Vagrancy

I have never really been a "homebody." There's just nothing to do in a "home." Well, I suppose that I could establish a "bachelor pad." I could then lay around, worship the tube like a shrine, view hurdy-gurdy video clips on the trusty tablet computer, consume alcoholic beverages, choke da chicken, and so on to my heart's content. Unfortunately, even that is not appealing. A "home" is more like a mausoleum. Coffin is more like it. The studio rental unit in Waimanalo is fairly nice, but there's nothing for me to do when I return there. There's a pre-LED tube provided, but I can't bring myself to worship it. So, I spend all of my time on the Net with my various devices. There is absolutely nothing redeeming about such an existence.

Yet, there is very little to do outside the home. The "ownership society" has made it impossible to congregate anywhere outside the usual public venues. Even then, money must be spent in order to avoid vagrancy violations. Our lives are essentially spent in consumer prisons. No money? Go home!

What if an individual is homeless? That's the big question of the moment. The homeless spend a good portion of the day, fifteen hours upward, in a urban nomadic trek to find any place that can serve as a refuge for a few hours without being hassled for loitering. And, believe me, there are very few places aside from the few remaining public venues and commercial dens of consumerism (read: shopping malls).

In my case, if I elect to become homeless (i.e., motorhomeless), I will free up at least four to five hours of time that was formerly consumed by commuting. Having a homeless motorhome (read: luxury minivan) has its advantages, though. I would not be seen with all of my worldly possessions on me. Thus, I would be covertly homeless. Even looking into the homeless motorhome would not generate any suspicions. I have so little in the way of possessions that barely anything would be visible. Compare that to the typical homeless people with vehicles. Stuff is packed all the way up to the roof, a magnet for police harassment.

Speaking of automobiles stuffed with junk, I ran into Tom, the drunkard, of Chaos Manor (read: rental housing) fame in Hawai'i Kai late this afternoon. He claimed that he had just returned from a two-month vacation in Cali. He is still alive. He's still driving the same decrepit automobile. What he should do is trade his automobile in for a minivan and join me in camping at the A'ala Park parking lot. Baha! Ha! Ha! Haaa!