Rocinante

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.

Ode to the Pseudonym:

Listen up, loopers… Ron Rohlf, here, direct from a van down by the river. Now, i’m not normally one to hide behind alias’. Makes a person slippery as a greased piglet. But then again, who doesn’t love a good trainwreck in slow motion, am i right? That first published work, that public debut… sometimes it arrives like a rabid skunk at a church picnic, just pure chaos, confusion, and stank. Better to hide behind a fake name, spare yourself the indignity.

They all did it, the greats: King hawking his twisted tales as that Bachman fella, Rowling conjuring stories under a man’s moniker. Even old Agatha, bless her arsenic-and-lace heart, she dabbled in deception. Like a pack of racoons disguised as respectable bankers, that lot.

Me? Well, i’m an open book, whiskers and all. Hell, i’m a walking contradiction… part raving doomsaying gonzo reporter, part starry-eyed optimist. I’ll bleed into the digital space, blazing like fireworks gone haywire. From the pointless despair of Geisterfahrer syndrome, to my impression of the Rittenhouse acquittal, to the modern “distracted driver” problem, to the note of gratitude for friends and neighbors on the front lines of local civil life, it’s all there (living in the USofA), warts and all.

Yet sometimes, we creators need smokescreens, ways to test the waters without getting scalded. That’s why we play with names, toss ’em out there like fishhooks to see what bites. So, Ronnie Hays, this “Mongrel of the Rueful Countenance” is more a pitstop on this fool’s odyssey than a permanent fixture… a quest to find a bright voice and when that voice rings out, clear and true as a firebell in the dead of night… well, that’s when the mask begins to fade, the freak flag flies, and the wild ride comes into sharper focus.

Till then, stay loopy, my friends.

And to all willing to take the good with the bad, we salute you.

Cheers…

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter IX (shower bamboozle)

Ah, the open road. A struggle with wind on the prairie, the sun a benevolent orb on your windshield, and the liberating absence of… well, plumbing. Yes, loopers, for those of us trading overstuffed leather thrones for the seats of trusty (read: not so aerodynamic) sprinter vans, the pursuit of personal hygiene takes on a whole new existential character. It’s a daily vaudeville act, a slapstick ballet between man, machine, and the whims of the ever-fickle water pump.

Yesterday evening, for instance, began with the misguided optimism that a proper shower was within reach. Visions of cascading waterfalls danced in my head… a reward for a week of dodging rogue deer and boondocking in rest areas smelling vaguely of despair. With the zeal of a knight errant facing a fire-breathing dragon, i backed up to a wall and opened Rocinante’s cargo doors (strategically chosen to function as a modesty panel, because, let’s face it, ya gotta come up with your own privacy screens on the road). I wrestled the showerhead attachment onto the back hose…a Frankensteinian contraption powered by D-batteries and hope…then tiptoed to the back of the van with the grace of a particularly uncoordinated hippo wrapped in a beach towel.

Then, the heavens…or rather, the water pump…opened. But instead of a cleansing downpour, a pathetic cascade of not quite warm droplets emerged, clinging precariously to the nozzle like tears on a clown’s cheek. It was a scene straight out of a Beckett play…minimalist, absurd, and utterly soul-crushing. The wrath of Poseidon himself couldn’t have been more devastating. Here i was, poised for ablution, and the universe was mocking me with the hydraulics of a thimble.

I tell you, loopers, despair smells a lot like stale marshmallows and last week’s campfire. But as i wallowed in my sudsy misery (yes, i’d optimistically brought travel-sized body wash), a strange sense of zen washed over me. Perhaps Don Quixote wasn’t so delusional after all. Maybe tilting at windmills, or in this case, attempting a shower powered by wishful thinking, is a necessary part of the human condition.

So, here’s to the nomads of the road, the warriors of personal hygiene who wage daily battle with limited water supplies and questionable plumbing. We may not have crystal showers or endless hot water, but we have ingenuity, a good supply of Dude Wipes (because let’s be real, some days call for a strategic retreat), and the unwavering spirit of a hobo at a five-star buffet. After all, a clean conscience is a luxury, but a cleanish body? That, loopers, is achievable, even in the back of a rebellious rolling studio apartment. With a sponge, some shade, and a healthy dose of self-deprecating resignation, even the grimiest nomad can achieve a passable facsimile of civilized cleanliness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a date with a bucket and some very optimistic body wash.

