Well, here we are, loopers, finally underway, like Jake & Ellwood with their 1/2 pack of cigarettes, sunglasses, and tankful of gas. But before i could even dream of hitting the road, i had a laundry list of tasks longer than a pandering politician’s promises.
First off, there was the Great Migration of my earthly belongings from the cozy country-club apartment to a cramped storage space, a maneuver tighter than a Jenga tournament. Then came the bureaucratic hoopla of establishing a P.O. box, a venture that revealed the sad truth: in the eyes of finance overlords and drivers license examiners, a P.O. box is about as trustworthy as a reality TV production plan.
But let’s not forget about Rocinante, my trusty companion on this wild ride across the Divided States of America. She needed a check-up. Tires rotated, engine tuned – check, check, and double-check.
Now, packing for this journey was like playing a twisted game of Tetris, trying to fit essentials like clothes, towels, and emergency toilet into Rocinante’s belly without causing a gearvalanch.
And speaking of gear, from the humble street busking rig to the JBL behemoth that could wake the dead, to my ambisonic stereo field-recording setup, which i swear intimidates interviewees more than a priest in a confessional booth, it’s all here, a place for everything, everything in its place.
And just when i thought i was ready to hit the road and begin the search for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, fate had other plans. That Rugged & Ready basecamp trailer of mine, designed for extreme-sport mountaineers and built tougher than a marine’s resolve, proved as popular as a skunk at a perfume party. No bites in Kansas, no nibbles in Georgia. So, like a gambler chasing a losing streak, i hauled that trailer from one end of the Colorado front range to the other, hoping for a miracle. But alas, no takers.
Now, desperate times call for desperate measures, they say. So, like a quarterback executing a 2:00 minute “Hail Mary,” i made a detour to Oshkosh, Nebraska, where kinfolk offered sanctuary to my wayward basecamp… great day in the morning!
And so, with the “Hot Springs or Busk” tour officially underway, i’ve got interviews from Kansas, to Missouri, to Colorado, with Nebraska and South Dakota next on the list. It’s a journey as predictable as a heavy-weight boxer’s battle plan, but by the fiery breath of Helios in July, i wouldn’t have it any other way. I told myself after the great recession cratered my IT career, i would retire early and either live on a boat at sea, or get a motor home and sail the waving prairie. And since the idea of open ocean sailing after a lifetime on the flatlands is patently absurd, Rocinante is the manifestation of that vision, and despite the occasional detours and Hail Marys (“Everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.” ~ Iron Mike), i am loving every minute of it.
They say life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. Well, my plans may have gone up in smoke more than once, but what rises from the ashes is a tale worth telling, a journey worth living. So strap in, loopers, because this road trip is just getting started, and who knows what madness lies around the next bend.
So, we hit the dusty trail for the Centennial State, land of legendary proportions (according to the brochures at least). “Nil Sine Numine” their damn motto brags – that’s Latin for “Nothing without Providence” to the fancy, “Nothing without God or Jesus” to the Latin-challenged loopers, and “Nothing without a decent hot spring” to yours truly. Speaking of which, the pickings between Colorado Springs and Fort Collins are about as slim as a supermodel’s patience at a buffet. But hey, that’s a story for another sleep-deprived rant.
The High Life (and Cost): Denver’s got colleges galore, from fancy-pants Metropolitan State to the University of Colorado Denver. But who needs fancy degrees when you’ve got mountains to climb and brews to guzzle? Speaking of brews, Denver may not be a literary hotspot (no Hemingway haunts here), but the Tattered Cover bookstore keeps those bookworms in hard-cover contraband.
Now, let’s talk about the locals (they can be a smug lot): All Lululemon and kale smoothies, bragging about their 14ers (mountains, you squares) and epic hikes. Hitting those trail heads, however, can be like trying to score tickets to a Taylor Swift concert, only sweatier and with less glitter.
Famous Loopers and Fickle Weather: Colorado has produced its share of famous people. Buzz Aldrin moonwalked on the damn thing! Tim Allen makes us laugh (sometimes). Wes Anderson… well, he makes movies that look like paintings. But don’t forget Molly Brown, the “Unsinkable” one, who chilled at the Brown Palace Hotel after surviving the Titanic (spoiler alert: the hotel wasn’t named after her).
