Below the Earth – Above the Sun: To Whom it may Concern

06-FridayThe13-2025:

Ok… laundry day in Waldorf, Maryland. A mere 16 miles from DC-Metro’s “Green Line” to the Federal Triangle. Last weekend, i spent 45k steps perusing the triangle, including a walkabout in the Jefferson Library and the Smithsonian “Portrait Studio.” As well, it just so happened to be Pride Fest and that’s the reason i got so many steps. I had to walk AROUND the fenced-in festival area until such time as they accepted revelers. When they started letting people in, they wouldn’t allow my freakin’ backpack, so i had to ditch it for the Sunday visit.

Anyway… this is No Kings weekend, the 250th year anniversary of the Continental Army, and (more importantly) Donald Trump’s birthday. So, in honor of all that (mostly the naked emperor’s birthday), there will be a festive military parade, as if we had something to prove to our nation’s enemies. By the way, what enemies really need to be intimidated?? The DOMESTIC enemy?? That’s right, President Ass-hat has been demonizing his political opposition for nearly a decade, declaring them the “enemy of the people.” He behaves as if he REALLY wants a Civil War redo. He even re-renamed all of those recently renamed Southern military bases after Confederate Generals.

I would say, “can you believe it?” But we’re WAY past that, we can believe it. It’s no longer horrifying, and i fear a climate of having the US executive branch at odds with half the population they are SUPPOSED to be serving is getting normalized. Seriously, what does he think? That he can politically cleanse the nation till only MAGAs remain

Bleep THAT!!

How this shakes out beyond the political black hole’s event horizon is anyone’s guess. Mine is as good as any, so here are a few plausible scenarios:

ONE: Investigators chasing the possibility that Elon and his hacker buccaneers rigged the 2024 election, find a smoking gun that proves Delicate Donny’s posturing about a stolen 2020 Election was merely foreshadowing for everything 2024 and after. Between congressional gerrymandering, the stacking of the courts by McConnel, and Elon’s hacker squad actively changing ballots, we’ll find Harris actually won that election, and the house of cards Delicate Donny built comes crashing down in a whispering whimper.
TWO: The rightward shift of several key demographics was actually a thing. Donny holds on to his Trifecta, and there’s no more democracy. Curtis Yarvin’s wettest of dreams come true, Steve Bannon finally pops like the malignant cyst he is, Stephen Miller laps up the blood, and the upside down is permanently installed until such time as a stout resistance infiltrates the military and stages another coup, setting in motion a constant cycle of banana republic-esque military coup after military coup.
THREE: The mid-term turnout is so overwhelmingly blue that no amount of cheating can stand, and MAGA’s demise is somewhat delayed.
FOUR: California, Washington, Oregon, and the North Eastern New England states secede from the MAGA disunion, join forces with Canada setting off a fierce border war with which Idaho, Montana, and North Dakota desperately lobby Texas, Louisiana, Arizona, and Florida for assistance. A futile effort in the end as Mexico takes advantage of the chaos keeping the southern states too busy to be of much help on the Northern Front.

Yikes…!!

I ask my MAGA friends and neighbors… “is this REALLY what you want? Do you HATE gays, atheists, independent-minded women, brown and trans people so much that you’ll gladly push this formerly respected world power into a zero-sum contest over cultural trivialities?” Seriously, i NEVER got mad at anyone wishing me “Merry Christmas.” In fact, i am prone to throw that greeting around preemptively as a way to bring down the temperature in my ruby red neighborhoods.

As well, i have been propositioned by gay men for what reasons i cannot fathom other than you CAN’T JUDGE a BOOK by the COVER (duh)! Did i get angry?? Of course not. It’s flattering. In one case, i was in a typical top-40 dance band playing a ski-resort gig. Flaming youth! Apparently, i was broadcasting pheromones… it was a compliment. I politely thanked the bar patron for the compliment and let him know i was playing on the hetero team, “straight as an arrow.” He turned his attention elsewhere and that’s that… not rocket science.

At another extreme… in my elementary school days, i was on fire for Jesus and ready for a lifetime of evangelism and missionary wanderings. But something happened as my frontal lobes started developing expanding my worldview past the tip of my nose. I came to understand that all devoted religious followers believe theirs is the best or only path to the divine. Mine also happened to include doctrines about those who do NOT believe, that they would be in for eternal agony if they didn’t, “see the light.” This i simply could not square with what i learned about Jesus’ example, and so i began a spiritual search that ended up somewhere around Tao, Buddhism, QuantumMysteriousness.

Do i now hate those who cling to their exclusionary creeds?? NO… i have Muslim friends, Mennonite friends, Baptist friends, Hindu friends, Catholic friends, Cherokee friends, etc. etc. I tend to regard religion with the same discretion as sexuality, in private, among friendly interlocutors.

Regarding trans people: Do those hopelessly bigoted troglodytes actually believe a person would CHOOSE social ostracization, a lifetime of being regarded as a freak? Anyone who believes a human being (social animals to the core) would CHOOSE exile probably need professional help. I wonder if they’ve ever tried engaging empathetic thought experiments, like walking in the metaphorical shoes of a trans person found in any community. Not in your back yard, you say? Maybe think in terms of bell curves. The numbers may be miniscule but each bell has a tail at the extremes; least and most likely. Can you put yourself in the shoes of the trans person you’ve encountered personally? Did you choose to be that way? Why? Think it through and get back to me won’t you?

Dear MAGA…
Why can’t you be more like Jesus?
Please explain as if speaking to Kindergartners.

If you don’t want to have this discussion in public, please DM me, i will keep your confidence… you have my word.

FINALLY… i’m getting this out in the open because there have been speculations about what may happen to protesters in DC tomorrow. If we have another Kent State or Tiananmen Square and i don’t make it out, i want my MAGA friends to ponder the above questions for my sake. Lastly, i beg you… don’t drag my children into a zero-sum violence choice… Please Please Please??

Cheers and gratitude… Rohlfie

This Land: Pennsylvania

Ok… Rocinante has ventured into the Pennsylvania interior, not so much because Ronnie asked her to, but because the public libraries in Altoona all seem to be stuck in the 20th Century. Either lacking accommodations for folks with their own productivity machines (laptops) or prohibiting Ronnie’s coffee mug AND lacking places for him to work with power and WiFi. Anyway, they finally settled in a Sheetz convenience store to compose this post.

