I swear we're moving into a van.

I can't believe it's been a month since my last progress report. I actually believe it might be less than a week until we're outta here. I spent a ton of time and energy getting the van ready. It's nearly complete. Living in the van is definitely preferable to the pile of garbage we're calling an apartment these days. I swear I'd like to torch this clownhole right now. If it's not empty by the 28th, I'm lighting a match.

This van is a personal dream come true. I love driving it. All hesitation about getting an extended van with a huge hi-top has vanished. In exactly no time I got used to the size, and I have had no trouble parking it. An extended, or "15 passenger" van fits fine in all sorts of parking spots. Being 6'1" and able to stand up straight inside is fantastic. Starting this project with a passenger van was a blessing.

Passenger vans don't have all the home-like touches of a camper van or "class B" RV. The layout and wiring are all simple. This provided a nearly blank canvas to get started with. That's my preference. Camper vans and RVs are already pre-complicated with a large volume of tacky shit I don't want or need. I'm hacking our house together Harne-style to stay awhile.

I used to see big vans on the road and get jealous. "What a great house that would make!" I was screaming inside my head. No more. Now I have the ultimate van, and all the other vans I see fall short of this majesty.

Turning a van into a house isn't rocket science. If you throw a bed in there, you're A-Ok. If you have a little bit of camping gear, you're the King of the Planet. I'm going a step beyond this, however, and applying my tiny house skills to create what I've long lusted after: a comfortable simple home that you can flip the bird from while driving away from life's pains-in-the-ass.

We own our home. It cost me and Kristin $2300, which we raised by selling textbooks in January. To be honest, there's money left over. We haven't done any real work since December, and it's mildly alarming that we're getting away with that. I've put lots of time into preparation, but I've spent plenty of time doing shit-all too. I'm so ready to go that my feet are starting to smoke.

On With The Updates:

Maybe I'll go into more detail later, but here's an overview. As I showed in the last post, I had to clean up some bullshit before getting started on the build. I removed all that rotten plywood, and solved the leaky rear door with some roofing asphalt shit that doesn't technically belong on the back of a van, but stops the hell out of leaks. Case closed on those leaks. I have soft black gunk around the perimeter of the back door, but water has no chance of getting through it. As for aesthetics, I'll survive. In the future, some white 100% silicone caulk might be better - but I was working in cold rain, and not many products can do that, and I wanted to move forward with the interior and Not Have Leaks.

I'm always working against a learning curve - or at least an experience curve - so every step has been a little haphazard. As always, if I could start again, it would be a lot easier the second time. No matter. You have to do everything once before you can try it a second time. I have a life of first attempts ahead of me, so I'll plod along and try not to criticize my work too harshly.

One of the main things we need is some ventilation. I spent something like $350 on Ebay to get some side windows, vents, and a skylight for the hi-top. The installation is the same for all of that. If you can install one vent, you can install fifty-nine of them. So I started making holes.

I traced out where the side windows should go, then I drilled out the corners and cut out the rest with a cordless jigsaw. Once the window fits the hole, you put some butyl tape around the flange and stick it in place. Some screws help squeeze it in place and make a tight seal. Same story with the vents and skylight: cut a hole, put butyl tape around the perimeter, screw the thing in place.

I admit that the addition of so many vents and accouterments detracts from our stealth. But I'll be just as happy to get some air flowing on a hot night. The three bumps along the roof look a little bit interesting from the side. Personally, I get a hoot out of it. I'm calling the van "Nessie" because of the famous Loch Ness Monster photo with three unidentified bumps coming out of the water.

Notably, the roof vent closest to the bed is a "Fan-Tastic" vent with a strong fan. RV people love their Fan-Tastic vents. The other vent was only $30. The skylight is a real cheap one - $37 - and does not come with a trim ring. Same deal with the side windows. Those are made for teardrop trailers, and were real cheap without the trim rings. I made my own trim, which was tedious and imperfect, but also nearly free.

We paid forty bucks for a carpet, which raised my hackles, since carpet can be obtained for free. On the upside, it looks good, feels good, and smells good - and I don't have to wait around for all the stoodents to migrate out of their dorms. I trimmed the carpet to fit, and secured it under the trim around the door. It's good.

Next up, electricity. I'm no 12v maven, but I'm happy with the result. I got two heavy-ish duty storage containers, and made a custom plywood lid that fits over both. The container directly behind the driver's seat is the perfect size to fit two Trojan T-105 golf cart batteries. The other container holds the battery charger, fuse box, and anything else electric-y that comes up. I screwed both containers to the floor of the van body. I cut a piece of foam to the size of the lid. My wonderful and supportive mother sewed together a cushion and a skirt to make it look like a little couch. Thanks, ma!

Our Apartment is Garbage

I don't understand the science behind acquiring shit you don't need, but I know it's a problem. I have 96% of my personal belongings already in the van. Our apartment currently looks like the aftermath of a bad yard sale. If I wasn't so drunk or asleep all the time, I'd probably have converted it to dust and ash by now. A vast array of knick-knacky shackles are keeping me from my palm trees. This limbo-bimbo has got to end.

Getting started...

View from the front.

Grinder-sanded and primer-painted this rust

...

Two-part bed platform

Lots of room for folding bicycles.

Cubby hole storage beside bed.

Battery box lid.

Cutting memory foam mattress with a hacksaw

Propane locker we probably won't bring.

Start Choppin'

Stick that winder in thar.

Took a day to tune up our folding bikes

This Raleigh Twenty is tuned UP.

Kristin's Folder

Bed, storage, and storage... installed.

$30 vent and $130 vent

Roof accoutremania.

Square.

Chopped.

Roofhole.

Looking up.

Nessie's spine.

Nice rug!

Battery boxes.

The house battery setup.

Tiny couch over battery bank.

Reading light and 12v outlet for Kristin

Custom locking gate to make the whole van into a dog crate.

Operation Giant Van: The Preparation

I have to turn a passenger van into a rolling home, and that's the first step. I have to sell or destroy everything that's not coming along, and that's step two. Kristin has to burn or destroy thousands of pounds of clothing. To my regular flabbergastation, many items have appeared in the bathroom and kitchen over the past twelve months. We need to disappear many shits. All this has to happen while still sort of trying to make a little bit of money with what I'm calling our "job."

Progress to report: I've designed and built the bed platform. We have a memory foam mattress already. It's 58" wide by 78" long. That's too big, even for this huge van. I'm cutting ten inches off the width, and six inches off the length. Then I'm cutting it into two pieces. That will leave a 48" square for the top part, and the rest will be a foot part to support our legs below the hip-zone, maybe mid-thigh and down. Continuous support in two sections. A platform will go across the back for the main part of the bed, plus storage on the curb side. The lower bed-part will be supported by a table at a level height with the main platform.

This is already too many words. Basically, I'm splitting the bed up so we can toss the bottom mattress section onto the top section and save a lot of space without sacrificing comfort during sleeptime. The table that supports the bottom mattress section can double as a work table, cooking table, desk or ottoman. I am very proud of this.

