson berating Billie for missing a turn in Silverthorne broke Professor T’s reverie. Jack and Buck were finishing a chess match when Billie pulled the Chool Bus into the RV park where the gang would rest for the night.

“Check?” cried Jack with an almost surprised tone.

Buck took a moment to confirm, but sure enough, “I think it’s mate,” he mumbled. “Well played,” Buck congratulated his new colleague for an interesting match.

Next Week:
Professor T ponders mental residue of the previous evening’s dream and the newly expanded Forks make sightseeing plans before resuming research interviews.

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch7)

Chapter 7: After a successful initial run, the Forks return home. Mr Wellstone’s application is approved and he joins the gang for a long push through the Western States. 

As we have yet to describe Professor T to any satisfying detail, please indulge this meta moment as we more properly introduce this slightly enigmatic character. Mork J (Jehoshaphat) Thompson was born in a Kansas small town a little over 20 miles due South of Junction City, training ground for the US Army’s oldest active-duty infantry division, The Big Red One. Council Grove was named after an agreement between American settlers and the native Osage Nation allowing settlers’ wagon trains to pass westward through the area on the Santa Fe Trail. Pioneers from the established Eastern states gathered at a grove of trees so that wagons could band together for their trip west. Council Grove’s first post office was established in 1855, several decades ahead of the remaining soon to be established Western Kansas townships. 

Many a cross-country sojourner East and West can testify and joke about the flat, treeless landscape that characterizes the western two thirds of the Sunflower State. But Council Grove is nestled in the fabled Flint Hills, some of the more interesting topography in a mostly flat landscape where natives jokingly claim the state tree is the telephone pole. Due to its rocky soil, the early settlers were unable to plow the area, resulting in the prevalence of cattle ranches as opposed to the crop land more typical of the Great Plains. 

And like his Flint Hills birthplace, Mork J Thompson is a flinty soul. Almost preternaturally averse to conformist sentiments, Mr Thompson will go out of his way to defy popular trends. Short in stature, stout in constitution and bodily girth, he exudes a stern, almost severe, yet melancholy countenance. His olive skin browns fast and easy in the warmer months, rendering him fairly dark in the summer and walnut-olive in the colder months.

Mr Thompson is an avid reader and this habit served him well after the Great Recession (2007–09) cratered the internet enterprise where he landed after the breakup of The Forks. Later, after finally landing in the halls of higher ed, he adapted… his voracious appetite for knowledge served him well in contributing to the larger discipline by way of published research papers and essays.

With this latest funding grant and burning question he was able to reassemble his favorite team for a year-long expedition exploring public sentiments on politics and culture in the United States of America. Where the data leads is still a big mystery, but The Forks have the means of nimble travel and subsistence through the generous research grant. Professor Thompson is confident the eventual publications will shed illumination on the origin of the nation’s fibrillating heart. If voters and policy makers can use the results to make positive changes for the sake of the nation’s health… success!

And so, we resume where The Forks left off, conspiring to add a fourth teammate in the person of Buck Wellstone.

They say timing is everything and with Mr Wellstone between gigs he was open to some substantial changes. Recently earning his undergrad degree and ready to continue for a Master’s as his advisor told him this path was statistically the best choice for return on investment potential. Lifetime income stats showed a rather large gap between those with a high school diploma and those with a master’s degree. His serendipitous encounter with the Forks and their research mission looked to be a perfect opportunity for facilitating this transition. In the short time he had known The Forks he had grown quite fond and attached.

Professor T impressed him as honest, true and genuinely committed to the American experiment. For some reason, Jack Dean was reserving his normally suspicious tendencies after watching Mr Wellstone effortlessly defuse the potentially volatile situation in Fort Collins, and his unhurried Southern Gentleman countenance. But, if Mr Wellstone was truly honest, he would tell you it was Billie that attracted him to the Forks most earnestly.

Billie notwithstanding, he saw Professor T as brilliant, if innocent, a slightly vulnerable soul in need of a loyal aid de camp. Mr Wellstone understood and believed in the mission depending on this tight-knit team and the Chool Bus on which they rode. When he saw that Professor T failed to see danger brewing in Fort Collins, he intervened to the satisfaction of all involved, the suspicious locals went back to drowning their sorrows and Professor T retired his rather conspicuous recording rig. “Wow, that could have gone sideways in a hurry,” Jack had mused as Professor T dismantled the recording rig. 

