Ronnie Hays

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: Crossroads

I have to get something off my chest before moving on with Phase II of the Hot Springs or Busk tour. It veers into politics, and though i know it’s more polite to avoid politics and religion in casual conversation, both are on the ballot in the upcoming election. Though i don’t expect to persuade anyone away from their way of thinking, i feel it necessary to call attention to a few areas of personal concern, vis our future as citizens of the UNITED States of America.

First, i can appreciate the IT-system metaphor advanced by MAGA’s current brain trust (Peter Thiel, Steve Bannon, Curtis Yarvin, etc.) for modern governance. Specifically, that we need to shut the current system down and bring it back up. I mean, this (adaptive change) should be the goal of all democratic referenda, right? Strangely, there are powerful voices behind the new-right providing wind beneath MAGA’s wings. They assert (d)emocractic processes aren’t sweeping enough. (or, democracy is incompatible with “freedom”?) They say there’s an entrenched nefarious “deep state” at the root of all U.S. disfunction and the only way to fix it is to burn it all the way down. My problem with their proposed solution is that they would merely replace the existing “administrative state” with their own version. You know, “meet the new boss, same as the old boss”. I’m not persuaded that this will be an improvement for every day working people. Maybe for the billionaire or millionaire class, but not for the folks i know and love. They (new right) don’t want to merely reform the system, they want to scrap democracy (Lincoln’s version) and replace it with a techno-monarchy featuring all-powerful CEOs (like modern corporate governance). No, really. And ya… i’m not persuaded. They say we need to get over our “dictator-phobia”. WTF? We already litigated the divine right of kings, and we’ve also litigated authoritarian fascism. 

Not only no, but HELL to the NO…! 
We aren’t going there, ever again… hello! 

That said, as a former IT professional, i understand the corrosive effects entropy can have on complex adaptive systems such as hardware/software synergies and electoral politics. And so, i’m open to ideas. But, rather than throw the founders’ baby out with the bathwater of institutional corruption (dark money, lobbyist/congress revolving door, etc.), let’s take a look at how our leaders are chosen. Let’s scrap the zero-sum “winner take all” method of the current electoral system and replace it with ranked choice contests, enforcing radical transparency in the funding of campaign messaging. This would force all campaigns to appeal to voters outside of narrow ideological lanes. If nothing else, taking down the temperature of divisive campaign vitriol.

I realize i’m veering off my lane as i’m not a political scientist, but i had to throw a couple pennies in there as the ideas these guys are throwing around, whether simply trolling for reactions, or worse, if they’re serious, have me more than a little concerned. Seriously… melt the underclasses down into bio-fuel? Jack them into “Matrix-like” virtual-world simulations, red pills, blue pills? Is this supposed to be funny? Sorry, i’m not on board. Enjoyed the movie, immensely, not amused by Mr. Yarvin’s analogy. In fact, he’s got it all quite backwards. He calls the administrative state and a collection of elite opinion makers a “cathedral”, but, as a fellow IT maven, he should remember the software development structures described in the early days of the Internet by Eric S. Raymond as the Cathedral and the Bazaar. With mission-aligned engineers developing commercial software being the Cathedral, and the loose confederation of developers contributing to open-source projects being the Bazaar. As i see it, the current loose configuration of influences making up MAGA’s nemesis, the “deep state” operate like Raymond’s description of the Bazaar, and the ideologically-aligned power structure Project 2025 aims to install “on day one” would be closer to Raymond’s description of the Cathedral. Yes… ass backwards. But enough of that digression.

You think i’m joking? Look it up… Curtis Yarvin is admired by Peter Thiel, Steve Bannon, and VP Candidate JD Vance. Project 2025 is the Heritage Foundation’s sanitized version of the brave new world order these radical libertarians have in mind, and they know libertarianism can never take power without totalitarian monarchical rule so, rather than face reality and modify their expectations, they propose we simply scrap democracy and install CEO Tzars…? Seriously… shouldn’t this simply be the end of discussion?