Bed platform parts. Back section needs legs.

In my previous vandwelling times, my only amenities were a sleep area and a chair, and I never had complaints. I relished it. It's cold outside, and I don't want to waste a bunch of time and effort fooling around with piddly details before we get the fuck outta here. Time to go. Whatever I get done - great.

So I spent some time building the bed parts, and that's pretty much done. I have the basis of some storage over the bed inside the huge hi-top fiberglass area. I put down new plywood on the floor.

Storage in the hi-top. Needs some 1/2" ply.

The rear door is letting some water in, so I'm chasing potential leak areas around and trying to find a product that can be applied when it's cold outside. Most of this sloppy junk isn't supposed to be squirted anywhere in temperatures below 50 degrees. Geez guys. I have a life to try and run here. Anyway, the plywood on the floor was rotten toward the back from water leaking in. So I ripped all that out. That was something to deal with.

All this shit is gone... outta here.

All I can say about bolts is that I had to grind the heads off a lot of them and pound the threaded sections out through the floor. I wore down a cutting wheel until it was about the size of a quarter. Vestigial wheelchair lift parts be gone! Chopped, scraped, swept, and primed. The floor is ready for business.

I don't know how to run a normal life. Asked and answered. Cannot do. My operating instructions are soaked, burned, and demolished. I'm pushing my life forward by slamming my head on mountains until they budge. I accept this because it's the path I'm on, and I have faith that a fresh dose of vandwelling is an escape hatch and salvation is on the other side.

This van is huge.

Daisy. One out of three ladies who I live with.

Getting shit undone.

Getting shit done is not my strong point. I have occasional bursts of extreme productivity, but the daily to-do lists on scraps of paper keep adding up. When there are too many scraps, I transcribe them onto new scraps. Maybe a tablet.

My brain is a hammer. My brain is a machine gun.

On the productive side, I've accomplished plenty. Built a small house once. I could give myself credit for that.

On the arguably productive side, as in "I produced this content," I updated the Condiment Packet Gallery in January. Nearly eleven years passed without an update. Suddenly I was inspired to continue. Countless hours were spent re-learning basics; writing CSS for the first time, and updating my use of HTML. Then came the repetitive copy-paste creation of a thousand static pages. Scanning hundreds of new packets followed. Now there's an Instagram account: @condimentpacket

www.condimentpacket.com is back open for business.

Sure, I can do that, but today I can't muster the energy to walk to the liquor store. To fold laundry. To step outside. To charge my phone.

We bought eight 18-gallon rubbermaid totes, just like Bob Wells recommended. My apartment is a loud sack of shit.

How am I going to muster the wherewithal to walk out and tap the gas? Nagging last-minute operations suffer in the undercurrent of daily to-dos. I'm suspended like a fruit chunk in jello. The van needs some work; inside and out. It's winter. I need to build a bed platform, but it's cold outside. I need to run some wiring, install lights, sort out the propane situation, and decide what goes into the blue totes. But I barely stretched socks over my cold feet by noon.

I can talk about booze and brains and adderall and ADHD, but what more can I really say. Today is one, and tomorrow will be another.

Alright, so here's finally the fucking plan!

It's time to go. This apartment is the pits. It's a reasonable deal on space and it gets sun, but for $900 something with utilities it can fuck itself. I have not been feeling it.

I'm happy. That's the only thing that matters.

I got married this year. We got a second dog. We need space. We need to be out. I require novelty.



You gauged that right. We are not fucking around.

That's a '98 Dodge extended passenger van with two whole feet of Hi-Top. I had the severe pleasure of driving this home today. Back seats are getting trashed. Inside is a hotel now. Welcome to the U.S.A.

We are so out of here. I'm going to bring my lady to Key West, where we will fall in love for probably the 4th time. Then we're going to edge our way across the country, stopping at the same places we went last year in this Festiva:



Here we are getting married:



About to get away from the house I built:



I've been asleep for a long time. Now it's time to remember what tires are made for.

Gnome Chompsky

Shuffling around in the woods. Checking out some ruins. Thinking on how to put a roof over ruins. Small car with stick shift gets many books on some days.

Dogs chase free apples. 

About 30 cents an ounce sounds right. 

Wake up when the sun pokes your conscience. Click links. The car of books pays for hoagies++.

-Chris

Wives Must Tell You.

Sometimes your wife needs to tell you the truth. Every human has truth to squeeze out - when circumstances permit, it exudes. Our marriage is tainted. I am difficult. I might not be the worst, and I hope I'm not, but I can rain down variables. I can rain down an uncomfortable storm of rip-rap. I can make a good girl feel sad.

I took words to heart. Like a bullet, but more like a train. I'm hard pressed. I'm pressed in a general sense. Pressure. This pressure is what we have.

Money, we make. Food, we have.

Now I drink again. Today and all others I smoke pot. I use adderall to run the business we share.

All seems better. It does.

As life unfolds before me, my first instinct is to share it on this page. But my life details are no longer mine alone to share. I'm married. Not all can be public. Floundering is a personal sport.

I can do it all...      I can!     ... I will!     ... just watch me.

My top lack is a quickness to describe. Permission. Prudence. My will to type.

I bought a van for $700 today.

UPDATE 02/03/2016:  This van lost me net $200 and a drive.

I bought a van today. It was $700 plus tax and tags. It was posted on Craigslist for $800, but I'm a smooth character. I got another hundred bucks shaved off a price that I believe is already bordering on suspiciously low.

I've been looking at vans for a few months, and recently began looking for vans, taking an "eyes opened" approach to finding my next one. Being in no particular rush is helpful. People get great deals all the time. Great deals exist. I like to be proactive - ready to act quickly and decisively when the time comes. This is different than being spontaneous, but it feels the same, and sometimes it's hard to tell the difference.

Yesterday, I searched Philly, South New Jersey, Reading, Allentown, Delaware, Lancaster, and Harrisburg. I searched for E-150, E-250, E-350, E150, E250, E350, Club Wagon, Clubwagon, G10, G20, G30, Express, Savannah, Safari, Vandura, etc, etc.

Then: I found a promising ad with no outright deal-breakers. I found what appeared to be an undervalued van that would suit my needs.

Pros: Inexpensive, it runs, 76,XXX miles, side windows.
Cons: Exhaust leak, located in the boonies, suspiciously low price. (engine block made of earwigs?)

The ad was for the 1996 Ford Club Wagon pictured above. It didn't look hammered too bad in the photos, and 76XXX miles is unusually low. Not much rust. Passenger van with no seats means that I get side windows, and I don't have to throw the seats away myself.

I called the seller, Don, and confirmed that the van definitely does run, and if interested, I would definitely be able to drive it away. He told me yes, and then explained it also had an exhaust leak. Still undeterred, I set an appointment to meet the next day.