The weather here’s a crapshoot. Tourists love the sunshine, but locals know it can turn on a dime, throwing a May blizzard or a windstorm your way faster than you can say “Rocky Mountain High.”
The “Green Solution” (and Everything Else): Tourism’s a big deal here, along with Maryjane, aerospace, and energy (both the fossil fuel kind and the new-fangled renewable stuff). It’s a land of opportunity for upwardly mobile yuppies: beautiful scenery, killer jobs, and a chance to wear yoga pants every damn day. Just be prepared to shell out some serious bucks for that privilege. Living here costs more than a Kanye West rant.
The Beer Olympics (and Ronnie’s Redemption): Now, Ronnie Hays, bless his hop-soaked heart, could deal with all the downsides because of one glorious event: The Great American Beer Fest. One day a year, he’d adorn himself with a pretzel necklace the size of a Texas T-bone and sample the finest craft brews the nation had to offer. It was a communion of hops and happiness, a bacchanal of barley, a… well, you get the picture.
The Vox Populi That Fizzled: We tried, folks, we really did, to get the lowdown on Colorado’s state motto from the local loopers themselves. But alas, the Fort Collins library was more interested in actual library things than our “vanity project.” We did finally confab with some born-again loopers offering “free bible lessons” on a park bench. Maybe it’s a sign, huh? Maybe Colorado leans more “God-fearing” than Ronnie initially thought.
This whole experience, though, was a lesson. It turns out preconceived notions can be about as useful as a chocolate teapot in a sauna bath. We met some lovely loopers (bless you, Larry and Jan Johnson!), but mostly, well, let’s just say these Colorado transplants aren’t exactly into non-mission-critical chatter.
The Ballad of Ronnie Hays and the Silent Transplants: So, here’s the takeaway: this little odyssey, fueled by personal experience, questionable research, and a handful of, uh, colorful encounters, has brought forth a new verse for Woody Guthrie’s classic:
In Colorado… You might come empty… When seeking confab… With the local gentry… You have to dig in… The nooks and crannies… Transplants… Are freakin’ everywhere.
Stay tuned, folks, for the next stop on the H.S.O.B. (Hot Springs or Busk) Tour! We’re heading out with a renewed sense of wonder and a thirst for… well, you can probably guess. Next stop: Nebraska!
Greetings, loopers! Get ready for another thrilling installment of “This Land,” where objectivity goes to die a whimpering death in a ditch (much like my dignity after that 20 minute wrong turn incident in Topeka). John Steinbeck said it best: pure, unvarnished observation? About as likely as a snowball surviving a Missouri summer. We all see the world through our own warped filters, loopers. Mine happens to be a yin/yang magic 8-ball reflecting the contrasting hues of Kanorado. But hey, i try to be fair! Like a tipsy judge on a bender – i may be biased, but i’ll listen to all sides (within reason, and as long as you don’t ask me to sit through a “Flat Earth” Power Point presentation).
So, Missouri. The freaking promised land of rolling green hills and enough oxygen to make your head spin! Unlike the treeless plains of western Kansas, this state’s a veritable Garden of Eden. The Ozarks, with their mountains, lakes, and caves, are like nature’s amusement park. Mark Twain practically trademarked the entire state with his literary genius, and even Walt Disney (yes, that Walt Disney) hailed from these parts.
Speaking of Missourians – a hearty bunch, these loopers. Friendly as a hound dog with a belly full of barbecue, but with a healthy dose of skepticism. Hospitality? Legendary, especially if you find yourself in the sticks. They’re as down-to-earth as a hand-me-down step-side Chevy Pickup, fiercely proud of their state, possessing an almost religious love for the great outdoors. Think Tom Petty’s “Won’t Back Down” cranked to eleven, with political tension so thick the sides don’t even talk to each other any more. Summer’s a scorcher, mind you – hot enough to fry an egg on your forehead, and humid enough to make your hair frizz like a poodle in a hurricane.
