Everywhere I look in the media, the story is the same – articles about families eating more Spam potted meat product to combat the higher grocery prices, stories about the flailing real estate market, blurbs about Washington’s tax rebate, discussions of higher gas prices, advice on how to make your credit rating better. It endlessly goes on and on. And I have to be honest – these stories piss me off. My question to you all out there is – are we being duped? I mean, just a little bit?

Yes, food and fuel prices are rising. Yes, the housing market is in a slump. But this article discusses how the federal stimulus checks to the American people aren’t really helping much due to increases in the cost of living and quotes a Chattanooga woman, “You don’t get a windfall like this very often.” Are you kidding me? Since when is 600 lousy bucks a windfall?

I’ll admit, I don’t have children or a house payment, so that frees up my time and money for other things, like traveling. But, dammit, I’ve worked really hard for this lifestyle. Here are some clues for those struggling with a lack of dollars.

* Spend less than you make.

* Say NO to that new gadget, unless you can throw down cold hard cash for it. When you start laying down hundred dollar bills and you don’t get any of them back, that action registers emotionally in a way that a plastic credit card never will.

* Bike and walk wherever you can. It’s good exercise, it’s good for the environment and it’s especially good for your wallet.

* Be debt free. And don’t let anyone tell you that it’s impossible.

I made a radical decision nearly a decade ago that a 100% debt free lifestyle was my new paradigm and have happily lived in this manner ever since, without the weight and pressure and worries of owing anyone anything. It has set me free. It’s allowed me to do whatever I want whenever I want. It didn’t come easy as I was up to my eyeballs and beyond in heinous debt. I worked my ass off. And many people told me that it was impossible to become debt free. But I’ve never really listened to nay-sayers. It is possible. And life-altering.

Listen up people and don’t kid yourselves. When the subject of money comes up and I start spewing my debt-free philosophy, lots of people say things like, “Oh yeah, I’m debt-free . . . I only have a car payment.” Or “Yeah, I only have one credit card.”

This is not debt free.

I get lots of comments, like “What about a house payment?” Well, often I don’t know where I will be from one month to the next and right now I don’t want to be a slave to a house payment. This is my personal choice, but if I were to dive into the real estate market, I’d make damn sure I had a 20% down payment and that my house payment did not exceed 25% of my weekly income. A couple of years ago, when the real estate market was sky-rocketing out of control and an entire contingency of whiny Los Angelinos were knowingly offering much more than what their prospective properties were actually worth, I just shook my head in amazement. Now, a lot of people who simply “wanted” into the market no matter the cost are f-u-c-k-e-d and I don’t feel sorry for them.

Sometimes, it’s difficult to tell ourselves no. But, I’ve learned that a solid, “no, thank you” in the long run is the best choice and quite honestly – I don’t mind not having all the “stuff” that most people think are necessities. Keeping it simple is actually quite satisfying. I remember once many years ago not having enough money for food and the creditors’ calls were coming non-stop. The stress was incredible. I told myself that I would never again feel that way. And I never looked back.

I encourage any and everyone to have the fortitude to think for themselves just a little bit and not society’s mixed messages about money and how you choose to spend or not spend it. Commercials, newspapers, radio ads and magazines will all give messages from subtle to strong about how you absolutely need this or that thing in order to be successful. I say turn off that crap and go inside yourself to look for an answer. I bet you’ve got more inside yourself than you might think.

The federal stimulus of spending money at $600.00 is no “windfall” for me, nor is it eaten up by the grocery store and gas tank. Yes, I feel the squeeze too, but it’s not making me sweat. I’ve got a few savings accounts and I’m not in the red by a long shot. I’m not what most would consider ‘rich’ in dollars, but I’m doing OK in that arena, so well in fact, that I am rich in happiness and contentment with no money stresses.

At least that’s one less thing.

I’m off . . . finally! Flipside, here I come. Wait, wait, wait you guys . . . wait for me! Don’t burn everything before I get there. Oh yeah, come Tuesday I’ll be tired and weary, but I’ll have LOTS of stories . . . .