This morning, I wanted to leave reasonably early. A van for $800 that runs and has low mileage is bound to get a lot of interest. I wanted to be first in line, because there might not be a second place, and nobody can be trusted to keep an appointment made through Craigslist.

Kristin and I headed north. We left the beaten path, and continued on small roads. We left familiar territory, and arrived in a small town tucked out of the way and surrounded by farmland in every direction. As we pulled up to the location, I realized it was a used auto dealer. That raised my hackles, because I thought this was a private sale, I was hoping that the van was simply undervalued by the seller, or the seller needed cash quickly. My chances of getting a great deal from a used car salesman seemed less. Then again, $800 isn't an absolutely insane deal for a vehicle that needs some work, and somebody just wants it gone. If it was as described, I was still interested.

I called Don, and he met me in the parking lot across the street. The van was already running, which I took as a bad sign. It isn't customary to leave a vehicle running and unattended while waiting for a prospective buyer. Probably it wouldn't start without a jump, and Don didn't bother to mention that. The exhaust leak was apparent when you hit the gas, but the engine seemed to run quiet enough. Kristin hopped in, and we took it for a short test drive. The brakes and steering and whatnot seemed to function properly. I drove back to the lot and turned off the engine. I twisted the key in the ignition again and got ClickClickClickClickClick... So something's going on there. I'm no mechanic. Battery? Alternator? Starter? Who knows. But it was still only $800, and the fundamentals seemed to be in good working order.

I wasn't planning to bargain down an $800 van, but I ended up doing it anyway. "Ehh... I don't know... would you take $600?" Don came back with $700, and we shook. I heard him talking to another interested party moments earlier, and I don't know why he didn't stand firm on the price. I would have paid it. Even with mechanical issues, market value is still much higher.

We went to the office and got the paperwork sorted. The van was jumped again, and Don reminded me not to turn off the engine when I stop for gas. Don looked less than sure that I'd make it back to Philadelphia, but I don't know whether he thought it was me or the van who might fail. All I know is I have a trusted mechanic in Philly, and a AAA Plus membership. Even if the van didn't make it for some reason, I could get it towed the rest of the way for free. Worst case scenario: I'm selling a working van in Philadelphia for an almost certain profit. This deal is somewhat of a gamble, but I am comfortable with the odds, and confident of a good result.

I dropped the Club Wagon off at Bill's, and I will wait for his call to get the straight dope on what it needs.

Breakfast Recipe to get a Leg Up.

Probably the best course is to talk more about what I'm cooking. I have a great recipe to share with you to-day: 

Beans and Eggs:

First thing in the morning, I wake up too late to even consider productivity. I keep telling myself that if I get up at 8am, I can probably knock forty-six things off my to do list. Instead, I usually get up at 10am, and accept that at least it's better than noon.

Once up, I am swarmed by a fresh to-do list; items ranging from critical to simple.  Every action-possibility fights to be heard first. All at once, I am confronted with everything I am currently screwing up, and everything I will never accomplish. Theoretically, I know how to improve, but it takes me a week to clip my nails, a year to wash my clothes, and only a flash to become furious, which can halt production for an entire day.

The first step is coffee. I try to keep my discomfort to a simmer at least until I have one cup of coffee. If I have an especially nagging thought or task, I jot it down on a post-it note, and flush it down the toilet.

Once I'm drinking coffee, I start to make my lists. While scaling a mountain, you might lose your foot and handholds - afraid of death, you will snap off fingernails and lacerate your hands the bone grasping for anything to slow your fall. Such is the function of my morning lists.

If I'm particularly bitter or concerned about something that's slipping through the cracks, then I try to keep my mouth shut until I've had the first coffee. If I screw up and start to moan, then Kristin will hear it, and she will think that I'm blaming her personally for something, which is only true about half of the time. Being that Kristin is my wife, I need to spare her the foulest of my malarkey to make our adventure seem viable for the long term. Killing two birds with one stone is great until you're the birds, and the stone is your own mouth spraying garbage.

Once I pour my second coffee, I can focus on what really needs to get done now. Usually it's something involving the business that we are "running" from our "home."

An hour later, I am dizzy and acid is chewing through my guts. Then I remember that people need to eat.

Ingredients: 

½ can of pinto beans; rinsed.
Two eggs; largest size available.

Use a can opener to cut all but half a centimeter of the lid open. Pour out the gloopy water, and rinse the beans until most of the can-water is gone. Pour half the can in a skillet with some butter or oil (optional). Cover the unused portion loosely with tin foil, and place the can in the back of the fridge until it rots.

Once the beans start acting "cooked" you can push them off to the side, and crack the eggs into the other half of the pan. Let the eggs do some cooking, and then break the yolks so you won't even have to try. Mix that around with the beans until there is definitely nothing gloopy anywhere.

Serve in a bowl that you bought for camping, and eat with a fork that you're embarrassed to have bought for camping. Enjoy breakfast while thinking about camping or living in a van, and try not to think about what happens to your rent money after you pay it.

Remember to shut your face about nothing.

Dear People Who I Care About,

As you may know, I cannot take care of myself. But so far, I still stand up in the morning. I still drink coffee and fry eggs and construct sandwiches. If you've interfaced with my exoskeleton recently, you've probably noticed little or no difference.

Maybe it's always been this way. Maybe the boiling water at the back of my brain has only drifted forward. Maybe the tiny skull-humans have been yanking on different wires of late.

I'm depressed. More accurately, I'm my own diluted version of depressed: not sad enough to use that word; not happy enough to jump in a lake. I can't compare my heart failure to anybody else's. I cannot hold variables constant or compare my malaise against a control group. What I can do is put my foot right through a wall. In the interest of preserving my toes, I haven't tried that yet. So I sit still and smolder...

I quit smoking weed a few days ago. That's fine. I quit taking Adderall a few weeks ago. That's fine. That's probably a set of sound decisions. They stopped working well. They stopped working, and I probably don't need tiny idiots tossing darts around inside my skull-bulge.

Drugs vs. no-drugs doesn't solve my problem. I can't rely on myself to do anything. I can't beg my body to sit up straight. All I can do is cycle through frustration, discontent, and the brief giddy interim.

So, I haven't been writing much. Who wants to read about privileged Americans who choose to sit at home?

Ah, the giddy interim! I get happy, but it doesn't last. I'm relieved when I'm happy. It still happens reasonably often, but I've recognized a trend. Happy or sad, I always feel like I'm standing outside my body and looking at myself. Maybe everyone does. Maybe I'm describing this wrong. Whatever this is, I'm not comfortable. Most of the time, I'd like to punch myself. Given those extra invisible fists, I'd punch myself right in the gut. I'd hit hard enough to be real sorry about it, and maybe even puke on my shoes. That's what I get. That's what happens when you can't shut your face about nothing.

Maybe a less shitty car would cheer me up. Pow! Right in the gut, you idiot!

I sure am pissed about agreeing to this rent-and-bills racket. Boof! You puked on your shoes, you fleshy illusion!

