IMAGINE sleeping in a barrack with seventy dudes. I think it was seventy, maybe less, maybe more. I’ll ask A.I., he/she/it knows everything. Yeah, my memory served me well, it was around seventy. Imagine sleeping in a single sized bunk in a long row of bunks. Bunks occupied with farting, snoring, whimpering recruits. Some snore really loud. One night I screamed in my sleep at a snorer, awoke the entire company, only to learn of it at Reveille. Well, but everybody’s young once. The young are resilient. The company commander was not young. He didn’t sleep in the barrack. He went home at night. We slept in the barrack. Seventy of us. It was no fun. It was way worse than this…this…

Stealth Camping on Nevada Street

Headlamps against my blank curtain. Nice effect, eh?

A fellow stealth camper. Anonymous soul. Have yet to spy this man or woman emerge from their stealthiness. I’m assuming he’s a man. Could be a transgender. What the hell, I’m okay with Transgenders. Especially now they’re on Trumpy’s hit list. Maybe before I was indifferent. Now I’m all for em. Thank God For Transgenders!

Another Transgender stealthy. Often parks behind me.

Last night he/she/it parked behind Ronnie’s panel truck. Not a bad spot. I introduced Ronnie to Nevada Street. Told him he could get away with sneaking aboard Scruffy but he’d need to park his cars off the main lot. Best off lot spot is Nevada Street. Now he parks here, too. I’ve got Ronnie’s Panel Truck taking up a space. Best to keep my mouth shut in the future.

Bucolic scene, eh?

I’m able to camp unmolested on this street. Ignored by the strangely vacant neighbors. I can live here forever. Free of charge. As long as I obey the stealth camping rules. One: maintain a respectable vehicle. Two: utilize the required stealth tools–window coverings, curtains, etc., which insure anonymity. Three: come and go in the dark. Four: Never, ever, stick your neck out. Like for example, hanging around in the afternoon, swigging beers, tossing the empty cans on the sidewalk beside your sliding door…screaming at passersby in a middle eastern dialect…defecating in the patch of forest to my right…or on the pavement.

Once inside for the night, go to bed, or sit quietly in the one spare seat. Read your phone. Bone up on your list of Nazi War Criminals. Read some Mafia History. Check the weather. Wish for rain because a good downpour feels good. Drink wine. Imagine your boot camp days. I say imagine. I should say recall. But what you recall fifty four years on might just as well be imaginary. I mean, look at the stupid kid in that picture below the title. That’s not me. That was me a million years ago. This is me.

A crusty old fart.

You’d think I’d feel a pang of loss. The loss of my youth and beauty. I feel nothing. Wait. I do feel something. Relief. Relief it’s almost over. Unless the Hindu’s are right. In which case I’ll be back. Maybe come back as a cockroach… or a woodpecker. A ladder-backed woodpecker. Check out this little prick:

This woodpecker is sort of like a Stealth Camper. He’s living where he shouldn’t oughta. Which is nice. He’s obeying Darwin’s law of adaptability. Or you might call it Stealth-ability. Which is what I’m doing. I’m adapting. I’m following Darwin’s law. I’m law abiding. What choice I got? Shit. I’m old. Poor. My country’s falling apart all around me. Pretty soon Musk will snatch away my social security. I’ll be left to peck crumbs. I wish I could get my hands around that bastard’s neck! Richest man in the world leaves me scratching for crumbs! Not just me. All of us old farts with fuck-all but our superior wisdom. Left to peck the fucking cactus. Like a ladder-backed woodpecker. Which is why I’m holding onto my nest-egg. My coffee can of cash. I refuse to blow the whole wad on a big ass boat. Like I did last time around. WHY THE FUCK DID OLD JOE DROP OUT OF THE RACE! HE COULD’VE BEAT THAT FAT FUCK IN THE OFFAL OFFICE. I CALL IT THE OFFAL OFFICE CUZ TRUMPY SITS IN IT…

Whew! Take it easy, Gloomy.

Get a hold of yourself.

Jesus…I need to calm down. I need to remember that I’m living free on Nevada street. Stealth’n but free. And it’s a hell of a lot better than Boot Camp.

Live Stealth Free or die, I say.

The phrase was adopted from a toast written by General John Stark, New Hampshire’s most famous soldier of the American Revolutionary War, on July 31, 1809. Poor health forced Stark to decline an invitation to an anniversary reunion of the Battle of Bennington. Instead, he sent his toast by letter:^[2]Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils. Wikipedia

That’s right!

General Stark was right!

Death is not the worst of evils!

Shout it to the Maga Fascists lowlife scumbags.

Live Free Or Die!