Well it’s not, and the way i see it, we stand at a very important crossroad in our nation’s history. Sure, the current system has major flaws, and corruption seems to have become the norm rather than the exception. So, we should consider seemingly wacky reform ideas and let the best rise to the top for implementation. After all, we still have the Electoral College. A reasonable compromise in the horse and buggy days. And it did serve a noble purpose at one time. Do we really need it now? This should be up for vigorous debate. And the lobbyist/congress-critter revolving door in D.C…? is this the best way to bring citizens in so they can have their say in the way the rest of us are governed? Some might say, “hell no”, but the critters in the revolving door will fight to keep that gravy train a’rollin’.

Thing is… we are still the gold standard City on the Hill. Surely everyone can identify areas of the founders’ brilliant framework that remain relevant, and fill the gaps of, how would Peter Thiel put it, outdated policy “software” in order to go forward in a manner that benefits all citizens, not just the millionaire/billionaire class.

Anyway… we report, you decide, and that’s all i wanna say about that.

Back to the search for the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, the 2024-25 Hot Springs or Busk tour.

This Land: Utah

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.

This Land: Idaho

The Great “Hot Springs or Busk” Tour Rolls Back Downhill (Dispatch from Pocatello, Idaho):
So, like a clown car perpetually overflowing with misfortune, here we are again, loopers. Remember that meticulously crafted itinerary, the one that promised a triumphant northward march to the Canadian border? Yeah, about that. Turns out, fate – that sadistic ringmaster with a penchant for rusty hubcaps – had other plans. Rocinante, our trusty (usually) mount, coughed up a lung full of power-pack trouble, forcing a U-turn south towards Wayfarer Central in Colorado Springs. Parts, bless their slow-moseyin’ selves, would not arrive for a fortnight, so we chose to spend the downtime at homebase, Hays, KS where we could also get Rocinante’s windshield replaced and a running board added.

But hey, a scenic detour is a scenic detour, right? We shivered through a one-night stand in Bismarck after a stunning sunset stretch through South and North Dakota’s rolling countryside. Then Billings Montana offered a brief respite before hightailing it through Bozeman, then Cody Wyoming. Cody, bless its remote tourist-trap hide, is where we met up with some excellent friends who steered us towards Thermopolis – a haven of hot springs so numerous they’d make Bacchus proud.

Then, Idaho Falls, a land in need of some highway adopters, became our next pitstop. After that, Pocatello, where we nestled in the bosom of a decent public library contemplating the next leg – Salt Lake City, a place that holds… hmmm… let’s just say Ronnie Hays has some “post-9/11 baggage” with SLC (stay tuned for the glorious details).

But the real star of this show, loopers, was the stretch between Cody, WY and Idaho Falls. Yellowstone National Park, in all its technicolor glory, unfolded before our bleary eyes. Mountains that scraped the underbelly of heaven, meadows bursting with wildflowers, switchbacks that would make a pretzel shout in pain. Mammoth Hot Springs, a geological freak show that would make P.T. Barnum envious. And the wildlife, oh the wildlife! Foxes with mischievous glints in their eyes, Elk foraging with enormous racks, bison as big and grumpy as your grunting uncle Melvin, and bears – enough bears to staff a Russian circus. The only downside? No dang AT&T service. Talk about being stranded in the technological dark ages!

Speaking of stranded, it was right here, in the middle of Mother Nature’s art gallery, that Rocinante decided to shed a hubcap like a bad habit. Thousands of miles under our belts, and this is when she decides to play Hide the hubcap? Believe you me, loopers, we were sweating harder than a sinner in church. But fear not! Rocinante, bless her engine that could, soldiered on through the park, hubcap-less but unbowed.

So, Idaho, the state with the motto that sounds like a drunken Latin scholar’s mumbling (Esto Perpetua, for the curious). Rough translation, “It shall be perpetual”. And what have we learned? Well, for starters, hot springs are a national treasure here. And speaking of Hot Springs, Idaho covers the gamut, from redneck mud baths to swanky spas… a soak for every soul. And though the higher-ed scene may not be ivy, these universities offer a decent education without the heart attack-inducing price tag. And who knew Idaho was such a literary hotspot? Shakespeare under the stars, Hemingway’s ghost haunting cafes – it’s enough to make a bibliophile sue for custody.

