writing

Notes from the Road (pt2)

And so… a lot has transpired since our whirlwind swing through the New England and the D.C. swamps. To be more explicit, we’ve wrapped the HSoB tour in a bow visiting all 48 mainland states. Admittedly, some got less attention than fairly warranted. Texas most egregiously. So, after taking care of health, dental, optical, and vehicular care in good ol’ Hays, America, we (Rocinante and i) made our way south when the Late October chill started infiltrating the great state of Kansas. 

1st stop… Tejas…

Since the time is neigh for diving head first into the book project, i couldn’t in good conscience leave the current snapshot of Texas stand unfinished … we’re searching for that “fibrillating heart of our divided nation”. And Texas in an important pole in the current energy disturbance. So, we HAD to spend more time here. And so we did. Starting with a stop in Red Rock, a rural berg roughly 30 miles from Austin. We have friends there, including one bass player who i assume wishes to remain nameless. He’s the one from whom i learned the expression, “just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.” He was a literal comrade in arms as we stumbled through a giant swath of the 1980s in the same Rock-n-Roll platoon… we took no prisoners. As well, a brief detour to celebrate Thanksgiving with a Texas comrade from a different war, the 2000s… the Bush years. Another fellow soldier whom i’m assuming wishes to remain anonymous. From him, i learned that there are no problems in Civil Engineering that, “can’t be solved with a bullet.” He has effectively estranged from his home state, but i suspect he still harbors a deep connection to this storied “whole ‘nuther country”. One thing for certain, he has a keen Texas ear for good music.

Anyway… Texas… after escaping the late autumn chill in Kansas, cruising over the vast tabletop of the Texas prairie, listening to Crime and Punishment via audio book, deep in a reverie, my concentration started wafting in and out with disjointed strains of a song i once knew by heart but hadn’t heard in many years. The voice was that “high lonesome” distinctly Texas lilt, and as the miles rolled by, the music grew more intense and i couldn’t ignore it any longer. When the song started drowning out the book, i turned it (the audio book) off, and racked my memory for a door that could lead me into the song properly, but it didn’t appear. Finally, wishing to get my concentration back in order to track the Dostoevsky novel properly, i pulled over in one of those Texas prairie parking areas for a quick Google search. I HAD to get a bead on that song. And here it is… Lilah, by Don Henley. From a record released the year my first marriage was falling apart. The song evidently embedded itself in the hole where my soul had been before the divorce. Anyway… it was the endless Texas prairie that stirred the song from its resting place, and that impression will be with me for the rest of my days.   

Now, in Rocinante’s slipstream as we made our way South, an early November arctic blast ravaged the Eastern Midwest, and more, reaching all the way to Georgia, even Northern Florida. And since we have no interest in climates dipping into the 30s, we beat a burning path to Corpus Christi after sharing a few beers, reminiscences, and current doin’s with my old Rock-n-Roll war buddy.

After crossing the prairie, escaping the white knuckle traffic snarls of Austin, and finally spending a few weeks here in South Texas, i have a better impression of the Lone Star State and with that, ready to dive head first into the book project. 

For that purpose, back to the River of Grass… back to South Florida and the Miami-Dade Public Library Network. I’ve begun the process of world building and character development, and i know i have a lot to learn before screwing up enough courage to present a manuscript to publishers. I also know the chances of snagging a professional deal are slim to none. But i’ve read Stephen King’s comments “On Writing,” and from that, i know rejections come in bushel baskets. So dear loopers, please understand, i don’t do any of this out of an expectation for something more than, how did Papa Vonnegut put it? Oh yeah, renewing, “feeding, and growing my soul”. And by some lucky coincidence, this has been my retirement plan all along… #winning.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Below the Earth – Above the Sun: The Bionic Blogger

A few days ago, i stumbled upon a digital mirage, a phantasmagoria of AI-generated imagery that sent shivers down my spine (see below). These spectral apparitions, purportedly depict John Prine and Bonnie Raitt together at a 1970 folk music festival. As you can see from the real 1970s image, the AI version is nowhere near accurate. This is a stark reminder of the rapid adoption of artificial intelligence creating “deep fakes” designed to alter history. At first glance, the images were mildly compelling because they kept appearing in my news feed. And as we know from real, even recent history, a lie repeated enough times can take hold in the public’s imagination, eventually seen as truth. Yet, a closer inspection of this particular deep fake reveals a grotesque parody of reality.