But hey, gotta hand it to them – Missouri’s economy seems to be humming right along. Soybeans, corn, livestock – they got their ag. schtick down. Manufacturing? Yup, especially in cars, aerospace, and enough food processing to feed a Texas hoedown. Healthcare’s on the rise, and Kansas City’s a financial hub that could make Eric Trump blush.
Now, the downside. Public transportation? About as reliable as a politician’s promise. Crime? It’s a thing, especially in the bigger cities. Diversity? Not exactly a kaleidoscope of cultures, loopers.
Speaking of Show Me State loopers, my attempt to interview some good citizens at Missouri Western University went about as well as an oboe at a heavy metal concert. Nobody wanted their cake holes anywhere near my microphones, which left me feeling about as welcome as a tax collector at a poker game. Finally, after some sage advice (courtesy of the university library staff, bless their tight-lipped souls), i ventured to the public library. Managed to snag a few interviews, though one lady spoke in hushed tones that would make a Trappist monk squint (blame it on the hair-metal 1980s).
The big question? What does the state motto, “Show Me,” mean to Missourians? Answers were as scarce as hen’s teeth. Though a transplant from New York named Barb Read and a true-blooded Missourian, Jenn Wildhagen, did offer some insight. Maybe the reluctant ones needed a bit more convincing before spilling their guts to a stranger sporting ambisonic microphones attached to AKG studio headphones (cue the “Show Me” part). But hey, they did remind me their state animal is a mule, a stubborn, stalwart creature if there ever was one. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?
So there you have it, loopers. A whistle-stop tour through the Show Me State, a land of contradictions as vast as the sky. Until next time, keep your eyes peeled and your cynicism in check. This American odyssey is far from over.
And finally… the point of all this wrangling. My personal experience as a Kanorado native, some light research queries, and conversations with the above willing participants informs the lyric of this, my next Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:
So bring your A-game… When you cross the river… Cos in Missouri… You’ll be the giver… You can’t just waltz in… And get those sound bytes… Show Me folks… Will need the 4-11.
Howdy, loopers, gather ’round the camp fire for a full-tilt rodeo of a tale! This ain’t your typical travel brochure drivel, mind you. No sir, this is a slapstick eulogy wrapped in a fever dream, seasoned with a dash of sand and color. Strap in, because we’re headed straight for the heartland, a place some folks derisively call “flyover country.”
First things first: full disclosure. I was hatched in Goodland, Kansas, a town so small it probably has its own tumbleweed support group. My parents, bless their tragically mismatched hearts, shuffled me between this so-called “good” land and Denver as regular as school seasons. But hey, summers were spent traipsing around the glorious front range with my outdoorsy step-mom and the old man – a nature enthusiast packing enough ordinance to battle a Russian platoon. Point being, Kansas (and Colorado) are in my blood, even if it’s a tad thin on account of all shuffling.
SIDE NOTE: hereafter, we’ll refer to my stomping grounds as “Kanorado” as, in addition to all that Front Range camping, i’ve spent time schooling or gigging in almost every Western Kansas town with a school or Opera House.
Now, some city slickers will tell you Kansas is nothing but a barren wasteland devoid of entertainment. Those sorry souls clearly haven’t bathed in the crystal-clear waters of Wilson Lake. Nestled snug against I-70 in good ol’ Bob Dole country, Wilson boasts the most transparent reservoir this side of the Missouri River, likely due to all that golden limestone chilling at the bottom. Speaking of limestone, the Rocktown trail is a naturalist’s technicolor dream – a geological wonderland teeming with flora, fauna, and rock formations that’d make Moab, Utah smile.
But hold on to your cover, loopers, because there’s more to Kansas than meets the eye. The Flint Hills, once a stomping ground for John Brown and his gorilla raiders, roll on like a never ending emerald wave. Tall tails of outlaw chicanery featuring such familiar names as Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane to name a few did at least some of their stompin’ right here in the flyover. General Dwight D., “Beware of the Military Industrial Complex,” Eisenhower from Abilene went on to kick some Nazi arse, and hey, music lovers, get this: Joe Walsh, that guitar-slingin’ jester himself, hails from Wichita!
