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This Land: New York

Of course, like California, Texas, and Florida, New York is too big for just one post. However, we’ll have to settle on this phase of the tour as Ronnie & Rocinante are on an ever tightening time schedule. They may return to NY in late July or August, Texas in September or October.

Anyway… New York! The Big Apple! Everybody’s got a New York story, right? Like it’s a damn pilgrimage you gotta make to prove you’re a fully functioning ‘murican. So, Ronnie has his personal connections to New York, that slab of concrete crammed with eight million other schmucks all trying to get somewhere slightly faster than the next guy.

First up, Bob Dylan! Yeah, Bobby Z. The voice of a generation, a moniker he wisely refused to hold. Voice like a rusty wheel on an outlaw biker’s ride, but hey, you know what they say about the squeaky one! And Ronnie has a deep reverence for Dylan’s impact on the music biz. Over the years Ronnie has cultivated a small garden of his own. Well… not so much in the “business”. Even though he was active as a player in the 1980/90s, he retreated from that merry-go-round in time to ring in the new millennium. No longer playing for money, but not willing to abandon his garden. He’s out there with a tiny little rake and a watering can, growing organic, timeless songs while the bulldozers of pop-country are paving a formulaic paradise next door… in “the biz”.

Anyway, Ronnie retreated from the biz. Got out before some cheap hustler grafted a spiked dog collar on his neck and made him rock out about peach cobbler, or cherry pie, or something equally inane. Meanwhile, in contrast, Dylan, like Ronnie, came from “nowheresville“. But, unlike Ronnie, Bobby Z. made good. You could say he cashed in. Or you could say he wisely avoided J. Edgar Hoover’s death ray at a time of serious danger for influential folks taking contrary views on the war in Vietnam. And Ronnie? Well, he “jumped off the bandwagon in time to raise a couple kids and try to pursue some resemblance of adult career-like activities.” Translation: he chickened out and got a job! A job, folks! That thing you do so you can afford the therapist you need because of your job! But hey, at least he’s got his self-produced records, no autotune, all-natural. Not perfect, in fact, fairly crude. But hey, imperfect authenticity beats sanitized, pitch-corrected pablum any day!

Next up for Ronnie’s New York story! Those goddamn 1970s and 80s TV programs. Oh, the cultural landmarks! “All in the Family” apparently had a big impact. Well, that explains a lot, doesn’t it? His maternal grandad and eldest uncle were “Archie Bunker clones.” Clones! Like they were churned out in some bigot factory in Queens! Provincial, nativist, racist, misogynist… the wholeunenlightened enchilada! The things Ronnie’s Grandpa would say watching ball games on TV would make a PC maven cringe all the way to their socks. We kid you not! Probably stuff that would make Archie Bunker hisowndamnself say, “Whoa, take it easy there, Meathead’s dad!” There’s that. Yeah, but for Ronnie, Saturday Night Live came as a refreshing cool breeze… a tonic for the raging rebel soul!

Then, there’s the mid-2000s. Ronnie and his girlfriend hit the big city! A “whirlwind junket around Gotham.” Five days in Manhattan! Almost enough time to get used to the subway system. Almost! That’s like saying five minutes in a high-school boys’ locker room is almost enough time to get used to the smell! I’ve heard folks say you never get used to the New York subway. Like a mobile petri dish filled to the rim with way too much humanity and the distinct aroma of “what the hell is that?”

They “visited MoMa.” Modern art! Where jaded connoisseurs stare at a red square on a white canvas and go, “Profound!” Yeah, easy money, right? After a good stroll through MoMa, Ronnie and his companion “Sought out culinary treasures.” For some, that would be like paying $30 for a hot dog and calling it “artisanal.” But no, there’s super interesting ethnic fare to discover if you know where to look. Our heroes had an “exotic food on a budget” guide, and it delivered, in spades. They also hiked across the Brooklyn Bridge, a little slice of history. Hey! You can take the boy out of the High Plains, but… Anyway the pair also rode the elevator to the top of the Empire State Building! The observation deck! “Look, sweetie! Tiny little yellow cars full of tiny little schmucks just like us!”

