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Ode to the Pseudonym:

Listen up, loopers… Ron Rohlf, here, direct from a van down by the river. Now, i’m not normally one to hide behind alias’. Makes a person slippery as a greased piglet. But then again, who doesn’t love a good trainwreck in slow motion, am i right? That first published work, that public debut… sometimes it arrives like a rabid skunk at a church picnic, just pure chaos, confusion, and stank. Better to hide behind a fake name, spare yourself the indignity.

They all did it, the greats: King hawking his twisted tales as that Bachman fella, Rowling conjuring stories under a man’s moniker. Even old Agatha, bless her arsenic-and-lace heart, she dabbled in deception. Like a pack of racoons disguised as respectable bankers, that lot.

Me? Well, i’m an open book, whiskers and all. Hell, i’m a walking contradiction… part raving doomsaying gonzo reporter, part starry-eyed optimist. I’ll bleed into the digital space, blazing like fireworks gone haywire. From the pointless despair of Geisterfahrer syndrome, to my impression of the Rittenhouse acquittal, to the modern “distracted driver” problem, to the note of gratitude for friends and neighbors on the front lines of local civil life, it’s all there (living in the USofA), warts and all.

Yet sometimes, we creators need smokescreens, ways to test the waters without getting scalded. That’s why we play with names, toss ’em out there like fishhooks to see what bites. So, Ronnie Hays, this “Mongrel of the Rueful Countenance” is more a pitstop on this fool’s odyssey than a permanent fixture… a quest to find a bright voice and when that voice rings out, clear and true as a firebell in the dead of night… well, that’s when the mask begins to fade, the freak flag flies, and the wild ride comes into sharper focus.

Till then, stay loopy, my friends.

And to all willing to take the good with the bad, we salute you.

Cheers…

Hot Springs or Busk (chapter VII): Rocinante’s Maiden Voyage

And so, our mongrel of the rueful countenance takes another step closer to his post-retirement vision quest (hot springs or busk). Unlike Don Quixote’s rusty armor, helmet, and spear, he dons camo shorts, Tevas, and Hawaiian shirts blending gloriously with the avocado floor of his newly outfitted camper van. He christened her “Rocinante,” a nod to the famous 17th century novel and a little inside joke to himself. Seemed fitting for a slightly unhinged adventure like this. Luckily he’s traveling with a couple equally bent family members, we’ll call them Dawnareeno and Crazy Carter.

The first stop on Rocinante’s maiden voyage was Colorado Springs, where some savvy outfitters promised to turn Rocinante’s insides into a rolling studio apartment. Ronnie threw caution to the wind and was not disappointed, the outfitters turned the van into a true vagabond sanctuary. While waiting for the workers to finish the job, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, and Crazy Carter took in a few of the local attractions, and while exploring, stumbled upon a vintage motorcycle shop… you know, the one with the cryptic “help wanted” sign in the window. It was practically tailor-made for a gearhead like Crazy Carter, and we all got a chuckle from the words on the sign: “Wanted… mechanic to work on vintage motorcycles. Prefer a retiree with their own tools and plenty of time on their hands.”

Right on time, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, Crazy Carter, and Rocinante tilted towards the plains, bound for their home town where mom still lives (call her Sassy Salgal). Visiting that tiny windswept Western Kansas town made these intrepid travelers feel nostalgic for their flaming youth. But if the wind didn’t shake the vans to pieces that night, well, that would be a minor miracle. It howled like a banshee on a bender, giving their rolling domiciles an unnerving sway that had them contemplating the merits of Dramamine pills.

One more overnight. This time somewhere near the Choctaw Nation, they boondocked in a nearly empty truck stop parking lot, nearly empty because the place had closed for the night in order to upgrade their IT setup. Dinner under the golden arches, then up bright and early for the final stretch to Savannah with its sweet tea, Spanish moss, and symphonies of croaking frogs like drunken choirs of mutant crickets. It was Mother Nature’s lullaby and that night our intrepid travelers slept the sleep of the dead. The frog chorus was as loud as those relentless Kansas winds, which is saying something. Savannah has a ghostly charm, and Ronnie’s travel companions, back in their element, served up a delicious bowl of eggs, grits, and salsa. Just the rib-sticking ticket for the long journey back to Hays America.

