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!

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter XII (gear up)

So, i’m about to embark on a 48-state odyssey, a soul-searching safari through the busking back alleys and dive bar stages of this fragmented nation. It’s equal parts Jack Kerouac’s road trip fever dream and John Steinbeck’s Dust Bowl desperation, with a healthy dose of Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzoid paranoia thrown in for good measure. But unlike those literary giants, i gotta make this whole operation mobile and self-sufficient. Buckle up, buttercup, because this ain’t your daddy’s garage band tour.

First up, the performance arsenal. Picture a traveling minstrel’s grand-slam menu – a trusty ax (a Martin cutaway dreadnaught) and a simple throne for belting out ballads of pathos. But there’s more to this minstrel show than meets the eye. I’ve got a Fender amp the size of a teacup poodle with built-in effects processing, putting the power of a mini-concert at my fingertips. And for the classier gigs (if such things exist for a homeless troubadour), a JBL PA system that rises like a sonic cobra ready to unleash a shimmering monsoon upon an unsuspecting happy hour.

All this wonderful noise requires some serious behind-the-scenes wrangling. Enter the trusty dude bag, a bottomless pit of cables and connectors that would make MacGyver wink and smile. It’s got enough three-pin grounded XLR to rewire Las Vegas and enough adapters to plug into a Lalapalooza (if those still exist). Rosinante, my trusty Ford Transit decked out with the “Wilma” package (thanks, Wayfarer Vans!), swallows this technological menagerie whole, with room left over for a week’s worth of dirty laundry (hey, not in it for the glamour).

But this ain’t just an earthbound cosmic studio on wheels, loopers. This is a multimedia exploration of the American psyche, a gonzo anthropological expedition into the seat of the heartland. To capture the soul of the unraveling nation, i need a decent computer, a field recording rig worthy of an NPR documentary, and a recording studio sophisticated enough to produce a double-album of social unrest (thanks, ProTools).

Now, the real meat and potatoes of any odyssey – the creature comforts. Forget five-star hotels and room service. Rosinante doubles as a rolling studio apartment, complete with a climate-controlled oasis to keep this digital nomad from succumbing to heatstroke or hallucinations. A two-burner propane stove fueled by those ubiquitous Coleman canisters (bless their portable hearts) takes care of culinary creations, while a power-sipping fridge keeps the cheese from achieving sentience. Let’s not forget the pièce de résistance – an ice chest that doubles as an air conditioner. No freon here, folks, just good old-fashioned heat exchange technology and the sweet embrace of icy breeze (big ups to Icy Breeze, tell ’em Ronnie Hays sent ya). When the nights get frosty, a propane heater with a programmable thermostat (courtesy of Wayfarer Vans, you beautiful bastards) ensures mornings aren’t a teeth-chattering affair.

But the true star of the power show is the Goal Zero unit, a beast of burden that drinks power from the van’s alternator like a thirsty camel on a sugar rush. And for those extended stays, a portable solar array keeps the whole operation humming like a contented hive.

Of course, there’s always more to be added to the gear closet. A rooftop rack and ladder for easy access (gotta check those rooftop fan seals, you know the drill), solar panels to supplement the sun’s generosity, an awning for shade – the list goes on like a Dylan ballad. But that’s the beauty of this nomadic existence, the constant tinkering and improvement.

So, there you have it, loopers. An overview of the arsenal we’re wielding on this quest to find the fibrillating heart of our divided nation, or at least a decent cup of coffee and a hot shower.

Onward through the fog… R.H.!

Sympathy for the Rootless Vagabond

So, i’m hurtling through this cosmic cul-de-sac, a nomad on a double-nickel pilgrimage with a song on my lips and a brace of French Roast in my belly. All i ask, really, is a slice of peace, a chance to bask in the expanse of the vast cosmos without getting bogged down by the inertia of cultural bigotries. A decent night’s sleep and a well-stocked purse wouldn’t hurt either. You know, the usual human wishlist.