“Ah, ‘twern’t nuthin’. That feller weren’t no Curly Wolf,” Buck drawled with his thickest cowboy affect. This, he did every once in while, never failing to produce a grin on Billie’s secretly admiring countenance. Later that evening, Professor T received clearance to process Mr Wellstone’s application. Just a couple more hurdles to clear. Mr Wellstone would sit for an interview with a department search committee, and his references would be contacted. The process would be completed in a couple weeks, then The Forks +1 would resume the Westward push, first stop, Salt Lake City.

NEXT WEEK:
The Forks prepare for a long swing through the western states. Professor T ponders a vivid dream and Abigail Weiser takes advantage of his unsuspecting nature. 

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch6)

Chapter 6: The Forks begin their time in Montana with a relaxing day in the steamy drink at Chico and Jack calls Bullshit on a wild Park Ranger’s story. 

Running ahead of schedule the Forks rolled into Montana relaxed and ready to explore the many mineral hot springs found there. Professor T had specifically asked Jack to route their wanderings in such a way as to accommodate national park detours, but especially mineral hot springs. And so Jack remembered a family shindig several years prior where one of his uncles had mentioned a hot spring/lodge complex between the Yellowstone River and the Custer Gallatin National Forest in a place called Chico. According to Jack’s itinerary, they would enjoy some mineral pool bliss then head East to Billings. Once focus group interviews were conducted and filed away they would make their way back home to help Mr Wellstone get his graduate assistantship application in order and take care of some personal necessaries before the next leg of the tour, a much longer sojourn through the wild western states.

Admission paid and bathing suits donned, the gang eased into the steaming medicine pool for some quality soak time. And boy can you meet some interesting people in mineral baths. Professor T struck up a friendly conversation with a retired rescue ranger from the US Forest Service who described a scene straight out of a fever dream. Nestled amongst the Ponderosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, the ranger thought he might be in a situation similar to the one where a climber had to cut off his own hand to escape. Instead, this fella says he encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’d ever thumbed through.

This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays.

This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. The ranger thought he’d encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. The ranger, we’ll call him Chico Suave (“To protect the ridiculous,” said Jack.), a man who, by his own testimony, wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal terror shimmy down his spine, but forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.

With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would get a sailor’s full attention. Finally, with an audible thunk and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an RCrumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy, “good luck, silly human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole myths must persist philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.

Once back at the ranger station Chico showered, and then, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a case of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? 

“These are lies,” Jack Dean muttered under his breath. 

“That certainly is a fantastic image. Are you sure you weren’t just delirious?” asked Professor T. He considered himself open minded, but this particular story put his credulity to a strenuous test. 

“I don’t care if Ms Sasquatch was a figment of Chico’s imagination, that was a banger of a story,” gushed Billie. “I bet you’ve seen a lot as a rescue ranger.”

“Oh, we have our moments,” said Chico. “But mostly, it’s a battle against boredom. Luckily i’m immune.” And with that, he lifted his arm and pointed to the scars left by the rock tangle. “I don’t pretend to have answers,” said Chico. “And i know this story sounds like utter balderdash, but every time i tell myself i had imagined it all, that dehydration and fear had led me to some sort of semi-conscious autopilot complete with images of receiving assistance from Ms Sasquatch herself, the memories are as vivid today as ever. Soon after, and still harboring PTSD triggered doubts of my sanity, i filed the retirement paperwork, and i’m glad i did,” said Chico. “It’s all good. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed retirement so far. I get more time with the grand kids, and i restore antique furniture for a side-hustle. I tell you, the gratitude i receive from customers makes it all worthwhile. It often leads me to believe i would do it for nothing more,” Chico was deep in reverie of eudaimonia.   

Jack wanted to call bullshit out loud on the sasquatch story, but decided silence was the wiser choice. And with that, The Forks would get a good night’s sleep, gather participants for the Billings focus group interviews in the morning, take in some Big Sky nature hiking, then head back to home base to prepare for the big wild-west push to California.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 7: After a successful initial run, the Forks return home, Mr Wellstone’s application is approved and he joins the gang for a long push through the Western States.

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

Image Credit: Meta AI

The Chool Bus (ch05)

Chapter 5: The Forks recruit another member. Buck Wellstone applies for graduate assistantship and joins the project as Professor T’s aid de camp. 