A stopping point on the return trip, Nashville, very nearly did him in. The traffic was a biblical swarm of 18-wheelers and urban assault vehicles piloted by rage-filled maniacs who seemed personally offended by the very existence of camper vans. Our hero sweated bullets, the beginnings of a stress ulcer gnawing away in his gut as he navigated potholes big enough to swallow Rocinante whole. Between the craters and the belligerent rat race, he was about ready to cash in his chips and take up residence in a roadside ditch.

But like all things, even Nashville’s particular circle of hell came to an end. St. Louis passed in a blur, then a welcomed ice cream break with his two boys and a special friend in Kansas City, and then… the long, lonely expanse of I-70. The wind returned for one last hurrah, a farewell slap to remind him who was really in charge out on the prairie. Ronnie gritted his teeth, visions of sugar-coated mood gummies and his home bed the only thing keeping him sane.

And then, just like that, there was Hays America again. Rocinante, despite the indignities suffered, pulled into the parking lot with a weary sigh. Ronnie, a little grayer, a little more wrinkled, and sporting a newfound respect for the sheer chaotic power of the American highway, stumbled out. He was home, and damn, if it didn’t feel good. He might not be the world’s greatest adventurer yet, but as he patted Rocinante’s battered side, he grinned. “We’ve only just begun,” he said. There are 50 states in the good ol’ USofA, and Ronnie with Rocinante plans to busk them all then relax in their natural hot springs along the way.

Onward… through the fog!

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter III (the digital nomad)

Ronnie Hays, a name that once sent shivers of social dread down the spines of live-music booking agents, now resides in a tiny-home conversion van resembling the inside of a forgotten gym sock. The air, thick with despair and the lingering aroma of last week’s coconut curry, clings to him like a shroud. His muse, that fickle harlot, abandoned him years ago, leaving a mountain of unfinished lyric sheets and a bank account like the Dead Sea… barren and perpetually below sea level.

Ronnie Hays, his once thick shock of 80s glam-metal hair now a half-bald testament to the ravages of entropy, stares out the grime-encrusted window. The Kanorado prairie, stretches before him like a dirty snow-covered purgatory, its barron fields shrouded in drifting dust and tumbleweeds like floating bramble balloons. The wind, kicking up dust-devils, rustles the plastic cutlery collection he’d lovingly curated from various Chinese takeout establishments… his most valuable non-musical possession, if you discount the half-empty cartridge of Delta9 vape-juice tucked precariously behind the spice rack.

His semi-smart-phone, a relic from a bygone era when booking agents actually called independent singer/songwriters, sat silent in his pocket. It hadn’t rung in months, its silence as deafening as a librarian’s shushing. He pulls it out and checks email and social media, a masochistic ritual, then dials his agent’s number. The recorded message, a cheerful chirp followed by an eternity of elevator music, mocks him. He hangs up, the dial tone a hammer blow to his already fragile ego.

Resignation, a bitter pill he chokes down with each passing day, gnaws at him. The live-music world, once a playground of subversive punk and rebellious noize, had transformed into a funhouse of celebrity beefs and vapid cults of personality. His brand of bleak humor and melancholy, once filled with prescient social commentary, now feels like a dusty gramophone record playing to an audience obsessed with the latest TikTok dance trends.

He slumps onto his bed, the mattress platform groaning in protest. The ceiling, adorned with what could only be described as “abstract water damage art,” seems to mock him as well. Was this it? Was Ronnie Hays, the joker who dared to stare into the abyss and write about it, destined to molder in obscurity, not even a footnote in the margins of music history?

A sardonic chuckle escaped his lips. The absurdity of it all, the cosmic joke at his expense, struck him with sudden clarity. He wasn’t Atlas, shouldering the burden of humanity’s enlightenment. He was Sisyphus, forever condemned to roll the boulder of his obscure discography up the mountain of indifference, only to watch it roll back down each morning.