And the highlight: a nighttime 5K around Central Park! Because running in circles in the dark in a city famous for its muggers is just good, clean fun! Nothing like a good dose of adrenaline to pump up your 5K time. And then, the pièce de résistance: Ronnie got yelled at by a Ralph Kramden clone driving a shuttle bus! A shuttle bus! They didn’t have a pass! A pass! For a bus! What is this, Gaza? “Where you from?” the bus driver bellows. Ronnie, thinking he’s clever, says, “Queens?” And the driver, a true scholar of human nature and New York geography, wasn’t buying it! So they had to walk back to the hotel! Oh, the humanity! Trudging through the concrete jungle, probably past a dozen guys selling “I Heart NY” shirts made by children in a sweatshop in a country they can’t pronounce. That’s your New York experience right there!

Finally, Ronnie and Rocinante are hunkered down in Horseheads New York for the writing of this post. Horseheads… central southern New York. Now there’s a name that just rolls off the tongue and lands in a pile of what-the-hell. The story behind it is “somewhat Stephen King-esque.” You might imagine it involving a disgruntled farmer, a cursed field, and a pile of, well, you know. Horseheads! We wouldn’t be surprised if the local football team was called “The Impalers.” Truth isn’t far from all that, by the way. You gotta love a town that just puts the weird right out there on the welcome sign. No pretense, just “Yup, Horseheads. Deal with it.” At least it’s honest, unlike the rest of the current era in the good ol’ U.S. of A.

Ok…

Onward through the fog… RH

In New York City…
You’ll find no pity…
To make it there…
Takes lots of gritty…
But like ol’ Blue Eyes…
In soothing crooner tones…
Make it there…
You’ll make it anywhere.

This Land: Montana

So here we are, a new “This Land” tour motto ringing in our ears: “Ever thus to the best laid plans,” like some cosmic Rodney Dangerfield whispering sweet nothings of misfortune. Or, as Iron Mike Tyson would say, “everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.”

Yessir, Rocinante, our mostly-trusty mount, decided to throw a wobbly right in the heart of Big Sky Country. Talk about a plot twist worthy of a pulp novel! Forget the quaint plan to hug along the northern border till autumn’s cool embrace washes over the central states. We were in Bismarck, North Dakota, staring down the barrel of a Northeast heat wave that could roast a side of beef, when Montana beckoned like a siren song. First stop: Billings. A strip mall Mecca, with Wal Mart to the left and Planet Fitness to the right, and a gloriously semi-shady parking spot (complete with a complimentary grass carpet for Rocinante).

But as the Bard himself might have quipped, a rolling stone gathers no moss, and the siren song of geothermal bliss in Chico lured us onward. The journey was a technicolor blur – us, the befuddled tourists, waltzing through a funhouse of wrong turns, misplaced tickets, and a staff that looked at us like extras from a particularly bizarre reality TV show. But hey, all’s well that ends well, and the mineral pool? Pure, unadulterated bliss.

Bozeman is where we scribbled this dispatch with the ghosts of cowboys and prospectors whispering in our ears. “Oro y Plata,” they rasp, that dusty state motto – a gold-rush relic that speaks of Montana’s glittering past. But Montana’s more than just a bygone era. Here, Native American oral traditions echo through the canyons, while literary giants like Norman Maclean and James Welch spin tales that capture the rugged soul of the place. Forget your fancy bookstores, loopers. The real stories are whispered by the wind and etched in the faces of the locals.

Yellowstone? Sure, it might be Wyoming’s crown jewel, but Montana holds the key to the back door – a secret stash of less-crowded wonderlands for those who know where to look. As for famous Montanans? Think beyond Hollywood. Charles M. Russell, the cowboy artist, paints a truer picture, and Jeannette Rankin, the first woman in Congress, is a testament to Montana’s maverick spirit.