The crisp morning air in Fort Collins was a refreshing difference for the Forks as each performed their morning necessaries preparing for the next stop. Laramie, Wyoming was but a short jaunt away, but no one was feeling rushed as events from the previous night were still ringing in their collective gizzards. Billie couldn’t remember the name of the good natured southern gentleman that intervened in the misunderstanding triggered by Professor T’s silly looking recording rig. But Jack did and he also recalled inviting Buck Wellstone to join the forks at a popular Laramie brew-pub once the focus group interviews were conducted and the Forks were ready to relax for the evening. 

“Buck Wellstone is his name and he’s interested in applying for a graduate assistantship in our department. He wants to join us on the tour,” said Jack.

“I don’t know if we can get through the application process quick enough for next semester, but we do have an opening,” said Professor T. “Did you say he was meeting us in Laramie?”

“Indeed he is,” Jack responded.

“Good. I can check on his eligibility on the road, and i’ll give him the standard interview while in Laramie. If his references check out, maybe…” Professor T was secretly hoping this would work out as Mr Wellstone had a refreshing positive vibe. Smart, funny, physically imposing, and genuinely interested in the research the Forks were conducting and the tight-knit camaraderie displayed by this motley collection of humanity.

The Chool Bus rolled into Laramie in time for the gang to grab lunch and get freshened up before gathering participants for the focus group interviews. And, as expected, the room was divided as the nation’s fibrillating heart seemed to be in this culturally-fraught era. But the session was conducted professionally and participants behaved respectfully. As soon as they got started, it was over. Participants went their separate ways and the Forks pointed the Chool Bus toward the designated brew-pub for the rendezvous with Mr Wellstone.

Now, the Forks had plenty of experience in Wyoming and after everyone was settled into a pleather-cushioned booth, each with their chosen libations working their social-lubrication magic, Professor T mused about a two-week engagement the band played in Riverton Wyoming in the early 1990s. In Professor T’s recounting, the gig felt like a lifetime trapped in a malfunctioning deep freeze. December in that desolate outpost was a symphony of howling wind and sub-zero temperatures, a perfect recipe for laryngitis. Professor T, at the time, known as Mork T,  fueled by a steady diet of codeine cough syrup and still clinging to his delusional dream of rock stardom, chased those nonexistent high notes across a well lit stage in a room full of barely interested strangers. Needless to say, it went about as well as a fleshy juke box in a dank, howling sauna.

As is often the case, one anecdote leads to another with this group so Jack, musing about post-Forks times, recalled a highly-unlikely story where he, partnered with a gonzo ski-resort co-worker, someone that went by the alias, Fozzy (for the sake of anonymity).

Now, this Fozzy character, a Laramie-educated electrical engineering savant with a graduate school acceptance letter burning a hole in his pocket, held a peculiar belief: That Laramie Wyoming, was a magical land where cops were blind to the transgressions of the gloriously intoxicated. This, of course, was a theory ripe for testing by these two nihilistic souls clinging desperately to the wreckage of their semi-feral animal-house-esque existence.

Imagine, if you will, a borrowed car (ownership and registration a fiction at best), fueled by cold beer (courtesy of the nearest liquor store), hurtling towards Laramie like a pair of wobbly missiles. The speedometer, a mere suggestion, registered a healthy too-damn-fast, a testament to their utter disregard for both the law and their own mortality.

Several beers and a vanished sunset later, they rolled into Laramie like banshees on Adderall. To their utter disappointment, the flashing blue lights so richly deserved remained stubbornly absent. Finally, in a moment of glorious absurdity, Fozzy managed to run a red light, narrowly missing a cop car pulling out of a parking lot.

“Well, this is it,” Jack chuckled, fresh with i told you so energy dancing in his eyes. “Busted… hauled off to the drunk tank, a glorious, self-inflicted martyrdom!”

The officer, a woman with a withering gaze that could curdle milk, approached Fozzy’s window. The story Fozzy concocted to explain their lack of documentation was a masterpiece of nonsensical bravado, worthy of a Bugs Bunny episode. Miraculously, it worked. The officer, perhaps amused by the sheer audacity of it all, subjected Fozzy to a sobriety dance (how he passed remains a mystery). Deemed sufficiently non-threatening, they were banished from her sight with a stern warning and a $25 fine, payable through a conveniently located after hours slot at the courthouse. And so Fozzy’s theory was field-tested and determined factually sound. Or perhaps, the officer had simply taken pity on these two hapless fools.

