Houselessness

Picture  your reaction if a gypsy fortune teller (you know... the kind you see all the time working at carnivals in cartoons but never, ever in real life) were to say to you: 

Ahhh, yes... The clouds are parting. I see you... Far in the future... You are fifty years old...  Your hair and beard are both greying... It is raining a little... You are dressed as a woman, dancing on a street-corner, happily waving at traffic...

You might be angry and insulted, and you would certainly be dismissive : "Ain't no way that crazy broad is right.  Why would I be dressed as a chick?! Ahhhh... she's probably drunk or high or sumptin'".  Thirty years later there you are, the gruff, temporarily laid off welder, wearing a Statue of Liberty costume outside of a local tax preparation office, trying to appear cheerful in the freezing February drizzle as you go through your dance routine again. 

It's amazing how time and perspective turns "Oh, that'll never happen" into "Wow. That happened. In retrospect I really, really should have seen that coming from, like, a billion miles away. "

What does this have to do with me?  Well, I'll tell you. I mentioned already that I am in the process of moving. Now, here's the screwed-up sounding part. If all goes according to plan (according to plan, mind you!) my status will change from "homeowner" to "homeless war veteran" a little less than two weeks from now!

Those of you that know me also know that label is technically true in the same way that a shot glass filled with English Leather is technically an alcoholic beverage.  Wait.  I’ve used that metaphor before... Let’s try: It’s “true” using the same rules that allow James Carville to be qualified as “humanoid”, instead.

Meh.  Weak.  But you get the point: The label is 100% accurate... It’s just not very “true”.

But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t milk it for all it’s worth, right?  Oh, sure, you could yell “stolen valor” this and “patently fraud” that, but why can’t I have my piece of the pie, too? Where is the crime in finally having the chance to pursue my passion of drunkenly yelling free-form jazz sounds into the car windows of motorists helplessly stopped at red lights until they give me cash?

Lawyers and police officers need not answer that last one.

Hmmm... Now that I think about it,  I hope I don't have to share a streetcorner with one of those tax time Uncle Sams, cuz some of those fellas can really groove. I mean, have you seen these guys? I'm talking pharmaceutical-grade-Red-Bull level dancing, here.  

I... I can't compete with that.  I’m gonna need a hook.  

I’ve got my Sharpie.  I’ve got my cardboard.  I’m just tapped for ideas on what to write.  I want to say to the world “I want your money.  In no way do I deserve it, and, although I am capable of doing so, I would really rather not work for it.”  If you’ve got an idea let me know.  Keep it clean, please.