Americana

The Chool Bus (ch31)

CHAPTER 31: Focus group interviews complete at Central New Mexico Community College. The gang gears up for a full day on the Embudito Trail. This time Buck won’t have to carry Professor T on his back…hopefully.

The interview participants were gone for the day, and with that, the Forks were free to plan the next day’s trek on the Embudito Trail. Professor T wanted to break the new shoes in a little before putting them to the test, so as Jack busied himself documenting the last sessions and getting them uploaded to the cloud, Mork disappeared to a nearby park for a few laps getting a feel for the new shoes.

Billie and Buck were searching for some New Mexico trivia to spice up conversations over dinner.

“I wonder why anyone would choose to live here on purpose?” said Buck. Seriously, i remember a family trip when i was nine or ten. Dad wanted us to see Carlsbad Caverns, so we drove all the way from Corpus Christi in one shot, rented a room nearby then spent the day exploring. I recall never being so impressed with Mother Nature’s wonder than the sight of the ‘Big Dome.’ Truly incredible.” Buck took a luke-warm sip from the vending-machine soda he’d gotten before the last session and went on. “But as amazing as the caverns are, the bleak landscape we had to cross to get there…shrubs and stubby mesquite bushes, dirt, dirt, and wind-blown dirt. Every once in a while, Dollar General, windshield repair shops, then some more wind-blown dirt, mesquite bushes, shrubs, and more dirt. And this was the good stuff. Apparently, the locals hadn’t seen that public service announcement with the Native American shedding a tear over the roadside litter, because there was trash, trash, and more trash in the ditches. Hell, i think that made me sad enough to cry.”

“You gotta be kidding, Buck,” Billie was incredulous. “You don’t see that kind of carelessness in Kansas or Colorado. In fact, i think you could get yourself killed doing that kind of thing in our neck of the woods…especially in the mountains. Kanoradians are proud of nature’s beauty.” She shrugged, barely smiling. “I remember seeing those ads…we haven’t had a litter problem since.”

“Anyway, New Mexico is nothing if not a land of contrasts.” Buck wanted to veer away from the depressing stuff. “Have you ever been to Santa Fe or Taos?”

“No,” said Billie. “But i’m a Georgia O’Keefe fan for sure.”

Buck chuckled. “I’m familiar, but i don’t understand the fuss. After all, sometimes a rose is just a rose.”

Billie had to suppress a belly laugh. “And sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.” They seemed to be on the same page about art. “I’ve heard people talk about life in that part of New Mexico, laid-back with lots of hippies.”

“Cowboys, too,” said Buck. “In fact, Henry McCarty went bad in Silver City foster homes.”

“Henry McCarty?” Billie had never heard that name.

“Yeah,” said Buck. “After a jailbreak and a fatal encounter with a blacksmith and some horse theivin’ he went by the ‘Kid’ handle. He wasn’t Billy the Kid till the tabloids of the day immortalized him in print long after his death. But there ya go. New Mexico claims him.”

With Jack finishing up and Billie and Buck’s conversation ongoing, Professor T returned to the Bus with a wide grin.

“These shoes will do just fine,” said Professor T. And after a restful night’s slumber, the gang made their way to the local pancake house for a hearty breakfast, then on to the Embudito trailhead at the foot of the Sandia Mountains.

A perfect day for hiking and also a perfect day to learn about Albuquerque’s parking lot speed-bumps. On the way out of the pancake house, Billie missed the cue and the jolt sent everyone toward the Bus’ ceiling. Billie and Buck were strapped in but Jack and Mork crashed knees into the galley table…hilarious. Though no one was hurt and the driver-side fan that Billie had been meaning to fix since California started working again, she’ll never underestimate another speed bump…lesson learned.

So, on the road East, the gang was evenly split on whether to pass through artsy Taos, nerdy Roswell/White Sands, or skip the touristy diversions and continue on Historic Route 66 to their next focus-group destination, Oklahoma State University in Stillwater.

What to do? What to do?

