So there we were, adrift in the Chicagoland archipelago, courtesy of Ronnie’s infallible sense of direction (or lack thereof). The Democratic National Convention was in full swing, a throbbing neon beast pulsating in the Windy City’s belly. Visions of ’68 danced in Ronnie’s head – anti-war protestors clashing with Chicago’s finest in a ballet of tear gas and billy clubs. A chance, he thought, to relive a sliver of history, that bygone era immortalized in grainy documentaries,
But alas, the cruel hand of fate, or perhaps… synchronicity, had placed us in Aurora, Illinois. Yes, THAT Aurora (party time… excellent). Here, amidst the beige strip malls and flickering neon signs, Ronnie embarked on a quest for the holy grail of his salad days – Stan Mikita’s Donut Shop, a shrine to the hockey legend and glazed pastries. But like a mirage in the desert, the shop remained stubbornly elusive, a figment of faded memory or perhaps a cruel hoax perpetrated by Saturday Night Live.
Excellent!Stan Mikita NEVER had a shop in Aurora
Undeterred, Ronnie retreated to the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Aurora Public Library, a monument to quiet nerdiness if ever there was one. Here, he became a voyeur to the DNC extravaganza, consuming news reports like a fragrant, steaming bowl of Pho. NPR’s police beat reporter, Martin Kaste, droned on in a podcast, his voice a steady counterpoint to the city’s distant sirens. WGN chimed in with a video report, a kaleidoscope of protestors and fence-busting partisans. In the end, thankfully bloodless. The anti-war protesters did persist, and they made their points, but the event planners and the Chicago authorities were able to keep things from spiraling out of control. Go here for a thoughtful compare/contrast.
Illinois itself, this “Land of Lincoln,” struck a dissonant chord. A state where prestigious universities rub shoulders with wallet-crushing property taxes, where the “Second City’s” sports teams inspire religious devotion amidst a backdrop of political chicanery. The summers, we’re told, are steam baths, the winters cryogenic chambers – a climate that could curdle a monk’s disposition.
Yet, there are glimmers of hope. Starved Rock State Park, a Xanadu of waterfalls and canyons, promise respite from the urban sprawl. The state boasts a pantheon of American icons – Honest Abe Lincoln, of course, but also Carl Sandburg, the bard of Spoon River, and Michelle Obama, a beacon of grace and intelligence. Even Michael Jordan, the basketball demigod (and Bugs Bunny’s unlikely sidekick), hails from these plains.
The engine of Illinois’ economy hums with a complex symphony – finance titans clinking glasses in Chicago’s skyscrapers, factories spew out automobiles and farm machinery, and fields overflow with corn and soybeans, a testament to the state’s agricultural might. And for the working stiffs, Illinois offers a cornucopia of opportunity – a robust job market, a smorgasbord of educational institutions, and a vibrant cultural scene in Chicago (assuming you can stomach the commute).
Anyway, before we peel out of Chicagoland, heading back through Hays on a pilgrimage to Colorado Springs (the final piece of Rocinante’s solar-powered puzzle, don’t ask), two burning questions gnaw at Ronnie’s soul. Did that Stan Mikita donut shop ever exist, or was it a collective fever dream of his generation? And more importantly, would the DNC erupt into the glorious chaos of ’68, fulfilling his dread of a historical reenactment (tear gas and all)?
Bad Day for HippiesDemonstrator faces a row of National Guard soldiers.Chicago shows how to deal with Hippies
After all, “Wayne’s World” was the “American Graffiti” of the 70s, and Ronnie’s dad, a veteran of the Commerce City Police Department, had been sent to Chicago in ’68 for some “Tactics and Control” training dispensed by the Windy City’s finest. In the final frames, will we find history had taught us the right lessons, or are we doomed to repeat the mistakes? And more importantly, can Ronnie score a cruller before we hit the road? Because frankly, at this point, nothing beats a good donut and a hot cuppa joe.
Onward through the fog… R.H.
In Chicago… You got the pizza wars… But don’t forget… The raging culture war… In Aurora… Wayne and Garth don’t care… ‘Long as they can party on.
Before you ask, Michigan has no natural hot springs. It’s like they forgot to install the geothermal plumbing when they were building the place. But who needs that when you have The Great Lakes, right?
