The man who lives in tents

I get it, no one has time; well that is except for me. Blessed with health and spare minutes, lately I have been spending those moving bags from country to smaller country, then island to mainland and around this great state of lakes we call home. Living in the good graces of friends, family and $40 cash borrowed from my father for about 6 weeks now.

Sleeping on beaches, in tents, occasionally a $2 million Bali house (it was under construction, thanks Levi) back to Bob’s beach house for a final evening on the point (see photo). I had been asked to leave after finishing the repairs on his roof, lucky timing (we were only threatened once with a machete, ask Austin, he prefers to be called Boston or Backseat).

I learned from the best how to stretch a work trade (Terrance Carthy, more affectionately known as T Sauce).

Much alike other previous habits hard to bust (I usually stay at the bar until I’m kicked out). Finding my passport between the pages of a Betty Crocker cookbook I bought for cousin Bailey put a large smile across my tears; finally able to credit in 37,500 Delta skymiles (cheers for the surfboard too AmEx). Bart and Eleanor were most helpful upon this chance landing at MSP in time to surprise Pops at the altar.

A few might argue with me when I type, homeless life is not all it is chalked up to be. I say this because last night I slept at a shelter for the first time in 4 years of Beatnik wandering (although I’m sure my tribulations have been far from the ones described in that Kerouac book people keep asking me to read).

Contrary to my false assumptions pertaining to why the world needs a Four Agreements… I met more positive people this morning than I have seen in a long time.

Yes, life has picked up these men by the britches; surprisingly, most couldn’t express to me what a relief it is to have only one bag of things. Their stories related lost houses, cars, boats, girlfriends and satellite television.

Explaining how I recently gave away everything I owned, which did include two Mercedes Benz’s (although Uncle Hunter knows I am coming back for the turbo). This statement is also an exaggeration: among missing wallets, cell phones, birth certificates, social security cards, surfboards and favorite shirts. I was able to preserve my father’s Nikon, first guitar, a portable Bose speaker and the bat phone 5. The last $10 in my Bank of Hawaii account spent on Apple music; I support artists and need good beats.

There was also a crashed Mac book containing a thousand pages of stories I had been diligently avoiding to edit for about 44 months now, kind of like my student loan payments.

This last item is why the story is beginning again..

Orwellian Times

 

 

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