“After all, Taos offers a confluence of culture and nature, a vibrant artistic community,” said Professor T. “Roswell… well, that’s just a tourist trap for people who want to believe in aliens. Do you think it coincidental that Roswell is so near the White Sands proving-ground for military and rocketry research?”

“Hmmm,” Billie was intrigued.

“That’s rich coming from a guy who couldn’t account for a middle-age foot spread,” said Jack. “Taos is for artists and hippies, Professor. People who paint pictures of rocks and write poems about the moon. Roswell is for real Americans. People who are willing to face the unknown, and maybe find some alien technologies to beat the Soviets.”

“Oh snap!” said Billie, sometimes Mork and Jack would get carried away with their debates. Years on the road tends to expand the boundaries of polite conversation.

Buck was starting to worry about these guys.

“Yes, the great American spirit of curiosity,” said Professor T. “Which, in your case, seems to be limited to finding a better way to beat a mule. And by ‘beat a mule,’ i mean, of course, finding a new and improved method for being a hee-honking jackass.” Professor T was personally invested in Taos, and Billie wondered if there was a former girlfriend there or something.

“Wait a second,” said Jack. “I think I know why you want to go to Taos. It’s because you’re a sensitive soul. You like to write lyrical poetry and look at pictures of sunsets. You’re probably one of those guys who thinks that the universe is talking to you.”

“Actually, i do believe that the universe is talking to me. It’s saying, ‘Jack Dean is an idiot.’ Please stop him before he rubs his ‘all et up with the dumbass’ all over these young impressionables.”

“Young? Ah, how nice of you to say so,” Billie blushed. “How about a compromise? We can get our touristy impulse fed by experiencing eight more hours of Americana on Route 66, we can feed Professor T’s intellectual curiosity by visiting pipeline central in Cushing Oklahoma, then Jack’s conspiracy bug with a visit to the site of ‘Black Wall Street’ in Tulsa. After that, we’ll probably need a powerful steam shower, or maybe an all-day soak in one of those Arkansas hot spring complexes.

Jack and Professor T decided to yield to Billie’s logic. “Well, Mork, i guess it’s six of one, half-dozen of the other. Billi’s got a point. You can feed your sensitive soul some other time in Georgia O’Keeffe’s stomping grounds.”

“Don’t forget the roses,” chuckled Buck.

“And the cigars,” snickered Billie.

With that, Billie pointed the Chool Bus toward Tucumcari by way of Santa Rosa… Route 66 or bust!

NEXT WEEK:
The gang conducts interviews at Oklahoma State University before venturing into hot spring paradise/pot-hole central, Arkansas.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

The Chool Bus (ch30)

CHAPTER 30: Professor T wastes no time taking another stab at acquiring comfortable hiking boots. Next stop, Albuquerque. Focus group interviews at Central New Mexico Community College (CNM), after which the gang takes another swing at nature trekking on the Embudito Trail.

The gang was running ahead of schedule so Professor T was anxious to consult a real outdoor footwear specialist once the bus rolled into Albuquerque. But it was a nearly six hour journey from Williams on Interstate 40/Historic Route 66. And since they weren’t pressed for time, the gang wanted to do some touristy stuff en route. Of course, Billie wanted to see if anyone was driving a flat-bed Ford slowin’ down to take a look at someone standing on the corner in Winslow Arizona. But like the Dude in The Big Lebowski, if she had to pick something from the Classic Rock canon, it would be Creedence.

Truth told, she doesn’t really hate the Eagles like “The Dude,” she considered all that noise so much fake controversy, anyway…just marketing noise. Grunge-Metal is her grindstone, and hard-core Grunge started as a rejection of the pabulum corporate A&R people were pushing on radio and MTV’s “heavy rotation”…mostly vapid, soulless “Hair Metal.”

“Besides,” said Billie. “When you get down to brass tacks, ‘Take it Easy’ is Jackson Browne’s song.” Billie plays the tough-as-nails Grunge Queen to a tee, but among friends she’ll confess to having loved Jackson’s early work, as well as the social commentary that came later…Lawyers in Love, Information War, Barricades of Heaven. “Good stuff,” said Billie. “Not entirely unlike the social commentary of punk bands like Green day and The Clash.”

