The poop tent

A bathroom tent was set up for those who came to the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous in—or on—a vehicle too small for some sort of toilet facility. A fabric outhouse, if you will.

Chet makes friends

Brian from San Diego

Sharon from Carmel

Denise and Dale from Sioux Falls

Dan from Salem

Chris from Vermont

Pick one superpower

A. The ability to become invisible at will

B. The ability to fly like a bird

C. The ability to instantly be wherever you choose

D. The ability to move objects with your mind

E. The ability to change into anything you choose

Discuss.

You might be too clean

As a van dweller, what do I miss most? Without question, long hot showers every day. I've gotten used to not being squeaky clean, though. And that's a good thing, according to dermatologists. We might be ruining our skin in the name of odorlessness. We might also be killing off beneficial bacteria (there is such a thing).

"If you're so inclined, you can clean the grossest parts of your body with a soapy washcloth or cleansing towelette to remove odor-causing bacteria on non-shower days."

Hey! That's what I've been doing! Good for me.

Besides being better for your skin, showering less is also environmentally sound. You use less water and don't expend natural resources heating it.

Take a good whiff of yourself. Don't you smell smart?

One man's journey is another man's errands

As I've written before, I probably need to stay put for longer periods in order to save gas expenses and wear on the Rolling Steel Tent. Part of the problem (if it is a problem) is that my view of "a short distance" is longer than that of many fellow van dwellers. Sometimes much longer.

Seventy miles for a few supplies? No problem. This is the big, wide open West. Everything is spread out. Yet I know folks who measure distance by the New England standard, where going three miles to the next town necessitates a suitcase and provisions.

I've made two runs from the outskirts of Quartzsite to the other side of town during the five days I've been here. For showers at the truck stop. And to get chili fixings while I was at it. I've been given more than one are-you-crazy? look. Come on, people, I drove here straight from Los Angeles. Two-hundred sixty miles. Piece of cake. And that's not even going by transcontinental trucker standards.

Oh well. This life lets us live the way we choose. I just choose to drive more than some.

Chet visits the Chili Dome

Saturday was the pot luck chili dinner at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. Everyone supplies a can of chili or ingredients and it all goes into a big pot. Actually, three big pots. Mild, spicy and vegetarian.

To make sure there was something resembling actual meat in the chili, I cooked up a couple of pounds of stew beef. That required something larger than my pan. Jessica loaned me her thrift store pot (a.k.a. the Chili Dome).

A catch-all of various chilies sounds like a recipe for disaster, but the spicy chili, with a little grated cheese and some oyster crackers, was probably the best I'd ever eaten.

Make your own kind of music

Some folks at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous got together for a bit of jamming. (And, yes, it was perfect shirtsleeves weather while much of the country was frozen solid.)

Peter and Lou have got the blues

A little bluegrass with Atlee on banjo and Jessica on guitar

I don't know this guy's name, but he plays a mean Melodica

Hide in plain sight

General van dwelling wisdom says you need to be stealthy as hell if you’re going to try living in your vehicle in cities. That’s not always the case. Some cities, or at least some areas of some cities, are more tolerant. Take this group, for example.

Zero stealth factor. They’ve been there for years, on Sepulveda Boulevard, in Los Angeles, under the interchange of the 10 and 405 freeways, between commercial and residential areas. They’ve become just part of the scenery.

The folks in the gray and blue RV aren’t just parked. They’re essentially homesteading. They have dozens of planter boxes on the roof and ground. They’ve even cleared a patch between the sidewalk and the embankment for a garden.

Thanks to Google Maps Street View you can see their rooftop garden 

I wanted to talk to these urban campers. There were generators running and I could see lights on through gaps in the curtains. Someone was home. I walked from one rig to the other calling out, “Hello! I have some questions!” But no one acknowledged me. Maybe they were suspicious. Maybe they’d had their fill of questions. Maybe they were on the toilet—which had me wondering how they dispose of their waste, since the RVs never move and there aren’t a lot of dump stations in LA. If I’d been more of a journalist and less of an introvert, I might have been more persistent. I might have gotten my answers. And more photos.

"Gee, you sure blog a lot."

Research has demonstrated that writing for even a few minutes a day can improve one's physical and mental health. I know it helps keep me sane.