Not Bonny and John
AI Abomination
Bonny Raitt & John Prine
John & Bonnie (for real)

Now, i’ve long been a devotee of digital tools, embracing their potential to enhance my creative process. In fact, before the COVID/RONA pandemic, i considered myself an optimistic “5th Estate Evangelist”. From cloud service audio mastering, to grammar checkers, and voiceover generation using my own voice as a model, AI has become an indispensable part of my workflow. And now, with the exponential improvement of AI-generated imagery, i venture further into this brave new world. But the specter of inauthenticity looms large, casting a shadow over the application of these powers.

It’s a strange paradox, this symbiotic relationship between human and machine. We rely on AI to augment our abilities, to extend our reach, to expedite our tasks. Yet, we risk the atrophication of our native creativity, in the process, becoming mere conduits for the algorithmic output of distant server farms simulating the creative power of their human users.

The abovementioned deep-fake creepfest is a reminder; as we navigate this increasingly complex digital terrain, we must remain vigilant. We must not allow ourselves to be seduced by the siren song of technological disassociation. We must cultivate critical eyes, ears, discerning minds, and a heapin’ helpin’ of skepticism.

In the end, it’s the human touch that gives psychosocial relevance to our work. It is the cultural perspective, the emotional depth, the idiosyncratic style that sets us apart from non-human forms of sentience (animal or machine). Let us not sacrifice true human qualities on the altar of efficiency. Let us embrace the imperfections, the quirks, the idiosyncrasies that come with messy humanity. We should do everything we can to see AI as no more or less than a collection of tools available to help us reach our own creative potential in faster, more evocative ways.

And so, i shall continue to tread a cautious path, balancing the allure of AI with the enduring force of my uniquely creative impulses. I will strive to create material that is emotionally evocative, informative, inspiring, engaging, and thought-provoking. In addition, i will strive to maintain authenticity, a connection to my unique synergy with the real world.

Onward through the fog… Ron, Rohlfie, and Ronnie Hays

This Land: Kansas

Howdy, loopers, gather ’round the camp fire for a full-tilt rodeo of a tale! This ain’t your typical travel brochure drivel, mind you. No sir, this is a slapstick eulogy wrapped in a fever dream, seasoned with a dash of sand and color. Strap in, because we’re headed straight for the heartland, a place some folks derisively call “flyover country.”

First things first: full disclosure. I was hatched in Goodland, Kansas, a town so small it probably has its own tumbleweed support group. My parents, bless their tragically mismatched hearts, shuffled me between this so-called “good” land and Denver as regular as school seasons. But hey, summers were spent traipsing around the glorious front range with my outdoorsy step-mom and the old man – a nature enthusiast packing enough ordinance to battle a Russian platoon. Point being, Kansas (and Colorado) are in my blood, even if it’s a tad thin on account of all shuffling.

SIDE NOTE: hereafter, we’ll refer to my stomping grounds as “Kanorado” as, in addition to all that Front Range camping, i’ve spent time schooling or gigging in almost every Western Kansas town with a school or Opera House.

Now, some city slickers will tell you Kansas is nothing but a barren wasteland devoid of entertainment. Those sorry souls clearly haven’t bathed in the crystal-clear waters of Wilson Lake. Nestled snug against I-70 in good ol’ Bob Dole country, Wilson boasts the most transparent reservoir this side of the Missouri River, likely due to all that golden limestone chilling at the bottom. Speaking of limestone, the Rocktown trail is a naturalist’s technicolor dream – a geological wonderland teeming with flora, fauna, and rock formations that’d make Moab, Utah smile.