***

Jack was more interested in seeing some retro sights, so the gang decided to stop at an Indian Market on the Continental Divide for some photos and trinkets. Once back on the road, Billie dialed her music playlist to those early country-rock, classic Americana tunes. Starting with those gorgeous duets by Graham Parsons and Emmylou Harris. Buck was aware of Parsons’ early influence on the Americana genre, but had never really listened to those deep cuts. So, Billie and Buck settled into a quiet reverie in the pilot and co-pilot seats of the Chool Bus.

Back in the galley area, Professor T and Jack were at it again. This time, inspired by their interaction with the local natives…the topic was Immigration.

“How can we justify considering ANYONE illegal on land taken away from their ancestors by force?” Jack was taking Professor T to the task of defending the trail of tears leading to euro-honkey hegemony in the USA.

“Well,” Professor T assumed a somber countenance formulating his response. See, Mork and Jack were constantly flexing their rhetorical muscles, each using the other as a sounding board…a form of mental practice. Sort of like chess, but with ideas and words. “Europe was getting crowded and opportunities for building wealth was growing scarce. The news of boundless land and natural resources coming from North America was presenting a tempting brass ring to grab. Very sexy,” said Professor T. “And since Europeans were in possession of better technology for prevailing in armed conflict, i guess their dominance could have been considered inevitable.”

“But, the indigenous people were handicapped by a different relationship with the land,” said Jack. “More like co-existence, with the concept of ‘ownership’ being an unthinkable proposition.”

“Yes but, over the centuries, euro-honkeys had developed a conquer and rule modus operendi. And once it became apparent who had the sharpest knives, the most soldiers, and an iron-will to commit outrage against those daring to challenge, they became dominant. They made the rules, and they enforced those rules with the promise of ruthless violence.” Professor T felt he was on the losing end of this discussion. He considered the current movement toward branding indigenous and Latino people “illegal” patently absurd.

“I guess it comes down to which philosophy is better suited for dominance, and the euro-honkeys had it,” said Professor T. You may not like the result, but it’s important to recognize the fundamental mistake made by indigenous tribes.” He shrugged, and continued. “Had they understood the inevitable dominance of the euro way of social organization, they could have learned to play that game while preserving religious and cultural traditions within a ‘fenced-in honkey world.’” None of it was ‘inevitable’ at the time. Remember, the Whites had to negotiate with each other over how to grow crops, manage livestock, and co-exist near population centers. Many of those negotiations done at the barrel of guns.”

Jack was appalled at a sense of entitlement the recent Christian Nationalist/White Supremacist movement was conducting themselves. “I just don’t think it’s sustainable,” said Jack. They can’t justify ruling such a diverse nation from a theocratic platform. Isn’t this what they are fighting with the Muslims about? And the idea of building a wall to keep out people originally displaced by White Supremacist ancestors is laughably absurd. We have to get back to honoring diversity. We can never accomplish a pure white ethno-state…not here.”

“Well, they’re gonna give it the ol’ college try, it seems,” said Professor T. And that conflict is ramping up to fever-pitch as we speak. The folks favoring good ol’ euro-honkey hegemony have recognized demographic vicissitudes were heading toward something they call, ‘The Great Replacement.’ Where a nation dominated by whites for two-hundred-ish years was heading toward an organic inversion. White couples having fewer if any children; brown Christians and Muslims being ‘fruitful’ like gang-busters; and the folks down south, the ones displaced by land wars, have been returning like homing pigeons. And unlike the proud North American Warrior-Tribes of the 19th Century,’ these folks learned to coexist alongside the whites, signing up for jobs the entitled honkeys didn’t want to do. Not to mention the rainbow wave of others from around the world applying for citizenship to this teeming ‘land of boot-strap opportunity’ with their relentless work-ethic and professional credentials.”

Jack shook his head, sadly. “We could choose to welcome and assimilate them in our uniquely diverse stew,” said Jack. “Instead, we’re trying to deport ALL of them, then keep them out with legal and literal freaking walls? This is crazy, and not sustainable!”

