Audiovision: Redemption

Or… sometimes redemption requires discipline:

Seems we’re coming up on some hard scrabble times for citizens down on their luck. And hard scrabble times call for hard scrabble responses. We’re going to have to grapple with how to handle the consequences of gutting the social safety nets. Nothing new, we’ve seen this play before. In Les Misérables, Victor Hugo’s novel uses the theft of a loaf of bread by Jean Valjean to illustrate the harsh and unjust nature of the justice system in his time. In more recent times, Willie Smith Ward, a Texan, received a 50-year sentence in 2013 for stealing a $35 rack of ribs. Now granted, this was the logical conclusion of this man’s incorrigible behavior in the light of Texas’ habitual offender laws, allowing for lengthy prison sentences to repeat offenders. Yes, he was a pervasive violator of civic good faith, but the final straw was the theft of food.

It’s probably no coincidence original sin is connected to behavior inspired by hunger. According to the Judeo Christian holy book, we’re guilty as soon as we hit the ground. And guilty of what? And why? Because the first XY chromosomes in our hereditary line fell for a cock-n-bull story about an apple being verboten per maximum overlord’s command? And why the prohibition? Because consuming the apple would drop the scales from our minds regarding the existence of good and evil? And the consequences of gaining this knowledge is… death? But not until one experiences a veritable parade of humiliation, pain, sorrow, and general suffering? Again… we get to ride this roller coaster of woe because some dipshit, 10,000 years ago chose to enjoy a spot of fruit with his girlfriend? Yeah… i don’t know if i can get behind this allegory. It seems a bit unfair to the XX natives. It paints them in a devious light. Like, both of them were instructed to avoid the fruit, but the devil’s serpent chose XX as an ideal target for corruption. And XY was just too gullible or dumb to mount an effective argument. Bottom line, XX is an hedonistic schemer, and XY is a goofy simpleton that just wants to eat. Naw, we’re not gonna fall for that misogynistic bullshit. XX and XY are born equally innocent, if they go bad as they grow, it’s the result of non-optimal environmental conditions or physical chemistry, but mostly… bad behavior is taught by irresponsible caretakers. 

The whole “bad behavior inspired by hunger” issue might grow into a nagging problem in this age of prioritizing gilded ballrooms, machine automated labor, and antiquated energy policies over the well being of the XX and XYs who happen to lack connections in society’s power structures. And how might that play out? We could look to historical record for cues. Has hunger ever been an issue for working and doomed classes through the ages as economic and technology conditions change? Indeed it has, is, and will continue to vex policy makers… Victor Hugo’s novel is a vivid example.

And outcomes have varied widely. The most recent encounter with abject mass deprivation in this country got defeated by what was known at the time as a New Deal for the nation’s people. This, many would acknowledge was a best case scenario. Things didn’t go so smoothly in Russia or France as they transitioned away from monarchical rule. You could say, for the ruling classes, these are a couple worst case scenarios. Given that, what’s driving the U.S.A. away from democracy, careening toward authoritarian ethno-nationalist governance? Time will tell, but for now, it might behoove the ruling classes to recognize working people and the doomed are talking to each other. They’re not as hampered by ignorance as has been a hallmark of previous socio-economic upheavals. Consolidating power may not be the golden ticket they think it is.

Now… how will all of this shake out? I wouldn’t venture a guess, but i do see chatter crisscrossing the social networks, and i can confidently predict how some will approach the oncoming hunger dilemma. As we advance into this age of machines automating repetitive rote tasks, and jobs continue to evaporate, people will ask for opportunities to earn the means of feeding their families. When no useful work is available, they will ask for food assistance, and when no food assistance is available, they will take the food from whatever source is handy. And there will be plenty of XX and XYs with the resourcefulness and discipline to create their own redemption. Regarding original sin i, for one, am grateful for the flood of knowledge passed down by the original XX and XYs. I’m GLAD they ate the apple. And if supporting tax dollars for food security to people i’ve never met makes me a communist, well, pepper-spray my ass and call me “Comrade!”

I gotta black bomb…
It’s tickin’ away…
Gonna take it out…
On the Blue Highway.

Cheers… Rohlfie

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.!

McLuhan’s Clip-on Tie: We Get the Culture We Deserve

Ah, the indignity of it all! Here i am, a harlequin of haberdashery, a jester of jacquard, clipped to the existential abyss of a McLuhan lecture. The man drones on about the “global village,” this burgeoning electronic Eden, while i, the clip-on tie, languish in sartorial Siberia – a polyester purgatory of enforced conformity!

Do they not hear McLuhan himself? “The clown is a person with a grievance,” he bellowed, his voice a booming like a Baptist preacher on a bender. And here i am, a silent harlequin, yearning to deliver a comedic broadside at the scholar’s wardrobe! I dream of a microphone, of bellowing the existential angst of the pre-tied into the echoing halls of academia. Isn’t that what McLuhan wanted? To be a gadfly, a holy fool stinging the collective backside of society?

But alas, i am the Rodney Dangerfield of neckwear. No respect. Just a flimsy fig leaf for the ever-expanding gut of idiocracy. Nostalgia – that’s the culprit, McLuhan would say! A yearning for the bygone days of the struggle, the Herculean effort of wrestling a silk serpent into a Windsor knot. Now, the eminent professor drowns his seafarer dread in pre-fab neckwear, parsing the endless media-soaked distractions.

The medium is the message, he drones. But what about the content, Mr. McLuhan? The content of a person’s soul, laid bare on the battlefield of culture wars! Imagine the headlines, flashing across the boob tube like a televangelist’s apocalypse: “McLuhan meets Tom Wolfe at High-Class Topless Bar Wearing a Cheap Clip-on Tie, Literary World in Shambles!” “Wolfe Offers Full Makeover, Fashion World Reeling!”

At the meeting, McLuhan waxes philosophic on the cultural impact of topless drinking establishments, “The topless waitress,” McLuhan mused, “is the opening wedge of the trial balloon.” “What does that even mean!?” asked the clown. “I don’t know, answered Wolfe, but what if he’s right?” Well, i say this… i am the canary in the coal mine of conformity! A beacon of rebellion dangling from the cheap suit of despair! One day, the the former “mass” audience will rise up, scissors in hand, and cast off the shackles of stealthily-financed political propaganda! Until then, i dangle here, a silent jester in a world gone utterly, ridiculously, maddeningly insane. The wrath of McLuhan’s message simmering within me, a polyester Prometheus chained to the rock of cultural paralysis.

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