sprinter van

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter IX (shower bamboozle)

Ah, the open road. A struggle with wind on the prairie, the sun a benevolent orb on your windshield, and the liberating absence of… well, plumbing. Yes, loopers, for those of us who’ve traded overstuffed leather thrones for driver’s seats of trusty (read: not so aerodynamic) sprinter vans, the pursuit of personal hygiene takes on a whole new existential character. It’s a daily vaudeville act, a slapstick ballet between man, machine, and the whims of the ever-fickle water pump.

Yesterday evening, for instance, began with the misguided optimism that a proper shower was within reach. Visions of cascading waterfalls danced in my head… a reward for a week of dodging rogue deer and boondocking in rest areas smelling vaguely of despair. With the zeal of a knight errant facing a fire-breathing dragon, i backed up to a wall and opened Rocinante’s cargo doors (strategically chosen to function as a modesty panel, because, let’s face it, ya gotta come up with your own privacy screens on the road). I wrestled the showerhead attachment onto the back hose… a Frankensteinian contraption powered by D-batteries and hope… then tiptoed to the back of the van with the grace of a particularly uncoordinated hippo wrapped in a beach towel.

Then, the heavens… or rather, the water pump… opened. But instead of a cleansing downpour, a pathetic cascade of not quite warm droplets emerged, clinging precariously to the nozzle like tears on a clown’s cheek. It was a scene straight out of a Beckett play… minimalist, absurd, and utterly soul-crushing. The wrath of Poseidon himself couldn’t have been more devastating. Here i was, poised for ablution, and the universe was mocking me with the hydraulics of a thimble.

I tell you, loopers, despair smells a lot like stale marshmallows and last week’s campfire. But as i wallowed in my sudsy misery (yes, i’d optimistically brought travel-sized body wash), a strange sense of zen washed over me. Perhaps Don Quixote wasn’t so delusional after all. Maybe tilting at windmills, or in this case, attempting a shower powered by wishful thinking, is a necessary part of the human condition.

So, here’s to the nomads of the road, the warriors of personal hygiene who wage daily battle with limited water supplies and questionable plumbing. We may not have crystal showers or endless hot water, but we have ingenuity, a good supply of Dude Wipes (because let’s be real, some days call for a strategic retreat), and the unwavering spirit of a hobo at a five-star buffet. After all, a clean conscience is a luxury, but a cleanish body? That, loopers, is achievable, even in the back of a rebellious rolling studio apartment. With a sponge, some shade, and a healthy dose of self-deprecating resignation, even the grimiest nomad can achieve a passable facsimile of civilized cleanliness. Now, if you’ll excuse me, i have a date with a bucket and some very optimistic body wash.

Hot Springs or Busk: Chapter I (the purge)

Happy Funday, loopers! And buckle up, because there is much to do and only months from embarking on a journey of radical proportions… not just to small and medium size college towns across the contiguous 48 (United?) States of America, but into the hitherto uncharted territory of extreme minimalism. You see, before your host can Kerouac across state lines with his trusty guitar and tricked-out sprinter van, he’s gotta Marie Kondo the hell out of his already semi-tidy lifestyle.

Now… purging “stuff” without resorting to a Tyler Durdenesque eruption feels like wrestling a hydra with a shopping cart full of expired coupons. At every corner, another forgotten set of martini glasses, shot glasses, cocktail shakers, beer brewing kits, fondue forks shining with the accusatory glint of a thousand bad decisions… can you relate? Remember that popcorn maker you bought on a whim after a particularly potent batch of brownies? Or the ceramic Elvis bust your aunt Mildred bequeathed you, its rhinestone sunglasses perpetually mocking your life choices? They all gotta go, loopers, jettisoned into the great beyond of thrift shop purgatory.

It’s a Sisyphean task, let me tell you. You purge until your arms feel like overcooked linguine, only to discover a forgotten stack of Wired Magazines leering at you from a box in the guest-room closet, their splashy geek-chic advertisements reflecting the hollowness of consumerism. But with each item exorcised, a strange lightness washes over you. It’s like you’re chiseling through layers of a self-made sarcophagus, emerging, blinking, into the sunlight of… how did William Wallace put it…?

!!FREEEEEDOMM!!

But let’s not sugarcoat this thing. Saying goodbye to stuff feels like attending your own estate sale, inviting strangers to paw through the detritus of your life with the dispassionate curiosity of vultures at a buffet. You see your cherished pulp-n-ink books, once bastions of knowledge, amusement, and inspiration, now reduced to dog-eared doorstops. Your carefully curated vinyl or CD collection? Frisbees… or kindling for a transhumanist bonfire. It’s enough to make you nod along agreeably as Barbara Ehrenreich describes a bait and switch formerly known as the American Dream, built as it is on an ever-expanding foundation of stuff.

But amidst the chaos, there’s a perverse joy. A giddy dance with absurdity as you realize you haven’t worn those bitchin’ parachute pants since the Clinton administration, and that t-shaped sub-woofer cajone, got more use as a foot-stool than a musical instrument.

So, as i stand amidst the ruins of my former semi-tidy life, surrounded by mountains of “maybe someday” and “what was I thinking?”, i feel a strange sense of liberation. The micro-bus, once a gleaming symbol of woodstockian wanderlust, now beckons as a deep-space “stealth” ship (a name… hmmm… let’s see… how about “Rocinante?”).

Anyhoo… no more will i be tethered to the tyranny of things. The open road awaits, and i, with Rocinante, and only the essentials (and maybe a slightly dusty foot-stool), am ready to answer its call.

This, loopers, is not just a trip to the thrift shop. It’s a baptism by Marie Kondo, a communion with the open road, a middle finger raised to the gods of consumerism. It’s the year we trade stuff for possibility, and let me tell you, the view from here is anything but beige. Stay tuned, because Rocinante has yet to commence the metamorphosis… the adventure is just beginning!