And then, a strange sense of peace washed over him. The pressure to be relevant, to change the world, evaporated. He was the mongrel of rueful countenance, an earthbound cosmic troubadour, a digital nomad, a seeker of truth in a world obsessed with glittering celebrity. And if the world didn’t want his brand of truth, well, screw ’em. He’d keep writing, not for accolades or validation, but for the sheer ecstatic pleasure of it. He’d be a one-man band, playing his discordant symphony in the dark alleyway of pop culture, content in the knowledge that at least the fireflies appreciated his solo performances.

With a newfound lightness, he fires up the workstation. The vape pen winks encouragingly from its hiding place. Tonight, he’ll not write a masterpiece. He’ll write a farce, an absurdist caricature of the world that continues to ignore him. He’ll laugh in the face of oblivion, sardonic humor his favorite weapon, his obscurity a badge of honor. Ronnie Hays, a digital nomad, is back, and the punchline is on all of us.

Cheers… Loopcircus

PS: This is all we have to say about the socio-economic conditions of Rohlfie’s fictional alter-ego. Stay tuned for the hilarious account of his political/religious schtick… 😜

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter II (mongrel of the rueful countenance)

And so… it’s probably good to get some background out of the way. And whether this public-facing journal features opinion, commentary, straight bald facts, mongrel music, or utterly inexplicable gonzo fiction, it’s important readers/listeners have access to the creator’s ethnic, cultural, socio-economic background, political leanings, as well as religious and/or gender identification. These things should be clear so that, rather than walking on rhetorical eggshells as is the custom these days, we can let our freak-flags fly… let these bare-metal stories/songs live and breathe as we see them. Unbounded by the illusion of disinterested objectivity, let’s pursue what Werner Herzog calls… “Ecstatic Truths.”

And since we’re not in cahoots with a genealogist, nor invested in 23andMe, this particular ancestry reaches back only so far as the late 19th century. It’s a shallow oral history scantly passed down by depression-era grand and great-grandparents. That said, it is an amusing clash of melting pot misfits: Jerrys (Deutsch), Harps (Gaelic), and Brits (English) all mashed together in Uncle Sam’s ethnic stew. Picture this, America: pre-WWI, a land teeming with more immigrant groups than a clown car at a rodeo. Among them, three distinct flavors: Stoic Jerrys, Guinness-swilling Harps, and stiff-upper-lip Brits. Now, imagine them crammed into the stew, a bubbling cauldron promising assimilation but spewing out this mongrel of rueful countenance… the alter-ego, Ronnie Hays.

Anyway, in the pre-war surge, a couple German immigrants (bless their lederhosey hearts) arrived in Pittsburg Kansas having never met in their native city, Bremen Germany. With the efficiency of healthy Volkswagen Beetles, this intrepid couple found a way to thrive in the desolate Kansas prairie. They labored, they brewed, they ooom pa’d with metronome precision. Their industriousness and tireless work-ethic hummed with the ineffable rhythm of Mother Nature’s shifting seasons. A stark contrast with the life and times of one of their sons (we’ll call him “Cool” Carl). Cool Carl moved West, to the gold mines of front-range Colorado, and once these wild-west gold-rush oats were sewn he settled in, built a brick house in the North Denver suburbs and raised a no-nonsense industrial beat-cop turned public works supervisor (call him Grumpalumpagus). This is where the Jerry genes crashed into the U.K. genes. Mr. Grumpalumpagus met and married a U.K. girl from Russell Kansas (we’ll call her Sassy SalGal), and the rest is female emancipation, generation gap, moonshots, hippies, rednecks, Indian uprisings, Viet Nam, race riots, billy clubs, police crackdowns, irreconcilable-differences, and divorce… history.

