Below the Earth – Above the Sun: Stranger in a Strange Land

I’d like to start this missive with a shout of gratitude to a few organizations. First, every public library in every town. So far, i have yet to be turned away for lack of digital nomad-friendly workspaces (WiFi, power, comfortable tables/chairs). Next, Cracker Barrel. Often, strangers in nomad vehicles are not welcome for overnight stay in commercial parking lots. But not with Cracker Barrel. THANK YOU! And finally, though there is a nominal monthly fee, Planet Fitness has been a godsend for those of us who can’t go more than a couple days without a shower…. thank you twice over!

Now, transitioning from the professional treadmill into the ranks of fixed-income retirees has been a real eye opener for me. Things that would go unnoticed due to keeping head down and focusing on professional and parental knitting suddenly become glaringly obvious. For example, our nation’s once-proud melting pot has grown somewhat less tolerant of the stranger. Especially if the stranger is not of self-sufficient means. Intolerance and xenophobia have grown more and more common, and the problem isn’t confined to the United States, it’s a growing worldwide, human problem. Apparently, when we feel threatened, or fearful, we tend to default to selfish countenance, we struggle putting ourselves in the stranger’s shoes, we tend to point fingers and search for ready scapegoats.

And the unwelcome strangers are not only immigrants and refugees. We are strangers to each other over political, religious, or ideologic differences. And due to a lack of empathy in the wake of fear and threat, we find it difficult to agree or compromise on any topic of contention. This, despite the fact that the Internet has opened potential communication channels to literally anyone in the free world. Ironically, this hasn’t remedied the feeling of disconnection from one another but has exacerbated it. Thanks a lot, Al Gore!

I’ve heard of studies indicating the number of folks claiming to have no friends tripling over the last thirty years… ZERO friends?!?! Astounding! Another crowning irony in an age of social media where so-called “friend connections” can number in the thousands. Some say there is a loose correlation of social media exposure and loneliness. Of course, correlation isn’t causation, but so what? If there’s even a remote chance these correlations are indeed causal, should we not try a little harder to address them?

Even more troubling is a deeper correlation causation question originally posed by a truly loathsome individual. Recent tragic events have shone a light on the ideas espoused by the infamous luddite, Dr. Ted Kaczynski. That industrial society, mass-production culture, explosive urban sprawl, is a sickness whose only cure is the revolutionary rejection of industrial/technical society. And if violent means is necessary to bring this about, it is the obligation of right-minded revolutionaries to do what is necessary. Of course, we know how Dr. Kaczynski’s story ends. Unfortunately, there are folks out there who believe he was onto something, and some have put his ideas into action.

I cannot agree with the revolutionary luddites. I’ve been a techno-optimist for the entirety of my professional life. Unfortunately, exigencies of capitalism have tainted the affirming potential of global connection, democratic computing power, even machine intelligence. And so, at the end of my professional life, i’m forced to rethink these 5th Estate Evangelical tendencies. The baton is passed to the next generation of techno-optimists and i hope we can come to some sort of compromise between the needs of individuals and the needs of the commons before these revolutionary luddites blow up any more cyber confidence.

Kurt Vonnegut addressed the malaise of loneliness decades ago. He diagnosed our sickness and offered a remedy. He argued the tradition of rootless nuclear families was woefully inadequate to the task of providing human companionship. Specifically, ladies need lots of other ladies with whom to talk about anything and EVERY thing. Men need buddies with whom to punch in the arm and go do guy stuff with. Preferably away from the gaggle of ladies. He urged us to actively seek and spend as much time as possible with our “Karass” (extended families). They can be fraternal, they can be professional, they can be familial, but by surrounding ourselves with people who love and identify with us, perhaps we can cure this creeping cancer of loneliness and alienation.

If nothing else, this could give our kids a fighting chance of growing up with confidence and functional social skills. Seriously, Mom and Dad in the nuclear family arrangement only have each other for adult company? Dad doesn’t want to talk about EVERYTHING, and Mom doesn’t want to get punched in the arm bouncing around in a dune buggy. And what of the Moms and Dads who have concluded their union a mistake, and now don’t even have each other? Yes! This is a sickness. Bad for Mom and bad for Dad. As for the kids? Well many end up like the stranger. Ghosts, aimlessly wandering the Earth. Alone, ruminating society’s problems instead of practicing joyful follies with other like-minded imperfect human beings.

You may have heard of “The New Apostolic Reformation” (NAR). This is an antidemocratic movement at war with the secular order designed by our nation’s founders. They say the traditional family is the fundamental unit of God’s perfect order. But this “traditional” arrangement to which they refer is a patriarchal construct, and in the US, it should be glaringly obvious this male-supremacy arrangement has failed to deliver adequate human companionship and fellow-goodwill.

Mr. Vonnegut was right. Unfortunately, we are at a transition crossroad, and though the NAR believes they will dominate future cultural evolution on the coattails of the MAGA libertarian movement, what they don’t take into account is that the top of the MAGA food chain is populated by billionaires all about self-interest. They will abandon the NAR as soon as they come to cross purposes. As well, demographic trends simply can’t support a theocracy of any stripe. I hope saner heads prevail and we rethink what it means to be part of a traditional family with the aim of inclusion. Christians, Muslims, Jews, Buddhists, Mormons, and Secular Humanists all together in a mega-karass where no one is the stranger.

Cheers… Rohlfie

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.