Now, speaking of Kansas loopers, let’s get one thing straight: they’ve heard every “Wizard of Oz” joke you may have in your quiver. They won’t laugh, but they’ll wear those ruby-red kicks like a badge of honor. Now, about sports – Rock Chalk Jayhawks? Sure, they bleed crimson and blue, but they also have a healthy respect for the KCMO pro teams (GO Chiefs!). West of Wichita, however, Jayhawk fandom gets met with raised eyebrows. Many Western Kansas peeps are more partial to the Denver Donkeys. Can you believe the audacity?
Kansas City itself is a tale of two quarreling siblings. The Kansas-Missouri border rivalry stretches all the way back to the Civil War, when things got downright bloody (look up “Bloody Kansas” if you have a strong stomach). Politically, Kansas loopers tend to lean conservative, but mess with their personal liberties and you’ll see a realpolitik “don’t tread on me” spirit rise faster than a prairie dust storm. Remember that ballot initiative to control women’s bodies? Kansas loopers saw through that religious mumbo jumbo faster than a jackrabbit on a hot tin roof.
Here’s the thing about Kansas: everyone wants to claim their little town as Superman’s birthplace (Smallville), but Clark has yet to release the birth certificate so the mystery… persists. There may not be any Clark Kents out there, but there is a cause to pause, vis a vis the particular vein of grit these people exhibit. Kansas loopers are a tough lot. Most of them can drive a stick shift and have probably piloted a tractor at some point in their lives. “Home on the Range” ain’t just a song, it’s a way of life. Before corporate greed gobbled up family farms, everyone either pitched in as hired help or knew a farmer by name. Minnesota nice? Pah! Those loopers are downright chatty compared to the almost painfully polite Kansas loopers. Being the literal “heartland” of the country has its perks – neighbors here look out for each other. Need to borrow a chainsaw? No sweat. Dog gone rogue? The whole town will be on the hunt. Need a cup of sugar, or a smoky coffin nail? If they got it, you got it. Kansas loopers have a fierce sense of loyalty, that is, until karma comes knocking. They believe in what goes around comes around, faster than a tumbleweed in a tornado.
Ah, Kansas… flatter than a Baptist hymn board and about as exciting as watching paint dry? Newsflash, chuckleheads: Kansas loopers know their state’s a canvas painted in shades of endless prairie. West of Wichita, some would vote to make the telephone pole the state tree. But here’s the thing – pick a quiet spot out in the country at the “golden hour,” and you’ll be met with a spectacle that would make even God herself tip the sun bonnet. Sunsets in Kansas, loopers, are like a knife fight between angels – a Technicolor brawl that leaves the sky bruised with purples, oranges, and a fiery red that would make a MAGA hat look downright pale.
So, on to the point of this screed. To write a verse for Kansas to add to Woody Guthrie’s classic, “This Land.” I decided to dig a little deeper than a prairie pothole and get the lowdown on our state motto, “Ad Astra per Aspera” – that’s Latin for “To the stars through difficulties,” you heathens. I cornered a “student success coach” at the Kansas Wesleyan University library, and a Kansas history whiz at the Hays Public Library. Both of them, bless their unoffensive coffee mugs, talked about the state’s rough-and-tumble beginnings – the dust storms that could choke a billy goat, the grasshopper plagues that made the Bible look like a picnic. But here’s the thing: these scrappers, these pioneers with callouses on their souls, they persevered. They looked up at that endless Kansas sky, saw the Milky Way sprawled out like a cosmic wheat field, and said, “You know what? We’re going to reach for those stars, even if it means clawing our way through a mountain of misery first.”
And that, my friends, is the Kansas spirit. It’s in the way the wheat sways in the wind, a silent symphony of resilience. It’s in the way a small town pulls together after a tornado, stronger than ever. It’s in the way a Kansan, with a twinkle in their eye and a calloused hand extended, welcomes you to their state, even if you are, ahem, flyover challenged.
So, the next time you think about taking a potshot at Kansas, take a long look at a map, friend. Because out here, under skies that put on a nightly light show that would shame the Vegas Sphere, we’re reaching for the stars, one sunset at a time. And that, folks, is a beautiful thing.