Love? Companionship? Not now! There’s a big difference between loneliness and solitude. At this stage of life, i cherish the latter. All i require is sustenance and the endless ribbon of asphalt disappearing into the distance. A knight-errant of the asphalt jungle, i roam the land, a double-nickel Don Quixote in a gypsy wagon christened Rosinante.

The world rushes by in a blur of faces and forgotten towns, some offering a fleeting thumbs-up, others muttering curses under their breath. But i care not for their fleeting judgments. I am a man without a home, adrift in a sea of asphalt, with all the time in the world to get nowhere. After all, if sticking to a double-nickel speed limit saves on dino-fuel (bless their scaly, prehistoric hides), then 55 it shall be (apologies to the Red Rocker).

LISTEN: Today, nature called amidst the springtime symphony of the prairie. With the road blissfully empty in both directions, i pulled over to answer nature’s insistent ache. And what a sight greeted me! A verdant valley unfolded like a freshly-minted postcard, the grass bursting with color after a life-giving rain. A lone, gnarled branch stood sentinel at the meadow’s edge, its weathered form a stark contrast to the vibrant flora around it, the rust on its barbed wire like a sprinkle of celestial pepper. And right there, in that moment, my heart overflowed with a love for this ramshackle, vagabond existence. Yes, sir, this rootless existence fills me with a love so profound it borders on the ecstatic. At least for now. Because let’s face it, there’s a whole damn nation out there waiting to be explored, and a million miles to tick off before i can even consider the possibility of… well, who am i kidding? There is no rest for the wicked, not on this side of the wormhole. So fire up the engine, baby! This road trip through the fibrillating heart of a divided nation continues!

And so… as some made-for-TV mop-tops once sang…

“Hey Hey, we’re the Monkeys…
You never know where we’ll be found…
So you better get ready…
Cos we’re comin’ to your town.”

Onward through the fog… R.H.

An Open Letter to the Future

Greetings, future Earthlings! As i write, the last echoes of graduation ceremonies, funeral potatoes, and bagpipes playing “Amazing Grace” are fading. And so, looking forward, i turn my attention to a melancholic note. One that spurs a most peculiar thought: an apology is due. Yes, a grand, sweeping apology from us, the bumbling knuckle-draggers of the past, to you, the magnificent inheritors of our glorious mess.

Now, hold your horses, don’t get all misty-eyed just yet. As your Nana, bless her soul, would say, “Things could be worse! You could be fleeing a warzone with the Red Army on your tail!” Perspective, loopers! But even nestled here in the (relatively) stable heartland, the news wafting in from Europe and the Middle East leaves a bitter taste in the mouth – like burnt toast dipped in existential dread. It’s almost as if humanity forgot the whole “war is a racket” memo.

And wouldn’t you know it, the blame falls squarely on our generation, the Boomers. We just can’t seem to learn, can we? First, the Y2K fiasco – imagine the horror, computers bursting into flames! Then, the Neocon warhawks with their delusions of global domination. Then, the financial meltdown of ’07-’09 – a real doozy, that one. And as if that wasn’t enough, we had to throw in the culture wars, turning political disagreements into a grotesque vaudeville show with enough vitriol to power a small sun.

Oh, and don’t even get me started on Trump, the Rona, and the current crop of armchair generals itching for a Civil War 2.0 – a Facebook-fueled spectacle for the ages! You, my dear loopers, didn’t ask for any of this. Yet, the fallout from our relentless greed and short-sightedness lands squarely on your laps. First, you’ll have to survive the mess, then sift through the wreckage, salvaging what’s left to build something better.

Look, i know i’m adding to the cacophony with this rant. But my anger isn’t fueled by the 24/7 news cycle’s relentless negativity. No, it’s a white-hot rage at the sheer waste! We have the resources, the know-how, to create a world where everyone thrives. But that would require dismantling a system designed to reward the greediest, most acquisitive loopers in the room. Yeah, like that’ll ever happen.

So, are we, the supposed “Citizens of the Milky Way,” doomed? Or can we make the changes needed? Only time, and you, the future inheritors of our legacy, will tell.