This state’s lifeblood? It pumps to the rhythm of ranching and agriculture, a slow, steady beat that some might find intoxicating, others isolating. Tourism throws a splashy cymbal crash into the mix, a double-edged sword for these close-knit communities. But for the everyday worker? Montana’s a symphony of affordability, a chorus of friendly faces, and an entire concerto dedicated to wide-open spaces and the thrill of self-reliance.

The locals? They’re a rugged bunch, fiercely independent, possessing a deep connection to the land that borders on the spiritual. But don’t be fooled by the gruff exterior. Hospitality here is as vast as the sky, and looking out for one another is the unwritten melody that binds them all.

Of course, no symphony is complete without a discordant note. Isolation can be a haunting melody, opportunities a little thin on the ground, and change? Well, let’s just say some folks prefer the classics. There’s a whisper of a lack of diversity too, and a tension between those who’ve always known this land and those just discovering its charm.

But hey, that’s the beauty of Montana – a land of contradictions, a place where the unexpected throws a monkey wrench into your meticulously planned itinerary, and the soundtrack of your journey is a wild, unpredictable jazz riff played out against a backdrop of breathtaking beauty. Strap in, loopers, because in This Land, you never quite know what the next verse will hold.

And speaking of verses (again, apologies to Woody Guthrie):

It might be cozy…
In Big Sky country…
Sharing campsites…
With tourists bluntly…
And if you can’t swing…
Winter’s fury…
You might want to go ahead…
And move along.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: North Dakota

Ah, North Dakota. Land of horizon-chugging grass-land and enough sky to make a claustrophobic traveler weep with joy. The stretch from Rapid City to Bismarck looked so much like the above image, it’s uncanny. No way could we get driver’s fatigue because it was straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares “Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!” But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void.

The ongoing search for hot springs? Asking around, we learned about Mineral Springs, tucked away in the Sheyenne River State Forest like a secret whispered by the wind. One measly waterfall, that’s all you get. But hey, at least it’s free – the water, that is. You might have to wrestle a badger for a decent towel. Unfortunately, it’s roughly a couple hundred miles out of the way so we took a pass. You see, nighttime temp in Bismarck dipped into the low 40s, and we were prepared for a late spring heat wave. So… we paid a quick personal hygiene visit to the local Planet Fitness, shivering at 5:30am, but then hightailed out of there, lickity-split.

Busking? No, but we did send some practice numbers into the Planet Fitness dressing room.

Famous musicians? Sure… those of a certain age might remember Bobby Vee, Peggy Lee, and Mary Osborne to name a few.

Colleges? Sure, there are a few universities scattered around, public and private, dispensing knowledge like seed corn. But don’t expect any Harvard Yard elitism here. These are institutions built with calloused hands and a no-nonsense spirit. Think less tweed jackets, more Carhartt overalls.

Literary landmarks? Well… North Dakota didn’t raise any Prousts. But there’s a certain stark beauty to the landscape that’s inspired its fair share of poets and novelists (Louis L’Amour anyone?). It’s the kind of place that makes you want to pound out a story on your typewriter with the fury of a possessed prairie dog.

Now, about those North Dakotans… they’re a hardy bunch, shaped by the relentless, brutal winters. They may give you the shirt off their backs (after peeling off a layer or two), but they won’t hesitate to tell you where to shove it if you cross them. We’re told it’s a land of salt-of-the-earth honesty and a deep respect for tradition.

Let’s get down to cases… you’ve seen the Coen Brother’s Oscar-winning movie, Fargo, right? North Dakota winters are enough to make a penguin question life choices. And if you’re looking for excitement, well, you might be better off watching paint dry. But there there is a certain peace to this place, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe and maybe even hear yourself think. We know… we experienced it first hand on the drive to Bismarck from Rapid City.

Famous figures? You might not recognize their names, but North Dakota’s churned out its fair share of tough hombres and pioneering women (Louis L’Amour anyone?). Farmers who coaxed life from the stubborn earth, politicians who fought for what they believed in, everyday heroes who faced down blizzards and droughts with grit.