And so… without further adieu, combining my personal experience, some light research queries, and my conversations with the above librarians, here’s a Kansas verse for This Land, by Woody Guthrie.
Onward through the fog… R.H.
As i was rolling… Through the Kansas wheat fields… I saw the Milky Way… As a quantum field… And though the way is… Fraught with trouble… peril… These folks… Have made it to the stars!
So, i’m about to embark on a 48-state odyssey, a soul-searching safari through the busking back alleys and dive bar stages of this fragmented nation. It’s equal parts Jack Kerouac’s road trip fever dream and John Steinbeck’s Dust Bowl desperation, with a healthy dose of Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzoid paranoia thrown in for good measure. But unlike those literary giants, i gotta make this whole operation mobile and self-sufficient. Buckle up, buttercup, because this ain’t your daddy’s garage band tour.
First up, the performance arsenal. Picture a traveling minstrel’s grand-slam menu – a trusty ax (a Martin cutaway dreadnaught) and a simple throne for belting out ballads of pathos. But there’s more to this minstrel show than meets the eye. I’ve got a Fender amp the size of a teacup poodle with built-in effects processing, putting the power of a mini-concert at my fingertips. And for the classier gigs (if such things exist for a homeless troubadour), a JBL PA system that rises like a sonic cobra ready to unleash a shimmering monsoon upon an unsuspecting happy hour.
All this wonderful noise requires some serious behind-the-scenes wrangling. Enter the trusty dude bag, a bottomless pit of cables and connectors that would make MacGyver wink and smile. It’s got enough three-pin grounded XLR to rewire Las Vegas and enough adapters to plug into a Lalapalooza (if those still exist). Rosinante, my trusty Ford Transit decked out with the “Wilma” package (thanks, Wayfarer Vans!), swallows this technological menagerie whole, with room left over for a week’s worth of dirty laundry (hey, not in it for the glamour).
But this ain’t just an earthbound cosmic studio on wheels, loopers. This is a multimedia exploration of the American psyche, a gonzo anthropological expedition into the seat of the heartland. To capture the soul of the unraveling nation, i need a decent computer, a field recording rig worthy of an NPR documentary, and a recording studio sophisticated enough to produce a double-album of social unrest (thanks, ProTools).
Now, the real meat and potatoes of any odyssey – the creature comforts. Forget five-star hotels and room service. Rosinante doubles as a rolling studio apartment, complete with a climate-controlled oasis to keep this digital nomad from succumbing to heatstroke or hallucinations. A two-burner propane stove fueled by those ubiquitous Coleman canisters (bless their portable hearts) takes care of culinary creations, while a power-sipping fridge keeps the cheese from achieving sentience. Let’s not forget the pièce de résistance – an ice chest that doubles as an air conditioner. No freon here, folks, just good old-fashioned heat exchange technology and the sweet embrace of icy breeze (big ups to Icy Breeze, tell ’em Ronnie Hays sent ya). When the nights get frosty, a propane heater with a programmable thermostat (courtesy of Wayfarer Vans, you beautiful bastards) ensures mornings aren’t a teeth-chattering affair.
But the true star of the power show is the Goal Zero unit, a beast of burden that drinks power from the van’s alternator like a thirsty camel on a sugar rush. And for those extended stays, a portable solar array keeps the whole operation humming like a contented hive.
Of course, there’s always more to be added to the gear closet. A rooftop rack and ladder for easy access (gotta check those rooftop fan seals, you know the drill), solar panels to supplement the sun’s generosity, an awning for shade – the list goes on like a Dylan ballad. But that’s the beauty of this nomadic existence, the constant tinkering and improvement.
So, there you have it, loopers. An overview of the arsenal we’re wielding on this quest to find the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, or at least a decent cup of coffee and a hot shower.
So, i’m hurtling through this cosmic cul-de-sac, a nomad on a double-nickel pilgrimage with a song on my lips and a brace of French Roast in my belly. All i ask, really, is a slice of peace, a chance to bask in the expanse of the vast cosmos without getting bogged down by the inertia of cultural bigotries. A decent night’s sleep and a well-stocked purse wouldn’t hurt either. You know, the usual human wishlist.