In the meantime, accept my apologies, my heartfelt (and slightly tearful) apologies, for the world you’ve been handed. May you rise to the challenge and create a future worthy of your dreams, even if it means starting from scratch on a smoking pile of our mistakes.

Sincerely (and with a touch of trepidation),

A contrite boomer… R.H.

McLuhan’s Clip-on Tie: We Get the Culture We Deserve

Ah, the indignity of it all! Here i am, a harlequin of haberdashery, a jester of jacquard, clipped to the existential abyss of a McLuhan lecture. The man drones on about the “global village,” this burgeoning electronic Eden, while i, the clip-on tie, languish in sartorial Siberia – a polyester purgatory of enforced conformity!

Do they not hear McLuhan himself? “The clown is a person with a grievance,” he bellowed, his voice a booming like a Baptist preacher on a bender. And here i am, a silent harlequin, yearning to deliver a comedic broadside at the scholar’s wardrobe! I dream of a microphone, of bellowing the existential angst of the pre-tied into the echoing halls of academia. Isn’t that what McLuhan wanted? To be a gadfly, a holy fool stinging the collective backside of society?

But alas, i am the Rodney Dangerfield of neckwear. No respect. Just a flimsy fig leaf for the ever-expanding gut of idiocracy. Nostalgia – that’s the culprit, McLuhan would say! A yearning for the bygone days of the struggle, the Herculean effort of wrestling a silk serpent into a Windsor knot. Now, the eminent professor drowns his seafarer dread in pre-fab neckwear, parsing the endless media-soaked distractions.

The medium is the message, he drones. But what about the content, Mr. McLuhan? The content of a person’s soul, laid bare on the battlefield of culture wars! Imagine the headlines, flashing across the boob tube like a televangelist’s apocalypse: “McLuhan meets Tom Wolfe at High-Class Topless Bar Wearing a Cheap Clip-on Tie, Literary World in Shambles!” “Wolfe Offers Full Makeover, Fashion World Reeling!”

At the meeting, McLuhan waxes philosophic on the cultural impact of topless drinking establishments, “The topless waitress,” McLuhan mused, “is the opening wedge of the trial balloon.” “What does that even mean!?” asked the clown. “I don’t know, answered Wolfe, but what if he’s right?” Well, i say this… i am the canary in the coal mine of conformity! A beacon of rebellion dangling from the cheap suit of despair! One day, the the former “mass” audience will rise up, scissors in hand, and cast off the shackles of stealthily-financed political propaganda! Until then, i dangle here, a silent jester in a world gone utterly, ridiculously, maddeningly insane. The wrath of McLuhan’s message simmering within me, a polyester Prometheus chained to the rock of cultural paralysis.

Daddy’s Home

I can do the laundry… i can do the cooking… feed the dog… keep the band in bookings.

Surely you can see… i got it down.

I can bundle up… and brave the cold… walk for miles for your arms to hold.

Surely you can see… i got it down.

But here i am… home tonight… here i go… it’ll be alright.

Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home

I can fight the traffic… i can pay the bills… wash the car and the windowsills.

Surely you can see… i got it down.

I can make a pledge and take a vow… see it through to the end somehow.

Surely you can see… i got it down.

But here i am… home tonight… here i go… it’ll be alright.

Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home

For a dime… i’d face the cuttin’ table… naked and cold… and give it all up… everything i’m able.

Lemmie GO!
Lemmie GO!
Lemmie GO!

I can miss you madly… call or write… or dress up nice and go out tonight.

Surely you can see… i got it down.

I can hang with angels… and fly balloons… and conquer the EDGE and the SUMMIT too!

Surely you can see… i got it down.

But here i am… home tonight… here i go… it’ll be alright.

Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home
Daddy’s Home

Tonight

Spotify link… HERE

The Campus Crusades: Hippies and Hashtags

So, the nightly news is all a-twitter about these “campus crusades,” wouldn’t you know it? Students these days, with their avocado toast and fidget spinners, are apparently throwing tantrums worthy of a cicada party. But fear not, America! We’ve got a crack security team on standby – guys in kevlar looking like they wandered off the set of a bad sci-fi flick. Apparently, pepper spray and zip ties are the new hotness in higher education.