I have a history with I-20, the dark Georgia freeway that spans from Augusta to Atlanta – it’s the road that birthed my calling as an artist adventurer.  It’s been a long, long time since I’ve buzzed down that road. But I will be revisiting  that nostalgic interstate tomorrow in the early morn, before the sun rises.

The last time, I was driving from darkness into sunrise; conversely, tomorrow’s journey will see me bringing sunrise to darkness. I love it when life comes full circle.

No doubt about it, somewhere in the ether, somewhere in this collective consciousness . . . we are all connected. Believe it.

I received a random text message last night from an old high school friend whom I have known for going on twenty years now. He’s one of those old friends who continually pops in and out of my life throughout the years. We’ll completely lose touch, only to re-connect randomly and we always pick right back up where we left off as though no time has passed. His txt msg was a simple “Still Alive?” His number got lost a couple of years ago in some Chicago taxicab one night when my cell phone disappeared, and I’ve been out of touch since with no way to reach him.

So, I returned his text with a call this morning and true to form, we began chatting away as though we’d never been out of touch. I asked, “So, do you talk to anyone from school?”

“Thankfully, no!” he replied, “but I do wonder what Holly D. is up to these days, where she is, what she’s doing.”

“Yeah, me too,” I said. Then I told him he should check out my website, but he admitted that he’s not ever on internet these days.

And then I proceeded to go about my day, spirits uplifted just a bit because I’d heard from my old friend . . . when . . . I came to work and checked my email. Unbelievably, sitting in my incoming mailbox was an email from Holly D!!

The last time I remember seeing or talking to her was the night of my crazy high school graduation party at some hotel when she blasted in the door, showing off her brand new tattoo that she was finally able to get because she’d turned 18. Today she just happened to look me up on the internet and she sent an email my way, asking “Is this Anna from Smyrna? I think it’s you.”

It is! It’s me. She must have been google-ing my name as Dan and I were reminiscing about her. That’s connection. Make no mistake, when your ears burn, it’s for a reason.

I’m nursing a Starbuck’s addiction, but that’s a whole ‘nother post for a whole ‘nother time. It’s become my guilty pleasure and I’ll write more about my corporate coffee opinions and my struggle with them later . . .

“I’ll take a triple grande soy latte,” I said to the unnamed girl at the counter.

“And your name?” she asked.

I don’t like to give my name. I don’t ask for theirs. I want to be incognito. I don’t want them to perk up and start screaming “Good Morning!” when I walk in the door every day. And they often will. I feel strange enough that I find myself going there on a daily basis, so at least allow me my privacy and let me get my fix in private, please. Sometimes I make up a fake name. But the other day, I just didn’t feel like playing that silly game – at all.

“I don’t feel like giving my name today,” I replied in a courteous manner, with a simple smile.

“Uh . . ” the Starbuck’s counter-intelligence stammered, “And your name is . . .?” But I could tell by the look on her face that she herself was confused as to why those words were coming out of her mouth, but at the same time, could not stop them.

I repeated myself, gently. “I just don’t feel like playing the name game today.”

I think that smoke was about to come out of her ears simply from sheer confusion. I’d completely thrown her for a loop. She continued to stammer, “Um . . you want a . . . Venti what?”

“A triple grande soy latte.”

“And your na-” she broke her words off. And then averted her eyes and said, “uh, that’ll be $4.09, please.”

Roller skating the winding, woodsy bike path meandering for miles along the Congaree River in Columbia, South Carolina yesterday was very much like a metaphor for my life lately.

I’d heard that the bike path along the river was perfect for roller skating. Up until hearing about the river walk, I was trying to find a good empty lot or parking garage, but all the locals said, “Oh, check out river walk . . . ”

Either no one in South Carolina roller skates very much or they are hard-core skaters with much more courage than I. I’m thinking that it’s the former that’s the case because yesterday was a typical thriving Sunday afternoon in the park and while there were walking couples and puppies galore, I only saw one roller blader and a handful of cyclists. As the lone roller skater, the looks I received told me that they don’t see this kind o’ thing around these here parts too often.