Add to the 1960s baseball, hot dogs, apple pie, and Chevrolet culture-crisis, a fundamental communication gap between Grumpalumpagus (a Jerry husband) and Sassy SalGal (a U.K. wife) distracted by waves of female emancipation facilitated by the various social safety nets, contraception, and pop-intellectual peer-pressure and you get a three-ring circus of misinterpretations. The Jerry cop’s guttural proclamations insisting women be house servants sent shivers down Sassy SalGal’s back. She might have mistook his alpha pronouncements for some sort of desperate war-of-the-sexes battle cry. The Brit influence in her uttering lyrical oaths under mumbling breath. The playful, but scrappy Harp in her issuing caustic digs like leprechauns on a whiskey rampage. Of course her U.K. sense of sarcastic wit met with bewildered frowns from the Jerry cop, and also alarmed her British father whose clipped pronouncements, delivered as if they were coming from the Queen herself, failed to persuade SalGal back into her pre-emancipation place.

Now… what about our intrepid storyteller and his all-singing-dancing crap-of-the-world alter-ego… this “Yuppytown Refugee?” Well… amid the slapstick of the 1960s and 1970s, something remarkable happened. The Jerry work ethic rubbed off on the Harp’s tendency toward mournful poetry, inspiring our hero to trade brawling for bucking deadlines. The Harp’s infectious penchant for music and storytelling livened up the all-work-no-play grindstone, turning out a somewhat disciplined rueful troubadour with British influence, ever pragmatic, looking for economic potential in this mongrel stew.

Of course, it’s not all work-hard-play-hard and beer. Inner-tensions flare, prejudices fester, and the occasional existential brawl serves as a reminder of the differences that still bubble beneath the surface. But slowly, surely, a new identity emerges, a uniquely American blend of Bratwurst, Guinness, and Monty Python Flying Loopcircus.

Of course…. ch ch ch changes… modern inclusive culture has temporarily ushered him to the sidelines in order to make room for the rainbow character of this remarkable nation. The thing is, none of the normal trappings of acquisitive individualism matters to our mongrel of rueful countenance. The temporary disenfranchisement of white male energy doesn’t bother him at all. And if he can enjoy a few more healthy years for writing, playing, and singing his stories, even if no one is listening, he’s in his element… in need of nothing more.

So, the next time you raise a glass to the American Dream, remember the loopy cultural car crashes somehow managing to forge new soul from fragments of European heritage. It’s not always pretty, it’s not always peaceful, but it has been, and hopefully is still… entertaining.

To list MEMEtic influences would be too long for this posting, but here are a few examples: Kurt Vonnegut‘s irrepressible humor in the face of tragedy, Hunter S. Thompson‘s incisive musical prose, Tom Wolfe‘s wiz-popping use of vivid metaphor, or the entire tower of song mentioned by Leonard Cohen. It’s all part of this grand, messy, beautiful American experiment.

Cheers… Rohlfie

PS: That’s some gene/meme-pool stuff… didn’t get around to socio-economic class, politics, religion, or gender identity. Stay tuned… we’ll get to those things in future postings.

And so… it begins!

Greetings, Loopers…
And great day in the morning!
Finally… a break from that weeks-long taste of Arctic-brisk.

Argh… over it, i am.

Now, as i was shedding the “bearskin-thick” protective layers, it hit me between the eyes. My 65th birthday and exit from the professional treadmill is mere months away. I promised myself in the doldrums of the post-y2k “dot-bomb” that i would, upon retirement, either A.), buy a wind-powered craft and sail the seven seas or B.) obtain a “Prairie Schooner” and roam the earth like Kwai Chang Caine. Well… the time has arrived, and a few hard truths have forced a semi-sudden pivot with the vehicles i’ll use to fulfill this visualization. For one, this middle of everywhere, landlubbin’ flatlander is a horrible candidate for single-handed sailing, and two, the pop-up tent/awning solution i, only last year, acquired for prairie schooning will work only in perfectly temperate zones. So… people i trust were advising i go the “stealth urban camper” route of acquiring a converted cargo van and turning it into a rolling tiny home. So, i started researching turn-key options and came up for air gasping at six-figure price tags… GAHHHH!

Solution? Acquire an empty van as blank canvas (see above), design, and construct the interior myself (project to begin post-haste).