As for higher learning institutions, Michigan offers a diverse range of colleges, from small liberal arts institutions to larger public universities. Some notable smaller options include Kalamazoo College, Hope College, and Albion College.
And though no particular state can claim exclusive dominion over such literary juice as earned by Papa Hemmingway, the Ernest Hemingway House in Oak Park, while technically in Illinois, is a popular destination for fans of Mr. Hemmingway’s distinctive American voice. Other notable literary figures with Michigan ties include Zane Grey and Harriett Beecher Stowe.
Regarding the unique character of its natives, Michiganders often pride themselves on their resilience, hardworking nature, strong sense of community, the fact that they have seasons other than winter, and abundant natural resources foster a love for outdoor activities and a down-to-earth mentality. If you had to drag on Michigan, some feel the state’s reliance on the automotive industry leads to economic instability. And, of course, the long, harsh winters can be a challenge for many, contributing to a sometimes slower pace of life.
Now, none of this does justice to the eye popping, slightly paradoxical, rolling green/crystalline beauty of the Upper Peninsula (UP). This region is often hailed as Michigan’s crown jewel, offering pristine lakes, dense forests, and dramatic cliffs. The Pictured Rocks National Lakeshore is a particular standout. Ronnie is holding his hand up right now because we just drove through the lower part of the UP heading for Traverse City. He has been going on and on about how much of this place looks like those “Garden of Eden” images conjured up in his childhood Sunday School days. This place is straight-up gorgeous, but if you get here via some of what William Least Heat-Moon described as “blue highways”, you will encounter areas that also conjure up mental images left behind by those 1980s slasher movies, “Halloween”, “Friday the 13th”, etc. Ronnie kept remarking how the areas we drove through gave him “Chrystal Lake” vibes. Terrifyingly beautiful, if you will.
Crystal Lake VibesNow THAT’s a BridgeOne Big Ass LakeWow
Regarding famous Michiganders, the list spans the political spectrum, from Henry Ford, to Rosa Parks. And, of course, Michigan has a strong legacy in music. Think Motown, Stevie Wonder, Aretha Franklin, Four Tops, The Supremes, Smoky Robinson, Marvin Gaye, Gladys Knight, The Temptations, The Jackson freaking Five, and Stevie Wonder. Then later, you have Madonna and Marshall freakin’ Mathers. Mic drop… top that, anyone?
Now, as Michael Moore, Oscar-winning film maker from Flint, describes in his movies, the automotive industry has been the backbone of Michigan’s economy. Unfortunately, too many eggs were placed in that basket and when the US had to make painful changes in order to compete with the automaking sectors of the rapidly developing world, many… many… were left behind as a consequence.
That said, the state is trying to diversify, with growing sectors in healthcare, technology, and agriculture. Some would say Detroit and Flint still have a long way to go providing opportunities for those left behind. The jury is still out, but in the meantime Michigan offers a relatively affordable cost of living compared to many other states, especially in terms of housing. The state’s strong public education system and evolving job market, particularly in healthcare and technology, are also attractive to workers.
Visitors, often rave about the Great Lakes, especially Lake Michigan, for swimming, boating, and fishing. Again, Ronnie has his hand up, he’s still in awe of the terrifying beauty of Lake Michigan, and Traverse City. Many visitors are drawn to the vibrant college towns like Ann Arbor and East Lansing, offering a lively atmosphere and cultural attractions. As well, Michigan’s literary history can be a draw for some visitors, particularly those interested in Hemingway or the Great Lakes region.
Beach Karen is MaaaaadSasquatch is in there… somewhereWhispering PinesWelcome… sorta.
Ok… that does it for now…
Stay safe… Stay well… Good luck… Pay it forward… And as always… Onward through the fog.
Cheers… R.H.
In Michigan… You might go dizzy… From the rust belt struggle… To Traverse City… From the rogue militias… To Motown dishes… This state is pure America!
Well, well, well. Look who’s still alive. August, the month of the dog days, has vanished into the ether, leaving behind a trail of dust, diesel fumes, and a smattering of state license plates. Phases I and II of the Hot Springs or Busk (HSoB) tour have been a whirlwind of wonder and wandering, taking us through seventeen states—a whirlwind tour of the American West and Midwest.
