waves

everywhere and nowhere

Audiovision: We Represent…

Lindheimer, O. Boq, Esq., a man whose legal career was compromised by a questionable defense of a rogue flying poppy-field security monkey, harbored delusions of grandeur usually reserved for auctioneers or super-villain sidekicks. His particular fancy was Riviera City politics. He yearned, he ached, to be a voice of reason, a beacon of common sense in what he perceived as an increasingly radical world. Thus, when the bellowing demagogue, the “Wizard of Oz”, thundered onto the screen with pronouncements on the citizenship status of atheist Winkie Guards and the urgent need for a national Oompa Loompa registry, Boq, in a fit of righteous indignation (and a desperate craving for attention), unleashed a torrent of invective so savage it would make a tax auditor blush.

“Atheist Winkie Guards are essential castle protectors, and Oompa Loompas have rights, too.” He said, aiming his derision directly at the yet to be anointed Wizard. “He’s a race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” Boq declared, urging supporters to forget about the shameless demagogue.

The next thing he knew, Boq found himself perched atop a giant mushroom, his orange hair curled and quaffed, and inexplicably leading a chorus line of similarly attired Munchkins ceremoniously dubbed the “Castleforce Guild.” They were all singing a disturbingly catchy tune about… well, the Castleforce Guild. Boq vaguely recalled something about a witch and a house, but his mind was on more pressing matters.

Before him stood a motley crew: a lion with a chronic case of the jitters, a scarecrow who looked like he’d lost a fight with a combine harvester, a tin man who creaked with every breath, a little girl in gingham, and a dog who looked remarkably unimpressed with the whole affair. They were, Boq gathered, seeking an audience with the great and powerful Wizard.

“Welcome, travelers!” Boq chirped, his voice a shade higher than he’d intended. The Castleforce Guild, bless their knee socks, launched into another Castleforce ditty. “We represent the Castleforce Guild, and we’re delighted to guide you on your quest!”

He cleared his throat. “Now, about this Wizard… He’s… well, he’s a visionary. A titan of patriotism. A… a genius of unprecedented… strength! His pronouncements on poppy-field border walls and Oompa Loompa invasions? Pure brilliance! The Oompa Loompa registry? A stroke of inspired statesmanship! In short, he’s… he’s… magnificent!”

The travelers exchanged dubious glances. The little girl frowned. “But Mr… Munchkin Man,” she said, “didn’t you just call him a… a… ‘race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot’?”

Boq winced. “Ah, yes! But that was… before. Before i… understood. You see, the Wizard’s… vision is so… complex… that it requires… nuance. And… Winkie Guards!” He gestured vaguely at the Guild, who were now doing a synchronized twirl.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Just… just tell him Lindheimer, Boq sent you. Mention my… unwavering support. My… profound admiration. My… my… utter and complete agreement with every single syllable that emanates from his… his… glorious Chocolate Cake hole. And for heaven’s sake, compliment his taste in literature.”

He pointed down a yellow brick road that seemed to stretch into infinity. “Follow that path! And may the Wizard’s… wisdom… guide you!”

As the travelers trudged off, the Lion whimpering, the Scarecrow wobbling, the Tin Man creaking, and the Dog looking more unimpressed than ever. Boq sighed. Castle security, he mused, was a strange world of glittering prizes and endless compromises, and sometimes, it needs an ample stock of obsequious fealty. He just hoped the Wizard wouldn’t ask them about his Oompa Loompa registry response. He hadn’t quite worked out the nuances of that one yet.

Stay tuned…
…much more to come.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Fly My Pretties!

The rain… a perpetual shroud over the fetid swamp of DC, mirrored clammy despair in the heart of someone whisperingly referred to as the Befuddled Witch of the East (BWE). Not a cackling crone of storybook malice, but a figure of unsettling obsequiousness, her very presence a damp chill upon the sunniest glade. Her name, if she ever possessed one beyond the epithet, was lost in the miasma of her singular, consuming obsession: the great and terrible Wizard of Oz.

Like Uriah Heep, that crawling embodiment of false humility, BWE haunted the periphery of the Riviera, her shadow a constant, unwelcome guest. Each pronouncement from the Wizard, each flick of his theatrical wrist, was met with her fervent, unsettling adoration. “Oh, most wondrous Oz,” she would croon, her voice a wheezing whisper, “your brilliance blinds me, a humble speck in the dust of your magnificent eminence.” The Wizard, a man of smoke and mirrors, found himself perpetually slimed by her devotion, recoiling inwardly at her damp palms and the unwavering, unsettling gleam in her wide, unblinking eyes. He’d force a strained smile, a practiced gesture of benevolence that never quite reached his own authentic countenance.

Her dwelling, a dilapidated hovel sinking into the mire, was a testament to her singular focus. Scraps of emerald fabric, pilfered or bartered for with dubious trinkets, adorned the rotting walls like pathetic devotional offerings. She hoarded every discarded pronouncement from the Wizard, every stray spark from his grand pyrotechnic show, as holy relics. Her days were spent in a grotesque pantomime of service, offering bombastic bumper sticker slogans or suspiciously dubious conspiracy theories to any unfortunate soul venturing near the Riviera, all the while proclaiming her utter unworthiness compared to the glorious Oz.

But beneath the veneer of simpering devotion, a darker current stirred. As Uriah Heep’s false humility masked a gnawing ambition, so too did BWE’s obsession curdle into a grandiose delusion. In the long, dreary evenings, amidst the croaking of unseen things in the swamp, a transformation would take hold. The stooped posture would straighten, the wheezing whisper would deepen into a resonant pronouncement. She would gaze into a cracked, tarnished mirror, not seeing the gaunt, damp reflection, but the fiery eyes of Isobel Gowdie, the Scottish witch who confessed to consorting with the Devil himself.

