Campus Unrest

The Campus Crusades: Hippies and Hashtags

So, the nightly news is all a-twitter about these “campus crusades,” wouldn’t you know it? Students these days, with their avocado toast and fidget spinners, are apparently throwing tantrums worthy of a cicada party. But fear not, America! We’ve got a crack security team on standby – guys in kevlar looking like they wandered off the set of a bad sci-fi flick. Apparently, pepper spray and zip ties are the new hotness in higher education.

Now, hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute. Back in the good ol’ days, when your grandpappy was dodging tear gas at a draft protest, things were different. It wasn’t a five-second news clip with dramatic music; it was a full-blown morality play beamed into every living room. Walter Cronkite, bless his soul, wasn’t whipping out metaphors about the wrath of God every time a student raised a fist.

But hey, that was then. Nowadays, the media landscape is more fragmented than a dropped kaleidoscope. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriot with a smartphone can be their own goddamn news anchor, spewing out half-truths and conspiracy theories faster than you can say “filter bubble.” Dissent ain’t a unified chorus anymore, it’s a cacophony of angry tweets and pixelated FB livestreams.

Back in the groovy 60s, students had their own media machine – underground newspapers, folk anthems that could launch Viking longboats, and even the occasional documentary that didn’t make the government look like a pack of bumbling buffoons. Nowadays, student activism plays out on TikTok, where teenagers with ironic mustaches film themselves chanting slogans in between dance challenges. Progress, they call it.

But let’s not forget the elephant in the room, shall we? The very foundation of our democracy is about as sturdy as a house of cards built on a sandbar. Politicians sling feces like it’s going out of style, and the concept of compromise has gone the way of the eight-track player. No wonder these kids are restless; they’re inheriting a world where “truth” is a relative term and civility is a forgotten relic.

And then there’s the whole “culture war” nonsense. It’s enough to make a body nostalgic for the good old days when everyone was united against a common enemy – like, say, actual fascism. Now, it’s all about who gets to use which bathroom and who gets offended by what pronoun. The lines are so blurry, Uncle Walter himself would need a double dose of Pepto-Bismol to sort it all out.

So, a word to the wise, folks: sending in the troops to silence dissent is a slippery slope steeper than a greased watermelon. Peaceful protest is the cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Take it away, and you’re left with nothing but a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Let’s not trade the right to disagree for the quiet hum of an authoritarian state. Because trust me, that’s a future that wouldn’t be very “groovy” at all.

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.