Now, granted, this was Ronnie’s stomping ground, so there wasn’t much in the way of culture shock. Yellowstone was a bit of a slog, a veritable gauntlet of switchbacks and disappearing hubcaps, but otherwise, it was smooth sailing.
That said, Minnesota, Wisconsin, Ohio, and Michigan proved to be a delightful surprise. Driving through those lake-dotted forests, those double-canopies of green, was like stepping into a horror movie. We’re talking ‘Friday the 13th’ vibes, with Jason lurking behind every tree, ready to strike. It was terrifyingly beautiful, a paradox that made Ronnie’s skin crawl.
So, we’ve been on the road, living the nomadic life, boondocking in parking lots, and tending necessary tasks in public libraries, laundromats, and grocery stores. We’ve returned to Hays for a brief respite, to tend to mundane matters like tag renewals, vaccinations, and voter registrations. After a couple of weeks, we’re back on the road, heading to Colorado Springs to equip Rocinante with a rooftop solar panel.
From there, it’s on to Phase III of the HSoB tour: the Pacific Northwest. We’ll be cruising down the coastal highway to LA, where Ronnie has friends and family. After that, it’s back to Hays for a month of voting and helping friends move before the snow flies. Then, it’s a family gathering in Kansas, followed by a caravan to Savannah for the winter. We’ll be exploring the deep south coastal states during Phase IV of our whirlwind tour.
Stay tuned… Much more to come… Onward through the fog… R.H.
Ok… for Ronnie, Indiana is a couple things on the surface, 1.) it’s home base to one of his favorite authors, Papa Kurt Vonnegut, and 2.) the Indy 500 auto race. Now, these things might date Mr. Ronnie. After all, he can’t remember the last time the Indy 500 was headline news. This may have more to do with the fact that he cut the cord all the way back to y2k, so chances of him stumbling into a cable channel covering the race have been slim to none now going on 25 years. And though Mr. Vonnegut has been gone since 2007, his work is still quite popular with readers around the world… so there’s that.
Now, with all of that said, you would think Ronnie would make a point to visit Mr. Vonnegut’s hometown, Indianapolis, while in the Hoosier state. Alas, he’s still tethered to the technical details of outfitting Rocinante. Case in point, rooftop solar installs are now available at Wayfarer central, and Rocinate has a September 9 appointment… all the way back to Colorado Springs. So, the tentative itinerary is finish the Indiana post in Fort Wayne, head to Cleveland for the Ohio post, then Chicago for Illinois, then back to Hays to catch up on snail mail and Rocinante’s tag renewal, then back to the Springs for the solar install. Form there, it’ll be Hot Springs or Busk, Phase III. By then, we’ll be 17 states into the mission with all of the South and Sun Belt states saved for late fall and winter and nearly eight months to get the balance done.
So… back to Indiana, a state of contradictions. Its people are both fiercely independent and deeply rooted in tradition. They are known for their hospitality, but their conversations tend to revolve around the weather, sports, and the price of corn. There is a certain charm to this simplicity, a refreshing honesty in the lack of pretense. Yet, some would say also a stifling provincialism, a fear of the unknown that limits horizons.
The state boasts a few cultural gems, of course. The Booth Tarkington Civic Theatre, a grand old dame of a building, stands as a testament to a bygone era. And the Eugene V. Debs Foundation keeps alive the memory of a radical socialist labor leader. And let’s not forget Papa Kurt Vonnegut… cos Ronnie won’t.
Indiana… a place where time seems to stand still. The past is revered, the future feared. There is a resistance to change, a stubborn clinging to the familiar. It is a state that is both comforting and claustrophobic, a place where one can find solace and despair in equal measure.
Indiana… a state where the weather is as bipolar as a teenage girl, where the summers are a sweaty, humid hell and the winters are an icy embrace of despair. And Highland… our first stop here, is a place where the asphalt stretches on forever, a barren wasteland punctuated by the occasional strip mall hellscape. Ronnie, in a state of frustration, described it as a “abject cluster-boink ” of suburban sprawl, muttering darkly about the need for a good old-fashioned public flogging for the traffic planners. He envisioned a spectacle, a puritan circus of shame, where the engineers of this urban blight would be flogged with pool noodles, their misdeeds projected onto a giant screen for all to see.