I may be an avid roller skater, but I’m not all too athletic with it. I do not perform tricks. I’m not that great at stopping on a dime. I’m an artist adventurer, not an athletic adventurer.

Upon arrival, I parked the car in the gravel lot across the street and wandered down the grassy hill to the river walk in my socked feet, carrying the skates. I needed to suss the place before beginning. My definition of flat is sea level. Again, I thought I’d ask a local.

A lady pushing one of those high tech speed racer baby carts jogged past. “Is the path very hilly?” I asked, brandishing my skates. “Or flat?”

“Oh, it’s pretty flat,” the lady quickly replied. “You should be OK.”

Now, if she would have told me the truth, which is that the path curves and takes sharp twists and is probably too hilly for a roller skater, then I probably would have missed out on this adventure. As it is, I rolled right into the middle of the woods, literally. And while it was sticky and sometimes scary and fraught with snarls along the way, I wouldn’t trade the experience for anything.

I had to really be mindful on this tree-lined path, I knew right away because the sidewalk was littered with small sticks and pods of every variety and there were lots of people walking with dogs and babies. And I could see the path zig-zag and curve down hill, but the lady with the carriage after all, did say it was “pretty flat” so I kept thinking that just around the next bend, everything would straighten out.

It never did, but I was committed to my adventure by now, so I was rollin’ with it, literally. The river is wide and shallow, full of large flat sandstone rocks. There were people everywhere playing in and along the river and path, some fishing, some wading, some reading, some chatting at picnic tables with their families. I love hearing snippets of conversation as I roll past people. One girl squealed, “Oh mother, don’t tell me that you really believe that your son has a perverted interest in children!” Yep, I thought, I’m definitely in South Carolina.

I was especially happy to be rolling through such a different kind of environment: the humid air full of the woodsy smells of leaves and flower blossoms. I’ve rolled through the gritty streets of Chicago and I hit the beach path in Venice every day that I can, but to be cruising past big trees was a new and exhilarating feeling – but I knew I didn’t have the luxury of just innocently blazing through this place. I had to be on guard, because every time I gazed at the river, a little rock or twig would remind me that I was in uncharted territory. Argh! Not to mention that twist in the path up ahead and – eek! – the hill going down, down, down to a wooden plank walkway that twisted before me with no end in sight . . . . !

Br-u-u-ump! Br-u-u-ump! Br-u-u-ump! My teeth chattered and people could hear me coming and cleared the way as I rolled downhill and onto the bridge, fully into a secluded forest setting. Momentarily I thought about turning around, but dammit, I was here, so I was determined to see where this path ended. The concrete path eventually opened back up, only to be oft-punctuated with wooden plank bridges.

In life, sometimes we see bumps along the way, and that little voice trips inside our heads, warning us with a sense of foreboding. At one point, as I rolled uphill and onto another bridge, I noticed the smallest little ramp, maybe an inch in height connecting the planks and sidewalk and that little voice said, “Watch out for that ramp on the way back . . . .

The path ended in another county in a completely different town. Someone buried their pet at the end of the path, making a little grave with flowers for a memorial and a headstone that read, “Fluffy – Gone but not forgotten.”

On the way back, I remembered the ramp and I knew when I was getting close. By this time, I’d developed a certain comfort zone with the wooden planks, and it felt as though I wasn’t able to catch much speed while chattering across. My thoughts were absorbed by the upcoming little ramp, and I completely forgot the hill leading down to it – that is, until I was in mid-hill and I realized I was going waaaay too fast to properly navigate both the little ramp and the immediate curving concrete just past it.

I knew I was about to eat shit. “Farfegnuggin!” I screamed as I hit the concrete. It was that or jettison myself into the river rocks about ten feet off the veering path.

