type-a

The Chool Bus (preface):

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes: In the years of our lord 2024-25 the Loopcircus blog roared along with consistent weekly glimpses into our “Hot Springs or Busk (HSoB)” travels. This was a settled workflow, quite manageable, rendering weekly 4-10 minute posts and illustrative graphics (thanks to various AI image generation tools). The posts were accompanied by audio versions of the text in narrative podcast form. Presently, a few developments have altered our expectations post-HSoB. 1.) Since we have a perfectly serviceable set of vocal folds, we can’t continue to justify maintaining the AI voice-track crutch. 2.) The current creative focus is thus: Instead of brief snapshots of various topics, we’re aiming to create a long-form narrative, eventually cobbled together in novel form (audio & print). And 3.) We’ve shifted gears in our travels, where the original goal was to visit each of the 48 contiguous United States, a blog post for each (several for Florida… of course). And now, we’re letting a bit of moss grow under our feet, making travel decisions determined by favorable Van-Life weather.

And so, we’re currently approaching week #4 with the new project, and we’re finding those aimless moments of formless drifting, some call it “writer’s block” where, at the end of what could have been a productive day, we reflect with a bit of slothful guilt that nothing of consequence had been produced. This is anathema to your typical Type-A personality, no matter HOW retired i think i am. So, this morning, it hit me. In those heady days when we had a weekly publish deadlines (a mere four weeks ago), things got done. In fact we were able to work so far ahead of deadlines to be three to six weeks ahead of publishing targets. Of course, this provides more time for reflection and review, and that’s a good thing as it’s hard to catch mechanical errors when the work is rushed. Anyway, we decided to roll this narrative out as a Loopcircus serial. Many fine works got their public introduction thusly. Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray comes to mind, among others, Twain, Dickens, Dumas, Tolstoy, Dostoevsky, Joyce, etc.. 

So, we’ll get back to weekly postings with an eye toward minimizing the use of artificial intelligence tools. Starting with the voice tracks. We’ve decided to fall back to tracking my own voice for the audio supplements… AI will be removed from the workflow in that regard. That said, my graphics talent is right up there with Kurt Vonnegut’s (if you know, you know). So, we’ll continue to enlist a robot’s assistance for the weekly post’s “featured images”. We’ll engage a human artist should the finished product ever make it to professional publication. 

And now… without further adieu… a brief introduction: 
In this story, the eminent and amiable Professor Mork Thompson (Professor T.) and his bandmates, known as “The Forks” in their youthful heyday… wander around United States of America indulging a preternatural interest in human nature. This shared interest inspires a question which eventually earns Professor T. a lucrative research grant. Early on, Professor T. recruits a young cowboy and recent graduate of the University of Wyoming for research assistance and aid de camp. Buck Wellstone, whose unhurried country gentility and forthright attitude adds contrast to the sometimes naive and uptight countenance of the former grunge guitar flogger/songsinger, Mork Thompson. On the back roads and freeways of this vast nation, The Forks bear witness to many sometimes perilous, sometimes awkward, sometimes comic adventures that culminate with resolution in a nagging, ongoing inquest/lawsuit concerning Professor T.’s alleged Title IX violations brought by his long-time administrative assistant.

Okay… back to the weekly posts, back to appeasing the Type-A gods. Please join us checking in on the adventures and misadventures of Mork T. and the Forks as they make their way around our precariously vacillating experiment in pluralistic democracy, searching for “the fibrillating heart of our divided nation”.

May whatever you call the infinite mystery of existence swoop in and help us all.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Another Brief Hiatus

It was just after sunrise, and from the Holland House beach-view deck i observed a Carnival floating city wafting slowly into port. A ship’s arrival, of course, changes everything on the Dutch/French Island of Sint Maarten/Saint Martin. Though a pristine, emerald water, white sand tropical beach paradise, St. Martin is short on valuable natural resources, leaving tourism and retail their primary economic base. The lack of natural resources renders a cruise-ship’s arrival super-important. With this history in mind, one wonders why the tiny island ended up split (Dutch and French respectively). But then again, say what you will about the French, they’ve always known how to “chillax.” Some things are worth fighting for, right? Priorities. Again, not a crucial hotspot for imperial holdings, but there were plenty of skirmishes and smoky gun battles in the settlement’s early days. In fact, Saint Martin/Sint Maarten changed hands many times between the  European powers of the day. Many a stone fort relic stand yet today over the island’s inlets offering proof of Saint Martin’s turbulent past.