Highland, IN Drone’s Eye View
Perhaps Ronnie needs to cut back on the coffee… 😉
Now, if you’ll excuse us, we have to brave the Indy streets among all the Mario Andretti wannabes on our bumper, looking for the nearest Chipotle for a lunchtime burrito.
From Michigan City… To Ohio Wabash… Indiana… rolls like a slapdash… But bring your high hand… When you drive in Highland… Everybody here’s an Indy flash.
Behold, the monstrous menagerie i’ve conjured! A labyrinthine Loopcircus, with its three infernal subdivisions—Loop, Circus, and Packmule Productions—each teeming with rooms more convoluted than a Kafkaesque nightmare. Circus, you see, is the current carnival of chaos. There, the seemingly endless series, “Hot Springs or Busk,” a first-person fever dream of a year-long, forty-eight-state tour, a kaleidoscopic voyage seeking the “fibrillating heart of our divided nation”. Then there’s “This Land,” a series of fleeting impressions, like a tourist snapping photos without digging much deeper. And let’s not forget “Below the Earth—Above the Sun,” pseudo-philosophical commentary mostly focused on spiritual evolution, but sometimes veering into US politics as if i were a celestial cartographer charting the nation’s zeitgeist one post at a time.
I fear it has grown into a tangled bramble with no real prospect of gaining navigable coherence. On the whole, it has become… how did i put it in Indiana? Oh, ya… it has become an “Abject cluster-boink” of planning failure, where the traffic engineers are frog-marched to the city square and flogged with pool noodles while a giant jumbotron broadcasts implications of their misdeeds for all to see. Yes… i would take my punishment like a guilty man.
Yet, don’t we all agree the first step toward redemption is admitting there’s a problem? And I’ve certainly done that. Now, the question remains: what to do about this tangled mess? I’m either adrift, like a sailor on a stormy sea, my ship battered by the waves of misunderstanding, or i’m a modern-day Don Quixote, tilting at windmills of ignorance and injustice, armed only with a laptop and a compulsion. I cast my bloggy pearls into the void, hoping against hope that someone, somewhere, might stumble upon these digital messages in a bottle.
As an offering to the communion gods, i’ve even cloned my voice and began producing AI-generated spoken versions of the work, catering to the audio fans among us. Will i go a step further and offer video? Nope, pass. That’s a bridge too far. Perhaps i should seek an audience match-maker, something, anything. Self-publishing, perhaps? There’s a wealth of advice out there, from Substack to Amazon. But where do i fit in? I’m not driven by reputation or monetary gain. I tend to lean organic, unfiltered. But that also means i’m a lion without hunger, a correspondent without a deadline.
Rocinante, my trusty companion.
For now, the plan is to sift through the wreckage, salvaging what i can once the tour is completed. I’ll cobble together a volume of highlights, a testament to the gist of my experiences. And then, set sail again, into the uncharted waters of the next adventure i guess. Rinse, repeat till such time as i am unable. Anyway… back to it… one more trip to Colorado Springs. This time, we’re installing rooftop solar, a final urban nomading detail for Rocinante.
REMINDER: This isn’t a typical state travelogue, loopers. This is a kaleidoscopic nightmare funhouse of experience, brought to you almost live from the Pike’s Peak Library’s flickering Wi-Fi. Remember Steinbeck in “Travels with Charlie”? Similar deal. We’re all peering at the world through our own warped lenses. We might bend facts from time to time, maybe even invent a story or two, just to get a point across or, hell, maybe just for a laugh.
Our mission: all 48 contiguous states in a year, a whirlwind tour fueled by hot springs and busking (the jury’s still out on the busking, frankly). This is entry number ten, and truth be told, we’re about hot-springed out. But hey, maybe when the snow flies and the world chills out, those pools of scalding water will look more appealing.