Now, the extent of Ronnie’s personal history with Pennsylvania is from the deep dark days of the 1980s. A time of self-discovery, good times, and madness. Ronnie and few other lost children formed a brief tribal bond, and one of those lost children was a native of Pennsylvania Amish Country. So… rather than dig up a bunch of boring travel-blog fare, let’s relive a version of this story.

Without further adieu, the saga of “Dangerous Dan, the Sonesta Stud.”
WARNING – nearly all of the following names and places have been changed in order to avoid future heartbreak or litigation. Consume at 2025’s level of truth-decay:

The weathered picnic tabletop in the Yoder kitchen probably saw more existential dread per square inch than a Parisian café, and that’s saying something. Young Danny Yoder, not yet “Dangerous Dan,” certainly not the “Sonesta Stud,” just Danny, a kid with an ample bowl-cut mop of hair and a future he figured was about as exciting as a rerun of Hee Haw, was chief among the brooders. Pennsylvania. God’s country, his old man called it, usually right before hitching the family horse to the buggy to run errands. For Danny, it was a landscape of muted greens and plain grays, a place where dreams went to die, or worse, to settle down and work the farm.

He’d seen the rock gods on MTV, their hair a defiant sculpture against the drab backdrop of whatever town they’d crawled out of. Poison. Mötley Crüe. Bon Jovi, for christsake. Their rebellion was loud, dyed, and probably flammable. Danny wanted a piece of that. So, the bowl was stowed, replaced by a peroxide inferno and enough Pink Can Aqua Net to qualify as a minor environmental hazard. He spiked it high, a golden crown of defiance, and pointed his rust-bucket west, toward Thornton, Colorado, a place he’d picked off a map because it sounded like it might have a decent guitar shop.

Thornton in the ‘80s. It was a magnet for the misplaced, an endless sprawl of cloned, cookie-cutter future meth labs, much like its inhabitants. Dan, as he now insisted on being called, found his tribe. There was Rikki, a drummer whose rhythm was only slightly less erratic than his love life; Timothy “Zipperhead” Johnson, who’d fried half his brain cells working at a battery plant but could beat Kasparov two out of three, or so he claimed; and a rotating cast of lost boys and girls, all chasing something just out of focus. They congregated in the “Mountain Knowles” apartments along the Valley Highway smelling of stale cigarettes and ambition, the kind of ambition that usually fizzles out with the rising of the “Golden Orb.”

Dan, with his newly minted blonde spikes and a sneer he’d practiced in gas station bathroom mirrors all the way from PA, fell in with a band. Not in the band, mind you. More like… around the band. Their singer, a raven-haired siren named Tina whose voice could melt glaciers and whose eyes promised paradise and peril in equal measure, had a habit of attracting trouble. The kind of trouble that wore leather jackets and carried bike chains. Dan and the boys, fueled by cheap beer and an even cheaper desire to be heroes, appointed themselves her unofficial bodyguards.

Now, the legend of “Dangerous Dan” was born one sticky night behind a dive bar called The Rusty Nail. A gaggle of local tough girls, jealous of Tina’s allure or maybe just bored, decided to redecorate her face. Dan, armed with nothing but his Pink Can Aqua Net (extra super hold, naturally, because even in a brawl, a man has standards) and a surprising amount of righteous fury, waded in. He didn’t so much fight them as…disperse them, in a cloud of aerosolized lacquer and screeching. Tina, suitably impressed or perhaps just grateful not to have a black eye, rewarded him with a kiss that tasted like cherry lipstick and untapped potential. He was smitten. Head over heels. A goner.

The Sonesta Bowl, a local institution smelling of lane wax, stale beer, and desperation, was where the other half of his moniker took root. Dan, it turned out, had a certain…knack with the ladies who frequented the attached tavern. Maybe it was the hair. Maybe it was the brooding silence that some mistook for depth. Whatever it was, the whispers started: “That’s the Sonesta Stud.” He’d just shrug, order another Bud, and try not to think about how Tina’s eyes were increasingly drawn to the lead guitarist, a lanky dude with actual talent and fewer outstanding warrants.

The good times, as they always do, started to curdle. West Colfax was a different beast than suburban Thornton, a gritty strip of pawn shops, rods & bods, adult bookstores, and taverns where trouble wasn’t just brewed, it was served on tap. A turf war, or something equally pointless and testosterone-fueled, erupted between Dan’s loosely affiliated crew and a rival gang of greasers who looked like they’d stepped out of a time machine stuck on 1957. One night, under the flickering neon of a liquor store sign, things got biblical. Or at least, club-ical. Dan zigged when he should have zagged and a tire iron, or maybe it was a table leg (details got fuzzy when your bell was being rung like the Liberty on the Fourth of July), connected with his scalp. He woke up with a headache that could curdle milk and a ragged scab that peeked out from his blonde spikes, a permanent souvenir of his Colorado escapade. Dangerous Dan, indeed.

Then came the scattering. It happened not with a bang, but with a series of mumbled goodbyes and slammed car doors. Rikki, ever the pragmatist beneath the wild-man exterior, joined the Navy. “Three hots and a cot, man,” he’d said, “and maybe i’ll see the world, or at least a different part of this godforsaken country.” Zipperhead, after a particularly bad batch of something he’d scored, decided the ski slopes of Summit County held the answers, or at least better powder. Another, a quiet kid from South Dakota named Rogger Dogger, just packed his duffel one morning. “The grass ain’t always greener, Dan,” he’d offered, a sad smile playing on his lips. “Sometimes it’s just…different grass. And sometimes, your own patch ain’t so bad if you just water it right.”

The final blow, though, was Tina. She found her more eligible bachelor, a guy who owned a chain of car washes and didn’t have a collection of empty ramen noodle cups under his bed. Dan saw them once, gliding out of a steakhouse, her laughter echoing, bright and carefree. It was a sound he realized he hadn’t heard from her in a long time, not when she was with him anyway.

The Sonesta Stud. It was a joke, really. A hollow crown. He’d make out with the local talent, sure, a brief flicker of connection in the smoky haze of the bar, but it was like trying to warm your hands over a book of matches when you were freezing to death. The depression, when it finally hit, wasn’t a sudden storm but a slow, creeping fog, muffling the world, turning the vibrant colors of his imagined rock star life into a dull, aching gray. The kind of gray he’d tried to escape back in Pennsylvania.

