Kanorado

This Land: Missouri

Greetings, loopers! Get ready for another thrilling installment of “This Land,” where objectivity goes to die a whimpering death in a ditch (much like my dignity after that 20 minute wrong turn incident in Topeka). John Steinbeck said it best: pure, unvarnished observation? About as likely as a snowball surviving a Missouri summer. We all see the world through our own warped filters, loopers. Mine happens to be a yin/yang magic 8-ball reflecting the contrasting hues of Kanorado. But hey, i try to be fair! Like a tipsy judge on a bender – i may be biased, but i’ll listen to all sides (within reason, and as long as you don’t ask me to sit through a “Flat Earth” Power Point presentation).

So, Missouri. The freaking promised land of rolling green hills and enough oxygen to make your head spin! Unlike the treeless plains of western Kansas, this state’s a veritable Garden of Eden. The Ozarks, with their mountains, lakes, and caves, are like nature’s amusement park. Mark Twain practically trademarked the entire state with his literary genius, and even Walt Disney (yes, that Walt Disney) hailed from these parts.

Speaking of Missourians – a hearty bunch, these loopers. Friendly as a hound dog with a belly full of barbecue, but with a healthy dose of skepticism. Hospitality? Legendary, especially if you find yourself in the sticks. They’re as down-to-earth as a hand-me-down step-side Chevy Pickup, fiercely proud of their state, possessing an almost religious love for the great outdoors. Think Tom Petty’s “Won’t Back Down” cranked to eleven, with political tension so thick the sides don’t even talk to each other any more. Summer’s a scorcher, mind you – hot enough to fry an egg on your forehead, and humid enough to make your hair frizz like a poodle in a hurricane.

But hey, gotta hand it to them – Missouri’s economy seems to be humming right along. Soybeans, corn, livestock – they got their ag. schtick down. Manufacturing? Yup, especially in cars, aerospace, and enough food processing to feed a Texas hoedown. Healthcare’s on the rise, and Kansas City’s a financial hub that could make Eric Trump blush.

Now, the downside. Public transportation? About as reliable as a politician’s promise. Crime? It’s a thing, especially in the bigger cities. Diversity? Not exactly a kaleidoscope of cultures, loopers.

Speaking of Show Me State loopers, my attempt to interview some good citizens at Missouri Western University went about as well as an oboe at a heavy metal concert. Nobody wanted their cake holes anywhere near my microphones, which left me feeling about as welcome as a tax collector at a poker game. Finally, after some sage advice (courtesy of the university library staff, bless their tight-lipped souls), i ventured to the public library. Managed to snag a few interviews, though one lady spoke in hushed tones that would make a Trappist monk squint (blame it on the hair-metal 1980s).

The big question? What does the state motto, “Show Me,” mean to Missourians? Answers were as scarce as hen’s teeth. Though a transplant from New York named Barb Read and a true-blooded Missourian, Jenn Wildhagen, did offer some insight. Maybe the reluctant ones needed a bit more convincing before spilling their guts to a stranger sporting ambisonic microphones attached to AKG studio headphones (cue the “Show Me” part). But hey, they did remind me their state animal is a mule, a stubborn, stalwart creature if there ever was one. Seems fitting, doesn’t it?

So there you have it, loopers. A whistle-stop tour through the Show Me State, a land of contradictions as vast as the sky. Until next time, keep your eyes peeled and your cynicism in check. This American odyssey is far from over.

And finally… the point of all this wrangling. My personal experience as a Kanorado native, some light research queries, and conversations with the above willing participants informs the lyric of this, my next Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:

So bring your A-game…
When you cross the river…
Cos in Missouri…
You’ll be the giver…
You can’t just waltz in…
And get those sound bytes…
Show Me folks…
Will need the 4-11.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

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… 😜

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.