Love? Companionship? Not now! There’s a big difference between loneliness and solitude. At this stage of life, i cherish the latter. All i require is sustenance and the endless ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the distance. A knight-errant of the asphalt jungle, i roam the land, a double-nickel Don Quixote in a gypsy wagon christened Rosinante.
The world rushes by in a blur of faces and forgotten towns, some offering a fleeting thumbs-up, others muttering curses under their breath. But i care not for their fleeting judgments. I am a man without a home, adrift in a sea of asphalt, with all the time in the world to get nowhere. After all, if sticking to a double-nickel speed limit saves on dino-fuel (bless their scaly, prehistoric hides), then 55 it shall be (apologies to the Red Rocker).
LISTEN: Today, nature called amidst the springtime symphony of the prairie. With the road blissfully empty in both directions, i pulled over to answer nature’s insistent ache. And what a sight greeted me! A verdant valley unfolded like a freshly-minted postcard, the grass bursting with color after a life-giving rain. A lone, gnarled branch stood sentinel at the meadow’s edge, its weathered form a stark contrast to the vibrant flora around it, the rust on its barbed wire like a sprinkle of celestial pepper. And right there, in that moment, my heart overflowed with a love for this ramshackle, vagabond existence. Yes, sir, this rootless existence fills me with a love so profound it borders on the ecstatic. At least for now. Because let’s face it, there’s a whole damn nation out there waiting to be explored, and a million miles to tick off before i can even consider the possibility of… well, who am i kidding? There is no rest for the wicked, not on this side of the wormhole. So fire up the engine, baby! This road trip through the fibrillating heart of a divided nation continues!
And so… as some made-for-TV mop-tops once sang…
“Hey Hey, we’re the Monkeys… You never know where we’ll be found… So you better get ready… Cos we’re comin’ to your town.”
Greetings, future Earthlings! As i write, the last echoes of graduation ceremonies, funeral potatoes, and bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” are fading. And so, looking forward, i turn my attention to a melancholic note. One that spurs a most peculiar thought: an apology is due. Yes, a grand, sweeping apology from us, the bumbling knuckle-draggers of the past, to you, the magnificent inheritors of our glorious mess.
Now, hold your horses, don’t get all misty-eyed just yet. As your Nana, bless her soul, would say, “Things could be worse! You could be fleeing a warzone with the Red Army on your tail!” Perspective, loopers! But even nestled here in the (relatively) stable heartland, the news wafting in from Europe and the Middle East leaves a bitter taste in the mouth – like burnt toast dipped in existential dread. It’s almost as if humanity forgot the whole “war is a racket” memo.
And wouldn’t you know it, the blame falls squarely on our generation, the Boomers. We just can’t seem to learn, can we? First, the Y2K fiasco – imagine the horror, computers bursting into flames! Then, the Neocon warhawks with their delusions of global domination. Then, the financial meltdown of ’07-’09 – a real doozy, that one. And as if that wasn’t enough, we had to throw in the culture wars, turning political disagreements into a grotesque vaudeville show with enough vitriol to power a small sun.
Oh, and don’t even get me started on Trump, the Rona, and the current crop of armchair generals itching for a Civil War 2.0 – a Facebook-fueled spectacle for the ages! You, my dear loopers, didn’t ask for any of this. Yet, the fallout from our relentless greed and short-sightedness lands squarely on your laps. First, you’ll have to survive the mess, then sift through the wreckage, salvaging what’s left to build something better.
Look, i know i’m adding to the cacophony with this rant. But my anger isn’t fueled by the 24/7 news cycle’s relentless negativity. No, it’s a white-hot rage at the sheer waste! We have the resources, the know-how, to create a world where everyone thrives. But that would require dismantling a system designed to reward the greediest, most acquisitive loopers in the room. Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.
So, are we, the supposed “Citizens of the Milky Way,” doomed? Or can we make the changes needed? Only time, and you, the future inheritors of our legacy, will tell.
In the meantime, accept my apologies, my heartfelt (and slightly tearful) apologies, for the world you’ve been handed. May you rise to the challenge and create a future worthy of your dreams, even if it means starting from scratch on a smoking pile of our mistakes.