The realization hit him harder than that club on Colfax. Wherever you go, there you are. The bleakness wasn’t in the rolling hills of PA or the strung out sprawl of Thornton. It was in him. A little piece of that old familiar picnic table, that existential dread, had apparently stowed away in that rust-bucket Pinto wagon and made the trip west with him.

So, Dangerous Dan, the Sonesta Stud, packed his remaining can of Aqua Net (it was mostly empty now, like his promises to himself) and pointed the Pinto east. Back to the land of doting parents, nosey cousins, and primitive back roads.

And a funny thing happened on the way back to being Danny Yoder. Or maybe it happened once he got there, once the Colorado dust had settled and the ringing in his ears from too many nights spent too close to overloaded amps had finally faded. The primitive back roads? They weren’t so bad. Kinda pretty, actually, especially in the fall when the leaves turned. The provincial attitudes? Hell, most folks were just trying to get by, same as anywhere. And his nosey cousins and doting parents…well, they were family. They’d clucked over his scar, his suspiciously blonde hair (now growing out, revealing the sensible brown it had always been underneath), and his general air of a man who’d wrestled with a few demons and maybe, just maybe, pinned one or two of them to the mat.

The things that used to grate on his nerves like a cheese grater on a raw potato suddenly seemed…comforting. The familiarity of it all, the sheer, unadorned Pennsylvanianess of it, was a balm. He even found himself helping his old man on the farm, the smell of turned earth a far cry from stale beer and regret.

Danny Yoder was home. The Sonesta Stud was a ghost, a story he might tell his own kids someday, if he ever got around to having some. Dangerous Dan? Well, maybe there was still a spark of him left, a reminder that even a kid from an hard working family in Pennsylvania Amish Country could chase a crazy dream, get his scalp split open, and live to tell the tale with a wry grin. The grass, he finally figured, was green enough right where he was standing. He just had to remember to look down once in a while, instead of always staring at some distant, peroxide-fueled horizon. And maybe, just maybe, that was the most rebellious thing of all.

Onward through the fog… RH

You can gain insight…
Off a single sheet…
From Amish country…
To the Denver mean streets…
To pin your demons…
To the mat of destiny…
Everywhere you go…
There you are.

This Land: West Virginia

Well well well, we’re still on the road. This week… West Virginia. We’re finding the fun has dwindled a bit. At times Ronnie confesses to feeling like an exposed nerve. It may have something to do with the change of scenery. After all, as a Kanorado native, Ronnie’s comfortable with wide open spaces. But starting in North Carolina, approaching the beginning humps of the Appalachians, Ronnie started developing a contracting state of claustrophobia. This sense of dread actually started earlier, in South Carolina, with conjured imaginings of what it would be like to navagate congested urban sprawl nestled amongst relentless steep grades, up and down and up and down, trying not to ride the brakes but sometimes unable to avoid it. Then what do you know? The two West Virginia college towns Rocinante stumbled into (WVU and Fairmount State) presented conditions exactly like Ronnie’s worst roller-coaster imaginings.

Now, the other side of Ronnie’s Kanorado upbringing leaves him no stranger to mountaineering. And, truth told, our heroes have learned to keep up with the locals. But there ain’t no autopilot moments like those on the prairie, and Ronnie’s exposed nerve feeling keeps interrupting the vagabond felicity. So, this brings us to what appears to be a recurring theme investigating West Virginia’s general “vibe”. From readings and conversations, Ronnie has detected a more than usual sense of bi-polar contradiction, set in some of the most beautiful, lush country our heroes have yet encountered.

West Virginia! A veritable Janus of banjos and 5g smartphones. Even before the rabble in Philadelphia started their tiresome bleating about liberty and taxes, this land of craggy peaks and shadowed hollers harbored a glorious dichotomy. On the one hand, you had rugged frontiersmen, creatures of axe and rifle, suspicious of anyone wearing hats indoors and whose idea of polite conversation involves hitting the spittoon bullseye. Folks of fierce independence, mind you, who’d sooner wrestle a bear than abide a revenue agent or a banker.

Then, cheek-by-jowl with these noble savages, you’d find the seeds of a peculiar sort of… let us call it genteel indolence. Picture the languid river valleys, where the air hangs thick and sweet as overripe peaches, and where ambition rarely stretches beyond a decent slash of corn liquor and a comfortable spot on the porch swing. Folks who view haste as vulgar and consider vigorous debate over the proper way to cure tobacco the height of intellectual ferment.

Enter the great unpleasantness of the Revolution, and West Virginia, bless her conflicted heart, found herself straddling the fence like a hound dog caught in a barbed wire. Still part of greater Virginia, she sent forth her share of flinty riflemen to give the Redcoats a proper thrashing, a surprising burst of collective energy. Yet, even amidst the patriotic fervor, one might suspect there were plenty of mountaineers more concerned with deer season than the pronouncements of some powdered wig in Williamsburg.

The Civil War, naturally, only amplified this delightful schizophrenia. Brother against brother, neighbor against neighbor… a perfect illustration of a populace simultaneously capable of profound loyalty and stubborn contrariness. One faction, fiercely attached to the traditions (and peculiar institutions) of the Old Dominion, marched off under the Stars and Bars. The other, smelling a chance for their own patch of sovereignty and perhaps harboring a lingering resentment for the tidewater gentry, cast their lot with the Union. The result? A bloody, internecine squabble fought amidst some of the most gorgeously indifferent scenery on the continent.

And now, in this glorious age of the World Wide Web, this bi-polar beast roars on. You have pockets of genuine, unadulterated Appalachia, where decent 4g access is as mythical as the Sasquatch, and where the most pressing technological concern is whether the battery in the coon-hunting flashlight is still good. Here, the ancient rhythms of the land persist, the wisdom is passed down through generations of storytellers, and a firm handshake still means more than a thousand likes or shares.

But then, just over the next ridge, you’ll stumble upon a Starlink antenna sprouting from a double-wide, its tendrils reaching out to the digital ether. Here, the denizens are just as likely to be scrolling through TikTok as whittling a piece of wood. They’re ordering drone parts on Amazon while simultaneously canning beets according to a recipe passed down from their great-grandmother. They’re arguing about cryptocurrency on Reddit while their hound dog snoozes by the wood-burning stove.