I'm being gently slapped by a thousand invisible hands.

(Camp is great. Send more cookies.)

Love,
Chris

Deep Sea Fishing From The Mainland.

Deep Sea Fishing From The Mainland.

Two men entered the bicycle store. I looked up and greeted them from behind the workbench. Their eyes peeked out from behind their tired bodies. They'd been sleeping in the mangroves, maybe for several months now. Key West gets an influx of escapees every winter, which I know because I was one of them. The homeless make-happen population explodes. Some people have been here seasonally for years, and some stay longer. I'm in the former group, wishing my restless mind would allow me to join the latter. I fix bicycles by day and sleep in a van when I'm done with my drinking and wandering.

Two men entered with assemblages resembling bikes. All three of us lived close to the Earth, but these men were afforded no luxury. I was a vandwelling Key West King and these dirty perps were pure Stock Island. [motto: "One bridge short of the dream."] 

The mangroves are a tightly woven matrix and they attract bugs, burger wrappers, and crushed takeout cups. I know you can sleep in there, but I never worked out the specifics on how. There are paths and places, but all of mine are elsewhere.

They stood before me with a need. They were only skeptical because they'd never met me. I'm hard to size up. I have a personal style that reveals something's up, but gives no hint of what or when. They didn't know that I'm a believer. They weren't aware that I wouldn't take their dollar bill. They couldn't see that I was a lonely child on fire. They couldn't sense that I get drunk too.

One bike had a flat tire. I motioned slowly to some ravages on each machine, but was assured quickly that they could fix everything else. They would fix everything, apparently, except for this simple flat. Translated, this is a plea to make it roll again. 

Disparate Economies:

There are different levels of need, and one job of the bicycle mechanic is to assess how free you are willing to make a certain number of repairs. Some shops and some mechanics never discount. Most retail stores don't discount based on need, and they see no reason a bicycle store should be different. But the fact is, a bicycle store is much different. 

There is a segment of the population that hovers above nothing. They have almost nothing and won't probably get more. Their bike is a key to having anything at all. A bicycle shop plays god with these folks. The mechanic or the manager can decide if these customers will get to work or have a long walk home. 

Most of us don't recognize what a dollar bill does in the smallest of numbers: A few crumpled ones is a four pack of talls with change. Five crisp ones is a full day of real food. Four bucks will split you a bottle of wine. More than that is paper, and ought to be wasted before it adds up, gets lost, or spawns responsibility. 

To most of us humans, five dollars is a low starting point. We have ones and change to add variety, but it's the crisp twenties that stack nicely, and the smaller bills start to take up space. A bicycle shop's best customers are the ones carrying twenties, and a quick five-dollar repair keeps the lights on and those customers happy. If you eschew the desperate, then five dollars is the perfect minimum charge.

Between these disparate economies must be a meeting of the minds. The shop needs money, but the needy drifters and makers-do need a machine that rolls. A guy with zero dollars can't print bills in his pocket, but the shop can make an exception or a discount and step up to the repair. In my heart, I know the shop has a duty to the public. 

A Responsibility to the Public:

As a personal policy, I never refuse a necessary repair. I never will. I will bend and stretch myself to keep the bicycles moving. I've stayed late, loaned tools, patched tubes, and pulled money from my own pocket. With our skillset comes great responsibility. You hold power in your hands. You can add or alleviate an enormous amount of stress. With three minutes of your time, you can prove that humans are inherently good, or you can add to the aggregate suffering on the planet. 

The difference between a bicycle shop, and a K-Mart or a coffee shop, is that we as mechanics are peddling a need. A good shop will loan a tire lever and a patch kit, and ask the dollarless customer to do their repairs outside. A better shop will stay after closing to install a system of portage on the delivery bicycle of a drunk man who speaks no English. A good bicycle shop will never make somebody walk home for a lack of money up front. 

Some mechanics view pro-bono work as analogous to feeding cats - more cats will come, and their demands will be louder. I don't take this view. I see pro-bono work as an opportunity to decrease suffering. I am not afraid of helping, and the potential increase in needy customers gives me no pause. Paying customers will witness and take note when a mechanic smiles and does the right thing. In spite of what some fear, the needy demands will never out-clamor commerce. 

On Stock Island.

All four sets of brakes were splayed wide open; cables frayed like they'd been sawed apart with a claw hammer. The hubs rattled on their axles; loose as if they might contain no bearings at all. Gripless handlebars held functionless levers; bent and pointed in every direction. These were the best ones we'd seen. 

I looked at my friend, the manager. There was no need for an expression or nod. These bicycles were bonafide humdingers, and the spectacle enumerated effortlessly; faster and louder than words. 

I made a feeble attempt to offer discounted brake repair. Now the men were in a hurry and their schedules started filling up. They don't need brakes, I was told by the first man. "These are deep sea fishing bikes," he explained as a statement of fact. I felt impressed to have witnessed the most absurd possible claim. 

"We take them out," offered the second man, moving his hand like a snake.

I needed more information, but I didn't want to frighten these birds. "You ride these on the paths back there?" I asked, pointing vaguely and hoping this conversation was not yet over. "We take them way out" he specified, nodding slowly with gravity.

The transaction ended with a meeting of the minds. I repaired the flat for some uncounted change, and the two men drifted, to fish another day.

The Dust Is Far From Settled.

I negotiated the purchase of all of the books going out for recycling from a library in my area. I gave the library $200 for twenty boxes of books. Each box weighs about 40-50lbs. This is hundreds of books. Over a thousand? I don't know yet.

The purchase was an adventure, and I'm still combing through the wreckage to see if my hip-shot will pay off. Or to see how much it will pay off... to see if this is something I want to do more often, never again, or as much as possible. 

It all began when...

I was in the library's bookstore room, and elderly volunteers wearing gardening gloves were putting books in boxes. Overhearing the conversation was easy in the silent space. They were recycling discards, and mixing them in with rejected donations. They used the word recycling, and my ears perked up. I asked the volunteer-in-charge where these books would be going. I explained simply that "I buy lots of books," and that I'd like to make a better offer.

I asked to be introduced to the decision maker, but she was not there that day. I left my information, and returned the following day when she was scheduled. Before going back to the library, I printed up a flyer, and Kristin made a nice business card, which I stapled to the flyer. We only had yellow paper, but somehow that made it look official and believable that we might actually be experienced in this arena. 

I spoke to the nice lady in charge, simply stating again that "I buy lots of books." I asked what the library did with the discards and rejected donations, and she said the county sent a truck, and the books went to the recycling center. I expressed my interest in purchasing those books for a similar price to what the county was probably getting for a load of "mixed paper." That's about 10 cents per pound. I don't know if that's exactly correct, but I know I'm not far off. 

She said that the library also puts aside somewhat better books to be shipped to a company who happens to be a huge mega-seller competitor of ours, and whose name I'd rather not type. The volunteers put these subjectively-chosen better-than-trash books into boxes provided by that giant company, and the company pays for the books to be shipped to them. "How much do they pay you for the books?" I asked. Nothing. They just pay for the shipping. (!?!)

