Solstice Blessings

I see those around me gearing up for Christmas, doing their best to meet the cultural and commercial expectations our mamas all raised us with. I’m not unaware of the change of the soundtrack as I shop for my daily dose of chocolate milk at the local King Soopers or stroll the aisles at Wally World restocking hobo essentials. Santa-branded candy is as overpriced as a class at the late Trump University which is slightly abated by the recent heavy discounts on Bronco-branded merch. You can also pick up some heavily discounted pumpkin-spiced croutons for your salad right now if you know the right aisles to shop.

The sounds of the season and the Xmas themed end-caps at the stores were in place long before Thanksgiving eve. This is the Christian holiday snatched from the pagans and assigned as the birthday of Baby Jeebus fully re-dedicated to the American God of Retail. O’Holy Night and all that and “get your grimey ass back to Mexico” says Tucker Carlson on God’s Chosen Channel. I’m eternally and daily thankful I’m free of the cognitive dissonance required to carry water for this imaginary monster. Hippie Jeebus I could stomach.

Now what to celebrate? Are we totally screwed? Maybe for those whose imaginations need to be filled by self-righteous holy pricks imaginatively interpreting The Goat Herders Guide to the Galaxy. Somebody give these people a science book ferchrissakes.

This Rambo Jeebus, this malignant Christian Nationalist Jeebus, this “FU dirty hippes!” version of Jeebus has soured the entirety of the American religious landscape and made many realize that the true history of Baby Jeebus is as nebulous as the the position and speed of an atomic particle. At least an atomic particle leaves a reliable footprint. Though we may sometimes tire in our attempt to hang onto that which is most precious to us it’s best to maintain a firm grip on the reliable atoms in the rope than to let go and pray for a miracle against gravity, and everybody dam well knows it.

As for me? The most blessed all of the hobo heretics the high mountain meadows can muster? I’ll continue to spread honesty, cheer and happiness around me in as eager and prolific a manner as the spirits of an aging hobo and his old hobo hound can muster, fully leveraging the utility of the companionship my cute publicity-loving-pup adds to the mix. There may be some weed involved, all legally obtained and distributed under the laws of my totally utopian state. I’ll always strive to maintain as much of a positive public image as can be had from such a minimalist perch as this poverty-tainted platform will allow.. Build new friendships and try to maintain the many acquired along the happy trails.

At this most blessed of holiday seasons, I’d be remiss not to note the most serendipitous of the many hobo blessings (that coincidentally happens to make a fundamentalist Pentecostal wince hardest) is that I am living as close to the purported lifestyle of the beloved Baby Jeebus as is humanly possible in the 21st Century. That noted, I’m not nearly as incommunicado, nor has my army of a dozen female apostles completely gelled, just yet. I’m less inclined to push against those wishing to form a religion around me the older I get. It’s a feature, not a bug. Hoocoodanode?

Chalk it up to the curiosity of my nature. It’s what my mama raised me with. That, and a round Earth.

Enjoy.

HoboTalk – Episode One

Since I’ve mostly defaulted to using my YouTube channel for documenting the last several years of my life (Daily Dose of Tim), I’ve stopped blogging as much as I use to.  I’m not actually writing any less, as those who follow me on Facebook can attest.  I’m just ‘Done’ with Facebook as a platform. They’ve repeatedly shown they are incapable of handling my account and my data responsibly.  WordPress has it’s issues, but at least it hasn’t been front page news for the last couple years for trying to sell us out to the Russians and/or anybody else with ten cents to spare!  And don’t even get me started about the time they blocked me for a month for posting pornography.  I consider the added gravitas of that incident not only a resume enhancer, but also a sign of just how occupational flexible I could be in a pinch.  It’s all about finding the right angles, but I digress.

While we’re on the subject of porn I’m reminded of a cartoon porn version of Star Trek I saw about forty years ago.  One particular line of dialog is forever etched in my brain.  Doctor McCoy to Captain Kirk, “Dammit Jim, I’m a doctor not a dildo repairman!” The plot twist that led to that statement is lost to the vagaries of my galloping senility (though I lose the names still I know the faces. Time has come and left its traces.) but if I recall, it had something to do with an alien army of angry cartoon “Dickheads”.

I am extremely active on Twitter for an old hobo living in a van, tethered to the net with nothing more than spit and vinegar (whatever free public wi-fi is available),  Even with the ‘professional handicap”, I’m still heading towards a quarter million earned impressions, just in the last 28 days! 

That noted, my heart has always been in blogging and I find it more satisfying collecting up a loyal ‘blogging family” than any of the other social media options, though I’ve acquired friends through Instagram and YouTube that are very dear to me as well.  I’m trying to increase my Instagram content at the present time.  The only one I’m actively avoiding is Facebook.

