Chain Gangers

I’m not a Chain Ganger

I’m a van lifer!

Could be I’m doing Van Life without parole.

No big deal.

At least I’m not breaking rocks with a sledge hammer.

Down in Mississippi.

No Pets

I do not own a pet to accompany me on my Van Life.

My ex-girlfriend Sharon lives in a 2022 VW Routan. It aint a van but she’s small enough to stretch out in the front with the seat dropped down.

Sharon’s dog lives in the car with her.

At least I’m not stuck with a dog.

On the other hand, Ginger provides comfort and security to a small 69 year old woman. So for Sharon the dog is necessary.

Of course she needs to make room in the VW Routan for Ginger. However…

It’s not like she’s driving around in a car full of sheep.

Living in a van with a sheep would be kind of a drag.

So I guess I’m doing alright without the sheep.

Van Life at Joan’s pad

I spent this weekend at Joan’s pad. That’s nothing unusual. I spend every weekend at Joan’s pad. It’s not free. I pay for Restaurants and Bars and various forms of entertainment. This weekend we mostly stayed home.

Lousy weather kept us home. Actually Friday night we went out for a pizza and a drink. That only cost me a hundred and twenty bucks. So you can see what I mean about Joan’s pad not being free. Plus I pay in another way: I’m forced to endure Fox News blaring from every room. Joan’s not only a Trumpy, she’s developing a hearing deficit. And yet, it’s nice having a weekend pad. Especially when you’re doing Van Life without parole.

I got my own bedroom.

And Bathroom.

Oh, yeah, and she’s got a washer dryer for doing my laundry. That’s convenient. Ever so often the dryer breaks and I fix it for her. Along with other things around the house I fix. Plus I move heavy shit from room to room for her. You know, Dude tasks. See what I mean about it not being free?

Just between you and me. Joan has no idea I’m Van Lif’n.

She doesn’t read my blog posts. Joan is a true-blue Trumpy. To read a publication that even hints at Liberalism is anathema to a true-blue Trumpy.

Death to all dissenters

By Sunday I’m ready to shove off

Back to the field (or rather, the streets.) I’m not actually Van camping on the streets. I got a nice parking lot beside the marina where I squat. I’m relatively safe. I don’t need Ginger to scare away thugs or anger cops. I’m good in the marina parking lot.

From the parking lot I have a view of the boat docks.

I can even see Ronnie down on Scruffy.

Struggling with the leaks.

I hope he’s doing alright. I’m doing alright.

Do I really hope he’s doing alright? Well…kinda sorta a little bit maybe.

Getting organized for Van Life

Yesterday I put a lot of my shit in storage.

I rented a five by five container that’ll hold a room full of shit. The storage place is like an abandoned tomb complex of five-by-fives where lots of other people like me store their worthless shit for a hundred and twenty bucks a month. Until we die and the shit gets auctioned off by the management. Twenty of the hundred and twenty is for insurance. This is a con job I almost admire. In case the joint burns down they’ll pay me five thousand bucks. Here’s a kernel of advice: don’t store anything of real value in your storage unit. Unless you plan to hang yourself. In which case you have more pressing issues to deal with than the possible loss of your belongings.

A hallway among dozens of hallways.

I show up there’s never anybody around. Thousands of suckers paying 120 a month and forgetting their

Stored shit.

Until the monthly bill’s due.

Self storage joints are making money hand over fist.

A foam bed Ronnie didn’t want. I’m figuring it’s worth something.

Fat chance.

Next I hit the dollar store

I need to buy some containers for containing stuff. You know, seperate my shit rather than toss it all in one huge pile. Stuff I’d put in drawers if I lived under a stationary roof.

Ergo containers.

The dollar store is no longer the dollar store. It’s the dollar twenty five store. But that’s still pretty cheap. And I’m cheap.

The dollar store has all kind of containers.

Big and small.

A small container for small stuff.

Larger containers. All of them, large and small, a dollar twenty five.

Not a bad deal.

The dollar store (I mean the dollar twenty five store) has a motto.

I’m thinking I need to spend a dollar twenty five on this magnifying glass. That way I can see small shit better.

Next I’m thinking I’ll buy something to write in. You know, a journal. A Van Lifer Journal! While searching for a writing pad I make a valuable discovery: The dollar store is not only The Dollar Twenty Five Store. They have a new policy.

Charge even more that a dollar twenty five!

For instance. Say I buy this note pad. This one is only a dollar twenty five.

Good for jotting down ideas.

But for three dollars I can buy this one.

This one will allow me to make it happen. A way better deal don’t you think.

Finally for five dollars I can buy this one!

This one will allow me to record my THOUGHTS.

Apparently THOUGHTS are far more valuable than IDEAS.

Same blank pages whether it’s Thoughts or Ideas.

I don’t know.

I’m stumped.

Should I spend five dollars for a note pad or a dollar twenty five for the same blank page notepad?

The Dollar Twenty Five store is working me.

Like I’m a dupe.

A sheep in a car.

I’m made to look stupid.

Is this how Donald Trump won reelection?