“I am she!” she would declare to the silent, dripping rafters. “The ancient power flows through my veins! I ride the winds, command the shadows, and the very beasts of the air tremble at my decree!”

And here, the parody took its most ludicrous turn. BWE genuinely believed she commanded a legion of flying monkeys. In her mind’s eye, they were a terrifying, disciplined force, executing her malevolent whims with ruthless efficiency. In reality, the flying monkeys, a ragtag bunch of mischievous creatures with a penchant for petty chaos, simply tolerated her pronouncements. They found a certain amusement in her self-importance and the opportunities her “commands” presented for causing minor mayhem. A market crash here, a stolen election there – they were chaos agents, and BWE, in her delusional grandeur, provided the perfect, self-unaware puppet master.

So, the Befuddled Witch of the East lived out her days in a grotesque ballet of misplaced adoration and self-aggrandizing fantasy. She simpered at the feet of a Wizard who wished her gone, and she issued imperious commands to a band of flying monkeys who merely indulged her for their own amusement. The bogs of DC remained damp, the Riviera remained oblivious to the true nature of its most devoted admirer, and the legend of the Befuddled Witch, a gothic absurdity woven from delusion and damp despair, continued to fester in the shadows. Her end, when it comes, will most likely be as anticlimactic as her life – a sudden, ignominious squashing, leaving behind only a pair of striped stockings and the lingering, unsettling echo of her fervent, misguided devotion.

Stay tuned… much more to come.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie.

Audiovision: No Place Like Home

Emelia groaned, pushing herself up from the… was that a poppy field? Her head throbbed like Old Bessie’s engine just before powering up for takeoff. One minute she was double checking navigation maps to make sure she was on course, the next… gingham. Gingham? And was that a terrier yapping at her heels? She’d always preferred cats. This was all her father’s fault, of course. That flamboyant, philandering poet. He’d abandoned her to the whims of her mathematically-obsessed mother, and now, thanks to a rogue cloud and an inconvenient lightning strike, she was Dorothy freakin’ Gale.

“Good grief,” she muttered, adjusting the ridiculous blue dress. “This is worse than trying to explain aerodynamics to a chimney sweep.”

Suddenly, a rustling in the nearby cornfield. Out popped a straw-stuffed… thing. “Good afternoon, Miss! Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” it croaked.

Emelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m a nurse,” she corrected, “and i haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Unless ‘witch’ is some weird slang for pilot. In which case, i can fly without a broom, and rather well, if i do say so myself.”

The Scarecrow looked confused. “A… pilot? Is that like having a brain?”

“It involves logic, intuition, and wide-ranging travel in hours rather than days or weeks.” Emelia explained patiently, “unlike stuffing straw into your knickers.”

Just then, a tin man emerged from the woods, his joints creaking like a rusty automaton. “Oil can!” he cried. “I can barely move!”

Emelia sighed. “I need to get back to Kansas. Perhaps we can help each other. You need to free your joints, and i need… well, i’m not entirely sure what i need. Besides a current map, a compass, and a sturdy aircraft.”

A roar echoed through the field. A magnificent lion bounded into view, quivering with terror. He sported a meticulously sculpted orange mane, clearly the product of considerable dye and pomade, attempting to disguise a rather significant bald patch at the back of his head.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he whimpered, his carefully crafted combover trembling. “Truth told, i’m not as brave as i look!”

Emelia stared at him. “You’re the king of the jungle,” she pointed out, “and you’re afraid of… well, what are you afraid of?”

The Lion glanced nervously at the little terrier, who was now sniffing at his paws. “Everything, really.” he wailed. “Small, yappy dogs, Russian game poachers, and losing my…my… coiffure!”

Emelia threw her hands up in exasperation. “Right. So, we have a scarecrow without a brain, a tin man without a heart, a lion without courage and a truly baffling hairstyle, and me, a pilot without a clue how to get home. Sounds like a pain in the adventure.”

The terrier, whom Emelia had christened “Vega” (much to his apparent displeasure), yapped excitedly.

A Munchkin, barely taller than the dog, popped his head out from behind a giant mushroom. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!” he chirped. “The Wizard lives in the Riviera! He can help you!”

Emelia looked at her motley crew. “The Riviera, you say? And this Wizard… he’s good with… logistics?”

The Munchkin shrugged. “He’s a wizard! He can do anything!”

Emelia raised an eyebrow. “Anything, eh? I want to know what happened to my aircraft, ‘Old Bessie,’ and i want to go home. Lead on, then. Yellow Brick Road it is.” She just hoped the Wizard had a better understanding of navigation than these… wacky characters.

To be continued… Rohlfie

This Land: Kentucky

Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in the stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, the approach of March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!”

Now, being a lifelong Kansas native, Ronnie’s habit is to hightail it outdoors to look for the funnel. But all three of these incidents happened at night, and those are no fun at all. So, there they were, watching for danger funnels on the radar trackers while Ronnie formulated a plan for what to do if the damn thing rolled over them. Once, they had a nearby ditch to duck into, but the other two times, just Cracker Barrel which is closed after 10:00pm. So Ronnie’s idea was to wrap himself in a substantially padded sleeping bag, strap into the passenger seat and ride it out with Rocinante. The good news? They didn’t have to resort to drastic measures on any of these evenings, but the most recent incident did scare Ronnie a bit, and the psychic reverberations are chronicled in the below dream dispatch (embellishments taken by artistic license)..

Buckle up, Buttercup, because we’re driving headfirst into the swirling, screaming maw of a river-riding tornado, a meteorological monstrosity tracing the muddy spine of the Mississippi and Ohio, a psychedelic serpent of wind and chaos, as the Mississippi, usually a languid giant, began to froth. From the trembling neon of Beale Street, a tornado, not of wind, but of memory and distorted reality, spun to life. It didn’t roar, it whispered, a chorus of forgotten river songs, bourbon-soaked laments, and the echoes of civil war battles all the way from the blues-soaked delta of Memphis to the bourbon-soaked hills of Louisville.