Speaking of the fickle finger of fate, this Utah entry is coming to you courtesy of a rogue trucker and a windshield that looks like it went fifteen rounds with Mike Tyson. First crack? We figured we could live with it, a battle scar from the road. Second crack? Sounded like a goddamn gunshot, leaving a gaping maw in Rocinante’s once-pristine view of the world. Check, and mate. We limped into Vernal, Utah, a dusty outpost seemingly populated entirely by paleontologists. Turns out, the magic replacement glass for our noble mount was not in stock. Combined with the fact that we had another technical problem waiting in the wings. Specifically, Rocinante’s power station link to the motor’s alternator is subject to a factory recall. That problem had a roughly 3-week lead time. So, the options? A: Become one with the Utah outback until the all the tech. planets align. B: Hightail it back to Hays, regroup, knock out a few repairs, catch up on snail mail from the PO box, and maybe, just maybe, have a beer (or three) with some friends. Option B, it was, and a good time was had by all… 😉
Now, back to Utah. Ronnie Hays, our intrepid (and slightly befuddled) explorer, first encountered the Beehive State back in the halcyon days of y2k. A freshly-minted network administrator for a Denver architecture/engineering firm, he found himself wrangling computers for their new Salt Lake City satellite office. Governor Mitt Romney was at the helm then, prepping for the 2002 Winter Olympics, a future success story veiled in construction dust and post-9/11 security paranoia. Ronnie, meanwhile, was juggling the network buildout and a blossoming romance with a lovely darling from Spokane with roots in the Church of Latter-day Saints (LDS).
Fast forward to a potentially career-ending decision. Ronnie, bless his naive soul, packed a yellow Ryder truck – yeah, the same kind that delivered fiery doom to Oklahoma City – with office equipment. Remember those angry militia types? Yeah, not a good look. After unloading the gear in the SLC office, Ronnie decided to grab a Godiva treat for his Spokane sweetheart. Parking spot of choice? Right next to the main LDS temple. Picture this: Ronnie, shaved head and all, looking like a skinhead with a bomb plot, abandoning a Ryder truck in temple proximity. Post-9/11, loopers! Here’s the kicker: No interrogation. No raised eyebrows. Just Ronnie, oblivious to his near brush with disaster, feeling strangely confident about the competence of the Olympic planners, particularly Mr. Romney. Measured and calm, that’s how Ronnie saw it.
Over the next decade, working with the loopers in SLC, Ronnie solidified his impression. These were some of the nicest, most genuine people he’d ever met, rivaled only by the deeply Mennonite denizens of Hillsboro, Kansas. Religious communities, Ronnie learned, are a mixed bag. Some, like the Mormons and the Mennonites, seem to genuinely strive for those good old-fashioned moral values and decency. This coming from a card-carrying secular humanist, mind you.
For the homegrown loopers, Utah’s a paradise sculpted by a celestial stonemason. Think towering crimson cliffs spilling out like a kaleidoscope on fire, and enough outdoor activities to make a grizzly bear envious. Hot springs bubble up like nature’s Jacuzzi, with Monroe Hot Springs a favorite amongst the locals (though let’s be honest, loopers, a quick Google search reveals a whole smorgasbord of options).
Outsiders, those poor bastards lost in a Greyhound bus-induced fugue state, stumble into Utah for the same reasons: the scenery’s a knockout, a visual uppercut that’ll leave you breathless. The “Mighty Five” National Parks – Zion, Bryce Canyon, Capitol Reef, Arches, and Canyonlands – are a crown jewel collection fit for a psychedelic king. And hey, those hot springs add a touch of surreal serenity after a day of dodging rattlesnakes and “Mormon Crickets” (more on that later).
Now, about them institutions of higher learnin’. Utah’s got a decent spread of small-to-medium colleges like Weber State and Utah Valley slinging affordable educations. As for famous literary landmarks? Well, that’s about as scarce as a decent mojito in Salt Lake City. Though Robert Frost’s little stint at Brigham Young does add a curious footnote, like a stray haiku scribbled on a napkin in a Denny’s.
But hey, who needs Dostoevsky when you’ve got a community spirit stronger than moonshine and a work ethic that’d put a Puritan to shame? Utahns are a hardy bunch, the kind who’d build a log cabin with their bare hands and a smile (probably because they can’t drink a decent cup of joe in this state, but hey, more for the rest of us, right?). Sure, there’s a whiff of social conservatism clinging to the air, thicker than hairspray at a Miss Utah pageant. But Ronnie here, your fearless guide through this geological wonderland, can tell you this: it ain’t the in-your-face Bible-thumping you get down South. More like a politely phrased pamphlet tucked under your windshield wiper.