I explained that we could pay $10 per box for a standard sized 16x12x12 inch box, and I could provide the boxes, and move all the books. A light went on, and she looked more closely at the flyer and our business card. Less work. More money. She was being offered a square deal.

Pretending I know what I'm doing...

I got a call the following Monday afternoon that the library had about "25 cartons of books." I said I'd drive over to take a look. I arrived with boxes, and said I could pay $10 per box, but I would need to sort them into my own boxes. I was trying hard to give the impression that I knew what I was doing. Kristin and I were left alone in the room to begin the sorting process.

I had barely a clue what I was doing. Most of the books looked like junk, but that was no surprise. There were heaps and heaps of yellowed mass-market paperbacks, old dictionaries, and children's books that looked like they'd gone through a thresher. There were also books published by small university presses, and newer books that seemed to be a strange choice for the recycling pile. The bottom line is, the people in charge of throwing away the books have a much different perception of value, so there were bound to be diamonds. Enough diamonds? Quartz? I could only make an educated guess, and I'd already made that guess, and that's why I was standing there in the basement of a library, re-sorting and re-stacking a mountain of beat-up books.

We filled about ten boxes, and said we would come back the next morning to get the rest - it was getting late, and our contact at the library was scheduled to go home. 

We returned the next morning. I'd looked up rental rates and information about car shares with cargo vans. I explored our options, but finally we decided to drive our two shitty little cars over there and hope for the best. Worst case scenario, we'd make a second trip. Probably not a third... probably.

We were let back into the room, and Kristin handed the nice lady $200 cash up front, just to make the whole process more comfortable and legitimate. The nice lady was very happy. A friendly young couple was paying money to the library for something that they had been throwing away for years. It was clear that she thought this was a great deal, and I hoped that it would be a really great deal for us, too.

Riding Dirty...

Books are heavy. I filled my Festiva with boxes. The passenger foot area, and passenger seat were filled first. I scooted up the driver's seat, and put boxes behind it. I filled the cargo area, with the back seat already removed from our adventure during the past winter. The car was riding low. We filled Kristin's car similarly. But... we fit everything. A giant haul. One load.

We drove home, and loaded the boxes into our apartment. It's almost hard to know where to begin. One box at a time. Separate the books with barcodes from the books without. Separate anything too damaged to sell. Make piles. Sort the piles again - look up the value of the books with barcodes, and remove the ones with zero demand. Remove the obsolete books, and anything that nobody would even pay $1 for. Sort again. This time, of the barcoded books of value, we made piles based on condition - Very Good, Good - shows wear, Good - former library book, etc.

It's a week later, and we are still in the midst of this project. I still don't know how many books, or what the projected value will be. I purchased better listing software to help with efficiency. I still think we have a winning idea here, but the dust is far from settled. 

Idea to improve my book purchasing modus operandi.

Sure, I don't have any secrets. I'll tell you exactly what I'm up to.

1) I'm selling books online. It's analogous to panning for gold. Instead of a gold pan, I have a bluetooth barcode scanner. Instead of a river, I stand anywhere that books can be purchased inexpensively. The more time you spend in the river, the more gold you find. Part of my job is to find better rivers to stand in.

2) When I get interested in something, I dive in. I'm almost totally self-taught with everything I'm good at or knowledgeable about. It doesn't mean I can't learn from others, but unless there is a cosmic alignment of my interest and access to a human teaching about it, I'm on my own. If I'm not interested, you can't pound a fact into my brain with any hammer. I could build a good wheel before I ever worked at a bicycle shop, and I built my tiny house with help from a 1986 textbook and some YouTube videos.

3) I'm proud of my brain. It works in ways which confuse even me - maybe mostly me. My brain churns out various and hilarious ideas and operations, always. My brain only gets sad during the winter. And it is always fucking building things. I definitely won't be getting any genius awards, but I do get a regular bang out of life. I can't pay bills, find anything... ever, and I'm lost in smoke behind a rapidly expanding to-do list of tasks. But I'm also impervious to disaster: If you step on me, I could live underneath your foot, and you wouldn't even know it.

Books. More Information. Faster. Superhero Capabilities.

Most books now have a barcode, and that makes it easy to check them against a database. Scan the barcode; bang-bang. Information. Most books without a barcode will still have an ISBN. This is a 10 or 13 digit number, which can be typed manually to check a book against a database. Hunting for the ISBN on the title page or dust jacket flap - or sometimes the spine, or wherever - takes a little time. For the sake of efficiency, most people who do what I'm doing will skip the books with no barcode. That leaves a ton of valuable books on the shelf.

I'm a thorough person, and also curious. If a book appears to have any potential value, I will take the extra time to type in an ISBN. At a busy book sale with dealer competition (I swear this is a thing), almost nobody will type in an ISBN. There is a mad rush (seriously) to scan barcodes and drain every valuable book out of the place as quickly as possible.

I've ruminated on this for some time. How can I be more efficient when typing in and ISBN? Right now, I can find the ISBN in a few seconds, but I have to look back and forth multiple times between my phone and the ISBN while balancing the book open and trying not to lose my place. In a word, it's clunky.

Hence, this morning at 5am, I couldn't get back to sleep. My solution to the ISBN issue is two-fold. Three-fold, if you count new hardware as a fold. First, I want to train myself to commit longer strings of numbers to short term memory. The method I'm exploring is called the "phonetic-number system" or sometimes "the major system." Basically, letters or sounds are assigned to each number, and with practice, words or phrases can be almost instantly assigned to strings of numbers in order to keep a visual representation in short term memory. This is far easier than remembering a string of digits.

Second fold: get really fast with a numeric keypad. There are plenty of tools available for this on the internet, and with some practice, I imagine I can get speed and accuracy without looking at the keyboard. Typing long numbers quickly, without looking, will pay off immediately while listing books using my full-size keyboard at home.

Typing an ISBN quickly at home is great, but what about when I'm "in the field?" A phone does not have a numeric keypad conducive to fast accountant-like inputs. Much searching revealed no options for a bluetooth numeric keypad that works with a smartphone. Is there one? I surely looked. I will be experimenting with a wireless USB numeric keypad paired with a tiny micro-USB cable plugged into my phone. I'm crossing my fingers that'll work, but after some deep digging I found one weirdo who did this with a full-sized keyboard, so I'm hoping for the best.

The endgame looks like this: I'm out looking for books, and I can do a manual ISBN search nearly as quickly as scanning a barcode. The numeric keypad can be in a coat pocket, or attached to my t-shirt with velcro over my breast pocket area. I can casually type an ISBN as comfortably as placing my hand over my heart to pledge allegiance. This would be as-yet unheard of in my line of work - an incredible advantage, and superhero-like ability. Wish me luck.

A Great Plan: Cargaritaville

Geez, I'm smart.