As Jack recounted this delicious slice of youthful debauchery, Mr Wellstone’s countenance danced between mild astonishment to dubiousness as he wasn’t sure how much of this was exaggeration or outright fabrication. As Jack was winding down, Mr Wellstone’s expression softened as he seemed to recall his academic advisor complaining about drunk drivers skating by with impunity in their wild-west college town. Jack swore the story was mostly true to a detail and since the rest of the Forks had already heard the story (several times), they vouched for Jack because they knew Fozzy, and the story tracked.

As the evening progressed, Mr. Wellstone made a strong impression on Professor T that he was serious about joining the Forks on their tour, applying for the open graduate assistantship, and eventually earning an informatics/new media master’s degree from their University. “I can’t promise anything at this time,” said Professor T, but we have room for one more on the Chool Bus, and your assistance was greatly appreciated in Fort Collins. If Jack And Billie agree we’d be honored to have you aboard.”

“I vote eye,” said Billie, with a sly grin.

“And i concur,” said Jack lifting his glass for a toast. With that, all raised their glasses and it was settled. The Forks had a new roadie and Professor T gained a loyal aid de camp.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 6: Where The Forks begin their time in Montana with a relaxing day in the steamy drink at Chico and Jack calls Bullshit on a wild Park Ranger’s story.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch03)

Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

By the wall clock it was 9:15pm. Jack Dean had no plan to still be on campus after celebrating accomplishments and attending end of semester ceremonies. But he had grades to turn in and that needed to be done Monday at noon. Normally he would have saved some of that work for Saturday but he was scheduled to hit the road with his former band mates, Mork Thompson and Billie Schmidt and he needed Saturday and Sunday for attending personal tasks preparing for the first of many road trips supporting Thompson’s research project searching for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation. Fortunately, he was able to click submit on the final class roster before 10:00pm. Now he could head home, get some sleep, and get his business done in time to check in with the gang Sunday afternoon.

Back in the day Jack played a crucial role in the Grunge band (The Forks) with Billie and Professor Thompson (stage name, Mork T.). Jack was not just a perfectly serviceable bass player, he was also the glue that kept Mork T, the group’s center of gravity and Billie Schmidt, their kinetic hot-headed drummer from flying apart. A bit of a paranoia case, Jack could sense when trouble was brewing. Not only between his mercurial companions but also with promoters, venue owners, and fans. Like… he had a 6th sense antenna for trouble. Fortunately, these proclivities served him well after the band broke up and each member sought their own post rock-n-roll life. 

Again, Jack was a bit of a paranoid, not pathological, but enough to make sleep a bit of a challenge. His nighttime MO consisted of a couple hits of primo weed and a beer or two on weekends. On this occasion he skipped the beer and hit the hay after packing his ganja back in it’s safe place. Tomorrow would be dedicated to making preparations for weeks on the road conducting focus group interviews and tending to logistics with the assistance of a US road atlas and a new GPS app sporting various celebrity personalities for voices. Jack called the app, Siri’s Drunk Sister (SDS) because it had led him astray a couple times and he felt he needed to cross-reference questionable back road routes with the official road atlas. No worries, the extra vigilance was worth the trouble because the newest build had Samuel L Jackson and Roseanne Barr among others giving voice instructions. Colorful remonstrations issued forth whenever a driver made turns not aligned with SDS instructions… often hilarious. 

And like Billie, Jack was excited to be part of Professor Thompson’s team as he was also on the university’s tenure track and so needed publication credits for his curriculum vitae. More importantly, he was excited to be traveling with his old band mates, older, wiser, no longer dealing with the youthful angst and drunken drama that marked many of the “good ol’ days”.

One reason the gang’s checkered past was even more colorful than most was Jack’s hapless talent for attracting trouble.

And though he was no longer soliciting extra-curricular rendezvous with young admirers, he was responsible for a rock-steady bootie-movin’ groove that made him nearly irresistible to the susceptible. And so this animal magnetism had to be judiciously regulated on campus. Jack was damn good at redirecting the amorous advances of impressionable young ladies. And fortunately, as a cyber-security specialist, not many of his direct charges were of the female persuasion. As well, for some reason, his male LGBT students weren’t susceptible to Jack’s particular brand of pheromone. 

And so, the gang was reunited, Billie had taken the Chool Bus on a maiden voyage over one of the more challenging mountain passes on a pilgrimage to visit Owl Farm in Woody Creek Colorado, the home and redoubt sanctuary of her favorite cultural critic Hunter S Thompson. So with the Chool Bus road-tested from the High Plains to the top of the world, the Forks were ready to take the nation’s temperature, coast to coast. 