It’s an all too human mess, this West Virginia. A land where the echoes of Daniel Boone‘s long rifle mingle with stock-ticker notifications. A place where the fierce independence of mountaineers clash with the modern craving for instant gratification and online validation. It is, in short, a microcosm of the American condition, amplified and seasoned with a healthy dose of mountain stubbornness and a suspicion of anything invented after the Mason jar. Long may it remain so, a testament to the enduring human capacity for glorious contradiction.

As for OUR contradicted heroes, they’ll keep pushin’ on. Ronnie’s “exposed nerve” will surely abate. And just as well as the worst is yet to come. In fact, we’re told Blue Highway windshield time in Upstate NY and further North amounts to traveling up endless claustrophobia-inducing tree alleys. It’s funny because delusional Ronnie thought he would NEVER miss driving on endless prairies, but here we are. He probably just needs a reminder that flatlander driving very often includes bucking white-knuckle gale-force head and cross-winds… and that ain’t no fun neither.

Onward through the fog… RH

It makes you dizzy…
Blue Highway shizzy…
In West Virginia…
You can get busy…
And take a page from…
The Tao Te Ching…
This too will pass…
And equalize.

This Land: Virginia

To be clear, Rocinante is no stranger to mountaineering. In fact, she was literally born in Colorado Springs, her first initiation over Independence Pass through the valley of the Roaring Fork northwest of Aspen, where Owl Farm, Hunter S. Thompson‘s home redoubt sits. A gorgeous, exhilarating trip and Rocinante handled it without a hitch. Now, this is all familiar territory for Ronnie, a native of Kanorado. He’s seen it all, from Black Bear Road to the endless prairies of Western Kansas. That said, it’s hard for our heroes to stay focused traveling through Virginia as the lush Edenic land goes on and on and on. They made a point to stay on what Heat Moon dubbed “Blue Highways” and by arrival in Waynesboro, Ronnie was overwhelmed with the beauty of Virginia’s interior. So much he began to doubt his ability to return to the flatlands.

Anyway, let’s try to scratch the surface of Virginia, warts and all. The name whispers of a land steeped in history, and since Ronnie has no personal memories here, he’ll have to rely on the testimony of others weaving a tapestry with threads of glory and shame, beauty and brutality.

THE GOOD: In the nascent days of the Virginia Colony, a spirit of enterprise, however fraught with unintended consequence, took root. Brave souls, lured by the promise of land and opportunity, crossed the vast ocean, establishing settlements like Jamestown. Here, amidst hardship and uncertainty, the seeds of a new nation were sown. Think of the fortitude of women like Pocahontas, who, whether through romanticized legend or historical fact, stands as a bridge between two worlds, a figure of diplomacy in a time of great tension. The fertile soil yielded tobacco, a golden leaf that fueled the colony’s growth and prosperity, laying the foundation for a burgeoning society. Later, Virginia became the cradle of revolutionary thought, birthing patriots like Washington and Jefferson, whose eloquent pronouncements on liberty and self-governance echoed across the land, ultimately shaping the destiny of the United States. The establishment of institutions of learning, like the College of William & Mary, fostered intellectual pursuits and contributed to the development of a uniquely American identity. Even in later years, the spirit of progress continued, exemplified by the tireless efforts of individuals like Booker T. Washington, born into slavery in Virginia, who rose to become a beacon of hope and advocate for education and self-reliance for African Americans across the nation. His work at the Hampton Institute and Tuskegee University stands as a testament to the enduring power of human aspiration in the face of adversity.

THE BAD: Alas, like the shadow that invariably accompanies the light, Virginia’s history is not without its darker chapters. The very prosperity of the early colony was built upon a foundation of injustice: the brutal exploitation of the land and its indigenous inhabitants, and the abhorrent institution of chattel slavery. The arrival of enslaved Africans marked a profound and enduring stain on the Virginian narrative, a contradiction to the lofty ideals of liberty espoused by its leading figures. The echoes of the lash and the cries of the oppressed resonate through the centuries, a stark reminder of the inherent cruelty and inhumanity of this system. Even the allure of the land led to conflict and displacement, as the relentless westward expansion often came at the expense of Native American tribes who had called this land home for generations. The seeds of division sown in these early days would ultimately contribute to the cataclysm of the Civil War, a bloody conflict that tore the nation asunder and left an indelible scar upon the Virginian landscape.

THE UGLY: Beyond the grand narratives of heroism and injustice lie the more granular, often overlooked aspects of life that reveal a less romanticized past. The harsh realities of colonial life – the disease, the famine, the constant threat of conflict – painted a grim picture for many early settlers. Imagine the squalor of early settlements, the precariousness of existence, the ever-present specter of illness claiming lives with cruel indifference. Even the pursuit of wealth could lead to avarice and exploitation, as individuals sought to amass fortunes at the expense of their less fortunate neighbors. The social hierarchies, rigidly enforced, often left little room for advancement for those born into less privileged circumstances. And let us not forget the presence of those who operated outside the bounds of law and decency, preying on the vulnerable. While not directly a Virginian, the infamous pirate Blackbeard, with his fearsome reputation, certainly cast a shadow over the coastal waters, a symbol of the lawlessness that could occasionally disrupt the ordered (or disordered) affairs of the colony. The tales of his depredations, though perhaps embellished over time, speak to a certain brutishness that existed on the fringes of society.

BELIEVE IT OR NOT: Now, let us turn our attention to some of the more curious and perhaps less widely known aspects of Virginia’s history. Virginia once boasted a significant wine industry in its early days, with attempts made to cultivate European grape varieties. Though these initial efforts met with limited success, they speak to the early aspirations and diverse ambitions of the colonists. Furthermore, consider the intriguing stories surrounding the Lost Colony of Roanoke in present-day South Carolina, a mystery that continues to baffle historians to this day. The disappearance of an entire settlement, leaving behind only the cryptic word “Croatoan,” fuels speculation and whispers of unknown fates. And who would have thought that Virginia played a crucial role in the development of early American literature, with figures like William Byrd II chronicling colonial life in witty and insightful prose? These lesser-known facets add layers of complexity and intrigue to the well-trodden paths of historical narrative.