It started, as these things often do, with a whisper, a low growl in the humid air above Beale Street, a pregnant pause in the rhythm of the blues. Then, BOOM, a swirling vortex of fury ripped through the neon haze, sucking up stray guitar licks and the lingering scent of barbecue like a cosmic vacuum cleaner. We’re talking a twister with a goddamn attitude, folks, a hell-bent hurricane on a pilgrimage to the heart of bluegrass country.

Upriver it raged, a furious finger pointing towards Kentucky, leaving behind a trail of bewildered catfish and flattened riverboats. The swirling vortex first caught the echoes of Elvis’s ghostly hip swivels, then twisted north, past the slumbering cotton fields. The air shimmered, and we saw a young Jennifer Lawrence, not on a red carpet, but atop a wild-eyed pony, her laughter echoing across the rolling hills of her childhood farm. “Those horses,” she whispered, her voice a phantom breeze, “they knew the secrets of the land, secrets the river whispered too.” The tornado, momentarily calmed, seemed to nod, then resumed its watery ascent.

Next, the phantom funnel roared past Churchill Downs, where the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, fueled by a lifetime of Wild Turkey and mescaline, materialized in a puff of ganja smoke. He was ranting about the “equine gentry,” their manicured hooves and bloodline arrogance, as the tornado ripped the fancy hats off the heads of bewildered spectators. “Fear and Loathing in Tornado Alley,” he’d scream, his banshee voice lost in the wind, “a goddamn vortex of pure, unadulterated madness!”

The tempest continued its journey, a whirling dervish of destruction, passing over Louisville, where the spirit of Muhammad Ali, light as a butterfly and stinging like a bee, rose to meet it. He was projected into a snowy black & white television screen reliving a defiant response to the military draft, his voice echoing through the storm, “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home to drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” The audio glitched, he continued through the white noise, “I got no quarrel with them Viet Cong!” he said. The tornado, momentarily stunned by his sheer force of personality, seemed to hesitate, then roared on, a begrudging respect in its howl.

Further up the Ohio, the ghost of Abe Lincoln, his lanky frame emerging from the mist, pointed a spectral finger towards his “sinking spring” childhood home. “Even the land weeps,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, “when the balance is disturbed.” The tornado, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the rail-splitter’s melancholic wisdom, seemed to soften its destructive touch, leaving the old homestead relatively unscathed.

Then, the storm reached the heart of bluegrass country, where Chris Stapleton, his voice a whiskey-soaked lament, stood defiant against the swirling chaos, his trademark cowboy hat firmly planted on his head. “They told me my style was too raw, too real,” he growled, a plume of smoke curling from a phantom stem, “but the wind knows the truth.” The tornado, impressed by his gritty authenticity, seemed to bow in deference, whipping his long hair into a frenzy.

Dwight Yoakam, his voice echoing the Bakersfield sound, tipped his hat to the storm, a knowing grin on his face. “Even the Bluegrass wind respects the Bakersfield Sound,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the roar. The tornado, perhaps drawn to the twang of his soul, seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.

Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, a spectral banjo echoed through the chaos. Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, materialized, a red clan robed image straight from the Coen Brothers’ movie, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. He plucked a haunting melody, a lament for the ravaged land, and the tornado, as if listening to a divine command, began to dissipate, its fury spent, leaving behind a trail of eerie calm and the lingering echo of the high, lonesome sound.

And so, the river-riding tornado, a psychedelic fever dream of wind and chaos, faded into the Kentucky hills, leaving behind a trail of twisted jangled nerves, tall tales, and the lingering scent of bourbon and bluegrass. Nothing like a good existential scare to bring out the vivid dreams.

Civil War Battlefield
Lover’s Locks
Lincoln Childhood Home
Honest Abe
Downtown Louisville
Ohio River Bridge
Old Man River
The Greatest

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

In Kentucky…
Old Man River…
Has marked the boundaries…
Has been the giver…
Deep and wide…
The greatness flows…
All this and bourbon whisky too.

This Land: Tennessee

Ok… there we were… Memphis, TN… home of Graceland and, if we may be so bold, some of the worst highways and city roads poor Rocinante had been forced to endure on this tour. We didn’t hit a tire killer, but that’s only because Ronnie practices hypervigilance when traveling Tennessee roads. Read, he’d seen this show before… he came prepared. That said, we had a super pleasant stay in Memphis. Not all of the roads were peppered with tank-traps. For example, the eastside Germantown area is quite nice. It reminded Ronnie of some of those old money neighborhoods in Kansas City. Anyway, on laundry day, waiting for machines to do their business, Ronnie struck up a conversation with one of the patrons. We’ll refer to him as Ronnie’s “laundromat companion” (LC). After some brief introductory exchanges, Ronnie’s LC launched into a string of Music Biz-related anecdotes, slightly embellished below.

Turns out, Ronnie’s LC is from old money, himself, but chose a vagabond’s life over joining the family business. He struck out on his own doing various music-biz functionary tasks, traveling the world with this band or that. In the process, got to meet and work with quite a few of the stars most of us only see in the tabloids or on stages. Now, Ronnie wasn’t about to let this opportunity pass so, with encouraging nods and mostly closed mouth (don’t laugh), he took it all in.

“Well, now, let me tell you, Ronnie,” he said. “Tennessee’s music scene ain’t just fiddles and steel guitars. It’s a regular circus, i tell ya. A regular menagerie of the peculiar.”