I sat up. I could move my arms. I could move my legs. Didn’t hit my face. Whew! I landed on my knee and elbow, losing skin on both . . . and I waited for the hurt, but it never came. The sting felt strangely OK, good even. The song lyrics came to my head, “When everything feels like the movies, yeah you bleed just to know you’re alive . . .”

An older lady came running up to me as I reached for my glasses, which had landed several feet away. “Are you OK?” she asked. And then in what could only be called true Southern hospitality, she exclaimed, “I am not leaving here til you get up!”

I got up, shaken, but kept going, this time, more wary and more slowly and even at times taking the skates off and walking. As I neared the parking lot, I thought about getting in the car and just going home, but that’s when I realized I still had the whole upper part of the path to explore. And that’s exactly what I did, bloody strawberry on elbow, sore body and all. I don’t know when I’ll be back on the Congaree, so I had to see as much of it as possible while it was in front of me!

1.     Always ask for your dressing on the side. Trust me. Even if you’ve requested half the normal amount of dressing, you still are going to want your lettuce to not be floating in an ocean of caesar.

2.     It’s really difficult to find dark green lettuce. Or hummus. At least within a five mile radius of a mall.

3.     Try not to smack the kids at *insert unnamed restaurant here* who pronounce Minestrone as “min-est-rohn.”

4.     Don’t ask to try “just one grit.” It doesn’t work that way.

5.     Piggly Wiggly doesn’t carry that soy milk you’re looking for – but if you’re looking for chitlins or gizzards, check it out.

6.     Avoid the numerous street corners lined with Bojangle’s. The smell is intoxicating and might be enough to make you crack. (Although I’ve proudly refrained thus far.)

7.     Beware: These people are sweet tea pushers. Just say No!  

8.     Stock up on your Emer-Gen-C stash before arrival. It’s difficult to find.

9.     If you’re skinny, they try to tie you down and force feed fried food down your gullet.

10.   If you say you don’t eat dairy products, they don’t think that cheese counts.

Yeah, so I was on a plane. With a cat. Facing a new job. With only two hours of sleep after yet another move.

Yeah, so my Mom knows I love her anyway.

Besides, we’re not big on any kind of holiday.

Yeah, so on the plane, I sat next to an 81-year-old very white Southern Belle artist named Blackie. And I wished her Happy Mother’s day.

But I forgot my own Grandma. She called yesterday. I was at work, in the middle of a shit-storm of huge proportions. I was excited to see the cell phone ring. I was excited to see that it was my Grandma, but I was literally inside of a two foot deep stack of paper, desperately wanting nothing more than to just light a match.

“Grandma!” I exclaimed, “I’ve been thinking alot about you lately!” We chatted briefly about her upcoming 90th birthday party. Then I said, “I’m so sorry, but I really have to go, I will call you this weekend. I’m buried at work.”

My grandma is notorious for her eccentricities. Two in particular are saying exactly what’s on her mind and hanging up the phone with never even saying good-bye.

“OK,” she said. I didn’t even see the next comment coming – she completely blind-sided me. Usually I’m in tune enough to kind of know what’s coming next. I just thought I’d immediately hear the click of her hanging up the phone. But then she slipped in this nugget without an ounce of pity in her voice – “I had a great Mother’s Day.”

And then the immediate click I’m so accustomed to. My mouth hung wide open as I heard the buzz of the dial tone.

When you’re 90, I suppose you can totally get by with this sort of comment. I’m sorry Grandma, but I love you every day, not just on that contrived, commercial, “Hey-let’s-spend-money-and-give-flowers-and-candy-lame-Hallmark-day . . .”

I’m glad my Mom understands. She taught me never to rely on Holidays. To share love in every moment.

Random story time of an event in years past . . .

It was about 3 o’clock in the morning. We were dead tired and heading up a deserted, winding four-lane divided highway toward Santa Cruz. Neither of us could hardly keep our eyes open, so we pulled over to the side of the road, which was littered with about a foot of dry fallen leaves. I could hear them crackle underneath the Jeep tires as we pulled to a stop.