Once that is accomplished… strap in, loopers, because this ain’t your drunk uncle’s road trip. We are professionals… we have “objectives.” This is a 52-week, 48-state odyssey through the heart of American academia, fueled by equal parts French Roast, guitars, and pure, unadulterated curiosity. We’re hitting Hays America’s sister cities… public college towns, mind you, the kind where dorms smell like stale pizza and regret, and the professors are either jaded veterans or wide-eyed grad students with tenure dreams as fragile as a bong hit in a mosh pit.

But hold on, this ain’t just about singing for my supper in college-towns across the nation. It’s also a quest for the literary Grail, a boozy, bookish bacchanal that’ll have us chasing Hemingway’s ghost in Key West, Kerouac’s shadow in Desolation Peak, and Faulkner’s phantom in Oxford, Mississippi. We’ll be spelunking through dusty library stacks, communing with ghosts, and trading wild stories like currency in smoky campus dives.

And when the sun sets on another day on the road, we’ll seek solace in our nation’s natural cathedrals: Yosemite’s granite giants, Yellowstone’s geyser symphony, the Grand Canyon’s mile-deep abyss. We’ll soak our grumpy bones in hidden hot springs, letting the geothermal magic mend our aching glutes and rekindle our wanderlust.

But be warned, this isn’t for the faint of heart. This is a road paved with potholes and detours, populated by characters as colorful as a Thompson-esque fever dream. We’ll encounter campus radicals and redneck renegades, peyote-toting professors and chain-smoking librarians, all with their own stories to tell, their own demons to chase.

So, are you ready, loopers? Ready to trade textbooks for bibles, lecture halls for dive bars, and term papers for loopy podcasts? Then buckle up, grab your Delta8 Vape, and let’s hit the gas on this loopcircus odyssey across the American landscape. We’ll be blogging our descent into madness every step of the way, so stay tuned for dispatches from the fringes, where academia meets anarchy, and the pursuit of knowledge gets a whole lot more interesting.

FOR EXAMPLE: Appalachian Ambiance and Moonshine Melodies

This stop begins in the misty hills of Boone, North Carolina, home to Appalachian State University, a haven for bluegrass pickers and outdoorsy types. We’ll be swapping songs for sammichs, trading Chaucer for cheap moonshine, and getting our Thoreau on in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain. Stay tuned for tales of wildlife encounters, existential campfire chats, and communing with the local legends who call these mountains home.

This is just an example, loopers. We’ve got 47 more states to explore, 48 stories to tell. So keep your eyes peeled, your minds open, and your courage prepped for the mother of all road trips. Because in this loopy odyssey, the only constant is the open road, and the only map we need is a tattered paperback with a dog-eared page for every adventure.

Cheers… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk Chapter I =>

Still on the Line

Well now, loopers, let me spin a little yarn on this snow-day. You see our fair cities, the grand ol’ bergs we call home, they’re not just bricks and mortar, steel and glass. Nope, they are living creatures, grand ol’ critters with heartbeats like thumpin’ bass guitars and nervous systems strung with cat-5 cables and WiFi. And just like all good critters, they’ve got their own little ecosystems, swarms of cells all working together to keep the whole thing humming.

You got your everyday Joes and Janes, artists and accountants, waitresses and truck drivers. They’re the cells, the building blocks of the beast. They hustle and work, carryin’ their little buckets of dreams and anxieties, building families and businesses like honeycombs. They’re the muscle and sinew, the folks who keep the city pumpin’.

Then there’s the organs, the big beaters that keep the whole thing ticking. The hospitals, the schools, the power plants, the fire stations… they’re the lungs and kidneys, the stomach and the brain, churning and processing, keeping the lifeblood flowing. They’re the gears and pulleys, the hidden heroes who make the magic happen.

But here’s the thing, loopers, here’s the rub. We get so caught up in the everyday dance, the hustle and bustle, that we don’t see the real heroes, the white blood cells of the city. I’m talking about the constabularies patroling the streets, the firefighters scaling smoke-choked ladders, the nurses wiping fevered brows, the linemen battling blizzards to keep the lights on. These are the antibodies, the tireless defenders, the ones who dive headfirst into the muck when the storm clouds gather.