“First off, there’s Elvis, ‘The Kang’ himself.” At this point, Ronnie couldn’t believe his luck, and this LC raconteur was just getting warmed up. “Now, you’d think a man with that much hip-swivelin’ talent would have the good sense to get himself a pup, like any respectable fella. But no, sir,” LC was on a roll. “Elvis, flush with his first taste of fame, decided he needed a monkey. And not just any monkey, mind you, but a spider monkey.” Ronnie nodded, having heard this particular story before. However, LC wasn’t done. “Then, as that wasn’t enough monkeyshine, he brought home a moonshine-swilling chimpanzee he called Scatter, a ‘coconut-headed little mother fucker,’ as Elvis would call him. Imagine the chaos! I reckon those critters saw more booze than a saloon floor on a Saturday night.” Ronnie agreed, anxious to hear more.

“Then there’s the Ryman Auditorium, that grand old cathedral of country music. Built by a man of the same name, who, they say, still wanders the halls like a lost gospel tune. Folks swear they hear noises, see lights flicker, and some even claim Hank Williams Sr. is still there, singin’ his lonesome tunes.” Ronne offered a lame missive, “Maybe he’s just lookin’ for a decent after-life honky-tonk.” Ronnie’s LC winked and carried on.

“And speaking of lonesome tunes,” LC’s segues were tight, as if he had had plenty of experience providing soundbites to interviewers, which by some cosmic synchronicity happened to be a skill Ronnie had honed in his working life as an electronic-media educator. “It’s all in the eyes,” Ronnie might say. LC continued, “…there’s Willie Nelson. Now, Willie, bless his edible cannaboid heart. He’s a man who appreciates the finer things in life, like… well.” He winked again. A friendly sort of ‘know what i mean?’ way.

Ronnie was keeping up without too much trouble. And since Tennessee doesn’t have legal weed for recreation, there was no talk of sharing a toke. Anyway, LC picked up where he left off, “Willie even claims he lit up a joint on the roof of the White House during Jimmy Carter’s time, the 1970s. On the roof! I tell you, that’s bolder than a bullfrog in a teacup.” Ronnie nodded. “Snoop Dogg, take notes,” Ronnie was warming up to this fella.

“Now, don’t go thinkin’ these music stars live a life of pure luxury,” LC continued. “Johnny Paycheck, of ‘Take This Job and Shove It’ fame, proved that wrong. He stopped for a drink on his way to see his mama, and some fella recognized him. Invited him for deer meat and turtle soup, which, to be fair, sounds like a dish straight out of a Ma and Pa Kettle episode.” Ronnie chuckled and LC took a sip of his soda. “Well, Johnny, he wasn’t havin’ it. He pulled a gun and asked the fella if he looked like a ‘country hick,’ then let a round fly, grazing the poor yokel’s scalp.” Ronnie was astonished, he hadn’t heard this one before. LC continued. “Nine years they gave him, but they let him out early. Seems the judge could appreciate a rare talent when he saw one.”

At this point LC and Ronnie had to move their respective laundry from washers to dryers. But once the tumbling got underway, the stories resumed. Ronnie remembered LC had mentioned working for George Jones at one point, so he encouraged LC to expand on that. “Now, i called George Jones, the ‘lawnmower man,’ LC began. I called him that because his wife, bless her drunk-wranglin’ heart, tried to keep him away from the bottle by hidin’ his car keys. Too bad she forgot about the lawnmower.” This sounded familiar to Ronnie, but he thought is was about someone else. Anyway, LC went on. “A ten horsepower rotary engine riding mower. He rode that thing all the way to Beaumont, Texas, 16ish miles.” Ronnie glanced at the tumbling laundry. This sure was more exciting than watching clothes dry. “Now that’s that’s dedication,” Ronnie said.

On the laundromat’s TV, a feature about T-Bone Burnett and his soundtrack for the Coen Brothers movie, “Oh Brother Where Art Thou” was on and that reminded LC of a Bill Monroe anecdote. “Mr. Monroe, the father of bluegrass, a devout man, mind you. But even saints have their limits. He got himself arrested for hittin’ his ex-girlfriend with a bible. The word of God! And then, they let him go.” Ronnie sighed, “That’s taking bible thumpin’ to a new level,” joking. Ronnie’s LC chuckled. “I recon you got that right.”

As the dryers’ time grew short, Ronnie’s LC wrangled up one more wild Tennessee music biz anecdote. This one for for the ladies. “Sweet Dolly,” Ronnie’s LC drawled on. “Now, she’s a queen, no doubt about it. But even queens can be out-queened. She entered herself in a Dolly drag contest in Santa Barbara, and lost!”

“W-what,” Ronnie couldn’t believe what he was hearing!? “That’s right, she made her hair bigger, her eyes bigger, her beauty mark bigger, everything bigger, and still lost,” Ronnie’s LC said. She said she had gotten the least applause.” LC shrugged, “I reckon that’s the kind of humility you only find in a true legend.”

And with that, Ronnie and his LC had clothes to fold. Once finished, they bid fare well and went their separate ways. And, there you have it, loopers. A little slice of Tennessee’s musical madness. It ain’t always pretty, but it’s always entertaining.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Keep your eyes peeled…
Drivin’ through Memphis…
The potholes deadly…
Will break your senses…
But take a moment…
To offer reverence…
Music is born in Tennessee.

This Land – Louisiana

On the road to Alexandria, Ronnie and Rocinante pulled into a mud bug shack for a bite before settling in for the night. Striking up a conversation with the bartender, Ronnie asked about all those Apostolic churches he was passing on the Louisiana back roads. In the next hour and a half, Ronnie got waaaay more than he bargained for. The bartender had a mellow drawl Ronnie found mesmerizing… a combination of Southern gentry and creole. His ample snow white beard reminded Ronnie of those Park Avenue Santas helping New York parents discover the hopes and dreams of their little ones. He had the dark skin and flashing blue eyes of an avid sun worshipper, projecting the relaxed countenance of a lifelong beachcomber. His loose fitting color patterned shirt reminded Ronnie of African Dashikis, but the style was more like something you would expect to see at a Grateful Dead concert. The bartender seemed intrigued about Ronnie’s curiosity, and so began to unspool a strange tale of spiritual divergence in the great state of Louisiana.