Hotel Holland House is under the jurisdiction of the government of the Netherlands; the immediate locality is called “Philipsburg,” one L short of a burg with the same name north of Hays, Kansas. Phillipsburg, Kansas is nestled within a county that regularly produces grumpy people simply unable drive like persons with purpose. Locals on St. Maarten resemble these Kansans in that, on this morning, they seem somewhat lethargic. Smiles are rare and traffic lights are replaced by lazy roundabouts and grumpy… grumpy traffic cops. But oh, things get cheerier when the cruise ships dock. Lots of foot traffic on the concrete “boardwalk” and many more dollars, euros, yen, bat, yang, pesos, etc. in circulation.

The ship is in and my breakfast server’s eerie buccaneer countenance foretells tourist plunder ahead.

THERE YOU ARE…
Sampling the local spirits, you may find Caribbean beers most agreeable. Of course, Red Stripe is available, if not at the bars, then mini markets peppering the narrow cobblestone walkways. “Presidente” and “Heineken” are available with or without citrus. Among other choices, a particular local favorite is a salty number called “Carib.” There may not be a connection, but in the 14th century, war-like cannibalistic Indians called “Carib.” named the island “Soualiga,” which means Salt Island. This due to its main mineral deposit. In fact, the remains of the Great Salt Pond can still be seen in Philipsburg today. My doctor tells me to avoid excess salt, and so i find myself here… hmmm. And you know what they say… “wherever you go…”

I’m here with a group of students in their first years of college on, what is for many, their first international sojourn. There is plenty of time for cultural exchange, but the students have a primary mission, which is to assist entrepreneurs in the various local endeavors. Later, after the day’s experiential learning, the cruise liner is GONE, and the locals are back to their preternatural grumpy bearing. In a remote corner of the beach-view cabana, this particular hitchhiker is interviewing local entrepreneurs, digging for gold for his latest blog post. He’s an interloper and doesn’t know how cranky the hotel’s employees can be, so daring to move a stem glass to make room for his sound recorder he audaciously crossed a red line of island decorum and drew a hissing demand to put everything back where it was. Luckily, he’s interviewing locals who would run interference for him.

FISH OUTTA WATER…
One might find it weird being among the scarce few honkies in streams of people drifting around a beach community. After all, it IS off-season with few tourists around. The locals are primarily of color and don’t appear troubled with questions of social justice. In contrast to the tense race relations in the U.S., folks seem generally peaceful… at ease on their island. One might wonder, however, where are the interlopers’ boundaries? For example, one customarily bold tourist from the Midwest U.S., a person used to taking 40-minute uninhibited walks at the end of his workday told me he tried to do it (walk) on this morning, but found himself feeling super unwelcome (ah, fresh perspectives). He ended up skipping the morning walk resolving to screw his courage up later in the day. After all, he was on island-time now. He knew folks grown accustomed to a world starting engines of commerce somewhere around 7:00 am would have to adjust, and should probably get used to not having breakfast till 7:00 am on the island.

Many are the opportunities for wonder in “Paradise” as local celebrity, Ife Badejo calls it. One of the more popular adventures is a trip around the island in a canopy-covered motor boat. It is speculated that at least three of twenty Midwestern landlubbers on these excursions would grow quite seasick and toss their cookies overboard, or worse… on boatmates. Sometimes when hapless landlubbers regurgitate breakfast on their neighbor, it starts a chain reaction of stomach evacuating fun. Ah… good times. Luckily, tour organizers have the foresight to install hoses starboard and stern. Other wonder inspiring diversions include jungle zip line courses and, of course, shopping and cosmopolitan cuisine out the wazoo. The zip line requires one to screw their courage up good and tight. Although a rider may have two safety lines and a workman’s glove to prevent plunging toward the mango peppered ground, they also have friendly guides that help the persistently squeamish. Some just can’t hang, and the numbers are about the same as those of the party boat seasick variety, just different individuals.

On the “boardwalk,” music piped through the speakers reflects a contemporary selection of club mixes and autotuned saccharine pop. There is one hotel that simply can’t get enough of Whitney Houston’s catalog, played by Kenny G., on his super melodic clarinaxiphone. I overheard one patron mention that if he heard another rousing tootling of “I Wanna Dance with Somebody” he was going to snap, and it wasn’t gonna be pretty. Of course, this was an idle threat. He finished his breakfast enduring two or three more iterations of the upbeat, bouncy Kenny G. selection. However, when Bob Marley kicks in, faith is restored, and one gets a saltier taste of island culture.