Lifestyle? For visitors, it’s a chance to disconnect, to shed the city slicker facade and embrace the raw beauty of the Great Plains. For natives, it’s a life built on hard work, community, and a fierce independence. It’s not for everyone, this North Dakota. But for those who find solace in the howl of the wind and the endless expanse of sky, it’s a place to call home.

As for that state motto, well, you can imagine North Dakotans appreciating their liberty as the freedom to leave their porchlight on all night without anyone bothering to steal it. We had to imagine it, because the wet, frigid night and morning made us hot to trot to get the hell outta Bismarck.

Once again… apologies to Woody Guthrie:

In North Dakota…
You got your liberty…
But don’t forget…
Responsibility…
To help each other…
In the face of nature’s wrath…
Now and forever…
We are one!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Nebraska

Greetings, loopers! We find ourselves in the state where the wind whispers secrets through endless fields of corn – Nebraska. A land where the motto, emblazoned on their flag with all the subtlety of a neon sign advertising a discount root canal, screams “Equality Before the Law!” Just like a drunken carnival barker promising a live unicorn.

Our intrepid reportorial team (R.H. and a belly full of cheesy blueberry grits) tracked down Carl Spicher, a librarian in Chadron with the patience of a saint and a reference desk powered by spread-spectrum WiFi. Turns out, Nebraska’s motto stemmed from a bygone era – the Civil War, to be precise – when they removed their “whites only” voting restrictions and welcomed newly emancipated African Americans. Now, emancipation long relegated to the dusty corners of the Dewy Decimal system… Nebraska these days spends more time extolling the virtues of “The Good Life” in their state ads than acknowledging their, shall we say, reluctant progressive past.

Hot Springs: Nebraska’s geothermal spas were recognized by Pawnee and Sioux tribes who used them for healing ceremonies and relaxation. European settlers in the 19th century recognized their therapeutic potential setting up various popular resorts. Victoria Springs State Recreation Area (established in 1925) operates to this day.

Arts: High? More like high school cafeteria food. Low? Now we’re talkin’! Dive bars with murals that would make a sailor blush and performance art that’ll leave you wondering if you accidentally stumbled into a psych ward… glorious!

Colleges: You got your pick of public and private institutions, churning out everything from future astronauts to rodeo champions (because Nebraska, baby!).

Literary Landmarks: Slim pickings here, folks. Unless you consider endless cornfields a metaphor for the crushing emptiness of existence, which some might argue is a valid point.

The Nebraskan Character: A Portrait in Contradictions:
– The Good: Friendly, fiercely independent, and with a work ethic that could shame a pack mule. They’ll give you the shirt off their backs, as long as you don’t mess with their corn or their college football team.
– The Bad: Stubborn as a Missouri mule (apologies to Missouri), suspicious of outsiders, and with a penchant for casserole concoctions that would make a health inspector weep.

Famous Figures: Not exactly a who’s who of Hollywood royalty. But you got Marlon Brando, who chilled in Omaha for a bit, and Johnny Carson, the gold standard for late night TV.

Lifestyle: Visitors? Brace yourself for wide-open spaces, small-town charm (read: everyone knows your business), and enough fried food to clog your arteries faster than you can say “Go Big Red!” Nebraskans themselves? They live the simple life, content with their land, their families, and their Huskers.

Vox Populi: As for that whole “Equality Before the Law” shtick? Let’s just say the opinions range from polite chuckles to outright guffaws. But hey, at least they have an aspirational motto, right?

It’s a land of contradictions, cornfields, and a healthy dose of absurdity. So come on down, y’all! Just don’t expect a Pulitzer Prize-winning literary scene or a red carpet welcome. But if you’re looking for authenticity, a soak in a hot spring, and a chance to experience Americana, uncut and unfiltered, then Nebraska might just surprise the hell out of you.

So… here we go… apologies to Woody Guthrie:

Onward through the fog… R.H.

In the dive bars…
And Nebraska murals…
Creative spirit…
Leans toward surreal…
But in the depth of…
Our nation’s history…
These folks made room…
For the newly free.