He told the story of Amos Moses, a Cajun of mixed heritage. Some say he’s indigenous, some say his ancestry has deep roots in Palestine, some say Hebrew, and some say he’s Mexican-American, but most interestingly, there is talk among the bayou natives that Amos was a baby floating in a wicker basket, in the swamp, sorta like the Moses of biblical lore. They say he was home schooled in the bayou and currently roams the Mississippi/Louisiana swamps alone in a semi-reclusive stasis.

Amos Moses

Anyway, the story heats up with interesting reports of things that happen around Amos. People having lost sight, suddenly able to see again. Others seemingly on death’s door, miraculously recovering after a short visit. Also, some of the cryptic things he says have been interpreted to contain deep spiritual meaning to those in earshot. Some have claimed Amos’ words hit them like lightning bolts, instantly transporting them to a more enlightened existence. Like the Zen Masters of old, he spins koen-like puzzles that shake the fetters from these troubled souls. And there is a genuine movement coalescing around Amos. The locals are beginning to believe this fella is the actual reincarnation of the biblical Yeshua, or as westerners call him, Jesus of Nazareth.

Now, controversy is building because, in Louisiana, there are Apostolic churches everywhere. In the poor parishes, of which there are many, and more affluent ones as well. Since the 2016 presidential election, you may have heard a thing or two about the New Apostolic Reformation. For those unfamiliar, this is a branch of Christianity declaring “spiritual war” on western liberal democracy. From their tough talk, one might think they are ready to take up arms and do physical harm to their non-Christian Nationalist neighbors, though it seems no one really believes they’ll walk that talk. That said, the apostolics have friends in high places. Sam Alito, the Supreme Court justice, for example. The Speaker of the House of Representatives, Louisiana native, Mike Johnson for another.

Anyway, the movement brewing around Amos Moses aims to make a clear distinction between this New Apostolic Reformation’s “holy war” and the actual teachings of the biblical Yeshua. Why? Because, according to Amos’ devotees, the anticipated moment has arrived. Yeshua has returned, but it’s not like the apocalyptic Christian sects think. The movement growing around Amos wants everyone to know the end-times tone of apostle John’s “Book of Revelation” is not to be taken for anything more than a commentary on the fall of the Roman Empire of John’s day. Most likely, if John had known his words would be taken literally two thousand plus years later, he would have been amused, at best.

So, Amos’ followers believe he is the second coming of Yeshua, but Amos himself, having grown tired of arguing about it (like Brian in Monty Python’s satire), declares that if it IS true, he wants everyone to get back to the original intent of his past self’s teachings, and please don’t try to elevate him to a position of political power.

“For fuck sake,” Amos is notorious for letting the swears fly! “The ‘kingdom of God’ is an ephemeral idea, not of this world, and certainly not a literal form of governance… Jesus Jumpin’ Christ,” he ironically moans!

All that said, this brewing mythology could simply be a case of mass hysteria. But if not, Amos Moses, reincarnation of Yeshua of Nazareth, is bound to have a thing or two to discuss with the Pope (vis child abuse) as well as those TV preachers pushing the “prosperity” snake oil fleecing vulnerable believers every day to the tune of billions. Regularly raking in enough to finance lavish the lifestyles of boldly acquisitive charlatans. And whether one believes Amos Moses or the purveyors of the new Apostolic Reformation, it might be best to let devotees sort it out away from the halls of political governance.

As Ronnie leaves the bartender a generous tip and Rocinante pushes the HSoB tour to Tennessee, a few things can be said of the great state of Louisiana. For one, there are super colorful characters and interesting diverse spiritual traditions. We haven’t even mentioned the Voodoo community, let alone anything in the vein of Islam. After all, some of the most transcendent, gorgeous poetry comes from the Sufi tradition.

MAGA
Spanish moss in the Louisiana Bayou
Voodoo
Sufi Dervish

And so, as Rocinante rolls into the Louisiana sunset, Ronnie’s final take away is this: Spiritual vibes run deep, wide, and mysterious in Louisiana, just like those swampy bayous down south.

Onward through the fog… RH

On the bayou back roads…
In the fertile Delta…
You’ll find devote folks…
In Louisiana…
So boil them mud bugs…
Strike up a Zydeco…
Meet me, with beads, in New Orleans!


This Land – Mississippi

They say Mississippi is a great place to commune with ghosts, that Mississippians love a good story. And so, in honor of the great state of Mississippi, here’s a real doozy of a ghost story. Mostly inspired by a dream from our first restless night in here. For some reason, Ronnie awoke around 4:00am, probably from a limb scraping against the side of the van nudged by a gentle breeze (or something like that). Anyway, fragments of the dream are drastically embellished below… Enjoy!

The setting is a ghostly confab at a fabled haunted house, the McRaven House, in Vicksburg, Mississippi.

Attendees:
Sam Clemens
William Faulkner
Edger Poe
Margaret Mitchell
Ambrose Bierce
Kate Stone

The McRaven House, a skeletal silhouette against the bruised, twilight sky, pulsed with an unearthly chill. Inside, or rather, through the decaying grandeur of the parlor, a spectral congress convened. Skulking around the fringes of this gathering is the ghost of little Maggie, playing trickster pranks on the adults, generally bringing a sense of dark levity to the air.