Professor T pondered Jack’s “unsustainable” argument, then put on his “devil’s advocate” hat and plowed right in. “You know, multiculturalism was never going to work. It’s an inherent vulnerability as other multi-ethnic states have faced social fragmentation, lower civic trust, and heightened tribal conflict.”

“As we are seeing now,” said Jack. “But it seems the only tribe at war is the white ethno-nationalist euro-honkey tribe. I’m not sure we can count their declared self-fulfilling prophecy as a worthy one.”

Professor T was testing the tensile strength of his debater’s resolution skills. “But there are social thought leaders with direct access to the White House asserting non-Western immigrants can’t assimilate into American civic life. They conclude physical removal is the only tenable solution to preserve cultural norms. ‘Look at all the innocent victims of crime perpetrated by illegals,’ they say. ‘It’s an invasion, and we have to remove them in order to preserve fundamental national sovereignty.’ ‘Besides,’ they declare, ‘we’re merely enforcing laws previous administrations were too cowardly to do themselves. Total deportation is simply the literal enforcement of existing immigration law.’”

Jack was starting to feel like he needed a shower. “Well, that kind of thinking may have friends in the White House, but i suspect there’ll be a total dismantling of these draconian measures once current occupants are replaced by the democratic will of our nation’s formerly sleepy majority.”

“We’ll have to pick this up later,” said Professor T. There’s the gettin’ place!” Billie was steering the Bus into the parking lot. “I’m going to retire my cruel shoes for a less agonizing experience on the Embudito Trail.”

NEXT WEEK:
Focus group interviews completed at Central New Mexico Community College and the gang gears up for a full day on the Embudito Trail. This time Buck won’t have to carry Professor T on his back…hopefully.

GO BACK => Preface and Chapter Links

Audiovision: Damn Hippies

The air above Bethel New York, on that muggy June afternoon, hung thick and viscous like raw maple syrup, but with a distinct, cloying undertone that set Roland’s teeth on edge. It wasn’t the sweet, innocent scent of verdant fields or the faint, hopeful whisper of a summer breeze. No, this was the unmistakable, unholy reek of patchouli – a pungent olfactory assault, clinging to the very molecules of the atmosphere like desperate, unwashed barnacles. Roland, a man whose befuddlement had, with each passing year, calcified into a semi-permanent state of bewildered indignation, felt a familiar tremor of primal loathing course through his very soul. He’d embraced post-hippie Americana with the zeal of a Trappist Monk. Glad to have purged himself of the “Happy Days” and “Leave It to Beaver” plastic conformity and suburban blandness. But a patchouli come-back? That was a bridge too far, a community sensory violation of the highest order.

Roland was on break from managing a fairly obscure death metal band on tour (hey, it’s a living). And since the band’s last stop was near Bethel, New York, he was on a pilgrimage of sorts to the hallowed, if now slightly commercialized, grounds of Woodstock. He walked with the determined, slightly off-kilter gait of his youth hero, Raul Duke (Hunter S. Thompson’s alter-ego)… his mind a furious, churning maelstrom of conflicting philosophies. He’d always championed the counter-culture’s crowning achievement: calling bullshit on the whole ghastly charade of using deadly force as the default geopolitical negotiation tool, specifically, the War in Vietnam. By God, those flower children had a point! Turning teenagers into stone-cold killers, risking life and limb for some phantom anti-socialism cause, all before they could even vote or legally drink a damn beer! That, he understood. That, he respected.

But then, the mutation. The festering, unholy blight that had slithered out of the psychedelic garden and into the crisp, digital air of the 21st century. The same crunchy-granola crowd, now with eyes glazed over by YouTube algorithms and a disturbing reliance on memes as verifiable truth, had morphed into the right-wing, conspiracy-obsessed, anti-vax movement. And that was Roland’s personal hell. That was the unholy alliance of utopian delusion and outright, fact-averse idiocy that made his blood boil like a forgotten stew on a low flame. He, Roland, the man who couldn’t fathom anyone seriously considering themselves “researchers” simply because they’d skimmed a few vax-skeptical tracts, was now face-to-face with the horrifying reality: formerly eradicated diseases, like Polio, was threatening a triumphant, macabre return.