I was trying to figure out which year I did a certain thing, but all I found was a great idea for a Key West business.

I bet it would work. The slow-drone version of island music would really underscore the trippy-shit nature of the simple business. Low, slow Jimmy Buffet and very, very, strong drinks. With a name like "Cargaritaville," success is basically guaranteed.

We Are Home Now. Finding Balance.

UPDATE: We are home. The trip was great. Better than great.

I cannot keep up with a blog every day. I'm disorganized, and I edit way too much. I have notes on what happened during the rest of the trip, and I will be converting it to blog-mode soon. That's my intention.

Since returning, we've been trying to get back to work.

I'm back on anti-depressants, 'cause it's cold and snowy in PA. I didn't take anti-depressants on the trip, but for winter it's proving helpful. I spent a couple days verging on despair, then decided to start again on the little yellow pills.

The blog posts for our trip started to become a lie of omissions. In New Orleans, I decided I was ready to have a beer after three years of not drinking. I think I was being really hard on myself about drinking. I know much more about myself and my brain than I did three years ago. Obviously, I can't know if this will ultimately be a bad decision - but I am motivated to be moderate. It's not a contest. It's all good.

Adderall. I'm taking a normal prescribed amount, and it helps. I'd call it essential for getting almost anything done. (Anything I'm not already obsessive and single-minded about... like paying bills and cutting my fingernails. Anything "work" or "maintenance.")

Marijuana. I'm smoking regularly. It's for recreation. It also evaporates my anxiety like a magic wand, which comes in handy.

My previous ideals held that drugs - prescribed or otherwise - would only serve to alter the pure nature of my awesome brain. Now I recognize the issue to be far more complex. With respect to god, Earth, myself, and my loved ones, I am now just trying to find balance: chemically, mentally, physically... in everything.

Awake in San Diego; Crashing Hard in Lake Forest. (Day 19)

Sleepy and Creepy.

We were already awake when the day started. After the sunrise, we navigated to a "Dog Beach" in south San Diego. After slow considerable shuffling, I got about 45 minutes of rest on my thin dirty tarp in the sand. I might have attempted more, but some asshole with his butt crack hanging out was looming over my girls when I came out of the can. Sixty fucking seconds. I can't leave my ladies for sixty fucking seconds. 

This. Mother. Fucker. 

I locked my eyes on him and marched straight ahead with a full tank of malice. He noticed my approach and made space. He was the stupidest person I have ever yet seen. A hopeless case, bothering every single person on the beach. Shouting, and swinging a stick. He took up all of the space. I would cut him in half, but then there would be two: wriggling, yelling, and standing too close to every single thing.

"Let's bag it up," I said, pulling a corner of sil-nylon up off the sand. The dogs on this beach got creepy and loud.

Slightly refreshed; enough to move on. We drove through comically gorgeous hillsides and canyons: La Jolla; Del Mar. I got a line on camping further inland for what seemed now like a very affordable twenty bucks. Con showers, mi amor.

Tired People; Tired Tires.

Almost to paradise. On the home stretch. My eyes began to squint, and I had difficulty navigating. Almost there. I stiffened my back and leaned close to the wheel. Jungle vine grip. Almost there. 

FlapFlapFlapFlapFlapFlap...

I almost cried. I almost cried myself to sleep at the wheel. I knew that tire was going to go, but not now. Please not fuck-king right king-fucking now. I almost had a breakdown within a breakdown as I steered poor Supercar to the ample right shoulder.

Kristin gave me spinach. A yellow pill snapped in half, and I entered the mode of the can-do robot; clicking and clacking through ordered solutions. Within the half hour, I was perfectly good. I saw the positive side: the flat happened in a safe place, and the tires needed to be replaced anyway. The sun was shining, and it was the middle of the day. I have a card with three A's. You know what? It's actually lucky. (Without that Adderall, I'd be typing this from the grave.)

A Ford Festiva has an oddball tire size. I knew this, because I've ordered some before. The likelihood of finding anywhere with something was slim to zero. 

My magical space-computer showed me more than one dozen tire shops within a dozen-mile radius. I materialized a pen, and I started making calls; working outward in concentric circles. A list of options emerged in ascending order: stars for promising; x's for not. In the time before the three A's arrived, I'd narrowed down our options to not many. One place didn't have any, but knew what they were - round rubber for a twelve-inch rim, yup. Uncommon. He could get them by Monday; three sleeps hence.

The tow truck eased down our Adventure Machine in front of Big O Tires in Lake Forest California. I moved to the next phase: sleeping options. 

Hotels are expensive. Out of the question here. Sleeping in the car did not seem feasible. I checked the price of a car rental by walking across the street to an Enterprise. (I could not imagine getting a flat tire in a more convenient location. Uncanny.) 

I asked the rental guy to help me compare rates, and I told him we were on a budget. He acted like his tie was too tight, but he did seem motivated to rent us a car. I had difficulty suppressing a scoff at $58 per day, so the rate was magically lowered to $30 if we take three days, which is what I said I wanted in the first place. They only up-charge to what you can afford; they prod around to assess your levels. If you hold out long enough, they don a chauffeur's cap and take you around. Instead, I accepted the second best price. I only squirmed slightly when I initialed beside the ancillary insurance. Sucker punched! Just give me the keys, you eels.

We found housing! Our mid-sized Mazda SUV would serve as bedroom and parlour. That it also moved was a boon and afterthought. 

We backed in next to a Walmart. 

We parked in a perfect lot, complete with palm trees and views of foothills. For security, I purchased ninety-nine cents worth of black plastic, labeled "table cloth," and we obscured the windows with that and some tape. 

Then I crashed hard.

Starting and Ending with Waffles (Day 18)

Free Legal Waffles:

We started the morning in a room by a pool. I poured batter on a hot waffle iron. We pulled that waffle off, and made an exit plan. East or west? We decided to leave matters of the desert unfinished - there's water to the west.

We finished crossing the desert and began to drop through mountains. One portrait after the next, we crossed through: 

Hemet (Green, warm, but boring. Possible lack of personality.)

Temecula (maybe something... didn't pull over, in spite of Dirty Projectors song.)

Fallbrook (I could live here, but it looks steep in terrain in price.) 

New Ordinance: Humans are Illegal.

We needed a place to sleep.

Official camping hovers around fifty bucks here. We don't need to camp. We need to sleep. Eight hours - boom, boom. No fires, no noise, no trash. If it was me on a bicycle, I'd make myself a burrito behind a tree. The three of us can sleep in the car, but it's not as comfortable and stealth as I'd hoped. It works in a pinch, but it's not the Best Western. Parking the car outside a radius of potential investigation is a challenge: we don't know these areas. We are travelers, drifting across the surface; our cursory exploring is at speed through a windshield.  