The Idahoan Identity? Self-reliant, community-driven, with a healthy dose of fresh air and a side of “get off my lawn” thrown in for good measure. And nature’s playground? Yup! From the Sawtooth Mountains that could pierce the heavens to Yellowstone’s geothermal freak-out, Idaho’s got scenery that’ll knock your socks off (assuming you’re wearing any). And they have grown some famous loopers, from Aaron Paul (aka “Yo! Mr. White… Science!”), Papa Hemingway himself, and the silver screen siren Lana Turner. Not a bad lineup, eh?

The Bread and Butter, agriculture, tourism, and the service industry keep Idaho humming along. Relatively affordable housing, decent wages – what’s not to love? Plus, there’s always a mountain to climb or a river to raft, so you won’t get bored.

A land of contradictions. A double-edged sword. There’s a fierce sense of community, a rugged self-reliance, and a love for the great outdoors that would make John Muir weep with joy. On the other hand, there’s a whiff of insularity, a resistance to change that’s about as flexible as a petrified log, and pockets of militant social conservatism that could curdle milk at fifty paces.

But hey, that’s the beauty of this crazy mixed-up country, right? From the boiling cauldrons of Yellowstone to the necessary return to Wayfarer Central, it’s a never-ending carnival of delights and disasters. Stay tuned for the next thrilling installment of Rocinante’s hubcap shedding saga!

Onward through the fog… R.H.

And now… another apology to Woody:

For fields of tubers…
And chaos preppers…
Idaho… spicy as a pepper…
You got your Shakespeare…
Pound and Hemmingway…
Esto … it will be … Perpetua!

This Land: South Dakota

So, we may have to rename this tour… something like, “everyone has a plan…” Chadron, our intended stop for the Nebraska lowdown, turned out to be a charming little berg with a primo park perfect for cranking out the Colorado post. Unfortunately, the town isn’t big enough to hold a Planet Fitness, which meant no cleansing shower for Ronnie Hays. And to top it all off, the rotation appointment we snagged at the local tire emporium wasn’t until the following Monday (this being a lazy Thursday).

Consulting the oracle of Google Maps (Siri’s drunk sister), we discovered that salvation, in the form of a steaming hot shower and a decent workout, resided just over an hour north in Rapid City, South Dakota. Packing up Rocinante, our trusty mount, we pointed her bug-splattered nose towards the promised land.

Rapid City itself is a San Francisco analog, all rolling green hills juxtaposed with crumbling infrastructure and a smattering of contemporary steel and glass. The pièce de résistance? A giant grain elevator, the kind you’d find crumbling away in every Kansas town, sticking out like a sore thumb. But hey, that’s the beauty of the road, right? You gotta roll with the punches, surf ’em like tasty waves.

Speaking of waves, the drive from Chadron to Rapid City was a technicolor dreamscape. Yellow wood-sorrel rippled across the Nebraska/SD rolling plains like a giant, undulating welcome mat, punctuated by a playful thunderstorm that kept teasing us with glimpses of blueberry sky between cotton candy clouds generously leaking a steady stream of nature’s universal solvent. Our initial plan was to hit a car wash in Rapid City to scrub the bugs off Rocinante’s snout, but Mother Nature, in all her benevolence, had already taken care of that with her pre-dawn car wash special.

Now, Chadron beckoned us back on Monday, June 17th, for that all-important tire appointment at 9:00 AM sharp. From there, who knows? North Dakota awaits, then west to Montana or East to Minnesota. One thing’s for sure, though: we’re sticking to the northern border until the prairie convection oven quits treating Rocinante like a sardine can in a microwave.

Ah, South Dakota. Land of majestic, perpetually bored bison and presidents’ faces etched into granite like a celestial dentist appointment gone horribly wrong. The state motto, “Under God the People Rule,” smacks you in the face like a rogue hailstone in a prairie squall – a paradox as clear as a whiskey-induced hallucination. On the one hand, it’s a middle finger salute to the nanny state, a boot-stomping declaration of rugged individualism. On the other, it’s about as subtle as a neon JESUS IS COMING sign plastered across a casino marquee.