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter VIII (gear up)

Head ’em up… move ’em OUT!
So, the madness struck last Saturday. Like a jolt of lightning up the backside, our mongrel of the rueful countenance found himself shackled to Rocinante… that trusty chariot of tenuous reliability… fuel tank brimming, compass needle twitching eastward…

  • Destination: Lake Wilson
  • Aim: to test digital nomading with Rocinante in a familiar setting.
  • Mission: to survive the Spring Equinox, a pagan ritual amidst the chilly bluster of high plains breezes, and emerge unscathed by the hoards of Easter sunrise gawkers (come what may).

Survival Test #1:
Victory! He stands, un-trampled by the masses. But the true jousting commences… forsaking the gilded comforts of civilization: showers on command, trash-devouring dumpsters, and ah, the porcelain throne!.

His valiant arsenal?
A folding toilet seat, comically unfit for a king, and biodegradable bags (may the gods smile upon his digestion!). Where Quixote had his helmet, our nomad has…this.

The “Hygiene Conundrum:”
His battle against the stench of unwashed days rivals Quixote’s windmill giants. A portable shower hangs in his thoughts… a flimsy shield against against the prairie winds and full-blown knight errant stank… but then again, would it not be more fitting to embrace the grime as true giant-battling wear?

And the Blazing Sol:
The sun, his merciless foe, threatens to leave him a puddle of sweat and self-pity. He yearns for an awning, a canvas sanctuary akin to a sultan’s tent! But such knightly luxuries demand a king’s ransom… far exceeding that of Quixote’s rusty armor.

A glimmer of hope shimmers on the horizon:
A potential barter. Our digital nomad’s freedom could possibly bought with the “High Country Base Camp” currently collecting pollen dust in Savannah Georgia. A lopsided exchange perhaps, akin to Quixote peddling his broken lance, but a chance for escape nonetheless.

And so it goes…
Yet another baby step closer…
Stay tuned… hot springs or busk!

Hot Springs or Busk (chapter VII): Rocinante’s Maiden Voyage

And so, our mongrel of the rueful countenance takes another step closer to his post-retirement vision quest (hot springs or busk). Unlike Don Quixote’s rusty armor, helmet, and spear, he dons camo shorts, Tevas, and Hawaiian shirts blending gloriously with the avocado floor of his newly outfitted camper van. He christened her “Rocinante,” a nod to the famous 17th century novel and a little inside joke to himself. Seemed fitting for a slightly unhinged adventure like this. Luckily he’s traveling with a couple equally bent family members, we’ll call them Dawnareeno and Crazy Carter.

The first stop on Rocinante’s maiden voyage was Colorado Springs, where some savvy outfitters promised to turn Rocinante’s insides into a rolling studio apartment. Ronnie threw caution to the wind and was not disappointed, the outfitters turned the van into a true vagabond sanctuary. While waiting for the workers to finish the job, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, and Crazy Carter took in a few of the local attractions, and while exploring, stumbled upon a vintage motorcycle shop… you know, the one with the cryptic “help wanted” sign in the window. It was practically tailor-made for a gearhead like Crazy Carter, and we all got a chuckle from the words on the sign: “Wanted… mechanic to work on vintage motorcycles. Prefer a retiree with their own tools and plenty of time on their hands.”

Right on time, Ronnie, Dawnareeno, Crazy Carter, and Rocinante tilted towards the plains, bound for their home town where mom still lives (call her Sassy Salgal). Visiting that tiny windswept Western Kansas town made these intrepid travelers feel nostalgic for their flaming youth. But if the wind didn’t shake the vans to pieces that night, well, that would be a minor miracle. It howled like a banshee on a bender, giving their rolling domiciles an unnerving sway that had them contemplating the merits of Dramamine pills.

One more overnight. This time somewhere near the Choctaw Nation, they boondocked in a nearly empty truck stop parking lot, nearly empty because the place had closed for the night in order to upgrade their IT setup. Dinner under the golden arches, then up bright and early for the final stretch to Savannah with its sweet tea, Spanish moss, and symphonies of croaking frogs like drunken choirs of mutant crickets. It was Mother Nature’s lullaby and that night our intrepid travelers slept the sleep of the dead. The frog chorus was as loud as those relentless Kansas winds, which is saying something. Savannah has a ghostly charm, and Ronnie’s travel companions, back in their element, served up a delicious bowl of eggs, grits, and salsa. Just the rib-sticking ticket for the long journey back to Hays America.