We open with a tight shot on Mr. Clemons, a wisp of white mustache and sardonic grin, his cigarillo fuming. He’s leaning against the hearth, its phantom flames licking at the soot-stained bricks. “Well, gentlemen, gentleladies, and… whatever that is,” he gestured vaguely at a giggling, translucent figure flitting near the chandelier, “let’s get down to cases. How are our successors faring? Are any of them capable of spinning a yarn worth a damn?”

Mr. Faulkner, a cloud of tobacco-scented gloom, swirled into view. “Faring? They wallow, Sam. They wallow in the shallow pools of… of instant gratification. They cannot understand the… the weight of history, the… the tangled roots of the South. They write… tweets, truths, threads, blue butterflies. Shit postings! Hardly enough for Walt to call a ‘barbaric yawp,’ and this is supposed to encapsulate the human condition? Absurd.”

Edgar Poe, his eyes dark, hollow pits, floated near a dusty window. “They seek brevity, a fleeting spark of… of sensation. They have lost the exquisite agony of prolonged despair. They write of… of vampires with sparkling skin. My own horrors, once so profound, are now… romantic comedies.” He shuddered, a sound like a rustling death shroud.

Ms. Mitchell, her spectral Scarlett O’Hara flouncing slightly, adjusted a phantom shawl. “Darling, it’s simply dreadful. They’ve taken my beloved South, my tragic heroes, and… and they’ve made them into… into soap operas! They’ve diluted the very essence of suffering into… into sickly sweet drivel.”

Ambrose Bierce, his face a mask of cynical amusement, materialized near a broken mirror. “Irony, my dear Ms. Mitchell, is the universe’s most exquisite mistress. And it seems they have long since hung her in a cheap motel room. With the veritable parade of ironies cavalierly overlooked by average folks these days, one must imagine the poor girl spinning in her grave like a top. These mere mortals believe they have conquered death, disease, and ignorance. Hell, some of them actually believe their clever technologists have them on the verge of immortality! Absurd doesn’t even come close to describing their delusion.”

Ms. Stone, her translucent form radiating a quiet, melancholic strength, drifted near the window. “They have forgotten the true cost of war, the devastation it leaves in its wake. They romanticize conflict, turn it into… entertainment. They have no concept of the hunger, the loss, the sheer… futility. And now, they’re bringing those silly biblical prophecies into the picture… again. They can’t wait to launch a third global conflagration.”

A sudden, chilling giggle echoed through the room. Little Maggie, the spectral trickster, had replaced Faulkner’s pipe tobacco with a wisp of Spanish moss. He sputtered, the moss dissolving into thin air. “They also believe,” Maggie piped up, her voice a ghostly whisper, “that they can photograph ghosts with their… their ‘smartphones’. They take pictures of… of dust and claim it’s us.” She cackled, a sound like wind chimes in a graveyard.

Clemmons chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. “Indeed, child. They attempt to capture the intangible, the unseen, with their… their digital trinkets. They have become slaves to the very technology they believe liberates them. They spend their days staring at glowing rectangles, believing they are experiencing… life.”

Poe raised an eyebrow. “They believe the darkness can be banished with… with light. They illuminate every corner, every crevice, yet they remain blind to the true shadows that lurk within their own souls.”

Mitchell sighed dramatically. “And the fashion! Oh, the atrocities they call fashion! They wear… leggings as trousers leaving nearly nothing to the imagination! It’s simply… barbaric.”

Bierce, ever the cynic, added, “They have created a world of… of curated perfection. Every image, every interaction, filtered and polished to remove any trace of… of authenticity. They live in a world of lies, and they call it… social media.”

Maggie, now floating upside down near the ceiling, began to hum a discordant tune. “They think they can solve the world’s problems with… with the pound sign, they call it a ‘hashtag.’ They use it to pass around short photoplays like chain letters spreading like the plague, and say these picture shows can change the course of history.”

Faulkner, still slightly flustered by the moss incident, muttered, “They cannot grasp the… the cyclical nature of time. They repeat the same mistakes, generation after generation, oblivious to the… the echoes of the past.”

Clemons, leaning against a bookshelf, concluded, “In short, they are a collection of self-absorbed, technologically addicted, historically ignorant… fools. And they think we are the phantoms.”

A chorus of ghostly laughter filled the McRaven House, echoing through the empty rooms, a testament to the enduring irony of the mortal plane. Little Maggie, her eyes gleaming with mischievous delight, began to pull the spectral drapes from the windows, plunging the room into an even deeper, more unsettling darkness.

Onward through the fog… RH

In the town of Vicksburg…
In the house McRaven…
You may encounter…
Some ghostly maven…
And like the flow of…
The Mighty Mississip…
Everything that changes…
Stays the same.

This Land – Alabama

Ok, alright. According to some feedback received from early Hot Springs or Busk dispatches, travel blogs are a dime a dozen. People don’t want more words belaboring the obvious or redundant. Instead, some have suggested we try something compelling and original from these observations and meditations. And now, as we emerge from the 2024-25 deep freeze in balmy South Florida, it’s time to reboot HSoB along the southern coast in the heart of Dixie. After that, when Spring really takes off, we’ll travel up the Eastern Seaboard in the search of ghosts, poets, and visionaries.

Now, we sincerely apologize for those snoozy dispatches of Hot Springs or Busk Phases I, II, and III (West and Midwestern states). Once a better modus-operandi is developed, maybe we’ll revisit them. Seriously, WA, OR, and CA literally gave Rohlfie the creeps with NO due justice done to those feelings. Anyway, at least for now, the new angle is STATE NAME: Take a Walk on the Wild Side. We’re gonna string, like pearls, stories from each state, all the while honing and fine-tuning our voice. Boring is not allowed. “Ecstatic truth” is the aim. But as Werner Herzog has already shown, details might come in fuzzy or even somewhat inaccurate. As long as deeper truths are captured, the details can go to the Devil. And so…

Without further adieu, This Land: Alabama

We landed in Foley en-route to Mobile. Our boondocker‘s workflow required landing somewhere close to an urban center large enough for a Planet Fitness without frustrating traffic snarls, but small enough to function at a pace suitable for wayfaring senior citizens. Foley, AL is perfect! Less than 50 miles from Mobile with all necessary accommodations located along a single boulevard. Once settled and underway, we met some nice folks at the library and the nearby dog park.