But hold on to your cover, loopers, because there’s more to Kansas than meets the eye. The Flint Hills, once a stomping ground for John Brown and his gorilla raiders, roll on like a never ending emerald wave. Tall tails of outlaw chicanery featuring such familiar names as Buffalo Bill Cody, Wild Bill Hickok, and Calamity Jane to name a few did at least some of their stompin’ right here in the flyover. General Dwight D., “Beware of the Military Industrial Complex,” Eisenhower from Abilene went on to kick some Nazi arse, and hey, music lovers, get this: Joe Walsh, that guitar-slingin’ jester himself, hails from Wichita!

Now, speaking of Kansas loopers, let’s get one thing straight: they’ve heard every “Wizard of Oz” joke you may have in your quiver. They won’t laugh, but they’ll wear those ruby-red kicks like a badge of honor. Now, about sports – Rock Chalk Jayhawks? Sure, they bleed crimson and blue, but they also have a healthy respect for the KCMO pro teams (GO Chiefs!). West of Wichita, however, Jayhawk fandom gets met with raised eyebrows. Many Western Kansas peeps are more partial to the Denver Donkeys. Can you believe the audacity?

Kansas City itself is a tale of two quarreling siblings. The Kansas-Missouri border rivalry stretches all the way back to the Civil War, when things got downright bloody (look up “Bloody Kansas” if you have a strong stomach). Politically, Kansas loopers tend to lean conservative, but mess with their personal liberties and you’ll see a realpolitik “don’t tread on me” spirit rise faster than a prairie dust storm. Remember that ballot initiative to control women’s bodies? Kansas loopers saw through that religious mumbo jumbo faster than a jackrabbit on a hot tin roof.

Here’s the thing about Kansas: everyone wants to claim their little town as Superman’s birthplace (Smallville), but Clark has yet to release the birth certificate so the mystery… persists. There may not be any Clark Kents out there, but there is a cause to pause, vis a vis the particular vein of grit these people exhibit. Kansas loopers are a tough lot. Most of them can drive a stick shift and have probably piloted a tractor at some point in their lives. “Home on the Range” ain’t just a song, it’s a way of life. Before corporate greed gobbled up family farms, everyone either pitched in as hired help or knew a farmer by name. Minnesota nice? Pah! Those loopers are downright chatty compared to the almost painfully polite Kansas loopers. Being the literal “heartland” of the country has its perks – neighbors here look out for each other. Need to borrow a chainsaw? No sweat. Dog gone rogue? The whole town will be on the hunt. Need a cup of sugar, or a smoky coffin nail? If they got it, you got it. Kansas loopers have a fierce sense of loyalty, that is, until karma comes knocking. They believe in what goes around comes around, faster than a tumbleweed in a tornado.

Ah, Kansas… flatter than a Baptist hymn board and about as exciting as watching paint dry? Newsflash, chuckleheads: Kansas loopers know their state’s a canvas painted in shades of endless prairie. West of Wichita, some would vote to make the telephone pole the state tree. But here’s the thing – pick a quiet spot out in the country at the “golden hour,” and you’ll be met with a spectacle that would make even God herself tip the sun bonnet. Sunsets in Kansas, loopers, are like a knife fight between angels – a Technicolor brawl that leaves the sky bruised with purples, oranges, and a fiery red that would make a MAGA hat look downright pale.

So, on to the point of this screed. To write a verse for Kansas to add to Woody Guthrie’s classic, “This Land.” I decided to dig a little deeper than a prairie pothole and get the lowdown on our state motto, “Ad Astra per Aspera” – that’s Latin for “To the stars through difficulties,” you heathens. I cornered a “student success coach” at the Kansas Wesleyan University library, and a Kansas history whiz at the Hays Public Library. Both of them, bless their unoffensive coffee mugs, talked about the state’s rough-and-tumble beginnings – the dust storms that could choke a billy goat, the grasshopper plagues that made the Bible look like a picnic. But here’s the thing: these scrappers, these pioneers with callouses on their souls, they persevered. They looked up at that endless Kansas sky, saw the Milky Way sprawled out like a cosmic wheat field, and said, “You know what? We’re going to reach for those stars, even if it means clawing our way through a mountain of misery first.”