Polio, for God’s sake!

His internal monologue was abruptly shattered by a voice, strained and vibrating with the nervous energy of a hyperactive squirrel on a double espresso. “Hey, brother! You feelin’ the energy of this place, man?” The voice got even more strident, “…the REAL energy… not what THEY want you to feel!”

Roland turned, his gaze falling upon a figure that looked like a bad acid trip had decided to grow a beard and buy a t-shirt that screamed, in distressed, tie-dyed font: “TRUST YOUR GUT, NOT BIG PHARMA!” The man was a former hippie, no doubt, but the peace-sign tattoo on his leathery forearm seemed to twitch with a manic, Meth-fueled intensity. His eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, darted around like desperate moths trapped in a jar, and strapped on his shoulder was a woven, multi-colored man-purse, embellished with some vaguely occult symbols. The patchouli, Roland realized with a fresh wave of nausea, was emanating directly from him. A walking, talking, perfumed monument to everything that had gone wrong.

“Excuse me?” Roland managed, his voice a tight, strangled rasp.

“The mandating, man,” the QAnonner railed practically vibrating with indignation. “They want to mandate our very bodies! The CDC, man, they’re just puppets for the globalists! It’s all connected! The RONA, the ‘vaccines’—” He leaned in conspiratorially, his breath, thankfully, less patchouli and more stale coffee and weed. “—it’s a control mechanism! A depopulation agenda! Do your own research!”

“Do my own research?!” Roland exploded, his composure shattering like a cheap vase dropped from a great height. His face, already a patchwork of indignation and bewilderment, now mottled to a furious shade of beet-red. “My ‘research’ involved listening to doctors, to scientists! Not some basement dweller with a Wi-Fi connection and a penchant for YouTube conspiracy theories! What about Polio? What about the millions who’ve died from ‘the RONA’ while you’re babbling about ‘control mechanisms’ and ‘depopulation agendas’?” He was fuming, a human pressure cooker teetering on the brink of catastrophic breach. The audacity! The sheer, unadulterated stupidity of politicizing public health, of weaponizing fear against the very tools designed to protect us! This was no longer about geopolitical chess games; this was about basic, communal survival! Roland was teetering on the precipice of falling into a sort of “Incredible Hulk” rage. He was on the verge of running amok.

The QAnonner, startled by Roland’s sudden eruption, recoiled slightly, then squared his shoulders, a glint of self-righteous fury in his meth-charged eyes. “You’re a sheeple, man! Blinded by the mainstream narrative! You just follow what they tell you, like good little consumers! The truth is out there, man, but you gotta open your third eye—”

That was it. The straw that broke the camel’s back, then stomped on it, then set it on fire. The “third eye” drivel, the smarmy condescension, the reek of patchouli – it all coalesced into a single, unbearable affront. Roland’s hand, almost independently, shot out like a startled cobra, snagging the QAnonner’s flimsy man-purse. The man yelped, a high-pitched squeak of surprise, as Roland yanked him closer, fumbling with his other hand into the deep pocket of his cargo shorts.

It was a Keystone Cops moment of pure, unadulterated slapstick. Roland’s fingers scrabbled, missing the canister once, then twice, before finally wrapping around the cool, metallic cylinder. The QAnonner, still yelping, tugged at his man-purse, an absurd tug-of-war unfolding on the very ground where Hendrix once wailed. Then, with a decisive grunt and a theatrical flourish, Roland aimed the nozzle.

Pssssshhhhhhhht!

A thick, orange cloud erupted, engulfing the QAnonner’s face. He shrieked, a sound that could curdle milk, his hands flying up to his eyes. He stumbled backward, tripping over his own Crocs, performing an impromptu, flailing dance of agony and confusion. He spun around, arms windmilling, looking for all the world like a psychedelic dervish suddenly possessed by a swarm of angry bees. He crashed to the ground in a heap, kicking and gasping, his protests dissolving into a series of moaning gurgles.