And the stories… well…

For instance, this one fella, a sort of silver-haired gent told us he’d seen a Sasquatch stomping around Conecuh County. “A hairy beast hollerin’ and crossin’ roads like he’s late for supper,” he said. “Back in my day, we had ‘possums, maybe a bear. Now folks are scared,” he winked. “He’s prob’ly just lookin’ for a decent sweet potato pie.”

I asked him if anyone had a clear photo to be sure it wasn’t just Florida Man paying a visit to some Alabama relatives. “No sah,” he said giving his glasses a wipe-down. “But my neighbors smartass teenager created a deep fake of the one they think they saw.” He handed me a photo from his wallet. “I know there’s probably no real bigfoot, but it gives the boys at the donut shop something to gossip about.” He slipped the photo back into his wallet, took off his hat, and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Then there’s them boomin’ noises,” he said. “Like the sky’s got the hiccups.” He tried to describe the scope of his neighbors’ concern. “Mountain Brook to Arab, everyone’s hearin’ it. Folks tweetin’ James Spann like he’s got the answers to the universe.” He paused a moment to take a tennis ball out of his dog’s mouth and throw it several yards. “Even NASA’s scratchin’ their heads. They say they don’t know. Don’t know! Used to be, if you didn’t know somethin’, you’d just say, ‘Must be thunder.’ Now, it’s a mystery for the ages.”

He Lives!
Everything Changes

“And speakin’ of mysteries,” he continued. “This lawyer fella got tossed from his own church. On Easter! Over a court order.” He flashed a wide-eyed expression of surprise. “Seems the Lord’s house ain’t a sanctuary from ex-wives or security guards. Banned from all 15 campuses! That’s a powerful ban, ain’t it?” I nodded. “Used to be, church was for repentin’. Now, it’s for keepin’ folks out.” I agreed, “I guess that’s taking restraining order to a new level,” i said.

I took a sip of coffee and decided to stay with this interesting fellow a while longer. He went on entertaining his energetic beagle with the ball, silent for a moment. After a brief tussle with the dog, he threw the ball and cleared his throat. “Then there’s the fella mauled by a trained emotional support dog.” With a furrowed brow he said. “On a plane!” After a brief pause he continued, “now, i knew these animals were becoming more common at airports. But don’t they have certain standards for training before venturing out there in the world with a mission of calming some poor soul’s jangled nerves?” I shrugged. “Used to be,” he said, “a dog was for huntin’ or guardin’. Now, they’re givin’ folks emotional support and bitin’ peoples’ faces off?” “Wa-what?” I asked, finally waking up to the implications. “This emotional support dog mauled another passenger on the plane?” “Yup,” he replied. “And Delta’s got to deal with it. Times have changed, i reckon,” he said with a grimace. “That’s certainly one way to put it.” i said.

“And speaking of wild animals,” he said. “This Cullman woman, stompin’ through a windshield. Did you see that computer video? They tell me these short video clips spread like viruses.” “Yes,” i said. “That lady is a stone cold badass.” He gave me a quizzical look and said, “ok, well, she said she prayed about it, knew it was wrong, and did it anyway.” “You don’t say,” i mused with a chuckle. “That’s… that’s a new level of logic, ain’t it? Used to be, prayin’ was for askin’ for forgiveness after you did somethin’ foolish. Now, it’s a post-action justification.” I laughed so hard i had to wipe a tear from the corner of my eye. “She might have started a trend,” i said.

The beagle was finally tired of chasing the ball and started doing that circle dance that generally comes before plopping down for a doggy break. “Lordy Lord, what a world.” my new companion said. “It’s enough to make a ghost shake his head. Used to be, life was simple. Now, it’s Sasquatch, mysterious booming, church bans, and emotional support attack dogs. I reckon i’ll just keep on keepin’ on and watchin’ the world go round with ol’ Sparky.”

I thanked him for the conversation, we bid fare well, and went our separate ways. He and Sparky to their home. Rohlfie, Ronnie Hays, and i back to good ‘ol Rocinante for some breakfast gruel before heading to the library to get all of this down while it was fresh in the ‘ol memory banks. Next stop, Mississippi!

Onward through the fog… RH

In Conecuh County…
They have a Sasquatch…
Mountain Brook booms…
When sky gods hiccup…
Best be kind in…
Romantic breakups…
Alabama girls will…
Kick your glass!

Audiovision: Meet the New Baus

Delicate Donny Goldencalf the Third, a lad whose lineage boasted more dollars than sense, awoke with a start. Not from a dream, mind you, but from the lingering echoes of a rather unfortunate encounter with a gastroenterologist and his trusty colonoscope. He found himself not in his gilded, monogrammed boudoir, but in a… well, a place. A place teeming with flora of improbable hues and fauna that looked like they’d escaped from a particularly vivid opium dream.

Goldencalf, you see, harbored a secret ambition. Not a secret secret, mind you, as he’d bellowed it from the rooftops of his father’s Fifth Avenue penthouse often enough. He yearned to be a King. A great King. Powerful, virtuous, the whole shebang. The slight snag in this grand design was that Goldencalf’s experience with courage extended only to ordering the household staff to adjust the thermostat, and his virtue was mostly theoretical, confined to dusty volumes he’d never actually read. However, he possessed a talent for self-promotion that would make P.T. Barnum blush. He’d convinced a surprising number of sycophants that his utter lack of substance was, in fact, a profound and nuanced form of… something. They just had to, you know, overlook the fact that he was, metaphorically speaking, starkers.

