busking

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XVII (ready or not)

“What we know is a drop…
What we don’t know is the ocean.” ~ Isaac Newton

I tried… i really tried. Or maybe i’m adjusting to life’s inevitable curveballs scrambling the perfect symmetry of my best laid plan. You know, the one where i, knight-errant in a rolling studio apartment christened Rocinante, traversing the 48 contiguous states. The noble quest? To get my arms around the “fibrillating heart of our divided nation“. To get these insights from whomever in these sleepy college towns might be willing to spend five minutes with a weirdo packing a guitar and a head full of questions.

But fate, that fickle wench, had other plans. First, it was the librarians. Pale, overworked automatons shuffling through Dewey decimals, with nary a moment to spare for philosophical pontificating on state mottos. Was it time constraints, or a gut-wrenching fear of my “political agenda”? And don’t get me started on the chilling possibility that the modern anti-intellectualism plague has seeped its tendrils into the heartland’s libraries! The horror! I quickly concluded my approach was to blame. I mean, c’mon, what the hell is this all about?

Then came the body blows: Rocinante’s innards failing like a politician’s promise, and a Utah road pebble punching a hole in our windshield. The Hot Springs or Busk mission – a symphony of soaking in geothermal glory and serenading the masses for petty cash – lay in tatters. Sure, the Dakotas and Wyoming soothed my travel-weary soul with their natural mineral baths, but that dream’s on hold till the autumn chill sets in. And busking? That one never even sprouted wings. Turns out, maintaining personal hygiene on the road, wrestling with writer’s block, acquiring provisions, and figuring out where to sleep takes up most of a day.

But here’s the kicker, loopers. The world’s gone batty, and burying my head in the sand just ain’t gonna cut it anymore. “Project 2025” leaked like a sieve, painting a dystopian portrait of a second Trumpian reign that’d make Orwell blush. And don’t even get me started on the assassination attempt – the twisted pandora’s box exposing an unholy alliance of theocratic nutjobs, techie snake-oil salesmen, and white-bread racists all marching in lockstep toward MAGA-land.

This, loopers, is where Rocinante and i draw a line in the sand. It’s time to stand up, or at least yell obscenities at the oncoming storm, in defense of the freaking democratic republic our forefathers sweat blood to build. This ain’t some pre-packaged travelogue anymore, folks. This is a gonzo odyssey hurtling towards a cliffhanger ending November, 2024, and the stakes couldn’t be higher.

Let me establish some bona fides, loopers. It was 1993, the Jurassic period of the internet, when i, a late-blooming recently reformed rock-n-roll wannabe made his way to the meticulously landscaped limestone campus of Fort Hays State University. At this frontier outpost, i stumbled upon a great tech-fueled human awakening. The era, mind you, when dial-up modems whined their mating calls, and the internet itself resided in a fluorescent-lit dungeon called the “computing center” – a place that would make a Kafka setting look like some cheerful dentist’s waiting room.

There, on a terminal that resembled a torture device from a B-movie, i logged onto a primordial internet, a MUD (multi-user dungeon) teeming with virtual spelunkers from across the globe. It was like falling into a rabbit hole populated by Aussies, Brits, and basement-dwelling samurai – a world where geography dissolved like a bad acid trip.

Intrigued (and maybe a little scared), i embarked on a quest to understand this beast. I traded my dog-eared textbooks for a master’s degree in the field of “communication studies,” focusing on the particular learning styles of these early internet adopters. As the web blossomed (or maybe more accurately, sprouted like a particularly virulent fungus), so did my career. I landed in academia, a Don Quixote tilting at windmills of ignorance, determined to share this newfound curiosity.

Ah, but this paradise wasn’t built for everyone. Back then, computing power was the exclusive domain of pocket-protected engineers and those with the social graces of an abacus. The average digital apprentice, like myself, had two options: learn the arcane language of coding, a feat akin to deciphering ancient Sumerian, or grovel before the high priests of computer science. And for what reward? The dubious honor of navigating a buggy wasteland of productivity tools resembling a drunken Rube Goldberg contraption. The “graphical user interface” revolution, if you can call it that, was just another layer of lipstick on this technological pig.

Before the internet, navigating the marketplace of ideas meant a pilgrimage to the library, that mausoleum of knowledge and arcanery. You either wrestled with the Dewey Decimal System, a logic puzzle designed by Satan himself, or relied on the benevolence of the librarians, those gatekeepers of the pulp-n-ink media. The contrast between the Dark Ages of ’78 and the digital supernova of 2024 is enough to make your head spin.

Now, we drown in a tsunami of technological pronouncements – quantum computing, designer DNA, the ever-present threat of Skynet. But fear not, loopers, for even as we stand on the precipice of a technological singularity, nearly half the population still believes the Earth is flat and six thousand years old. We are a nation of flickering attention spans, perpetually distracted by the digital fireflies flitting across our screens – a society of shuffling zombies, hypnotized by the glow of our handheld gods, and there will be a reckoning… oh yea.

Look, i’m no Luddite. Here i am, hunched over a keyboard in the merciful silence of the library, instead of downing near-beer and swapping healthcare stories at the Bingo Hall. The digital siren song is hard to resist. But where’s the master plan in all this? Who’s steering this chrome chariot hurtling towards who-knows-where? It feels like a rigged game, doesn’t it? The puppet masters, these billionaire Übermenschen, dangle their techno-baubles in front of us, content to keep the masses hypnotized. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it’s just economics, not some grand conspiracy. After all, we don’t wanna give spoiled, marginally-competent “self-made” trust-fund babies too much credit, right?