Roland stood there, breathing heavily, the pepper spray canister still clutched in his hand. A thin sheen of sweat beaded on his forehead, but a strange, savage satisfaction bloomed in his chest. “Go home,” he rasped, his voice hoarse but firm. “Go home, and reevaluate your damn life choices. And for God’s sake, take a shower. And burn that goddamn patchouli.”

The irony wasn’t lost on him, even in his befuddled state. He, Roland the Roadie, who applauded the youth of ’69 for standing against forced participation in global carnage, had just used a weapon designed to hurt other lifeforms, on a man who once probably preached peace and love. But this wasn’t about bullets or bombs; this was about basic, societal survival, about the return of ancient scourges, ushered in by the very spirit of individual enlightenment gone horribly, batshit crazy wrong. And sometimes, even a bumbling tired death metal tour manager had to put down the decibel meter and pick up the pepper spray.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XI (plotting a course)

Picture this, America: some aging fool and his four-wheeled testament to stubbornness, baptized “Rocinante” for that same delusional optimism. Me? I’m trading academe for the wide-open spaces, tilting at the broadcast towers of mainstream media following a loose spine of favorable climates and college towns across these 48 states.

You see, I’ve got this itch. This notion that the true pulse of America isn’t in corporate board rooms or the marbled halls of power, but in the sticky floors of dive bars, the sun-baked town squares, and the yawning lecture halls of universities. So, Rocinante and i, we’re on a quest.

First things first, a man can’t get to the heart of the American Dream on an empty stomach. In each town, the routine is honed with a survivalist’s focus: hygiene out of the way (gyms, truck stops, even the occasional river bath for that true hobo chic), laundry refreshed, and Rocinante’s belly restocked with fuel and provisions. Local libraries become my sanctum – free internet, musty books, a whiff of intellectualism to ward off the creeping road madness.

Then, the hunt begins. I stalk state facts like a cornered possum, armed with Wikipedia and an unhealthy obsession with the bizarre and overlooked. Then it’s into the fray! I corner unsuspecting locals, less like an intrepid reporter and more like a stray dog sniffing out dinner.

“What’s your state motto?” I’ll ask, eyes gleaming with the zeal of a half-crazed Jeremiah. Then the real fun – listening as they fumble, praise, or outright despise those hallowed words. This, loopers, is raw, unfiltered Americana that no cable pundit can manufacture. It gets distilled into my loopy travel-blog dispatches over whatever questionable Wi-Fi i can scrounge.

College campuses – they’re the petri dishes of society, bubbling with idealism, hormones, and all that youthful angst. If there’s unrest brewing, Ronnie Hays has a front-row seat. Not to incite riots, but to chronicle the messy, beautiful chaos of young minds at war with a world that doesn’t seem to give two spits.

Now, this land, it sings to me. Woody Guthrie’s ghost haunts my guitar case. In each state, i’ll pen my own crooked verse of “This Land is Your Land,” a wind-whipped, low-fi ode to the cracked highways and resilient souls i find. Welcome signs become my stage, YouTube my tin-can amplifier.

Planning ain’t my strong suit. Half the joy is in the detours. But hot springs? Oh, sweet geothermal bliss. i’ll soak these old bones till they’re soft as a boiled noodle, conjuring up the ghosts of grizzled prospectors and bathing beauties while i fend off mosquitoes.

To fund this glorious mess, a little busking. My luting skills ain’t Carnegie Hall material, but it’ll buy a burger, or at least a sympathetic chuckle from passersby.

And so, it begins. A year under the vast American sky, a tin can Don Quixote fueled by French roast and stubborn hope. Expect tales of barroom philosophers, off-grid eccentrics, and everyday folks grappling with the beautiful, broken heart of this country. Expect a whole lotta nonsense, a dash of truth, and maybe, just maybe, a sliver of understanding about this glorious, maddening, never-ending experiment called America.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Loopcircus