First stop, Fort Collins Colorado. Professor T’s research included survey questionnaires, the type used by political pollsters, where participants are drawn from college towns, dense urban population centers, and rural working-class communities with strong religious identifications. This data would be juxtaposed with the face-to-face focus-group work conducted by the reunited Forks making their way from state to state in a rolling home converted for traveling rock and roll refugees, the Chool Bus. Appointments with off-the beaten path communities as well as inner-city diverse-demographic groups are made and the tentative itinerary was crafted to be flexible enough to provide alternate destinations in case any of the original appointments proved unworkable for whatever reason.

Jack Dean, the paranoid tenure-track cyber-security instructor with a history of attracting trouble and a terrific bass player with tons of soul. No way Billie and Professor T would trade Jack for a less troublesome model, the Forks loved their mildly paranoid groovelicious partner.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 4: The Forks embark, and Professor T learns the perceived value of privacy in a social media world.

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The Chool Bus (ch02)

Chapter 2: Billie Schmidt and the Chool Bus

Billie picked up her phone and opened the email around 3:00am. Normally fast asleep at this time but for some reason her eyes popped open automatically. She knew Professor Thompson had applied for a grant to conduct a year-long series of road trips aimed at visiting every one of the lower 48 states, meeting and interviewing people about their awareness and relative engagement with popular culture and politics. Billie really wasn’t all that interested in the details but she knew she was on the list of companions and was looking forward to going on this coast-to-coast tour with her friends on a bus she had lovingly spent the last several months customizing. Inspecting all points of potential failure, preparing for brutal miles over scorching hot pavement, vicious cross winds and punishing steep mountain grades. She was more than up for the challenge. And now, so was the vehicle the gang had christened, The Chool Bus.

The Chool Bus was a solid rolling apartment, designed to accommodate four people comfortably with kitchenette and full restroom facilities in back. Now, bedding in the Chool Bus resembled that of bunks in a submarine. A little tight, but each pod had privacy curtains, reading lights, and the kind of high-tech mattress that delivers real comfort with a small footprint. 

Billie was a tomboy through and through but she was in possession of impeccable taste and the Chool Bus interior reflected that taste in spades. The ceiling and side panels were covered in cedar with plenty of wool insulation for holding in heat on cold days or the cool air in the dawg days. Cabinetry finished with ebony composite material, light weight but strong and resilient, ready for the many thousands of miles their journey would take them.

She gazed across the shop floor at her father, the owner/operator of a used car dealership where she worked. “Hey, Dad, can you help me with this belt install?” called Billie.

“Sure, Pumpkin,” said Billie’s father.

“Please… don’t call me that. I’m not a little girl anymore. In fact, i’m not a girl at all… call me Bruno, cause i’m one badass bitch of a Chool Bus mechanic.”

“Ok, Bruno,” her father was all smiles. He really loved this little firecracker of a human being. She was by all conventional western standards, strikingly beautiful. Statuesque, radiant skin, smiling eyes and a spunky countenance that variably beamed with mischievous energy. Precocious as a child, musically inclined, and mechanically adept. In younger years, she played the drums in Professor Thompson’s grunge metal band but was glad to leave that lifestyle behind as MTV had grown less and less inclined to play music and more inclined to those barely reality shows. She had other reasons as well. As someone with unconventional gender inclinations she grew tired of the drunken advances of guys who mistook her conventional beauty and good natured mischievousness for invitations to amore. “Good lord,” she would often exclaim. “Is this all guys ever think about?” 

Billie adjusted to her gender contradictions early on. She had to mature faster than her female classmates as it’s not easy being this kind of different. But her parents, being rainbow hippies from way back, refused to hard-sell gender roles so she was able to reach adulthood relatively well adjusted. 

She had been anxiously waiting to hear from Professor Thompson about the grant. Would they be off on their first sojourn after graduation, or back to the normal routine working in her dad’s auto repair shop? The application had been submitted all the way back in January, and Billie had been frantically mapping out routes for favorable weather. She was driving Professor Thompson crazy with endless questions about who he wanted to interview and could they plan the route for not only meeting the interviewees where they live but also hitting some of the best destinations for sightseeing… making bucket-list suggestions, leaning in, barely able to think of anything else.  