GHOSTS: Ah, and now we venture into the realm of shadows and whispers, where the veil between worlds is said to thin. Given its long and often turbulent history, it is perhaps unsurprising that Virginia is rife with tales of spectral encounters. Ancient plantations, witnesses to generations of joy and sorrow, are often whispered to be haunted by the lingering spirits of those who once walked their halls. Tales abound of disembodied voices, unexplained footsteps, and the spectral apparitions of former inhabitants, forever bound to the land. Civil War battlefields, soaked in the blood and anguish of a nation divided, are said to echo with the cries of long-lost soldiers, their restless spirits forever reenacting the tragic events of the past. Even the coastline, once frequented by pirates and privateers, holds legends of ghostly ships sailing through the mist, their spectral crews guarding long-lost treasures. Whether these tales are mere fancy or hold a kernel of truth, they undeniably add a certain mystique to the rich tapestry of Virginia’s past, a reminder that perhaps some echoes of history refuse to fade entirely.

Jamestown Church (renovated) — Jamestown Church (restored)

Blackbeard's capture — Jamestown Church (restored)

Thus, we have traversed the variegated landscape of Virginia’s history, from its promising beginnings and noble aspirations to its darker realities and enduring mysteries. The story of Virginia is one of stark contrasts, of light and shadow, of triumphs and tragedies, all woven together to create a snapshot as compelling and enduring as the land itself. And with that Ronnie and Rocinante bid Virginia fare well setting a course for neighboring West Virginia.

Onward through the fog… RH

From the strife of Jamestown…
To Colonial Union…
The nation’s birth pangs…
Start in Virginia…
And though the land was…
Abundant paradise…
Independence came with a heavy price.

This Land: North Carolina

Okay, in our South Carolina post, we mentioned the gentle ribbing in which natives of North and South Carolina are known to engage from time to time. And the trip from Myrtle Beach, to Boone, really brought the contrasts home for Ronnie. We spoke with natives on the boardwalk at Myrtle Beach, the library in North Wilkesboro, and the Cracker Barrel in Boone. After a couple sleep cycles and a few walkabouts, Ronnie’s impressions resemble a two-state demolition derby of contrasts, and since we gotta keep this train a rollin’, here’s the admittedly brief and somewhat whimsical assessment:

First, North Carolina, that bastion of AshVIlle cool, where the air crackles with Ph.D. energy and the bookstores overflow with Derridean Phenomenology. South Carolina? They’ve got… GreenvUlle. Where the humidity clings, the fire ants sting, and the barbecue joints are serious business. Yessirreebob!

The music scene? Oh, sweet Jesus, the music! Up north, it’s all flutes and dreads, the earthy strum of acoustic guitars, the faint, sweet smell of patchouli oil wafting through the co-op. Down south? It’s hiking gear and bandanas, the twang of banjos at a bluegrass festival, and enough Realtree camo to outfit a small militia!

And the cars, yeowtch! North Carolina, land of the practical, reliable, ready for anything, and perpetually covered in a fine layer of red clay dust, Subaru. South Carolina? The sleek, the sophisticated, the ultimate driving machine, BMW!

Religion? North Carolina, with its burgeoning tiny home communities, whispers of Zen, and a general suspicion of anything too… organized. South Carolina? Mega Churches! Sprawling complexes with parking lots the size of aircraft carriers, where the faithful gather in their Sunday best to hear the good word, amplified to stadium levels!

Recreational mood lifting? North Carolina? Green Man and bowls of ganja, homegrown, shared with friends, and definitely not served with a side of kale. The local, the earthy, the “we’ve been doing it this way for generations” vibe. Think hand-carved walking sticks and a healthy skepticism of anything invented after 1970. Down South, baby! Bowls of oats, organic, gluten-free, locally sourced, and probably sprouted under a full moon. Weekend warriors, decked out in the latest Gore-Tex, ready to conquer every trail, every peak, every kombucha brewery!

The canine companions? North Carolina, the noble rescue mutt, each with a story etched in their soulful eyes, their fur a testament to a life lived… outdoors. South Carolina? Golden Doodles, prancing through the farmers’ market, their fluffy coats gleaming in the artisanal sunlight.

Leisure? North Carolina… Kitty Hawk! The windswept dunes, the birthplace of flight, where the Wright brothers dared to dream, and where the royal green is an endless expanse of Blue Ridge forests. South Carolina? Golf courses, manicured to perfection, sprawling across the landscape like emerald carpets, the domain of the well-heeled and the well-tanned.

And the people? North Carolina… Hippies! clinging to the fringes, their tie-dye shirts a defiant splash of color in a world of khakis, their vintage VW buses rumbling testaments to a different way of life. South Carolina? Yuppies! urban centers, teeming with young professionals, their eyes fixed on the next promotion, the next craft brewery, the next hot yoga class.

And let’s not forget the one thing that unites them… their shared, almost pathological need to make fun of Hendersonville! It’s the Switzerland of Carolina-bashing, the neutral territory where both sides can come together in a spirit of… well, mild derision.

But, hallelujah and amen, let’s be honest. For all the ribbing, all the contrasts, all the Tar Heel swagger and Palmetto pride… would they rather be anywhere else? North Carolina, with its mountains and its music and its… progress? South Carolina, with its beaches and its barbecue and its… soul?

Nah. They’ll take it all. The Villes and the VUlles, the flutes and the fiddles, the Beemers and the Subarus. Because, at the end of the day, it’s the Carolinas, baby! And, for these loopers, that’s a damn sight better than anywhere else.

We’ll see you in Virginia…

Onward through the fog… RH

Be on your guard…
In the Carolinas…
You may get hooked and…
Go full messiani…
From sandy beaches…
To misty mountains…
These folks are blessed to have it all.

This Land: South Carolina

So, we’re rolling into South Carolina, aye? And there ain’t any hot springs. Nada. Zip. Zilch.

THE GOOD: South Carolina’s got plenty of choices for college. Little ones, medium-sized ones… like a box of assorted chocolates, only instead of sweet surprises, you get knowledge. Or something like that. You’ve got your College of Charleston, your Furman University, your Wofford College… even Clemson, though it’s so big it practically needs its own zip code.

And if you’re a bookworm, don’t despair. South Carolina might not be Faulkner country, but it’s got its own literary quirks. The Gibbes Museum in Charleston has enough Southern art and literature to make your head spin. Plus, the whole state’s littered with historic homes and plantations – you know, the kind with long, shadowy porches and a whole lotta history (and maybe a few ghosts) tucked away inside.