My desire to do video content has waned for the moment, along with the technical means to do so.  This may change if/when I purchase a new videocam.  I’ve been lucky to produce what I have considering the highest level of tech I own is a series 5 iPhone!  This DJI product which I might be able to afford would do a bang up job for me.  It’s the Osmo Pocket seen above.  At three hundred fifty bucks it’s right at the cusp of what an old hobo might be able to manage if Nellybelle doesn’t fall out from under me in the process.  If you haven’t seen or heard about it yet, I’m pretty sure you will before long.  Here’s the skinny.

I had previously claimed success concerning the manner in which I have accommodated the changes in lifestyle made necessary by my habitation in Nellybelle, my beloved ‘classic’ 93 Dodge minivan, but now I am officially claiming total ‘success’ on my relocation project of moving back to the US from Germany.  This is not meant to imply that things couldn’t potentially still go wildly astray in my immediate future.  It’s an important life construct to be constantly wary.  The Boy Scouts call it ‘being prepared”.  It’s what my mama raised me with.

I’m several winters into #vanlife here in the high mountain meadows.  As such, I’ve become somewhat of a local celebrity/curiosity around here, elevating my otherwise lowly status well above the average homeless derelict.  It helps that I worked here in a highly visible retail position here in town for a couple years, and having built up a lot of friends and goodwill along the way.  Being frugal and living long enough to secure the most minimal of SS benefits worked out pretty well for me.  The not dying along the way was a huge part of it.  When trying to parse the elements involved in any of my myriad success stories, be they real time events or rosy historical retellings of past glories, one must NEVER overlook how much my innate fabulosity had to do with it.  I never do. You can be sure of that! LOL.

Given my recent acquisition of another rescue pup who is just as fabulous as I am, there’s every likelihood me and Sammy are going to continue kicking our own brand of high mountain magic right along down the road with us.

The many friends I’ve made here, along with all those I’m still connected with from afar (by virtue of over a decade on one form of social media or the other) are a big part of my ‘success’ here in this mountain village.  Now I’m ready to take it up to the next level in a manner consistent with proper hobo motion (slow).  Baby steps.  I could get a helluva lot more aggressive with my campaign for overnight success, but there are standards of hobo decorum that need to be considered because of my status as a role model for hopeful future hobo heretics to follow.

Did I already mention?  It’s what my mama raised me with.

Enjoy.

 

When I Was a Kid

We kicked cans in the street
Braved a Jart to the ribs
Thought Jesus would save us
When I was a kid.

We cherished love
The hippies their lids
Jesus played his guitar
When I was a kid.

Time passed quickly
Jesus aged as I did
He wasn’t the guy
I knew as a kid.

I returned to the scriptures
Were they always this glib?
It was never as simple
As I thought as a kid.

The Nazi’s were an anathema
Dictators? Undid
Things were quite different
When I was a kid.

Now Republican Jesus
Sells us out for a quid
That’s not what I’d figured
When I was a kid.

Enjoy.

 

 

The Big Wheel of Wanker Weed

This gallery contains 16 photos.

With Republicans formerly most famous for privatizing jails to profit off imprisoning pot smokers now running after jobs in the pot industry as fast as Trump chasing after a piss-laden prostitute in Saint Petersburg, pot will be legal before you know it. Continue reading →

New Year Thoughts and Plays

I pause once again to thank the goodness of my friends for helping enable the “level of success” I have achieved since returning to the US as a shell-shocked (yet surprisingly fabulous) senior citizen expat widower three years ago.  One thing I’ve learned from the experience is that there are more people out there actually paying attention to my content and concerned for my well being than I would ever anticipated. They’ve been the difference between survival and what I define as surthrival, which is at least halfway up the fourth tier on Maslow’s hierarchy of needs.  Self actualization can only be achieved in a sunny high mountain meadow sipping fire-brewed coffee and passing one of Willie’s Reserve around the tambourine circle, but I don’t want to give away all the secret society stuff.  Come visit and we’ll talk.

The Hobo Heretic Has Arrived

I’m claiming my rightful throne as Hobo Heretic of the high mountain meadows.  It’s the direction that providence has pushed me.  A retirement position that combines talents acquired lately in the fine art of minivan living with my lifelong fight against the disruptive effects of belief in things that cannot be tested.  As always, my content will reflect that which interests or concerns me, untainted by the concern of mass appeal or monetary manipulations.  Expect a mix of the usual eclectic high mountain meadows magic, notes on van life along with the occasional political screed, because, well….just because.  (He’s guilty as shit and everybody knows it)

Enjoy.