![]() ![]() Like Kerouac did, or Cheryl Strayed, or those people in those Expedia ads. Somewhere inside all those boxes, you get the itch to blow it all up. You wake up every day in a climate-controlled box, then you get into another box to go to work, then you sit in a third box all day just so you can afford bigger boxes and fancy crap to put in those boxes. I left my house on the East Coast, speed-walked impatiently through airports, got a car, and drove four hours, very fast, all to get to this: a parking lot next to a cold-ass beach, where a woman in a shitty sedan with no hubcaps is doing endless doughnuts in the mud and where the surrounding woods host a makeshift tent village for many, many meth addicts.Īnd yet I was in a hurry, and it wasn’t because I hate my home, or my family. ![]() I’m at a hobo campground at the dead end of a lonely road at Bastendorff Beach, near the tiny seaside outpost of Charleston in the Great Drifter Heaven that is the state of Oregon.
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