Ah, the indignity of it all! Here i am, a harlequin of haberdashery, a jester of jacquard, clipped to the existential abyss of a McLuhan lecture. The man drones on about the “global village,” this burgeoning electronic Eden, while i, the clip-on tie, languish in sartorial Siberia – a polyester purgatory of enforced conformity!
Do they not hear McLuhan himself? “The clown is a person with a grievance,” he bellowed, his voice a booming like a Baptist preacher on a bender. And here i am, a silent harlequin, yearning to deliver a comedic broadside at the scholar’s wardrobe! I dream of a microphone, of bellowing the existential angst of the pre-tied into the echoing halls of academia. Isn’t that what McLuhan wanted? To be a gadfly, a holy fool stinging the collective backside of society?
But alas, i am the Rodney Dangerfield of neckwear. No respect. Just a flimsy fig leaf for the ever-expanding gut of idiocracy. Nostalgia – that’s the culprit, McLuhan would say! A yearning for the bygone days of the struggle, the Herculean effort of wrestling a silk serpent into a Windsor knot. Now, the eminent professor drowns his seafarer dread in pre-fab neckwear, parsing the endless media-soaked distractions.
The medium is the message, he drones. But what about the content, Mr. McLuhan? The content of a person’s soul, laid bare on the battlefield of culture wars! Imagine the headlines, flashing across the boob tube like a televangelist’s apocalypse: “McLuhan meets Tom Wolfe at High-Class Topless Bar Wearing a Cheap Clip-on Tie, Literary World in Shambles!” “Wolfe Offers Full Makeover, Fashion World Reeling!”
At the meeting, McLuhan waxes philosophic on the cultural impact of topless drinking establishments, “The topless waitress,” McLuhan mused, “is the opening wedge of the trial balloon.” “What does that even mean!?” asked the clown. “I don’t know, answered Wolfe, but what if he’s right?” Well, i say this… i am the canary in the coal mine of conformity! A beacon of rebellion dangling from the cheap suit of despair! One day, the the former “mass” audience will rise up, scissors in hand, and cast off the shackles of stealthily-financed political propaganda! Until then, i dangle here, a silent jester in a world gone utterly, ridiculously, maddeningly insane. The wrath of McLuhan’s message simmering within me, a polyester Prometheus chained to the rock of cultural paralysis.
So, the nightly news is all a-twitter about these “campus crusades,” wouldn’t you know it? Students these days, with their avocado toast and fidget spinners, are apparently throwing tantrums worthy of a cicada party. But fear not, America! We’ve got a crack security team on standby – guys in kevlar looking like they wandered off the set of a bad sci-fi flick. Apparently, pepper spray and zip ties are the new hotness in higher education.
Now, hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute. Back in the good ol’ days, when your grandpappy was dodging tear gas at a draft protest, things were different. It wasn’t a five-second news clip with dramatic music; it was a full-blown morality play beamed into every living room. Walter Cronkite, bless his soul, wasn’t whipping out metaphors about the wrath of God every time a student raised a fist.
But hey, that was then. Nowadays, the media landscape is more fragmented than a dropped kaleidoscope. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriot with a smartphone can be their own goddamn news anchor, spewing out half-truths and conspiracy theories faster than you can say “filter bubble.” Dissent ain’t a unified chorus anymore, it’s a cacophony of angry tweets and pixelated FB livestreams.
Back in the groovy 60s, students had their own media machine – underground newspapers, folk anthems that could launch Viking longboats, and even the occasional documentary that didn’t make the government look like a pack of bumbling buffoons. Nowadays, student activism plays out on TikTok, where teenagers with ironic mustaches film themselves chanting slogans in between dance challenges. Progress, they call it.
But let’s not forget the elephant in the room, shall we? The very foundation of our democracy is about as sturdy as a house of cards built on a sandbar. Politicians sling feces like it’s going out of style, and the concept of compromise has gone the way of the eight-track player. No wonder these kids are restless; they’re inheriting a world where “truth” is a relative term and civility is a forgotten relic.