My beach

I lived in Corona del Mar twice in the late 1970s. First an over-the-garage apartment I shared with three other guys, then, after I was making better money, the front half of a duplex I had to myself. (The former is still there, but the latter was torn down and replaced with a huge and ugly house. Money doesn't always equal taste. Or even buy it.)

It was a pleasant walk from either apartment to Corona del Mar Beach, situated at the mouth of Newport Harbor. Like everyone else in town, I considered it my beach. One goes to Corona del Mar Beach for the sand, the water, the sun, maybe some volleyball—the pure beach experience. There is no promenade with shops, bars and restaurants to attract the riff-raff. One goes to Huntington, Newport or Laguna for that. It's not a surfing beach, either, because of the harbor breakwater. However, you can see the infamous Wedge just on the other side of the harbor mouth. When there actually is surf. The sea was calm when I visited.

For beach recluses, there's Little Corona del Mar, a pocket beach separated from the main beach by a rock formation. One needs to watch the tides, though, and be ready to scramble to higher ground. Fortunately, there are stairs.

I have to visit my beach whenever I'm at the Southern California coast. I think that big palm waved at me.

We love it!

I will always have a fond place in my heart for Los Angeles. It's where I started my post-college, on-my-own, real adult life. Though I didn't live in LA-proper very long (a few days on a friend's sofa in Venice Beach, a few months in an apartment near McArthur Park) I spent a decade in its orbit. It was an exciting place and time. Whenever I return for a visit, I have to crank up this song. (Sorry about the ad YouTube inserted.)

The weather has been perfect since I arrived (thank you) so it was time to make a pilgrimage to the beach. In January. On a weekday. Yes!

I know, Santa Monica is technically not Los Angeles

When I can no longer do the van dwelling thing, just roll me here

Gallery crawl

I go the the Los Angeles County Museum of Art nearly every time I visit LA. And I make a point of applying my sticker crookedly.

I saw a couple of the temporary exhibits and revisited some of my favorite permanent collections. Contemporary art, ancient Asian art, Dutch... I particularly liked the Larry Sultan photo exhibit and Jazz Age paintings of Archibald Motley.

Sometimes I go less to see the art and more to just absorb the atmosphere. Like this.

I think this intentional double exposure works nicely

The weather was a perfect LA day, including nearly no smog. It was almost a shame to spend any of it inside.

Farm fresh

My ex is a back yard farmer in Los Angeles, only a couple of miles from Beverly Hills. She has twelve hens and would love to get four more, even though her current flock is all healthy and producing, and their pecking order has worked itself out. The hens are a variety of breeds, so she gets different colors of eggs, from white to brown to greenish. (Yes, you could have green eggs and ham.)

Eggs come naturally with a coating that protects them from going bad. If you resist the urge to wash off the hen house schmutz, you can keep the eggs for a month or more without refrigeration. Grocery store eggs have all been washed to make them pretty, and so you'll buy them more often.

Best of all, her eggs are much more flavorful. In addition to some chicken feed, the hens get kitchen scraps from a neighbor and a nearby restaurant. Fruit, vegetables, even fish and cheese. "They're crazy about feta and salmon. Chickens are omnivores," says my ex. They also get earthworms, mealworms and black soldier fly larvae. (Mature black soldier flies have no mouths, so they can't eat. They live just long enough to mate.) She also has a foraging garden and one for plants with medicinal qualities the chickens eat as needed. Sunshine and room to roam and scratch are essential as well.

Even if we weren't dear friends who share a lot of interests (and history), it would be worth the trip just to have some of her fresh, delicious eggs.

It's all reality, child

At the exit from Slab City

It is resolved

My original thought was to do a rather longwinded post about how we typically approach New Year resolutions. Blah blah blah pop philosophy yammer yammer yammer tedious faux wisdom et cetera blah blah blah…

Blah.

Let me make it short instead. Consider dialing back on the self-flagellating resolutions and add more resolutions on the self-indulgent side of the list. Have more fun, more adventures, more love. Worry less about the calories consumed and the shit that's still not together. Live as if your goal is to write a fabulous memoir rather than a strident self-help book. You'll feel less like a failure.