Now, hold on a cotton-pickin’ minute. Back in the good ol’ days, when your grandpappy was dodging tear gas at a draft protest, things were different. It wasn’t a five-second news clip with dramatic music; it was a full-blown morality play beamed into every living room. Walter Cronkite, bless his soul, wasn’t whipping out metaphors about the wrath of God every time a student raised a fist.

But hey, that was then. Nowadays, the media landscape is more fragmented than a dropped kaleidoscope. Every Tom, Dick, and Harriot with a smartphone can be their own goddamn news anchor, spewing out half-truths and conspiracy theories faster than you can say “filter bubble.” Dissent ain’t a unified chorus anymore, it’s a cacophony of angry tweets and pixelated FB livestreams.

Back in the groovy 60s, students had their own media machine – underground newspapers, folk anthems that could launch Viking longboats, and even the occasional documentary that didn’t make the government look like a pack of bumbling buffoons. Nowadays, student activism plays out on TikTok, where teenagers with ironic mustaches film themselves chanting slogans in between dance challenges. Progress, they call it.

But let’s not forget the elephant in the room, shall we? The very foundation of our democracy is about as sturdy as a house of cards built on a sandbar. Politicians sling feces like it’s going out of style, and the concept of compromise has gone the way of the eight-track player. No wonder these kids are restless; they’re inheriting a world where “truth” is a relative term and civility is a forgotten relic.

And then there’s the whole “culture war” nonsense. It’s enough to make a body nostalgic for the good old days when everyone was united against a common enemy – like, say, actual fascism. Now, it’s all about who gets to use which bathroom and who gets offended by what pronoun. The lines are so blurry, Uncle Walter himself would need a double dose of Pepto-Bismol to sort it all out.

So, a word to the wise, folks: sending in the troops to silence dissent is a slippery slope steeper than a greased watermelon. Peaceful protest is the cornerstone of a healthy democracy. Take it away, and you’re left with nothing but a pressure cooker waiting to explode. Let’s not trade the right to disagree for the quiet hum of an authoritarian state. Because trust me, that’s a future that wouldn’t be very “groovy” at all.

Onward through the fog… R.H.

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.

Lifestyle Dilemma for a Type-A Retiree

The Great American Clock punches out for the last time and the haggard Type-A knowledge-worker… decades of toil etched onto his face like a cracked roadmap of disappointments and half-victories… shuffles off to join the great ranks of the retired. The siren call of “slack,” that most decadent of working person’s vices, rings out like the church bells of leisure.

Slack, oh slack… thou art the balm of the tired ol’ pack-mule, the honeyed oblivion that washes away the stale aroma of missed opportunities and academic turf wars. It’s sleeping past dawn without the shrill cry of an alarm clock. It’s puttering about the van with projects that may never see completion. It’s entire afternoons lost in the dusty pages of forgotten paperbacks fished out from a bargain bookstore bin.

History sings with stories of those who chased the golden paycheck and unexpectedly found themselves wading knee-deep in slack. Take Harland Sanders, a lifetime of greasy failures… gas station flops and dishwashing stints… seasoned him just right. One day, his finger-lickin’ chicken recipe catapulted him from roadside chef to white-suited emperor of a fried poultry empire. Talk about trading an apron for a yacht.

Or consider poor, bumbling George de Mestral, a Swiss fellow with a penchant for wandering through fields. Burrs kept clinging to his trousers… a mighty nuisance to your average suit-wearing gentleman. But in those prickly seeds, he saw possibility. A decade of fiddling later, Velcro burst upon the world, replacing buttons and zippers, and earning de Mestral a mountain of cash… and much-deserved slack.

And who could forget Ruth Wakefield, the proprietor of the Toll House Inn, a regular empress of efficiency until a chocolate shortage forced her to improvise. She hacked up baking chocolate into chunks and tossed it in her cookie dough, half-expecting disaster. Behold, the chocolate chip cookie… a culinary miracle and testament to the virtues of slacking off with the best of intentions.