A stopping point on the return trip, Nashville, very nearly did him in. The traffic was a biblical swarm of 18-wheelers and urban assault vehicles piloted by rage-filled maniacs who seemed personally offended by the very existence of camper vans. Our hero sweated bullets, the beginnings of a stress ulcer gnawing away in his gut as he navigated potholes big enough to swallow Rocinante whole. Between the craters and the belligerent rat race, he was about ready to cash in his chips and take up residence in a roadside ditch.

But like all things, even Nashville’s particular circle of hell came to an end. St. Louis passed in a blur, then a welcomed ice cream break with his two boys and a special friend in Kansas City, and then… the long, lonely expanse of I-70. The wind returned for one last hurrah, a farewell slap to remind him who was really in charge out on the prairie. Ronnie gritted his teeth, visions of sugar-coated mood gummies and his home bed the only thing keeping him sane.

And then, just like that, there was Hays America again. Rocinante, despite the indignities suffered, pulled into the parking lot with a weary sigh. Ronnie, a little grayer, a little more wrinkled, and sporting a newfound respect for the sheer chaotic power of the American highway, stumbled out. He was home, and damn, if it didn’t feel good. He might not be the world’s greatest adventurer yet, but as he patted Rocinante’s battered side, he grinned. “We’ve only just begun,” he said. There are 50 states in the good ol’ USofA, and Ronnie with Rocinante plans to busk them all then relax in their natural hot springs along the way.

Onward… through the fog!

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter I (the purge)

Happy Funday, loopers! And buckle up, because there is much to do and only months from embarking on a journey of radical proportions… not just to small and medium size college towns across the contiguous 48 (United?) States of America, but into the hitherto uncharted territory of extreme minimalism. You see, before your host can Kerouac across state lines with his trusty guitar and tricked-out sprinter van, he’s gotta Marie Kondo the hell out of his already semi-tidy lifestyle.

Now… purging “stuff” without resorting to a Tyler Durdenesque eruption feels like wrestling a hydra with a shopping cart full of expired coupons. At every corner, another forgotten set of martini glasses, shot glasses, cocktail shakers, beer brewing kits, fondue forks shining with the accusatory glint of a thousand bad decisions… can you relate? Remember that popcorn maker you bought on a whim after a particularly potent batch of brownies? Or the ceramic Elvis bust your aunt Mildred bequeathed you, its rhinestone sunglasses perpetually mocking your life choices? They all gotta go, loopers, jettisoned into the great beyond of thrift shop purgatory.

It’s a Sisyphean task, let me tell you. You purge until your arms feel like overcooked linguine, only to discover a forgotten stack of Wired Magazines leering at you from a box in the guest-room closet, their splashy geek-chic advertisements reflecting the hollowness of consumerism. But with each item exorcised, a strange lightness washes over you. It’s like you’re chiseling through layers of a self-made sarcophagus, emerging, blinking, into the sunlight of… how did William Wallace put it…?

!!FREEEEEDOMM!!

But let’s not sugarcoat this thing. Saying goodbye to stuff feels like attending your own estate sale, inviting strangers to paw through the detritus of your life with the dispassionate curiosity of vultures at a buffet. You see your cherished pulp-n-ink books, once bastions of knowledge, amusement, and inspiration, now reduced to dog-eared doorstops. Your carefully curated vinyl or CD collection? Frisbees… or kindling for a transhumanist bonfire. It’s enough to make you nod along agreeably as Barbara Ehrenreich describes a bait and switch formerly known as the American Dream, built as it is on an ever-expanding foundation of stuff.

But amidst the chaos, there’s a perverse joy. A giddy dance with absurdity as you realize you haven’t worn those bitchin’ parachute pants since the Clinton administration, and that t-shaped sub-woofer cajone, got more use as a foot-stool than a musical instrument.

So, as i stand amidst the ruins of my former semi-tidy life, surrounded by mountains of “maybe someday” and “what was I thinking?”, i feel a strange sense of liberation. The micro-bus, once a gleaming symbol of woodstockian wanderlust, now beckons as a deep-space “stealth” ship (a name… hmmm… let’s see… how about “Rocinante?”).

Anyhoo… no more will i be tethered to the tyranny of things. The open road awaits, and i, with Rocinante, and only the essentials (and maybe a slightly dusty foot-stool), am ready to answer its call.

This, loopers, is not just a trip to the thrift shop. It’s a baptism by Marie Kondo, a communion with the open road, a middle finger raised to the gods of consumerism. It’s the year we trade stuff for possibility, and let me tell you, the view from here is anything but beige. Stay tuned, because Rocinante has yet to commence the metamorphosis… the adventure is just beginning!