This Land: South Dakota

So, we may have to rename this tour… something like, “everyone has a plan…” Chadron, our intended stop for the Nebraska lowdown, turned out to be a charming little berg with a primo park perfect for cranking out the Colorado post. Unfortunately, the town isn’t big enough to hold a Planet Fitness, which meant no cleansing shower for Ronnie Hays. And to top it all off, the rotation appointment we snagged at the local tire emporium wasn’t until the following Monday (this being a lazy Thursday).

Consulting the oracle of Google Maps (Siri’s drunk sister), we discovered that salvation, in the form of a steaming hot shower and a decent workout, resided just over an hour north in Rapid City, South Dakota. Packing up Rocinante, our trusty mount, we pointed her bug-splattered nose towards the promised land.

Rapid City itself is a San Francisco analog, all rolling green hills juxtaposed with crumbling infrastructure and a smattering of contemporary steel and glass. The pièce de résistance? A giant grain elevator, the kind you’d find crumbling away in every Kansas town, sticking out like a sore thumb. But hey, that’s the beauty of the road, right? You gotta roll with the punches, surf ’em like tasty waves.

Speaking of waves, the drive from Chadron to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the Nebraska/SD rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat, punctuated by a playful thunderstorm that kept teasing us with glimpses of blueberry sky between cotton candy clouds generously leaking a steady stream of nature’s universal solvent. Our initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn car wash special.

Now, Chadron beckoned us back on Monday, June 17th, for that all-important tire appointment at 9:00 AM sharp. From there, who knows? North Dakota awaits, then west to Montana or East to Minnesota. One thing’s for sure, though: we’re sticking to the northern border until the prairie convection oven quits treating Rocinante like a sardine can in a microwave.

Ah, South Dakota. Land of majestic, perpetually bored bison and presidents’ faces etched into granite like a celestial dentist appointment gone horribly wrong. The state motto, “Under God the People Rule,” smacks you in the face like a rogue hailstone in a prairie squall – a paradox as clear as a whiskey-induced hallucination. On the one hand, it’s a middle finger salute to the nanny state, a boot-stomping declaration of rugged individualism. On the other, it’s about as subtle as a neon JESUS IS COMING sign plastered across a casino marquee.

Our initial quest for hot springs, fueled by enthusiastic Googling, promised a plethora of public geothermal paradises. However, Siri’s drunk sister, bless her malfunctioning circuits, led us down a path more suited for a scene straight out of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Unmaintained roads, dilapidated farm equipment – the whole shebang. Needless to say, Ronnie Hays decided hightailing it out of there seemed like the most prudent course of action at the time. However, on the return trip, alleluia, the Town of “Hot Springs,” SD was a mere 5-mile diversion. Did we take it…? Derp, waddya think, home slice? Even’s Plunge brought back childhood memories. It seems R.H.’s parents had a similar attraction to these sacred waters. He (R.H.) spent the rest of the morning shuttling between the mineral pool and the bubbling hot baths…!! Voila! Hot Springs beat the busk, and now the busk better get in gear.

You meet the most interesting people in mineral baths, no? We met “Chico Scotty (not his real name),” a retired rescue ranger from the U.S. Forest Service and he described a scene straight out of a fever dream brewed on moonshine and monster movie marathons. Nestled amongst the Pondarosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, he thought he might be in a situation similar to that one where a climber had to cut his own hand off to escape, he (Chico) encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’s ever thumbed through. More on Chico’s adventures later.

Forget the literary landmarks, loopers. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder country, and for some loopers, that’s good enough. Who doesn’t love a good tale of pioneering grit and sunbonnets, right?

And what about that South Dakota character? The good? Friendly folks, as sturdy and dependable as a John Deere tractor. The not-so-good? Let’s just say some mindsets can be a tad… well, stuck in the past.

Lifestyle? For tourists, it’s all about the wide-open spaces, the kitschy attractions (dinosaur and pheasant statues, anyone?), and the feeling of being a million miles from anywhere (which, depending on your perspective, can be a good thing or a bad thing). For natives, it’s a land of self-reliance, hard work, and a fierce sense of community. Sure, the winters can be brutal, but the sunsets are enough to make a preacher slap his mama.