Speaking of windshields, let’s talk about the real star of the show: Utah’s natural majesty. Picking a single “best” spot is like picking a favorite flavor of crazy – you just can’t. But Zion National Park, with its towering red cliffs and slot canyons that look like they were carved by a deranged sculptor on peyote, is a definite contender.
Regarding Utah’s general vibe, their motto is “Industry”…? Now, this seems a bit too generalized to draw any meaning, but when you juxtapose the motto with their famous “beehive” iconography, it makes wagon-train loads of sense. In order for the early settlers to carve out a niche of civilization from the Great Salt desert, it would require singularity of purpose and cooperative action to get ‘er done. Very much like the machinations of bees all working for the interests of their hive in real time.
And the famous loopers? Utah’s got a surprising number of them. There’s Robert Redford, the man with a face that launched a thousand swoons, the Osmond family with their wholesome brand of earworms, Philo T. Farnsworth, the goddamn inventor of television (thankfully, he’s not around to see the logical Kardashian conclusion), and the whole Sundance Film Festival bringing current and future celebrities to Park City every January.
Now, the state’s bread and butter? Tourism, obviously, but mining, tech, and the government sector all play a role in keeping the gears of Utah turning. And for the average Joe (or Jane) punching a clock? The cost of living is reasonable, and jobs are plentiful, making it a prime stomping ground for young professionals still reaching for that “American Dream”.
Finally, a word about Vernal, a desert oasis that popped up like a mirage after we took a rock half the size of a golf ball to the windshield (thanks, Utah!). The desolation was epic, man. On the way there, we saw what looked like a stampede of miniature bison migrating across the highway – turns out, those weren’t tiny bison at all, but Mormon Crickets, these hoppy little buggers that look like something out of Gulliver’s Travels gone bad. Not exactly a threat to humans, but a surefire way to make any halfway curious road tripper slam on the brakes.
So there you have it, loopers. A taste of Utah, the state that’ll leave you with sun-bleached memories, a renewed appreciation for wide-open spaces, and maybe, just maybe, a hankering for a good cup of coffee (because seriously, Utah, what’s the deal?). Until next time, we’re hitting the road again, hoping to appease the windshield-exploding rock gods and delve deeper into the fibrillating heart of our divided nation.
Onward through the fog… R.H.
And now… more with ongoing apologies to Mr. Guthrie.
I saw a stampede… Cross a Utah Highway… I felt a calm vibe… From a Beehive family… But don’t you worry… You’ll get your coffee… Utah peeps can bee and let it be.
Ronnie Hays, bless his late-developed soul, once spent a week in Riverton, Wyoming that felt like a lifetime trapped in a malfunctioning deep freeze. December in that desolate outpost was a symphony of howling wind and sub-zero temperatures, a perfect recipe for laryngitis. Ronnie, fueled by a steady diet of codeine cough syrup and a delusional dream of rockstardom, had the brilliant idea to chase his nonexistent high notes across a stage the size of a postage stamp. Needless to say, it went about as well as a penguin tap-dancing competition on the moon.
Fast forward a couple of years. Ronnie, now liberated from the shackles of his musical aspirations, found himself partnered with a gonzo comrade, Fozzy. (We’ll christen him Fozzy for the sake of anonymity… let’s just say we’re super glad there was no Facebook in the 80s.)
Fozzy, a Laramie-educated savant with a graduate school acceptance letter burning a hole in his pocket, held a peculiar belief: that Laramie, Wyoming, was a magical land where cops were blind to the transgressions of the gloriously intoxicated. This, of course, was a theory ripe for testing by two nihilistic souls clinging desperately to the wreckage of their mid-80s existence.
Imagine, if you will, a “borrowed” car (ownership and registration a fiction at best), fueled by cold beer (courtesy of the nearest liquor store), hurtling towards Laramie like a pair of wobbly missiles. The speedometer, a mere suggestion, registered a healthy too-damn-fast, a testament to their utter disregard for both the law and their own mortality.
Several beers and a vanished sunset later, they rolled into Laramie like banshees on Adderall. To their utter disappointment, the flashing blue lights they so richly deserved remained stubbornly absent. Finally, in a moment of glorious absurdity, Fozzy managed to run a red light, narrowly missing a cop car pulling out of a parking lot.
“Well, this is it,” Ronnie chuckled, fresh with “i told you so” energy dancing in his eyes. Busted! Hauled off to the drunk tank! A glorious, self-inflicted martyrdom!