Now, if you ask a South Carolinian what they love about their state, they’ll probably start waxing poetic about the scenery. Mountains, beaches, swamps… it’s like Mother Nature threw a dart at a map and said, “Let’s put it all right here.” Of course, they’ll also mention the history. Charleston, in particular, is like stepping into a time machine, with its cobblestone streets and Gullah culture. And the people? Well, they’re friendly, that’s for sure. Southern hospitality ain’t just a saying, folks.

Oh, and did we mention the cost of living? Compared to some places (uh, California), South Carolina’s practically giving it away. So if you’re young and broke but still clinging to that tattered American Dream, this could be your destiny.

THE BAD: The infrastructure… some of those roads are so bumpy, you’ll think you’re riding a buckboard wagon. And the summers? Hoo boy. Imagine a sauna that also happens to be outside. That’s the dog days of July and August in South Carolina.

THE UGLY: The political climate? Let’s just say it’s redder than a sunburn. In 1932, most of South Carolina voters, nearly all white in a state where nearly half the residents were Black but not able to cast ballots, chose Liberal FDR for president at the start of the Great Depression. Ever since, the conservative backlash has been long, steady, and at times infused by racism. Among the landmark moments include Strom Thurmond’s 24-hour filibuster against the Civil Rights act in 1954, then his decision to switch to the Republican Party continuing the fight to block civil rights legislation in Congress.

So, who’s who from South Carolina? Well, there’s Darius Rucker, the country crooner who used to front Hootie and the Blowfish. There’s William Refrigerator Perry, lineman for the Chicago Bears in the 1980s. There’s James Brown, the hardest working man in show business. And the ever-graceful Vanna White from the Wheel of Fortune game show. Oh, and let’s not forget Strom Thurmond. Yeah, South Carolina’s got a complicated past.

Now, Ronnie hasn’t resided East of the Mississippi, so he can’t say for sure what the people in the two Carolinas think of one another. But we’ve heard whispers. Apparently, North Carolinians think South Carolinians are a bit slow. Laid-back, even. And South Carolinians? Well, they think North Carolinians are a bit uptight. All work and no play, you know the type. But hey, at the end of the day, they’re both Southern states. They love their college football, their barbecue, and their beaches. So maybe they’re not so different after all.

Anyway, South Carolina’s an interesting place. It’s beautiful and frustrating, welcoming and backward, all at the same time. The job market’s getting better, but it’s still tough to make a decent living in some parts. And while the state’s slowly becoming more diverse, it’s still got a long way to go.

So, is South Carolina for you? That’s a question only you can answer. But if you do decide to take the plunge, just remember: pack your sense of humor, your mosquito repellent, and your open mind. You’re gonna need ’em.

Onward through the fog… RH

As we were rolling…
‘Long a Carolina shoreline…
We saw the truth…
Across the skyline…
It brought us back to…
First principles…
This land is here…
For you and me.

Audiovision: We Represent…

Lindheimer, O. Boq, Esq., a man whose legal career was compromised by a questionable defense of a rogue flying poppy-field security monkey, harbored delusions of grandeur usually reserved for auctioneers or super-villain sidekicks. His particular fancy was Riviera City politics. He yearned, he ached, to be a voice of reason, a beacon of common sense in what he perceived as an increasingly radical world. Thus, when the bellowing demagogue, the “Wizard of Oz”, thundered onto the screen with pronouncements on the citizenship status of atheist Winkie Guards and the urgent need for a national Oompa Loompa registry, Boq, in a fit of righteous indignation (and a desperate craving for attention), unleashed a torrent of invective so savage it would make a tax auditor blush.

“Atheist Winkie Guards are essential castle protectors, and Oompa Loompas have rights, too.” He said, aiming his derision directly at the yet to be anointed Wizard. “He’s a race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot.” Boq declared, urging supporters to forget about the shameless demagogue.

The next thing he knew, Boq found himself perched atop a giant mushroom, his orange hair curled and quaffed, and inexplicably leading a chorus line of similarly attired Munchkins ceremoniously dubbed the “Castleforce Guild.” They were all singing a disturbingly catchy tune about… well, the Castleforce Guild. Boq vaguely recalled something about a witch and a house, but his mind was on more pressing matters.

Before him stood a motley crew: a lion with a chronic case of the jitters, a scarecrow who looked like he’d lost a fight with a combine harvester, a tin man who creaked with every breath, a little girl in gingham, and a dog who looked remarkably unimpressed with the whole affair. They were, Boq gathered, seeking an audience with the great and powerful Wizard.

“Welcome, travelers!” Boq chirped, his voice a shade higher than he’d intended. The Castleforce Guild, bless their knee socks, launched into another Castleforce ditty. “We represent the Castleforce Guild, and we’re delighted to guide you on your quest!”

He cleared his throat. “Now, about this Wizard… He’s… well, he’s a visionary. A titan of patriotism. A… a genius of unprecedented… strength! His pronouncements on poppy-field border walls and Oompa Loompa invasions? Pure brilliance! The Oompa Loompa registry? A stroke of inspired statesmanship! In short, he’s… he’s… magnificent!”

The travelers exchanged dubious glances. The little girl frowned. “But Mr… Munchkin Man,” she said, “didn’t you just call him a… a… ‘race-baiting, xenophobic, religious bigot’?”

Boq winced. “Ah, yes! But that was… before. Before i… understood. You see, the Wizard’s… vision is so… complex… that it requires… nuance. And… Winkie Guards!” He gestured vaguely at the Guild, who were now doing a synchronized twirl.

He leaned in conspiratorially. “Just… just tell him Lindheimer, Boq sent you. Mention my… unwavering support. My… profound admiration. My… my… utter and complete agreement with every single syllable that emanates from his… his… glorious Chocolate Cake hole. And for heaven’s sake, compliment his taste in literature.”

He pointed down a yellow brick road that seemed to stretch into infinity. “Follow that path! And may the Wizard’s… wisdom… guide you!”

As the travelers trudged off, the Lion whimpering, the Scarecrow wobbling, the Tin Man creaking, and the Dog looking more unimpressed than ever. Boq sighed. Castle security, he mused, was a strange world of glittering prizes and endless compromises, and sometimes, it needs an ample stock of obsequious fealty. He just hoped the Wizard wouldn’t ask them about his Oompa Loompa registry response. He hadn’t quite worked out the nuances of that one yet.

Stay tuned…
…much more to come.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie

Audiovision: Fly My Pretties!