Lunchtime, things get spicier. One is more likely to hear Bob Marley at a place known as the “Lazy Lizard,” just a few ticks to the left of the Holland House deck. A super popular lunch spot, the proprietor not only serves delicious nibbledy gibblies, he also has a line of fruit-infused rum that rocks, on the rocks or neat. Get jerk wings at the Lazy Lizard and prepare to burn. Cool yourself with a slash of Guava Berry infused rum and then get ready to sleep. You’re on island time, Mon. Napping is good, and the Lazy Lizard is a knock-out… KO!

ISLAND TIME… ??
Now, don’t fool yourself, island time IS a thing. Every appointment this group of Kansas landlubbers makes with Islanders ends up with the landlubbers showing up promptly, and the natives scheduled to meet them at least 30 minutes behind. This leads one to conclude, in super unscientific ways, that island time is very much like “musician time.” I am qualified to comment on this… don’t ask. Anyhoo…

…if you want islanders or musicians to be a certain place at a certain time, you have to lead the target by at least 30 minutes in order to keep everyone in sync.

ISLAND SECURITY… ??
A curious bit of advice might be overheard from Holland House staff to tourists, warning them not to take a right on the “Boardwalk” after dark unless accompanied by a group of four or more… or if a girl gaggle, at least one burly fella must go along. Going left from the Holland house is not much better, but at least the locals say it is. Traveling the main arteries of the island, you may pass a “security station” touting “riot squad” in their branding. If that makes one curious, a simple search reveals recent answers to the question, “Do the French and Dutch ever squabble after all these years?” … the answer is, maaaaaaabe. Toward the end of the busy season in March, 2016, a major access road connecting the French and Dutch Quarters was entirely blocked to vehicles. According to the local newspaper, the Daily Herald, At least two barricades composed of car wrecks were seen on the main road going through the district in addition to many turned-over garbage bins, and rocks and debris were strewn over the road. District officials say the action was the work of French Quarter citizens taking matters of dispute into their own hands. Officials commended the local security forces for exercising restraint even though reports of opportunistic young people manning the barricades and charging people money to go through were verified. A spontaneous march by “Saint-Martin Wake Up,” from the French Quarter to Marigot was stopped by the Gendarmerie in the interest of public order.

OH, THE WATER…..
Swimming… sea swimming… well, there’s no real breaking wave action outside the Holland House deck, so boogie boarding or, god forbid, actual surfing are not options. If you brought your gargles, you can maybe enjoy a spot of communance with small tropical fishies, and if super lucky, a sea turtle, or even a ray or two. However, for those with bare cranial domes, and no aspirations for contracting melanoma, the kelp braids can feel startlingly like the tentacles of massive sea monsters… especially when your gargles fill with eye burning sea water just as you find yourself in water deeper than your barely 5’ old, fat, bald personal frame… AND… if you’ve only recently seen netwebb memes of looming shark bodies lurking in water much shallower (deep breath). From that vantage point, it’s easy to hastily conclude…. THERE BE MONSTERS!

TOURIST PLUNDER, DENIED….
So, now that the cruise ships are gone, the Buccaneer’s grin is dissolved from my server’s face, and the natives are grumpy again, a particularly rapacious shopkeeper tried to charge me double retail for a pair of Tevas… doh! And… some of the student honkies have taken to calling me  “Captain Ron Swanson.” I don’t know why… i’m a pussycat… even though i had to let the shopkeeper know i was super not interested in paying double retail for the sandals. 

Anyway, here i am… a brief hiatus from the daily grind. It’s been a joy. Six months removed from the previous hiatus on the slab at the DeBakey Heart Institute. Neither of these breaks were planned, at least not by me. Mother Nature and the excellent DeBakey staff took care of the first. For the second break, i was asked to fill in for my boss so she could deal with a death in the family. I told her to think of me as an option of last resort because i didn’t believe i was up to an international excursion only six months off the slab. But no one stepped up (?) and i didn’t want to keep her from familial obligations. After all, six months should be enough healing time, right? Right… so here i am… exactly six months to the day: Reborn, 11-15-2016 On the flight to paradise, 5-15-2017. I’m glad i came, but not sure it will have the effect my family and close friends would recommend. Evidently, I’m a type-A, as in “ADDICTED to busy” kind of person. Don’t get me wrong, i love my vocation, but full immersion with it keeps me an arm’s length from the rhythm of my “original drumbeat,” an impractical avocation. Not to mention… that well-worn lesson, “Nobody on their deathbed ever said they wish they had spent more time in the office.”

I probably need to make adjustments.
Maybe get in touch with my inner type B.

We shall see, we shall see.