The officer, a woman with a withering gaze that could curdle milk, approached Fozzy’s window. The story Fozzy concocted to explain their lack of documentation was a masterpiece of nonsensical bravado, worthy of a Bugs Bunny episode. Miraculously, it worked. The officer, perhaps amused by the sheer audacity of it all, subjected Fozzy to a “sobriety dance” (how he passed remains a mystery). Deemed sufficiently non-threatening, they were banished from her sight with a stern warning and a $25 fine, payable through a conveniently located “after hours” slot at the courthouse.
And so Fozzy’s theory is field-tested and determined factually sound. Or perhaps, Laramie had simply taken pity on these two hapless fools.
Anyway… enough ancient history, as Garth Algar once said… “LIVE IN THE NOW!”
So what of Wyoming now? Well, it’s a land of contradictions. The “Equal Rights” motto proudly proclaims a progressive past, yet some grapple with its present-day relevance. Natural wonders like Yellowstone leave visitors speechless, while the wind in Riverton can leave you speechless… and possibly frostbitten. Thermopolis, however, boasts hot springs that could soothe even the most cynical soul, as Ronnie himself discovered on his later, decidedly less gonzo, tour. The locals cherish their independence and self-reliance, but there’s a growing discussion about the need for more higher education options. Famous figures like Esther Hobart Morris and J.C. Penney stand as testaments to Wyoming’s spirit, while economic mainstays like tourism and resource extraction raise questions about environmental responsibility.
In the end, Wyoming offers a unique tapestry: breathtaking beauty, a fierce sense of self, and a touch of the wild west. And yes, while Fozzy’s theory about DUIs in Laramie may have held some truth back in ’86, we’re pretty damn sure you can get one now.
Onward through the fog… R.H.
And now… Another step up the Tower of Song… With apologies to Woody Guthrie… And Leonard Cohen.
For Nature’s Wonders… And personal liberty… Don’t look far… It’s in Wyoming… Declare your freedom… And let your freak flag fly… Equal Rights are stamped upon its seal.
Ah, North Dakota. Land of horizon-chugging grass-land and enough sky to make a claustrophobic traveler weep with joy. The stretch from Rapid City to Bismarck looked so much like the above image, it’s uncanny. No way could we get driver’s fatigue because it was straight up pastoral… beautiful! The state motto, in classic radio voice, declares “Liberty and union, now and forever, one and inseparable!” But hold your horses, loopers, because North Dakota liberty isn’t exactly Park Avenue window shopping. It’s more like strapping yourself to a goddamn rocket and blasting off into the great, howling void.
The ongoing search for hot springs? Asking around, we learned about Mineral Springs, tucked away in the Sheyenne River State Forest like a secret whispered by the wind. One measly waterfall, that’s all you get. But hey, at least it’s free – the water, that is. You might have to wrestle a badger for a decent towel. Unfortunately, it’s roughly a couple hundred miles out of the way so we took a pass. You see, nighttime temp in Bismarck dipped into the low 40s, and we were prepared for a late spring heat wave. So… we paid a quick personal hygiene visit to the local Planet Fitness, shivering at 5:30am, but then hightailed out of there, lickity-split.
Busking? No, but we did send some practice numbers into the Planet Fitness dressing room.
Famous musicians? Sure… those of a certain age might remember Bobby Vee, Peggy Lee, and Mary Osborne to name a few.
Colleges? Sure, there are a few universities scattered around, public and private, dispensing knowledge like seed corn. But don’t expect any Harvard Yard elitism here. These are institutions built with calloused hands and a no-nonsense spirit. Think less tweed jackets, more Carhartt overalls.
Literary landmarks? Well… North Dakota didn’t raise any Prousts. But there’s a certain stark beauty to the landscape that’s inspired its fair share of poets and novelists (Louis L’Amour anyone?). It’s the kind of place that makes you want to pound out a story on your typewriter with the fury of a possessed prairie dog.
Now, about those North Dakotans… they’re a hardy bunch, shaped by the relentless, brutal winters. They may give you the shirt off their backs (after peeling off a layer or two), but they won’t hesitate to tell you where to shove it if you cross them. We’re told it’s a land of salt-of-the-earth honesty and a deep respect for tradition.