I am regularly pissed off at how illegal it is to sleep. For something we all do every day, the lack of options baffles me. Sleep has become a commodity. Freedom to travel, in reality, has a price. If you want to be free, paradoxically, you need several forms of camouflage. Tentacles of several unfortunate sorts threaten every pocket and wallet. In my chest I feel illegal, but logic makes my hands flip double fuck yous.

"No overnight parking."

"No camping."

"No beardy weirdos (Unless holding cash)."

I count sleeping among my human rights. We were all born on this Earth - I didn't ask to be - but now that we're all here together, let's make sure our basic needs are met. Food Not Bombs gets arrested. A town in Texas considers legislation requiring leftovers to be made inedible (with toxic spray) before being tossed in a dumpster - lest a homeless human discover unwanted sustenance. How is this possible?

C'est la vie. Adapt and deal, mon frere. 

Casinos Are The Worst.

FreeCampsites.net pointed out a casino that allows free overnight parking for RVs. Since that's approximately what we have a very small one of, we went there.

Worst casino ever. Every casino is a dumb rubberneck at best, but this one seemed particularly sad. I'd say don't go there, but you'd never find this place anyway. It's remote, and on the way toward nothing. They serve free coffee and soda in styrofoam cups - a lady comes around with a tray. Zombies sit at slot machines without proper levers - they push buttons, and everybody there is increasingly fucked. It's a big flashing roll of flypaper, and they pry your eyelids open as your accounts are drained. (I lost $9 - a small admission fee for spying around.)

FreeCampsites.net users described a large empty lot above the employee parking area, and I went where it seemed like that was.

Knock, Knock, Knock! 

I was in a deep sleep at 1:15am, when a tall waffle-faced block of granite tapped something hard across my glass. This lot was off limits. An identical adjacent parking lot is where we were supposed to be. "Move your shit."

A gunblast to his hard corny face would have filled my dreams with sugarplums. Is that too harsh? I wish an owl swooped down and pissed in his ear. (... killing him instantly.)

Everything out; everything in. We drove to the correct lot. I could have thrown a stone to it, but I would have overshot. 

I did not get back to sleep: a car alarm on repeat. I hovered in the space before rapid eye movement several times, but nothing materialized. We spent the sunrise at Denny's, twenty miles down a mountain, with coffee and a hot shared skillet of grease.

Joshua Tree Gets Blowy. Retire to Palm Springs. (Day 17)

During Le Night:

Around 3am, I woke to a fully kinetic tent. I paused to take it in, but after a stronger gust, I hopped out to attempt a better staking. Sand! Foiled! For all of its wonderful features, (including "adequate size" and "operational door flap") our tent is a hopeless mope in the face of wind. It's one rope shy of life as a kite. 

The wind speed increased. Our tent threatened collapse, but refused to commit. Had humans not laid inside, I doubt Ol' Greeny would have stayed on the ground. 

I tried hard to keep sleeping. I crossed my fingers that the tent would just fold down on top of us and decrease the racket. Instead, she remained dizzy and confused, while my irritation finally boiled down to action. I laid for two sleepy hours before springing to my feet. At 5am, we shuffled toward a car-based setup. 

Had it not been for that one night in Kansas, I might have been scared. Not close now. Upon exit, I found the winds strong but non-threatening, and this annoyed me more. Allow me to slumber, you clown-assed rig! Nay. Ol' Greeny complains too much. 

Morningtime:

I was dirty-grease, hunger-bone and chilly-sleeved. I wanted a facility. La Festiva wanted fresh oil. I needed to make some calls and decisions. I could use an internet? Minor naggings proceeded to pressurize my potato soup. At last, we decided to drive downward and postpone our hiking plans. A true boon. (Fuck this chilly wind anyway.) 

Scatterball Pills:

Enter: Blue Adderall Pill (Amphetamine Salty Something-Or-Other). 10mg is Popeye's spinach. I wish I could grow this mind-spinach organically, but at this point and age, I'll take whatever happens to help. It helps. My tired eyes became focused and alert. Noise and anagrams became calm coherent phrases. A list from the mist: Oil Change / Get Breakfast / Transfer Money / Hotel Deal?

Like any average human on any given day, I could grasp a concise to-do list. I pulled untapped energy from my pocket like a forgotten twenty. I walked, absorbed sunshine, and checked items off a list. 

Until I was thirty years old, I had no idea what productivity felt like. I only knew I had a battle with basics: I could barely lift a telephone or get my clothes to the dryer in under thirty days. Confounding, abounding, surrounding... astounding. Errands equal Everest. It's enough to make a guy... say-for-example... move into a van and eschew every possible responsibility. (Which works, please do it.)

My avalanche of inputs became a bulleted task list. A cavalcade fell wayside; paltry and laughable. 

I typed a dice-roll in on Priceline, and got a surprise promise of a roof in Palm Springs. Sleep and a shower? Square deal.

Bullshitters on Parade:

Palm Springs is Boca Raton of the west. Geezers and golf clubs. Country clubs and sprinkler systems. A swath of fast traffic bisects a homogeneous eye-roll of car dealerships and sports bars. Palm Springs is a playground for men who wear buttoned shirts as their most casual wear. These folks have solid black credit cards, and it's impossible to guess what will make them smile or frown. Palm Springs is comfortable, but nothing feels farther from home. 

"Just passing through," I promised my imagination: I am here as a journalist... I cannot play your "golf." You do not need to call somebody - I will leave directly once I finish this waffle.

"Oh No! Are You OKAY?"

Allow me a moment to generalize about gender. (Obviously there are outliers, and on a good day, I'm Donald Duck.)

Now, males, memorize this phrase:  "Oh no! Are you okay?"

It took me a mess of years and missed opportunities to employ this phrase at the appropriate moment. I have a manly aspect wherein my reaction to personal injury differs from that which I've observed in the girlfriends of men. My first instinct is to spring to my feet. If there is a broken leg involved, this test will suss it out. If there's a gash, I need to fight the reflex to rub in dirt to seal'er up. Somewhere during the first ten seconds, I am gauging pain against bragging rights. Men generally relish any chance to act casual about damage.

When a girlfriend hits the dirt, I implore you to FORGET all of that. Use the line I just gave you. It doesn't need to sound terribly authentic, because she's not really paying attention. The words will register, and you won't be a cretin.

From what I've seen - and I'm not one, so - girls react to potential injury from a fully different angle. Their first instinct is that they are probably hurt. They don't want to move in case a bone is threatening to poke through some skin somewhere. If there is a dirty abrasion, the dirt will at first appear to be gore. "Only rinsing will prove nothing's missing." It doesn't matter if she fell into a pile of Smurfs: these are critical seconds. If you don't show concern, then the damage gets worse. (God help you if you laugh.)

"Oh no! Are you OKAY?"

I am a truthful man. If you get a lie from me, then you are the police. I've learned that truth is like cream cheese, and it's okay not to press it into every nook and cranny. Further, concern is not a lie: I advocate only for an adjustment of reactions. You do care about her! You do not want her to be down for the count!