Our initial quest for hot springs, fueled by enthusiastic Googling, promised a plethora of public geothermal paradises. However, Siri’s drunk sister, bless her malfunctioning circuits, led us down a path more suited for a scene straight out of “The Texas Chainsaw Massacre.” Unmaintained roads, dilapidated farm equipment – the whole shebang. Needless to say, Ronnie Hays decided hightailing it out of there seemed like the most prudent course of action at the time. However, on the return trip, alleluia, the Town of “Hot Springs,” SD was a mere 5-mile diversion. Did we take it…? Derp, waddya think, home slice? Even’s Plunge brought back childhood memories. It seems R.H.’s parents had a similar attraction to these sacred waters. He (R.H.) spent the rest of the morning shuttling between the mineral pool and the bubbling hot baths…!! Voila! Hot Springs beat the busk, and now the busk better get in gear.

You meet the most interesting people in mineral baths, no? We met “Chico Scotty (not his real name),” a retired rescue ranger from the U.S. Forest Service and he described a scene straight out of a fever dream brewed on moonshine and monster movie marathons. Nestled amongst the Pondarosa pines, trapped in a rock tangle after a particularly nasty stumble, he thought he might be in a situation similar to that one where a climber had to cut his own hand off to escape, he (Chico) encountered a creature that defied every ranger handbook he’s ever thumbed through. More on Chico’s adventures later.

Forget the literary landmarks, loopers. This is Laura Ingalls Wilder country, and for some loopers, that’s good enough. Who doesn’t love a good tale of pioneering grit and sunbonnets, right?

And what about that South Dakota character? The good? Friendly folks, as sturdy and dependable as a John Deere tractor. The not-so-good? Let’s just say some mindsets can be a tad… well, stuck in the past.

Lifestyle? For tourists, it’s all about the wide-open spaces, the kitschy attractions (dinosaur and pheasant statues, anyone?), and the feeling of being a million miles from anywhere (which, depending on your perspective, can be a good thing or a bad thing). For natives, it’s a land of self-reliance, hard work, and a fierce sense of community. Sure, the winters can be brutal, but the sunsets are enough to make a preacher slap his mama.

Vox populi: What do South Dakotans say about their state motto? Most chuckle, then offer some variation of “it ain’t perfect, but it’s ours.” There’s a grudging respect for the spirit of self-sufficiency it embodies, even if the government’s idea of “empowerment” sometimes feels more like being shoved headfirst into a vat of scalding hot mineral water. And speaking of mineral water, back to Chico Scotty’s reverse Rescue Ranger forest debacle. This wasn’t your run-of-the-mill grizzly with a bad case of the Mondays. This was a lumbering, buxom rug with a coat of hair rendering clothing unnecessary. Chico thought he had encountered a female wookie, all 6’10” of her, reeking like a gym sock left in a swamp. Chico, a man who wouldn’t blink at a rogue moose on PCP, felt a primal tremor shimmy down his spine. But forced himself to push the silly sasquatch thoughts aside. He was delirious, desperate to escape the rock tangle, and this strange creature seemed willing to help.

With the grace of a drunken tap dancer on a greased skillet, and with the help of the creature, Chico wrestled with the rock tangle, muttering curses that would make a sailor blush. Finally, with an audible thunk, and sending electric pain all the way up his spine, the rock fell away. The hairy maiden straight out of an R.Crumb sketch book lumbered to her feet, with a graceful waltz of power and surprising elegance. This unusual savior let out a sound that could have been a growl, a yodel, or maybe the mating call of a particularly disgruntled walrus. Chico, ever the pragmatist, took it as a giant, hairy “good luck, human.”

The big gal then did something that cemented Chico’s belief in the whole “myth must persist” philosophy. She melted back into the woods like a particularly large, pungent shadow. Now, Chico did remember one thing clearly (it was a stressful ordeal, and well, he wasn’t completely lucid): The big gal moved with a stealth that would make a ninja weep with envy.

Back at the ranger station, showered, slightly less ripe, he dressed the flesh wounds, and nursed a brace of coffee. The encounter with the big gal sat heavy in his gut. He knew the official channels would have him hunting the poor thing down with a posse and a platoon of tranquilizer darts. But Chico, in a moment of rebellion, decided to keep his trap shut. The big gal deserved her peace, and her myths. Besides, who was Chico to deny the world a little bit of magic, even if it came wrapped in a giant, smelly package? The legend of Bigfoot lives on, thanks to a ranger with a heart as big as the Crazy Horse monument, and a mouth that, thankfully, knew when to stay shut.