We were masters at the art of car camping. It took only about 10 minutes for us to move all our items into the front seats and to line all the windows with flimsy bamboo beach mats and our tattered sarongs. We unfurled our sleeping bags and cuddled up in the cold and immediately fell into a deep, necessary sleep.

We awoke with the early morning sunrise and the sound and force of semi-trucks barreling past. “Well,” he said. “I suppose it’s time to get going again.” We sat and talked for a few minutes and debated about whether we should wake n’ bake. We decided to hold off, a restraint that we didn’t often exercise.

“I need to pee,” he said. “But I’m kind of nervous about it. Cops love to give tickets for that kind of thing.”

“What?” I said. “Cops don’t give tickets for peeing on the roadside!”

“Yes, they do,” he laughed and got out of the Jeep, leaves crunching underfoot.

I was naked in the Jeep and covered with blankets and leisurely waking up while he was outside quietly pissing when all of a sudden, I heard the voice of another person.

“Whatcha doing there?” said the voice. “Are you peeing?”

“No.” Later as he re-told the story, he mentioned that this was about the time he ‘quietly put his dick away.’ He said, “I’m checking my tire pressure.”

“Really? Cause I thought you were peeing there, son.”

“Nah, just waking up. Girlfriend’s in the truck. Checking that we’re good to go.” I heard him move through the leaves again back toward the rear door. I thought that was going to be it, but I heard the crunching of leaves by a second set of more determined footsteps. It was about this time that I was really glad that we’d chosen not to break bread that morning.

“I’m gonna need to take a look there in the truck,” the cop said.

“Why?” he asked.

“What if there’s someone back there with a gun?” What is that cop talking about? I thought to myself. It was one of those frighteningly absurd moments that just come from out of nowhere.

“She’s naked.” He said to the policeman.

“Well, I have to make sure she’s not a hostage.”

Again. What?!!? I was busy throwing on a shirt and pants in case this situation went spiraling downhill. The door cracked open. I could see the policeman inching closer, could hear the leaves shuffling. I did the only thing I could think to do in such a strange situation – be a goofball. I laughed and giggled and called out in a sing-song voice, “I’m here of my own recognizance, Officer!”

And the next moment was an unfolding of reason. The policeman realized he was out of line, I could tell by the suddenly self-conscious look on his face, a look of “Oh shit, I’m being ridiculous.” And then the three of us all made acute eye contact and exchanged those real moment of truth kind of looks with each other. Then the cop said, “Have a nice day, folks!” Then he waved and retreated, crunching backwards through the fallen leaves. (The spot was so tight that the two of them had been in, that the cop didn’t even have room to turn around.)

He jumped into his squad car and zoomed away. He’d been sitting there, we figured out later, since well before sunrise, just waiting for one of us to pop out of the car in a marijuana smoke cloud, or brandishing a gun or a hostage or something. He’d pulled up deliberately into the blind spot of the Jeep so no one would see him when they got out of the car for their good-morning piss . . . or whatever it was he surmised we might be doing wrong.

So let this be a lesson to you all – yes, cops do indeed give tickets for roadside pissing. If you get caught – keep your cool, put your dick away quietly and just say that you were checking the air pressure of your tires. Try to make sure that your naked friend who’s still in the car has stashed all the guns and hostages into the glove box. You’ll be fine.

It’s a couple of days late, but I just realized it’s a 9-month-anniversary. I’ve been on the road for a solid nine months.

Nine months moves past rather quickly. Here goes – - -> I arrived to DC from BRC (and if you know what that is, you know how 100% different the two are) on 9/9/07; and on to NYC; Stamford; Boston; ABQ; Chicago; and then back home to Venice. I stayed in Venice for a few weeks, went to Northern California, then back to Venice, then on to Illinois, Kentucky, Tennessee. From there I stayed in Venice a few more days and then again onward to the Seattle area and from there straight to Albuquerque again and then Santa Fe and now . . . South Carolina.

Whoosh! It doesn’t stop here. Oh no! I’m only here for a couple more weeks and then Whoosh! again . . .