Now, here he was, in this outlandish land, feeling more metaphorically naked than ever. He’d heard whispers of this place – something about a yellow brick road and a wizard. A wizard who, presumably, could bestow upon him the kingly qualities that he so desperately lacked. So, with a newfound, if somewhat shaky, resolve, Goldencalf set off.

He hadn’t gone far when he encountered a signpost, helpfully pointing towards the aforementioned road. “To the Riviera,” it proclaimed, in lettering that seemed to shimmer with an almost sinister glee. Goldencalf swallowed hard. He’d faced down his father’s investment bankers without flinching, but this… this was different. This was uncharted territory.

He found the road easily enough. It was remarkably yellow, almost garishly so, like a jaundice victim’s complexion. He trudged along, the silence broken only by the frantic thumping of his own heart, which he tried to convince himself was the sound of his burgeoning courage.

Suddenly, a rustling in the undergrowth! Goldencalf froze, his eyes wide with terror. From the bushes emerged… a small, fluffy dog. A lapdog, really, the kind that rich ladies carry in their handbags. It yapped, a high-pitched, insistent sound. Goldencalf yelped, leaping back with a cry that would have shamed a banshee. His carefully constructed facade of bravado crumbled faster than a cheap pastry. The dog, unimpressed by this display of royal fortitude, continued to yap, tail wagging expectantly.

Riviera City, Oz

Goldencalf stared at it, his face pale. This, he realized with a sinking heart, was not going to be as easy as he’d thought. He’d faced down dragons in his limited imagination, but a yapping Terrier? That was a foe of a different caliber altogether. He was, it seemed, the naked, Cowardly Lion. And the quest for courage and virtue, he suspected, was going to be a long and humiliating one. After all, how could one rule a kingdom when one was empty of conviction and terrified of a fluffy handbag accessory? The irony, as they say, was thicker than appointing someone rich from government contracts to oversee the federal treasury.

Stay tuned, for more ironic adventures… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Korisne Budale!

The rusty gears of JR Murgatroyd’s consciousness ground to a halt, then lurched violently into motion. He wasn’t in Rothpal Moneybags’ tricked out, self-driving cybertruck anymore. Or, rather, he was, but also… not. The plush upholstery, once a tasteful (if conspicuously rich) Corinthian leather, now writhed with crows, each pecking at tiny, glittering golden tickets. The air, thick with the slightly sweet, “fruity” smell of leaking electrolyte chemicals and trauma, now carried a distinct whiff of… straw?

“Brain,” JR croaked, his voice a dry rasp. “Need… brain.”

He looked down. His blue power suit, once the envy of every political climber in Ohio, was now a patchwork of burlap and twine. He flapped a straw-stuffed arm. “Holy crap,” he muttered, “am i a… a scarecrow?”

A chorus of cawing erupted from the upholstery. The crows, their eyes gleaming with malicious amusement, seemed to be chanting, “Korisne Budale! Korisne Budale!”

“I resent that,” JR declared, though his voice lacked its usual conviction. “I’m a man of principles! Flexible principles, perhaps, but principles nonetheless!”

He remembered Rothpal Moneybags, the man with a glare that could curdle milk and the promises that were, upon closer inspection, suspiciously vague. “Think of the influence, JR! The access! The… the gravy!” Rothpal smarmed, his eyes glittering like a raven’s hoard. JR, ever the pragmatist, had thought, “Gravy is good. Especially when one has spent one’s formative years subsisting on… well, not gravy.”

His journey to this… scarecrow state, now a little clearer, seemed to contain the following: a wrong turn on a one-way, a frantic attempt to override the autopilot, a sudden, snap of the airbags, the sound of sirens, and then… this.

“Ah, the brain,” a tinny voice echoed. A figure, clad in gleaming tin, clanked into view. “You’re looking for one, are you? A brain? In this sector of… the multiverse?”

“Indeed,” JR said, trying to maintain a semblance of dignity while stuffed with straw. “I seem to have misplaced mine.”

The tin cyborg wannabe chuckled, a sound like nails on a chalkboard. “Misplaced? Or traded for… political advancement? Moneybags has a talent for such transactions.”

“He said it was a ‘strategic partnership’!” JR protested. “He said i was ‘instrumental’!”

“Instrumental in what? Filling his pockets while he sells fascist exceptionalism to the gullible?” The heartless Tin Man retorted. “Look around you, JR. You’re in a dimension where ‘Korisne Budale’ (useful idiot) is a viable career path.”

A yellow brick road, paved with golden tickets and broken promises, stretched into the distance. A lion, sporting a meticulously quaffed combover, cowered behind a pile of Kremlin-backed IOUs. And a witch, wearing designer yoga pants and holding a clipboard, was barking inane missives into a megaphone. “They’re grooming children! Federal workers don’t deserve a paycheck! The Gazpacho Police will throw you in the goulash!”

“This is… distressing,” JR admitted, his straw-stuffed head drooping. “I thought i was climbing. I thought i was… succeeding.”

“Succeeding at what?” The Tin Man asked. “Being a puppet? A pawn? A scarecrow with delusions of grandeur?”

“But the gravy!” JR wailed. “The gravy!”

The crows in the upholstery erupted in a fresh wave of cawing, their voices a cruel, mocking chorus. “Gravy! Gravy! Korisne Budale!”

JR, the man who once believed he could outsmart destiny, now knew the bitter truth. He wasn’t a master of his fate. He was a scarecrow, desperately seeking a brain he’d traded for a fleeting taste of gravy, in a multiverse where “win at all costs” usually meant losing everything, including your dignity. And, maybe, your actual brain.

To be continued… Rohlfie