And that, my friends, is the Kansas spirit. It’s in the way the wheat sways in the wind, a silent symphony of resilience. It’s in the way a small town pulls together after a tornado, stronger than ever. It’s in the way a Kansan, with a twinkle in their eye and a calloused hand extended, welcomes you to their state, even if you are, ahem, flyover challenged.

So, the next time you think about taking a potshot at Kansas, take a long look at a map, friend. Because out here, under skies that put on a nightly light show that would shame the Vegas Sphere, we’re reaching for the stars, one sunset at a time. And that, folks, is a beautiful thing.

And so… without further adieu, combining my personal experience, some light research queries, and my conversations with the above librarians, here’s a Kansas verse for This Land, by Woody Guthrie.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

As i was rolling…
Through the Kansas wheat fields…
I saw the Milky Way…
As a quantum field…
And though the way is…
Fraught with trouble… peril…
These folks…
Have made it to the stars!

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 who’ve traded overstuffed leather thrones for driver’s 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 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 III (the digital nomad)

Ronnie Hays, a name that once sent shivers of social dread down the spines of live-music booking agents, now resides in a tiny-home conversion van resembling the inside of a forgotten gym sock. The air, thick with despair and the lingering aroma of last week’s coconut curry, clings to him like a shroud. His muse, that fickle harlot, abandoned him years ago, leaving a mountain of unfinished lyric sheets and a bank account like the Dead Sea… barren and perpetually below sea level.

Ronnie Hays, his once thick shock of 80s glam-metal hair now a half-bald testament to the ravages of entropy, stares out the grime-encrusted window. The Kanorado prairie, stretches before him like a dirty snow-covered purgatory, its barron fields shrouded in drifting dust and tumbleweeds like floating bramble balloons. The wind, kicking up dust-devils, rustles the plastic cutlery collection he’d lovingly curated from various Chinese takeout establishments… his most valuable non-musical possession, if you discount the half-empty cartridge of Delta9 vape-juice tucked precariously behind the spice rack.

His semi-smart-phone, a relic from a bygone era when booking agents actually called independent singer/songwriters, sat silent in his pocket. It hadn’t rung in months, its silence as deafening as a librarian’s shushing. He pulls it out and checks email and social media, a masochistic ritual, then dials his agent’s number. The recorded message, a cheerful chirp followed by an eternity of elevator music, mocks him. He hangs up, the dial tone a hammer blow to his already fragile ego.

Resignation, a bitter pill he chokes down with each passing day, gnaws at him. The live-music world, once a playground of subversive punk and rebellious noize, had transformed into a funhouse of celebrity beefs and vapid cults of personality. His brand of bleak humor and melancholy, once filled with prescient social commentary, now feels like a dusty gramophone record playing to an audience obsessed with the latest TikTok dance trends.

He slumps onto his bed, the mattress platform groaning in protest. The ceiling, adorned with what could only be described as “abstract water damage art,” seems to mock him as well. Was this it? Was Ronnie Hays, the joker who dared to stare into the abyss and write about it, destined to molder in obscurity, not even a footnote in the margins of music history?

A sardonic chuckle escaped his lips. The absurdity of it all, the cosmic joke at his expense, struck him with sudden clarity. He wasn’t Atlas, shouldering the burden of humanity’s enlightenment. He was Sisyphus, forever condemned to roll the boulder of his obscure discography up the mountain of indifference, only to watch it roll back down each morning.

And then, a strange sense of peace washed over him. The pressure to be relevant, to change the world, evaporated. He was the mongrel of rueful countenance, an earthbound cosmic troubadour, a digital nomad, a seeker of truth in a world obsessed with glittering celebrity. And if the world didn’t want his brand of truth, well, screw ’em. He’d keep writing, not for accolades or validation, but for the sheer ecstatic pleasure of it. He’d be a one-man band, playing his discordant symphony in the dark alleyway of pop culture, content in the knowledge that at least the fireflies appreciated his solo performances.

With a newfound lightness, he fires up the workstation. The vape pen winks encouragingly from its hiding place. Tonight, he’ll not write a masterpiece. He’ll write a farce, an absurdist caricature of the world that continues to ignore him. He’ll laugh in the face of oblivion, sardonic humor his favorite weapon, his obscurity a badge of honor. Ronnie Hays, a digital nomad, is back, and the punchline is on all of us.