They’re the ones who show up when the pipes burst and the sirens wail, when the power flickers and the darkness creeps in. They’re the ones who stand between us and chaos, the protectors and defenders, the angels in scrubs, the silent guardians of our daily bread. They ARE the salt of the earth, the grease that keeps the wheels spinning, the invisible threads that bind us together.

So when we finally emerge from this most recent veil of windblown arctic visitation, let’s take a moment to remember these folks. Give them a nod, a smile, a quiet thank you. They’re the ones who keep the city alive, the ones who hold back the tide, the ones who make sure we can sleep soundly in our beds, knowing someone’s watching over us. They’re the under-appreciated heroes, the quiet champions, the backbone of our living municipalities (especially Jr. High teachers… yes, we see you). And believe me, loopers, they deserve every bit of our gratitude. So let’s give it to them, loud and clear. From the bottom of our collective heart… thank you!

Dear Hubris

You humans squabblin’ there with flags and fists held high… pointin’ fingers… buildin’ walls beneath polluted skies… you think you’re callin’ shots… you masters of the show… let me tell you somethin’… Mother Earth don’t hear your woes.

Burn your dino-fuels… choke the air with smog… carve the mountains open… leave a bleeding bog. Fight your petty wars… spread your hate like weeds. Earth shakes it off… got resilience deep.

You think you’re killin’ her with nukes and plastic waste… but she’s seen worse than you… empires turned to paste. Dinosaurs gone… poof… ice caps came and went. It’s a dance of constant change… a cycle heaven-sent.

So go ahead and frack her dry… let oceans rise and boil… she’ll sprout all new continents… on volcanic fertile soil. Poison every river… turn forests into ash. She’ll just shrug it off… like sprouts in a fiery crash.

Don’t lament the future… though your tears fall like rain. She’ll weather every storm… endure greater pain. Go ahead… rage and fight… throw your puny sprees. She’ll just abide and bide your time as vapid history.

Burn it down… you tiny ants… empires crumble fast. Rebirth will rise from the ashes… the only thing that lasts. With mountains carved by glaciers… oceans vast and blue. She’ll be here… my darlings… when you’re just dust and dew.

So go ahead and blame “others” for your woes. Earth dances on… laughing as your petty drama goes. Forget your gods and demons… your flags and walls so high.

Change is the only constant… beneath the endless sky.

Kanorado Freezeframe

Kanorado Freezeframe

In a cathedral of frost… my boots, skiffs displacing virgin snow, crunch the hushed promise of beginnings. In the days between Christmas and the New Year, festive proclamations of peace and goodwill hang heavy in the air, yet this quiet reverie also thrums with the abyss of rancor and bottomless strife. The Prankster’s Acid-Test, once a rainbow promise, now shimmers with a metallic tang, a reminder of Heaven’s sublime dance with chaos.

And so… beneath this ecstatic surface, the dark melody plays. The white expanse becomes a battleground etched with the scars of faraway Abrahamic conflict, a canvas stained with generations of blood and tears. The echoes of Bethlehem and Calvary bleed into the whispers of jihad and herem, a cacophony of holy war that stretches across millennia.

My relatively carefree steps become a pilgrimage through this frozen labyrinth. Each crunch, a requiem for peace, a prayer for a future where faith isn’t a weapon, where love doesn’t wear the armor of hate. The silence of good fortune, once a haven, now amplifies the cries of fallen multitudes, urging a reckoning, a cleansing flood to wash away the bloodstain of ages.

As i walk deeper into the white embrace, the visions fade, leaving behind a stark clarity. The snow, a baptism of truth, washes away the sugarcoated sermons, the justifications for endless war. This bittersweet echo, a reminder of the fragility of peace in a world consumed by selfish animus.

And i, a pilgrim in this realm of white, carry the weight of both faith and fury. My steps, a testament to the long arc of justice, where holy fires stay home, where love’s ecstatic whirl upstages drums of war. In this winter cathedral, i dance with the ghosts of angels and demons, a testament to the omnipresent struggle for a world where peace isn’t just a Christmas platitude, but a lived reality.