Anyway, we stand at a crossroads, teetering on the edge of a technological revolution. The chaos around us is a symptom of our collective unpreparedness. Let’s arm ourselves with knowledge, not just the latest gadgets. The future is ours to shape, but only if we wrest control from the digital puppeteers and use this power wisely. After all, wouldn’t you rather be the architect than another brick in the wall?

Either way, we’re in a heap of trouble. The gap between the haves and have-nots is wider than the Grand Canyon on a bad acid trip. We’re hurtling towards a technological future with all the grace of a drunken walrus on roller skates. What’s the answer? Jeezus! Who knows…? If i had the answers my dispatches wouldn’t live in an obscure blog no more discernable than a needle in the galaxy of obscurity. I’d be one of the puppet masters, right? There would be publicists, and media tours, and wardrobe people, personal trainers, financial advisors, domestic services staff, etc..

So, assuming my guess is as good as anyone with comparable bona fides, consider this: What if we were to pump our educational systems full of digital steroids, create a generation of media-savvy citizens who can think critically, not just parrot the latest pronouncements from Silicon Valley snake-oil salesmen? Also… maybe leave the religious dogma to Sunday schools.

Whatever we decide to do, it’s time to stop worshipping false idols (as seen in the 10 Commandments) and reclaim our rightful place as that shining pluralistic city on the hill. Let’s stop vilifying intelligence, but celebrate it. From there, maybe we really CAN … Make Humanity Great Again.

Ok… enough for now. Stay tuned for a reverse “red-pill” treatment… we’ll flip the whole “Cathedral” of the neo-liberal “deep-state” on it’s head. We’ll restate The Who’s pithy observation from their anthem, Won’t Get Fooled Again…

“Meet the new boss… same as the old boss.” ~ PT

Be well…
Be sane…
Good luck…
Pay it forward…

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XII (gear up)

So, i’m about to embark on a 48-state odyssey, a soul-searching safari through the busking back alleys and dive bar stages of this fragmented nation. It’s equal parts Jack Kerouac’s road trip fever dream and John Steinbeck’s Dust Bowl desperation, with a healthy dose of Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzoid paranoia thrown in for good measure. But unlike those literary giants, i gotta make this whole operation mobile and self-sufficient. Buckle up, buttercup, because this ain’t your daddy’s garage band tour.

First up, the performance arsenal. Picture a traveling minstrel’s grand-slam menu – a trusty ax (a Martin cutaway dreadnaught) and a simple throne for belting out ballads of pathos. But there’s more to this minstrel show than meets the eye. I’ve got a Fender amp the size of a teacup poodle with built-in effects processing, putting the power of a mini-concert at my fingertips. And for the classier gigs (if such things exist for a homeless troubadour), a JBL PA system that rises like a sonic cobra ready to unleash a shimmering monsoon upon an unsuspecting happy hour.

All this wonderful noise requires some serious behind-the-scenes wrangling. Enter the trusty dude bag, a bottomless pit of cables and connectors that would make MacGyver wink and smile. It’s got enough three-pin grounded XLR to rewire Las Vegas and enough adapters to plug into a Lalapalooza (if those still exist). Rosinante, my trusty Ford Transit decked out with the “Wilma” package (thanks, Wayfarer Vans!), swallows this technological menagerie whole, with room left over for a week’s worth of dirty laundry (hey, not in it for the glamour).

But this ain’t just an earthbound cosmic studio on wheels, loopers. This is a multimedia exploration of the American psyche, a gonzo anthropological expedition into the seat of the heartland. To capture the soul of the unraveling nation, i need a decent computer, a field recording rig worthy of an NPR documentary, and a recording studio sophisticated enough to produce a double-album of social unrest (thanks, ProTools).

Now, the real meat and potatoes of any odyssey – the creature comforts. Forget five-star hotels and room service. Rosinante doubles as a rolling studio apartment, complete with a climate-controlled oasis to keep this digital nomad from succumbing to heatstroke or hallucinations. A two-burner propane stove fueled by those ubiquitous Coleman canisters (bless their portable hearts) takes care of culinary creations, while a power-sipping fridge keeps the cheese from achieving sentience. Let’s not forget the pièce de résistance – an ice chest that doubles as an air conditioner. No freon here, folks, just good old-fashioned heat exchange technology and the sweet embrace of icy breeze (big ups to Icy Breeze, tell ’em Ronnie Hays sent ya). When the nights get frosty, a propane heater with a programmable thermostat (courtesy of Wayfarer Vans, you beautiful bastards) ensures mornings aren’t a teeth-chattering affair.

But the true star of the power show is the Goal Zero unit, a beast of burden that drinks power from the van’s alternator like a thirsty camel on a sugar rush. And for those extended stays, a portable solar array keeps the whole operation humming like a contented hive.

Of course, there’s always more to be added to the gear closet. A rooftop rack and ladder for easy access (gotta check those rooftop fan seals, you know the drill), solar panels to supplement the sun’s generosity, an awning for shade – the list goes on like a Dylan ballad. But that’s the beauty of this nomadic existence, the constant tinkering and improvement.

So, there you have it, loopers. An overview of the arsenal we’re wielding on this quest to find the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, or at least a decent cup of coffee and a hot shower.

Onward through the fog… R.H.!

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.

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 =>