Cheers… Loopcircus

PS: This is all we have to say about the socio-economic conditions of Rohlfie’s fictional alter-ego. Stay tuned for the hilarious account of his political/religious schtick… 😜

And so… it begins!

Greetings, Loopers…
And great day in the morning!
Finally… a break from that weeks-long taste of Arctic-brisk.

Argh… over it, i am.

Now, as i was shedding the “bearskin-thick” protective layers, it hit me between the eyes. My 65th birthday and exit from the professional treadmill is mere months away. I promised myself in the doldrums of the post-y2k “dot-bomb” that i would, upon retirement, either A.), buy a wind-powered craft and sail the seven seas or B.) obtain a “Prairie Schooner” and roam the earth like Kwai Chang Caine. Well… the time has arrived, and a few hard truths have forced a semi-sudden pivot with the vehicles i’ll use to fulfill this visualization. For one, this middle of everywhere, landlubbin’ flatlander is a horrible candidate for single-handed sailing, and two, the pop-up tent/awning solution i, only last year, acquired for prairie schooning will work only in perfectly temperate zones. So… people i trust were advising i go the “stealth urban camper” route of acquiring a converted cargo van and turning it into a rolling tiny home. So, i started researching turn-key options and came up for air gasping at six-figure price tags… GAHHHH!

Solution? Acquire an empty van as blank canvas (see above), design, and construct the interior myself (project to begin post-haste).

Once that is accomplished… strap in, loopers, because this ain’t your drunk uncle’s road trip. We are professionals… we have “objectives.” This is a 52-week, 48-state odyssey through the heart of American academia, fueled by equal parts French Roast, guitars, and pure, unadulterated curiosity. We’re hitting Hays America’s sister cities… public college towns, mind you, the kind where dorms smell like stale pizza and regret, and the professors are either jaded veterans or wide-eyed grad students with tenure dreams as fragile as a bong hit in a mosh pit.

But hold on, this ain’t just about singing for my supper in college-towns across the nation. It’s also a quest for the literary Grail, a boozy, bookish bacchanal that’ll have us chasing Hemingway’s ghost in Key West, Kerouac’s shadow in Desolation Peak, and Faulkner’s phantom in Oxford, Mississippi. We’ll be spelunking through dusty library stacks, communing with ghosts, and trading wild stories like currency in smoky campus dives.

And when the sun sets on another day on the road, we’ll seek solace in our nation’s natural cathedrals: Yosemite’s granite giants, Yellowstone’s geyser symphony, the Grand Canyon’s mile-deep abyss. We’ll soak our grumpy bones in hidden hot springs, letting the geothermal magic mend our aching glutes and rekindle our wanderlust.

But be warned, this isn’t for the faint of heart. This is a road paved with potholes and detours, populated by characters as colorful as a Thompson-esque fever dream. We’ll encounter campus radicals and redneck renegades, peyote-toting professors and chain-smoking librarians, all with their own stories to tell, their own demons to chase.

So, are you ready, loopers? Ready to trade textbooks for bibles, lecture halls for dive bars, and term papers for loopy podcasts? Then buckle up, grab your Delta8 Vape, and let’s hit the gas on this loopcircus odyssey across the American landscape. We’ll be blogging our descent into madness every step of the way, so stay tuned for dispatches from the fringes, where academia meets anarchy, and the pursuit of knowledge gets a whole lot more interesting.

FOR EXAMPLE: Appalachian Ambiance and Moonshine Melodies

This stop begins in the misty hills of Boone, North Carolina, home to Appalachian State University, a haven for bluegrass pickers and outdoorsy types. We’ll be swapping songs for sammichs, trading Chaucer for cheap moonshine, and getting our Thoreau on in the shadow of Grandfather Mountain. Stay tuned for tales of wildlife encounters, existential campfire chats, and communing with the local legends who call these mountains home.