The rain… a perpetual shroud over the fetid swamp of DC, mirrored clammy despair in the heart of someone whisperingly referred to as the Befuddled Witch of the East (BWE). Not a cackling crone of storybook malice, but a figure of unsettling obsequiousness, her very presence a damp chill upon the sunniest glade. Her name, if she ever possessed one beyond the epithet, was lost in the miasma of her singular, consuming obsession: the great and terrible Wizard of Oz.

Like Uriah Heep, that crawling embodiment of false humility, BWE haunted the periphery of the Riviera, her shadow a constant, unwelcome guest. Each pronouncement from the Wizard, each flick of his theatrical wrist, was met with her fervent, unsettling adoration. “Oh, most wondrous Oz,” she would croon, her voice a wheezing whisper, “your brilliance blinds me, a humble speck in the dust of your magnificent eminence.” The Wizard, a man of smoke and mirrors, found himself perpetually slimed by her devotion, recoiling inwardly at her damp palms and the unwavering, unsettling gleam in her wide, unblinking eyes. He’d force a strained smile, a practiced gesture of benevolence that never quite reached his own authentic countenance.

Her dwelling, a dilapidated hovel sinking into the mire, was a testament to her singular focus. Scraps of emerald fabric, pilfered or bartered for with dubious trinkets, adorned the rotting walls like pathetic devotional offerings. She hoarded every discarded pronouncement from the Wizard, every stray spark from his grand pyrotechnic show, as holy relics. Her days were spent in a grotesque pantomime of service, offering bombastic bumper sticker slogans or suspiciously dubious conspiracy theories to any unfortunate soul venturing near the Riviera, all the while proclaiming her utter unworthiness compared to the glorious Oz.

But beneath the veneer of simpering devotion, a darker current stirred. As Uriah Heep’s false humility masked a gnawing ambition, so too did BWE’s obsession curdle into a grandiose delusion. In the long, dreary evenings, amidst the croaking of unseen things in the swamp, a transformation would take hold. The stooped posture would straighten, the wheezing whisper would deepen into a resonant pronouncement. She would gaze into a cracked, tarnished mirror, not seeing the gaunt, damp reflection, but the fiery eyes of Isobel Gowdie, the Scottish witch who confessed to consorting with the Devil himself.

“I am she!” she would declare to the silent, dripping rafters. “The ancient power flows through my veins! I ride the winds, command the shadows, and the very beasts of the air tremble at my decree!”

And here, the parody took its most ludicrous turn. BWE genuinely believed she commanded a legion of flying monkeys. In her mind’s eye, they were a terrifying, disciplined force, executing her malevolent whims with ruthless efficiency. In reality, the flying monkeys, a ragtag bunch of mischievous creatures with a penchant for petty chaos, simply tolerated her pronouncements. They found a certain amusement in her self-importance and the opportunities her “commands” presented for causing minor mayhem. A market crash here, a stolen election there – they were chaos agents, and BWE, in her delusional grandeur, provided the perfect, self-unaware puppet master.

So, the Befuddled Witch of the East lived out her days in a grotesque ballet of misplaced adoration and self-aggrandizing fantasy. She simpered at the feet of a Wizard who wished her gone, and she issued imperious commands to a band of flying monkeys who merely indulged her for their own amusement. The bogs of DC remained damp, the Riviera remained oblivious to the true nature of its most devoted admirer, and the legend of the Befuddled Witch, a gothic absurdity woven from delusion and damp despair, continued to fester in the shadows. Her end, when it comes, will most likely be as anticlimactic as her life – a sudden, ignominious squashing, leaving behind only a pair of striped stockings and the lingering, unsettling echo of her fervent, misguided devotion.

Stay tuned… much more to come.

Onward through the fog… Rohlfie.

Audiovision: No Place Like Home

Emelia groaned, pushing herself up from the… was that a poppy field? Her head throbbed like Old Bessie’s engine just before powering up for takeoff. One minute she was double checking navigation maps to make sure she was on course, the next… gingham. Gingham? And was that a terrier yapping at her heels? She’d always preferred cats. This was all her father’s fault, of course. That flamboyant, philandering poet. He’d abandoned her to the whims of her mathematically-obsessed mother, and now, thanks to a rogue cloud and an inconvenient lightning strike, she was Dorothy freakin’ Gale.

“Good grief,” she muttered, adjusting the ridiculous blue dress. “This is worse than trying to explain aerodynamics to a chimney sweep.”

Suddenly, a rustling in the nearby cornfield. Out popped a straw-stuffed… thing. “Good afternoon, Miss! Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” it croaked.

Emelia pinched the bridge of her nose. “I’m a nurse,” she corrected, “and i haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Unless ‘witch’ is some weird slang for pilot. In which case, i can fly without a broom, and rather well, if i do say so myself.”

The Scarecrow looked confused. “A… pilot? Is that like having a brain?”

“It involves logic, intuition, and wide-ranging travel in hours rather than days or weeks.” Emelia explained patiently, “unlike stuffing straw into your knickers.”

Just then, a tin man emerged from the woods, his joints creaking like a rusty automaton. “Oil can!” he cried. “I can barely move!”

Emelia sighed. “I need to get back to Kansas. Perhaps we can help each other. You need to free your joints, and i need… well, i’m not entirely sure what i need. Besides a current map, a compass, and a sturdy aircraft.”

A roar echoed through the field. A magnificent lion bounded into view, quivering with terror. He sported a meticulously sculpted orange mane, clearly the product of considerable dye and pomade, attempting to disguise a rather significant bald patch at the back of his head.

“Don’t laugh at me!” he whimpered, his carefully crafted combover trembling. “Truth told, i’m not as brave as i look!”

Emelia stared at him. “You’re the king of the jungle,” she pointed out, “and you’re afraid of… well, what are you afraid of?”

The Lion glanced nervously at the little terrier, who was now sniffing at his paws. “Everything, really.” he wailed. “Small, yappy dogs, Russian game poachers, and losing my…my… coiffure!”

Emelia threw her hands up in exasperation. “Right. So, we have a scarecrow without a brain, a tin man without a heart, a lion without courage and a truly baffling hairstyle, and me, a pilot without a clue how to get home. Sounds like a pain in the adventure.”

The terrier, whom Emelia had christened “Vega” (much to his apparent displeasure), yapped excitedly.

A Munchkin, barely taller than the dog, popped his head out from behind a giant mushroom. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road!” he chirped. “The Wizard lives in the Riviera! He can help you!”