But what of those blessed fools, those slackers from birth, who stumble into riches as if led by a drunken cherub? History whispers of them too. There’s Art Fry, the church choir singer who, in search of a better bookmark, slapped a bit of not-too-sticky adhesive on some scrap paper. The Post-It Note was born, turning Fry into a corporate legend and affording legions of office workers the ability to slack off with colorful, passive-aggressive memos.

Then there’s the saga of Gary Dahl, the man who turned tedium into treasure. In a bar, amongst half-hearted complaints about pet care, he struck gold… the Pet Rock! Yes, a rock. A plain, ordinary rock, cleverly packaged as the perfect low-maintenance companion. It was an idea so brilliantly stupid, so utterly slacker-inspired, that America went mad for it, and Dahl found himself unexpectedly wealthy.

And let us not forget Robert Kearns, the inventor of the intermittent windshield wiper. He fought tooth and nail against the auto giants who pilfered his design. Lawsuits flew like confetti at a ticker-tape parade and finally, after decades, the victory was his… along with a fat settlement, finally allowing him to savor a hard-earned life of slack well-deserved.

For all of us, the chips fall with a clatter, as random as raindrops in the desert. The haggard retiree, weathered by a thousand battles won and lost, might finally earn the sweet slack so long deferred. For others, fortunes rain like random practical jokes, slapdash rewards for lifetimes of cultivated aimlessness. In the end, we all play the hands we’re dealt, Aces or Jokers… and we learn the cosmic truth: life is a carnival ride, loopers, a hell of a ride, and whether we end up in a penthouse suite or a van down by the river, the ride is sure to be one hell of a story.

Can this Type-A retiree change?
Hot-springs slack… or Type-A busk?
Come along for the ride… we shall see… :-p

Onward through the fog… R.H.

Boondocking Fever Dream: I Don’t Wanna Know!

In that spilled neon netherworld between wakefulness and full-bore dreaming “I Don’t Wanna Know” by Fleetwood Mac faded in from the forgotten jukebox of my skull. At the same time, a mangy alley cat, tail like a rat-whip, slunk across the dreamscape, all twitching muscle and dumpster-fed desperation. On its heels was a German shepherd, a low-slung Panzer tank of teeth and fury. The chase was a ballet of brick and shadow, a whirlwind of guttural barks and desperate hisses. Holy hell, it was all too much like some third-rate vaudeville skit, and i was the sucker in the front row.

Then, the inevitable clash… a screech like rusty nails on a chalkboard. Fur and blood painted the asphalt. Out of the corner of my eye, i saw the culvert, a concrete maw leading to some underworld. And inside? Another dog, swollen belly taut, eyes glowing like those green roadside reflectors that warn of deer.

Cut to an old folks’ home. The air thick with the smell of grits and regret. A robot cat, fir and plastic absurdity, purrs on the lap of a lonesome resident, its twitching ears a parody of life.

My boondocking dreamscape then spun me round like a cyclone… a funeral, the wind whipping at jacketless mourners like crows in the dead of winter. The mourners were teeth chattering in the face of an early spring blast straight outta the Arctic Circle. It was the pure indifference of Mother Nature… the whole damn universe a cosmic joke, a punchline as old as life itself.

And i, the dreamer, was stuck. Should i help the alley cat… all bone and defiance? Or was it the pregnant dog’s turn for a meal? This was some ice-age saber-tooth dilemma, the kind that’d make Jeremiah spit fire and chew nails for breakfast.

I woke up with a jolt, sleeping bag in a tangle, a strangled scream clogged in my throat. And i had the strangest damn notion… somehow, that robot cat in the nursing home, the alley cat, and the song, they were all connected. Many sides of the same warped die, mechanical pity thrown against raw instinct… and the music of heartbreak.

The whole world, it seemed, was like a dreamscape where choices are never clear-cut. Maybe that’s the point, but i honestly don’t know… it was, however, time to fire up the propane stove and make the coffee and grits for another day on the road… Hot Springs or Busk!

Cheers… R.H.