Let’s get down to cases… you’ve seen the Coen Brother’s Oscar-winning movie, Fargo, right? North Dakota winters are enough to make a penguin question life choices. And if you’re looking for excitement, well, you might be better off watching paint dry. But there there is a certain peace to this place, a vast emptiness that allows you to breathe and maybe even hear yourself think. We know… we experienced it first hand on the drive to Bismarck from Rapid City.
Famous figures? You might not recognize their names, but North Dakota’s churned out its fair share of tough hombres and pioneering women (Louis L’Amour anyone?). Farmers who coaxed life from the stubborn earth, politicians who fought for what they believed in, everyday heroes who faced down blizzards and droughts with grit.
Lifestyle? For visitors, it’s a chance to disconnect, to shed the city slicker facade and embrace the raw beauty of the Great Plains. For natives, it’s a life built on hard work, community, and a fierce independence. It’s not for everyone, this North Dakota. But for those who find solace in the howl of the wind and the endless expanse of sky, it’s a place to call home.
As for that state motto, well, you can imagine North Dakotans appreciating their liberty as the freedom to leave their porchlight on all night without anyone bothering to steal it. We had to imagine it, because the wet, frigid night and morning made us hot to trot to get the hell outta Bismarck.
Once again… apologies to Woody Guthrie:
In North Dakota… You got your liberty… But don’t forget… Responsibility… To help each other… In the face of nature’s wrath… Now and forever… We are one!
Well, here we are, loopers, finally underway, like Jake & Ellwood with their 1/2 pack of cigarettes, sunglasses, and tankful of gas. But before i could even dream of hitting the road, i had a laundry list of tasks longer than a pandering politician’s promises.
First off, there was the Great Migration of my earthly belongings from the cozy country-club apartment to a cramped storage space, a maneuver tighter than a Jenga tournament. Then came the bureaucratic hoopla of establishing a P.O. box, a venture that revealed the sad truth: in the eyes of finance overlords and drivers license examiners, a P.O. box is about as trustworthy as a reality TV production plan.
But let’s not forget about Rocinante, my trusty companion on this wild ride across the Divided States of America. She needed a check-up. Tires rotated, engine tuned – check, check, and double-check.
Now, packing for this journey was like playing a twisted game of Tetris, trying to fit essentials like clothes, towels, and emergency toilet into Rocinante’s belly without causing a gearvalanch.
And speaking of gear, from the humble street busking rig to the JBL behemoth that could wake the dead, to my ambisonic stereo field-recording setup, which i swear intimidates interviewees more than a priest in a confessional booth, it’s all here, a place for everything, everything in its place.
And just when i thought i was ready to hit the road and begin the search for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, fate had other plans. That Rugged & Ready basecamp trailer of mine, designed for extreme-sport mountaineers and built tougher than a marine’s resolve, proved as popular as a skunk at a perfume party. No bites in Kansas, no nibbles in Georgia. So, like a gambler chasing a losing streak, i hauled that trailer from one end of the Colorado front range to the other, hoping for a miracle. But alas, no takers.
Now, desperate times call for desperate measures, they say. So, like a quarterback executing a 2:00 minute “Hail Mary,” i made a detour to Oshkosh, Nebraska, where kinfolk offered sanctuary to my wayward basecamp… great day in the morning!
And so, with the “Hot Springs or Busk” tour officially underway, i’ve got interviews from Kansas, to Missouri, to Colorado, with Nebraska and South Dakota next on the list. It’s a journey as predictable as a heavy-weight boxer’s battle plan, but by the fiery breath of Helios in July, i wouldn’t have it any other way. I told myself after the great recession cratered my IT career, i would retire early and either live on a boat at sea, or get a motor home and sail the waving prairie. And since the idea of open ocean sailing after a lifetime on the flatlands is patently absurd, Rocinante is the manifestation of that vision, and despite the occasional detours and Hail Marys (“Everyone has a plan till they get punched in the face.” ~ Iron Mike), i am loving every minute of it.
They say life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans. Well, my plans may have gone up in smoke more than once, but what rises from the ashes is a tale worth telling, a journey worth living. So strap in, loopers, because this road trip is just getting started, and who knows what madness lies around the next bend.
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.
Loopcircus 