Vox populi: What do South Dakotans say about their state motto? Most chuckle, then offer some variation of “it ain’t perfect, but it’s ours.” There’s a grudging respect for the spirit of self-sufficiency it embodies, even if the government’s idea of “empowerment” sometimes feels more like being shoved headfirst into a vat of scalding hot mineral water. And speaking of mineral water, back to Chico Scotty’s reverse Rescue Ranger forest debacle. 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. Chico thought he had encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. Chico, a man who wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal tremor 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 make a sailor blush. 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 R.Crumb 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, human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole “myth 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.

Back at the ranger station, showered, 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 platoon 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? The legend of Bigfoot lives on, thanks to a ranger with a heart as big as the Crazy Horse monument, and a mouth that, thankfully, knew when to stay shut.

So now… the point. Here’s this Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:

From the Black Hills…
To the rolling prairie…
South Dakota…
Extraordinary…
Pull your boots up…
And leave the legends lie…
These folks are strong…
As mountain stone.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Colorado

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!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Missouri

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.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

This Land: Kansas

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!

Voter’s Poll

LYRIC (political parody to the melody of Shel Silverstein’s “Freakin’ at the Freaker’s Ball“):

Well… we’re goin’ to a voters’ poll… today… it’s your civic toll. And you know… we’ll be counted… on the roll.

C’mon babies… scream and shout… we got the revolutionary clout… we’re gonna throw the bastards out… we’re goin’ to the voters’ poll.

Blow your whistle… bang a gong… take a breath… and sing along… it feels so good… it can’t be wrong… votin’ at the voters’ poll

All the heads and the reds… are standin’ in together… the scooter trash dressed in all kinds of leather… the greatest of the queens and the bible-thumpers too… screamin’ please bless me… and I’ll bless you.

Grungarati… adrenaline junkies… all the straights… are swingin’ with the funkies. Cross the floor… up the wall… votin’ at the voters’ poll… yo… votin’ at the voters’ poll!

Everybody’s bumpin’ each other… patriarchs and single mothers… smear my biscuits up with butter
And take me to the voters’ poll.

Pass that ballot … ring the chimes… you boot yours … i’ll boot mine… i’m gonna straighten up my spine… votin’ at the voters’ poll.

White ones… black ones… Jose and Yang ones. Green and blue and native red ones… the greatest of the dykes and the bible-thumpers too… screamin’ please bless me… and I’ll bless you!

Everybody’s holdin’ their opinions… flooding polling stations by the millions…we’re gonna clear the air that’s stinkin’… votin’ at the voters’ poll… yo… votin’ at the voters’ poll… na na na naaaa… votin’ at the voters’ poll!

Pulp and Ink

In the days of two ought and one…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and one…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and one…
…writin’ news is all i done
Hand me down my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

In the days of two ought and two…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and two…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and two…
… writin’ news is all i do
Hand me down my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

In the days of two ought and three…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and three…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and three…
…writin’s all i cared to be
Hand me down my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

In the days of two ought and four…
– Pulp & Ink!
In the days of two ought and four…
– Pulp & Ink!
Since the days of two ought and four…
…don’t write news any more
Throw away my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

They invented internet…
– Pulp & Ink!
They invented internet…
– Pulp & Ink!
They invented internet…
…now ANYONE can hypertext
Throw away my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

Reach a hundred folks to my one…
– Pulp & Ink!
Reach a thousand folks to my one…
– Pulp & Ink!
Reach ten thousand folks to my one…
…writin’ news it ain’t no fun
Throw away my pulp… my pulp…
…my pulp & ink

Come Ink-Stained Wretch

Loopcircus

Loopcircus

video

This Land: New York

This Land: Montana

This Land: North Dakota

This Land: Nebraska

This Land: South Dakota

This Land: Colorado

This Land: Missouri

This Land: Kansas

Voter’s Poll

Pulp and Ink