So now… the point. Here’s this Hot Springs or Busk tour appended verse to Woody Guthrie’s timeless classic “This Land”:

From the Black Hills…
To the rolling prairie…
South Dakota…
Extraordinary…
Pull your boots up…
And leave the legends lie…
These folks are strong…
As mountain stone.

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 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 V (genderpocalypse)

In the chaos of twisted chromosomes and warring hormones, we stumble upon the battleground known as “gender identity.” Picture it, loopers: a cosmic joke played on the fleshy stage of human existence. On one side, we have the cold, hard warriors of science, armed with their microscopes, brain scans, and impenetrable jargon, dissecting the very essence of what it means to be a dude or a chick. Like a swarm of blue ants, they peck away at the X and Y chromosomes… they focus their compound lenses on squishy gray folds of the brain hoping to uncover the secret lair of gender.

On the other side, we’ve got a dubious combination of politics and religion. And like red ants quoting holy scripture confined in a glass jar with the lab-coat wearing blues, all are content to share the space peacefully until someone comes along and shakes the jar. Ideologies and agendas are imposed upon the mix, where gender is leveraged as a weapon, a war cry, a bargaining chip designed to divide in order to conquer. Here, the forces of division speak in tongues, twisting words like “identity” and “expression” into righteous mandibles and impenetrable exoskeleton. They invent fake threats, hurl buzzwords like sugar crystals, and paint the very notion of gender itself as some kind of existential threat against all ant-kind. It’s an artfully designed battle, loopers, where common sense goes to die and the casualties are sanity and nuance… but enough of this ant-jar metaphor.

Caught in the political shitstorm, behold, the ordinary human! A curious creature, armed with little more than a body that feels and a mind that questions. “Who am i?” they wonder, peering into the distorted screen of warring society. “Am i what the textbooks say i am, what my birth certificate proclaims? Or am i something more, something deeper, an echo of feeling that defies the rigid rules of biology?” The scientists, bless their methodical hearts, try to offer answers, mapping out hormonal landscapes and brain circuitry. But what do they really know about being trapped in a body that feels like a prison, or feeling a defiant joy under a label that the world wants to erase?

Meanwhile, politicians bellow and posture. Christian Nationalists, with their faces twisted in apocalyptic fury, see transgender folks as harbingers of societal collapse, demonic agents sent to shatter the sacred order of man, woman, and holy matrimony. They clutch their dog-eared Bibles like shields, shouting verses about abominations as if the wrath of God himself will smite down those who dare to blur the lines. Oh, the irony, loopers, for aren’t those holy books dripping with gender-bending stories? Androgynist angels, prophets who blur the lines of man and woman… all stuff of genderqueer fever dreams!

And let’s not forget the paragons of liberal tolerance, sometimes just as ridged and uncompromising. Armed with academic tomes and social justice battle cries, they paint gender as a fluid, ever-shifting spectrum, where the very act of categorization is an act of violence. For them, biology is a mere suggestion, pronouns a tool of liberation, and self-declaration of the highest law. To question their orthodoxy is to be cast as bigoted troglodytes, clinging to a world that no longer exists, a relic of a less enlightened age… nuance be damned.

So, here we are, loopers, trapped in this absurdist play. The lab-coat wearing blue ants fiddle with their instruments, hoping to find a grand unifying theory of gender, while the red culture-warriors trade barbs and twist reality like cheap balloon animals. Yet, in the end, what does any of this say about the boy who looks in the mirror and sees a girl staring back, or the woman who feels like a stranger in her own skin? It’s the eternal human struggle played out on a new stage… a struggle to simply be, to exist without judgment, to find a sliver of peace in this glorious, messy, and often nonsensical thing Bill Hicks reminds us is “just a ride.”

And where does our fictional alter-ego fit in this absurdist play? Well, Ronnie Hays says he’s a woman trapped in a man’s body, but that woman happens to be a lesbian. So… the deviance is nearly imperceptible because if he’s dating… he’s dating a woman, and since his skin, flesh, and blood is male from the get go… NO ONE notices something amiss.

Cheers… Loopcircus