Also: if bone really does exit skin, this advice is irrelevant. Call an ambulance, and proceed to both probably pass out.

Earth, Desert, Mountains, and the Salton Sea (Day 16)

I woke up fine in the dirt; poked a toe in some garbage. One small part of Slab City: a pile of rusty cans. Looney Toons on hot sad acid. Mutilated rubber and opaque, yellow, sun-busted plastic - brittle, breaking, and spent. It's true what I heard about the trash. Some people decide to dump it everywhere. Folks have been here for a long time, and it's not my place. To judge or understand is not mine here. In a way I'm in love, and in another I am profoundly bored. I didn't allow time for my sediment to rest.

Early in the morning, I settled into the uneasy feeling. The one I know, and I wish I didn't. I'd like to be somewhere else, but I don't think it's physical. I was watched by some fuck on a truck; distantly he stared at me for a full half hour, while, I suppose, I was the closest thing to constitute a threat: the uncommon denominator in a sea of weirdos. His dogs barked; signs claimed vacant land as his. He might have been a talented artist, a priest, or a fine human being - but something about the way his eyes followed me made me want to The Stranger his ass in the desert.

I took an unpleasant sit in a gas station bathroom, and as strong as I am, the smell of chemical litany brought me inches from my knees. Uneasy. All events served to stir my sediment.

We went south to Brawley for a cup of coffee and a reset. We planned to return to The Slabs later. We charged all devices, and enjoyed a couple hours of unfettered access to amenities. The coffee shop was much nicer than it needed to be. Friendly staff and a fancy sandwich returned me back to Earth.

I was ready to return to Slab City for matters of responsibility, but I took a wrong turn. By the time I noticed, I didn't much care. Onward and upward. There are beat down campers in a desert where nobody cares to bother them. Somewhere an elephant flaps his wings.

Above it is Joshua Tree.

I got a pinpoint-pointer on BLM land. Bureau of Land Management land can generally be camped on for at least 14 days. That's as much as I know.

Exactly as the sun dipped behind a mountain, we erected our tent. As the sun dropped, we saw I-10 far below. A tiny rope of headlights marked a line on the land. Stars lit the sky; a brilliant majesty exposed. "I own this," I thought. "And I got this dirt for cheap."

I wondered why some of the able vehicles from Slab City wouldn't rather perch on the side of this mountain. One answer occurred to me. Without a girl and a small dog, I would be lonely here. I am relieved to have this moment to share.

RVs, Tarps, and Us: Entering California and Slab City to Sleep (Day 15)

The goal today was no more than to get into California, which was accomplished with little fanfare. This area is rife with huge RVs. Snowbirds from everywhere converge near the border. Rich people have RVs and poor people have packs, or sometimes just a sandy blanket. Anybody who is mobile and dissatisfied with a temperature anywhere else is drawn here.

As always, I feel like I'm filling out a bizarre, rare, and overlooked middle ground. RVs don't hide, and real bums don't bother, but the vandwellers and car-sleepers excel at invisibility. RV people talk about tanks and house batteries, vandwellers share strategies of stealth, and the homeless wanderers generally stick to loose change and Steel Reserve.

I have an affinity for a certain style of bumming around, but I'm not willing to assume the duties of a sunburnt corpse. I enjoy a crafty low-level affordable comfort. I like to walk the thin line of feeling like I'm getting away with something. For the sake of America's GDP, plenty of people would appreciate it if I was willing to pay a little bit more for everything. To anybody who is an active cog in the system of lousy expenses: two middle fingers. If I'm not fancy enough, then you're asking too much. There are certain rules and norms that I take great pleasure in pissing all over. I wish I had more piss and a louder guffaw, because I could spread my opinions much further still.

We stopped to recharge in El Centro, where I could take a closer look at the totem pole and see where we fit on it. We plugged in everything we own at a Starbucks and proceeded to put up our feet and type on tiny screens. We gave our tiny dog some free water, and out of pride and fanciness, she refused to lay down on pavement. She's too good. She will choose a purse, or request a seat at the table.

Across the parking lot was a guy who looked like he dipped his head in the fryer. He held a Steel Reserve at his side, and he was an absolute presence. I had to make an effort not to write a whole book about him.

Littered everywhere are huge RVs, and this is a circumstance where beauty is in the eye of the beholder. I want nothing to do with something that can't sneak around. Sure, the kitchen and bathroom might be nice, but most folks driving their kitchen around also seem satisfied to pay a hotel rate to park it.

Who the fuck are we? I like who we are. We're rattling around in a $600 car. We have a camp stove, and we purchase coffee in exchange for services. Our home on the road is sturdier than a tarp without the responsibilities of steering a boat around on pavement. Maybe everyone is just comfortable with what they can afford. I'd like to believe that I have logical values, but give me more money, and I'm afraid of what I might buy. This is why I'm trying to hide money from myself inside of a Roth IRA. That way, if I buy something stupid, at least I'm not a total dummy.

Slab City

According to our custom, we arrived in Slab City just as it was getting hard to see. Without the benefit of proper sunlight, we took a bad spot near where dogs bark and people drive, and we set up the tent in headlights. Still, the night sky was beautiful, there was no thought of snow, and we slumbered comfortably.

Magic in the Desert (Day 14)

From Las Cruces New Mexico, we headed... West.

I've developed a pattern. Every night is a scramble. I transform into a flummoxed bummer, and try to figure out exactly where I thought we might be sleeping. As the sun disappears, I feel like a tired idiot in a game of musical chairs. As the light recedes, the efficacy of my efforts wanes as well. In darkness, I might be camping next to a rhinoceros or underneath somebody's front porch. I wouldn't know.

Daylight is my friend, but planning is an abstract concept. What I need to do each morning is figure out where I want to end up at night. I need to learn to use the hours when my brain is sputtering usefully to plan for the later hours when it absolutely threatens to stall out. Also: if you can't find a good place to camp in the desert, then there's something really mentally wrong with you. Realizing this fact and taking it to heart has given me motivation to raise myself up below the lowest possible rung.

I found a place to camp in the Sonoran Desert. I could have set us up almost anywhere, because there are no people there whatsoever. "FreeCampsites.net" provided an excellent suggestion off a small side road. Toward evening, I flummoxed the pedal to the floor as the sun began to hide behind the peak of an upcoming mountain. Nervous but determined, we managed to find the best spot ever right as the sun disappeared in a highly attractive and photogenic way.

Finally, we had occasion to set up the tent. It's a monster. We brought a 4-person Coleman tent; a behemoth for a backpacker, but an absolute mansion for dirty nerds whose other option is to sleep in a Festiva.

As the sun set and a billion stars took over, we listened to reasonable radio signals from Phoenix to the east. We have a yellow hand-crank radio which works better than I can imagine. This thing works on established facts of science and design, but I can't help believing that magic is also responsible. Music comes out with one single crank, and the speaker is a little bit too good for its size. It should sound a little bit worse, I think, or else it'll blow its cover...