Emelia looked at her motley crew. “The Riviera, you say? And this Wizard… he’s good with… logistics?”

The Munchkin shrugged. “He’s a wizard! He can do anything!”

Emelia raised an eyebrow. “Anything, eh? I want to know what happened to my aircraft, ‘Old Bessie,’ and i want to go home. Lead on, then. Yellow Brick Road it is.” She just hoped the Wizard had a better understanding of navigation than these… wacky characters.

To be continued… Rohlfie

This Land: Kentucky

Alright, alright, alright! Ronnie and Rocinante started this tour from the great state of Kansas, and in the stompin’ rock-n-roll salad days, Kansas was famous for springtime tornadoes. Well, times change, people change, and apparently weather patterns change as well. For instance, here in the Southeastern states, the approach of March and April 2025 subjected Ronnie and Rocinante to three, count ’em, three white knuckle evenings where one eye was on the online tornado trackers and the other on streaming movies. Two of those evenings featured sirens screaming, “take cover people, a funnel has been spotted!!”

Now, being a lifelong Kansas native, Ronnie’s habit is to hightail it outdoors to look for the funnel. But all three of these incidents happened at night, and those are no fun at all. So, there they were, watching for danger funnels on the radar trackers while Ronnie formulated a plan for what to do if the damn thing rolled over them. Once, they had a nearby ditch to duck into, but the other two times, just Cracker Barrel which is closed after 10:00pm. So Ronnie’s idea was to wrap himself in a substantially padded sleeping bag, strap into the passenger seat and ride it out with Rocinante. The good news? They didn’t have to resort to drastic measures on any of these evenings, but the most recent incident did scare Ronnie a bit, and the psychic reverberations are chronicled in the below dream dispatch (embellishments taken by artistic license)..

Buckle up, Buttercup, because we’re driving headfirst into the swirling, screaming maw of a river-riding tornado, a meteorological monstrosity tracing the muddy spine of the Mississippi and Ohio, a psychedelic serpent of wind and chaos, as the Mississippi, usually a languid giant, began to froth. From the trembling neon of Beale Street, a tornado, not of wind, but of memory and distorted reality, spun to life. It didn’t roar, it whispered, a chorus of forgotten river songs, bourbon-soaked laments, and the echoes of civil war battles all the way from the blues-soaked delta of Memphis to the bourbon-soaked hills of Louisville.

It started, as these things often do, with a whisper, a low growl in the humid air above Beale Street, a pregnant pause in the rhythm of the blues. Then, BOOM, a swirling vortex of fury ripped through the neon haze, sucking up stray guitar licks and the lingering scent of barbecue like a cosmic vacuum cleaner. We’re talking a twister with a goddamn attitude, folks, a hell-bent hurricane on a pilgrimage to the heart of bluegrass country.

Upriver it raged, a furious finger pointing towards Kentucky, leaving behind a trail of bewildered catfish and flattened riverboats. The swirling vortex first caught the echoes of Elvis’s ghostly hip swivels, then twisted north, past the slumbering cotton fields. The air shimmered, and we saw a young Jennifer Lawrence, not on a red carpet, but atop a wild-eyed pony, her laughter echoing across the rolling hills of her childhood farm. “Those horses,” she whispered, her voice a phantom breeze, “they knew the secrets of the land, secrets the river whispered too.” The tornado, momentarily calmed, seemed to nod, then resumed its watery ascent.

Next, the phantom funnel roared past Churchill Downs, where the ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, fueled by a lifetime of Wild Turkey and mescaline, materialized in a puff of ganja smoke. He was ranting about the “equine gentry,” their manicured hooves and bloodline arrogance, as the tornado ripped the fancy hats off the heads of bewildered spectators. “Fear and Loathing in Tornado Alley,” he’d scream, his banshee voice lost in the wind, “a goddamn vortex of pure, unadulterated madness!”

The tempest continued its journey, a whirling dervish of destruction, passing over Louisville, where the spirit of Muhammad Ali, light as a butterfly and stinging like a bee, rose to meet it. He was projected into a snowy black & white television screen reliving a defiant response to the military draft, his voice echoing through the storm, “Why should they ask me to put on a uniform and go 10,000 miles from home to drop bombs and bullets on brown people in Vietnam while so-called Negro people in Louisville are treated like dogs?” The audio glitched, he continued through the white noise, “I got no quarrel with them Viet Cong!” he said. The tornado, momentarily stunned by his sheer force of personality, seemed to hesitate, then roared on, a begrudging respect in its howl.

Further up the Ohio, the ghost of Abe Lincoln, his lanky frame emerging from the mist, pointed a spectral finger towards his “sinking spring” childhood home. “Even the land weeps,” he intoned, his voice deep and resonant, “when the balance is disturbed.” The tornado, perhaps sensing a kindred spirit in the rail-splitter’s melancholic wisdom, seemed to soften its destructive touch, leaving the old homestead relatively unscathed.

Then, the storm reached the heart of bluegrass country, where Chris Stapleton, his voice a whiskey-soaked lament, stood defiant against the swirling chaos, his trademark cowboy hat firmly planted on his head. “They told me my style was too raw, too real,” he growled, a plume of smoke curling from a phantom stem, “but the wind knows the truth.” The tornado, impressed by his gritty authenticity, seemed to bow in deference, whipping his long hair into a frenzy.

Dwight Yoakam, his voice echoing the Bakersfield sound, tipped his hat to the storm, a knowing grin on his face. “Even the Bluegrass wind respects the Bakersfield Sound,” he drawled, his voice cutting through the roar. The tornado, perhaps drawn to the twang of his soul, seemed to sway in time with the rhythm.

Finally, as the storm reached its crescendo, a spectral banjo echoed through the chaos. Bill Monroe, the father of bluegrass, materialized, a red clan robed image straight from the Coen Brothers’ movie, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly light. He plucked a haunting melody, a lament for the ravaged land, and the tornado, as if listening to a divine command, began to dissipate, its fury spent, leaving behind a trail of eerie calm and the lingering echo of the high, lonesome sound.

And so, the river-riding tornado, a psychedelic fever dream of wind and chaos, faded into the Kentucky hills, leaving behind a trail of twisted jangled nerves, tall tales, and the lingering scent of bourbon and bluegrass. Nothing like a good existential scare to bring out the vivid dreams.