This is just an example, loopers. We’ve got 47 more states to explore, 48 stories to tell. So keep your eyes peeled, your minds open, and your courage prepped for the mother of all road trips. Because in this loopy odyssey, the only constant is the open road, and the only map we need is a tattered paperback with a dog-eared page for every adventure.

Cheers… Rohlfie

Hot Springs or Busk Chapter I =>

Still on the Line

Well now, loopers, let me spin a little yarn on this snow-day. You see our fair cities, the grand ol’ bergs we call home, they’re not just bricks and mortar, steel and glass. Nope, they are living creatures, grand ol’ critters with heartbeats like thumpin’ bass guitars and nervous systems strung with cat-5 cables and WiFi. And just like all good critters, they’ve got their own little ecosystems, swarms of cells all working together to keep the whole thing humming.

You got your everyday Joes and Janes, artists and accountants, waitresses and truck drivers. They’re the cells, the building blocks of the beast. They hustle and work, carryin’ their little buckets of dreams and anxieties, building families and businesses like honeycombs. They’re the muscle and sinew, the folks who keep the city pumpin’.

Then there’s the organs, the big beaters that keep the whole thing ticking. The hospitals, the schools, the power plants, the fire stations… they’re the lungs and kidneys, the stomach and the brain, churning and processing, keeping the lifeblood flowing. They’re the gears and pulleys, the hidden heroes who make the magic happen.

But here’s the thing, loopers, here’s the rub. We get so caught up in the everyday dance, the hustle and bustle, that we don’t see the real heroes, the white blood cells of the city. I’m talking about the constabularies patroling the streets, the firefighters scaling smoke-choked ladders, the nurses wiping fevered brows, the linemen battling blizzards to keep the lights on. These are the antibodies, the tireless defenders, the ones who dive headfirst into the muck when the storm clouds gather.

They’re the ones who show up when the pipes burst and the sirens wail, when the power flickers and the darkness creeps in. They’re the ones who stand between us and chaos, the protectors and defenders, the angels in scrubs, the silent guardians of our daily bread. They ARE the salt of the earth, the grease that keeps the wheels spinning, the invisible threads that bind us together.

So when we finally emerge from this most recent veil of windblown arctic visitation, let’s take a moment to remember these folks. Give them a nod, a smile, a quiet thank you. They’re the ones who keep the city alive, the ones who hold back the tide, the ones who make sure we can sleep soundly in our beds, knowing someone’s watching over us. They’re the under-appreciated heroes, the quiet champions, the backbone of our living municipalities (especially Jr. High teachers… yes, we see you). And believe me, loopers, they deserve every bit of our gratitude. So let’s give it to them, loud and clear. From the bottom of our collective heart… thank you!

Dear Hubris

You humans squabblin’ there with flags and fists held high… pointin’ fingers… buildin’ walls beneath polluted skies… you think you’re callin’ shots… you masters of the show… let me tell you somethin’… Mother Earth don’t hear your woes.

Burn your dino-fuels… choke the air with smog… carve the mountains open… leave a bleeding bog. Fight your petty wars… spread your hate like weeds. Earth shakes it off… got resilience deep.

You think you’re killin’ her with nukes and plastic waste… but she’s seen worse than you… empires turned to paste. Dinosaurs gone… poof… ice caps came and went. It’s a dance of constant change… a cycle heaven-sent.

So go ahead and frack her dry… let oceans rise and boil… she’ll sprout all new continents… on volcanic fertile soil. Poison every river… turn forests into ash. She’ll just shrug it off… like sprouts in a fiery crash.

Don’t lament the future… though your tears fall like rain. She’ll weather every storm… endure greater pain. Go ahead… rage and fight… throw your puny sprees. She’ll just abide and bide your time as vapid history.

Burn it down… you tiny ants… empires crumble fast. Rebirth will rise from the ashes… the only thing that lasts. With mountains carved by glaciers… oceans vast and blue. She’ll be here… my darlings… when you’re just dust and dew.

So go ahead and blame “others” for your woes. Earth dances on… laughing as your petty drama goes. Forget your gods and demons… your flags and walls so high.

Change is the only constant… beneath the endless sky.