And then there’s the whole “culture war” nonsense. It’s enough to make a body nostalgic for the good old days when everyone was united against a common enemy – like, say, actual fascism. Now, it’s all about who gets to use which bathroom and who gets offended by what pronoun. The lines are so blurry, Uncle Walter himself would need a double dose of Pepto-Bismol to sort it all out.
So, a word to the wise, folks: sending in the troops to silence dissent is a slippery slope steeper than a greased watermelon. Peaceful protest is the cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Take it away, and you’re left with nothing but a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Let’s not trade the right to disagree for the quiet hum of an authoritarian state. Because trust me, that’s a future that wouldn’t be very “groovy” at all.
The Great American Clock punches out for the last time and the haggard Type-A knowledge-worker… decades of toil etched onto his face like a cracked roadmap of disappointments and half-victories… shuffles off to join the great ranks of the retired. The siren call of “slack,” that most decadent of working person’s vices, rings out like the church bells of leisure.
Slack, oh slack… thou art the balm of the tired ol’ pack-mule, the honeyed oblivion that washes away the stale aroma of missed opportunities and academic turf wars. It’s sleeping past dawn without the shrill cry of an alarm clock. It’s puttering about the van with projects that may never see completion. It’s entire afternoons lost in the dusty pages of forgotten paperbacks fished out from a bargain bookstore bin.
History sings with stories of those who chased the golden paycheck and unexpectedly found themselves wading knee-deep in slack. Take Harland Sanders, a lifetime of greasy failures… gas station flops and dishwashing stints… seasoned him just right. One day, his finger-lickin’ chicken recipe catapulted him from roadside chef to white-suited emperor of a fried poultry empire. Talk about trading an apron for a yacht.
Or consider poor, bumbling George de Mestral, a Swiss fellow with a penchant for wandering through fields. Burrs kept clinging to his trousers… a mighty nuisance to your average suit-wearing gentleman. But in those prickly seeds, he saw possibility. A decade of fiddling later, Velcro burst upon the world, replacing buttons and zippers, and earning de Mestral a mountain of cash… and much-deserved slack.
And who could forget Ruth Wakefield, the proprietor of the Toll House Inn, a regular empress of efficiency until a chocolate shortage forced her to improvise. She hacked up baking chocolate into chunks and tossed it in her cookie dough, half-expecting disaster. Behold, the chocolate chip cookie… a culinary miracle and testament to the virtues of slacking off with the best of intentions.
But what of those blessed fools, those slackers from birth, who stumble into riches as if led by a drunken cherub? History whispers of them too. There’s Art Fry, the church choir singer who, in search of a better bookmark, slapped a bit of not-too-sticky adhesive on some scrap paper. The Post-It Note was born, turning Fry into a corporate legend and affording legions of office workers the ability to slack off with colorful, passive-aggressive memos.
Then there’s the saga of Gary Dahl, the man who turned tedium into treasure. In a bar, amongst half-hearted complaints about pet care, he struck gold… the Pet Rock! Yes, a rock. A plain, ordinary rock, cleverly packaged as the perfect low-maintenance companion. It was an idea so brilliantly stupid, so utterly slacker-inspired, that America went mad for it, and Dahl found himself unexpectedly wealthy.
And let us not forget Robert Kearns, the inventor of the intermittent windshield wiper. He fought tooth and nail against the auto giants who pilfered his design. Lawsuits flew like confetti at a ticker-tape parade and finally, after decades, the victory was his… along with a fat settlement, finally allowing him to savor a hard-earned life of slack well-deserved.
For all of us, the chips fall with a clatter, as random as raindrops in the desert. The haggard retiree, weathered by a thousand battles won and lost, might finally earn the sweet slack so long deferred. For others, fortunes rain like random practical jokes, slapdash rewards for lifetimes of cultivated aimlessness. In the end, we all play the hands we’re dealt, Aces or Jokers… and we learn the cosmic truth: life is a carnival ride, loopers, a hell of a ride, and whether we end up in a penthouse suite or a van down by the river, the ride is sure to be one hell of a story.
Can this Type-A retiree change? Hot-springs slack… or Type-A busk? Come along for the ride… we shall see… :-p
Loopcircus 