Professor Thompson had always loved this endless spring of nervous energy. He was aware of her personal challenges. She was mildly introverted and deeply empathetic, never brooding or sinking into depression funks. She always came alive around her friends, fiercely protective, she could be a bit of a hot-head. Many a time when folks mistook her fair appearance for being a push-over, they quickly learned, Billie could peel paint from the walls with her sharp tongue and buccaneer’s vocabulary. So now, when Billie opened that email to see that the grant had been approved, she nearly woke the neighbors with her whoops of celebration. “Game on…! WOO HOO!” she exclaimed. The gang and the Chool Bus were going on tour, sea to shining sea.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 3: Jack Dean makes paranoia a viable career path

GO BACK => (Preface & Chapter links)

The Chool Bus (ch01)

Chapter 1: Professor Thompson’s Roadtrip Sabbatical

The rhythmic cha-click of his office door felt somehow symbolic as Professor Thompson made his way into the department’s hallway. He was running late for an end of semester convocation and awards ceremony. He broke into a light jog to reach his colleagues heading for the university’s grand auditorium, an annual review attended faithfully over the last fourteen years as a member of the informatics/new media faculty at a mid-western state university. 

Catching up between panting breaths, Professor Thompson asked anyone inclined to respond, “Do we have a new theme?”

 “Yeah, but it’s the exact wording used by one of those networking technology companies,” said Jack Dean, long-time friend and department colleague.

“Damn! The least they can do is come up with their own idea,” said Janice, a marketing specialist beloved by students for her creative flair. “I don’t know why they do that,” she added, speaking of the university president’s promotions team. “They recently hired a couple of my students for internships. Surely they were able to come up with something original.”

“Nah… they always seem to mail the theme in,” said Jack. “Maybe they’re overwhelmed by the latest funding cuts.”

“Who knows?” Professor Thompson wasn’t interested in the regular end of semester gossip. “I’m just glad this week is over.” He had a frantic final week as some big changes were on the horizon… exciting changes. He finally nailed that lucrative new media grant guaranteed to keep him busy for the full year of his earned sabbatical.

And it was a perfect day… the campus was in full springtime bloom. The smell of lilac and freshly cut grass filled Professor Thompson with a sense of well being and gladness. As the group made their way along impeccably groomed landscaping, workers were busy preparing the main stage for the big event, gliding to and fro in golf carts from the sports coliseum. Students had long since retreated to dorms, off campus housing, and local restaurants. The air was electric, as if any moment the party of newly minted university graduates would break out with a vengeance. Professor Thompson was intimately familiar with the scene as his undergrad years were spent right here.

“Lovely day for a great escape?” asked the interim department chair. “I bet you’re itching to get out there on the road.”

Professor Thompson was deep in reverie. He had dreamed of exploring the country sea to shining sea. With the new media grant he was not only free to do it, he was getting paid to do it with companions. Meeting people across the nation, asking them about the recent descent into fractious national politics. The nation had been clearly divided by tribal identities. Policies to address the problems were no longer a matter of good-faith negotiation and reasoned compromise. It was now all about which jersey you were wearing.

Professor Thompson called this phenomenon, the fibrillating heart of our divided nation and he was determined to get his arms around the dysfunction.

Though not delusional enough to believe his research could cure the problem, he knows sunlight is the best disinfectant. And he was excited to get the process started. As an added bonus he would be traveling with friends, Jack Dean and Billie Schmidt. Jack, Billie, and Professor Thompson shared a long and eventful history as they were band mates in the 1990s… Grunge Metal band mates, in the Soundgarden, Nirvana mold… all of this in a previous life. The band broke up around the time they realized no one was going to put up sufficient cash to get a video on MTV. And besides, MTV seemed more into so-called reality anyway. Ultimately, Jack followed Professor Thompson into academe and Billie went to work for her father in the more technical world of auto mechanics.

As the convocation rambled through various department accomplishments, individual faculty and staff awards, and notable student accomplishments Professor Thompson beamed with pride when he was called up to the stage to accept the grant award. His colleagues could be heard over the general applause with whistles and cat calls. The moment was sweet and all over as fast as it began. His portrait was flashed on the jumbo screen along with the title of his research and a photo of his department’s building.

And with that, the adventure was about to begin. Just a few logistical matters, such as routing and interview appointment schedules. As well, Billie was still working on the vehicle that would take this motley crew on their journey. A luxuriously converted bus recently acquired from the local school district. The gang christened it the Chool Bus (the H is silent). Somehow, the S had been removed or worn away, and rather than spend more money branding the vehicle the gang agreed to leave well enough alone.

NEXT WEEK:
Chapter 2: Billie Schmidt and the Chool Bus