#94 Hobo At Large
I’m slightly hung over, it’s a Sunday morning, and I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Portland, Oregon, attempting to write my ninety-fourth column. As I write these very words, I think to myself, “Hot diggity damn, Mike! This all feels so natural, so normal, and so…nice!” And it should feel this way, because writing a column on a Sunday morning with a hangover in Portland, Oregon is something that I did nearly every single Sunday for two years when I lived here.
And as I delve deeper into the personal significance of this very moment, I begin to experience yet another personal epiphany; I suddenly realize how THIS all started. And thus a patented goofy grin makes its way across my face in the same way that coffee can slowly spill over the edge of a mug and into a cloth napkin on a table; it’s a slow and steady march, and there’s really nothing I can do about it.
Something has become clear to me, and the results are making me smile; I realize, today, for the first time, that the main reason I started writing a column back in 2006, on every Sunday, is that I needed something to occupy my morning on a Sunday, in lieu of the Crossword puzzle that I do every Monday through Saturday. You see, since I cannot finish a New York Times Sunday Crossword puzzle without cheating on a level reserved for someone like Tonya Harding (she’s a local Portland celebrity!), I see no point in even trying to do the crossword on a Sunday. Evidently, in the Spring of 2006, I replaced my morning crossword routine, each Sunday, with a 3-5 page “essay assignment,” in order to bide my time. And that is how this column started!
But this epiphany is only possible because I am in a highly self-analytical mode of thinking right now, due to the fact that I’m here, in Portland, at this very moment because I am looking for an apartment to move into. Yes, you read that correctly, I have made the seemingly flippant decision to move back here, for about six months, until I attend graduate school in the fall
For those of you who know me, you just smiled, shook your head, and probably pictured me loading my overnight bag into the back of whatever car I owned the last time I visited you. Because you already know something about me that I am only just now learning about myself, and this is the perfect recipe for an ironic moment between a writer and a reader. You are very welcome.
My epiphany is that I am addicted to Transience.
Let me try that again, in a more professional manner: “Hello, my name is Mike Oppenheim, and I am addicted to transience. I’ve been a transient since I turned eighteen, when I left my home for a random locale 3,000 miles away, and ten years later, I’m not even close to becoming a recovering transient addict, because I actually move and travel more now than I ever did before. Wait? Why is there nobody else at this meeting? What’s that? All the other transient addicts went away for the weekend? Go figure…
If you glance over my track record, you will clearly find a few things out about me: The first, and most obvious, is that I love to move. But this doesn’t mean that I’m not without my creature comforts. I mean, if you dig a little deeper (pretend you’re vetting me (that sounds vaguely sexual, and I like it!)), then you will discover that despite my transient nature, I also have an absurdly long list of ridiculous routines that defy said transient nature.
I mean, for someone claiming a dependency on transience, I sure look like a fraud given the facts that I enjoy self imposed weekly column deadlines (I am the worst boss I’ve ever had!), I do one to three crossword puzzles a day, six days a week, I enjoy eating the same thing for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, I smoke cigarettes at pre planned intervals throughout my day, I predictably forecast the same dire “contrarian” results for the world economy, regardless of the current public sentiment, and I listen to the same ten bands, over and over again, day in and day out, rarely giving any of my other 800+ cd’s a chance to spin and strut their stuff.
And while we’re on the subject of music; I would just like to say that I listen to the same ten bands because I am NOT willing to hold my breath any longer for the next great band. I have adopted this policy because good music officially died the day that Limp Bizkit was nominated for a Grammy award, and so I see no point in waiting for the next Beatles-Doors-Talking Heads-Nirvana-Pavement-Radiohead-Spoon to come into my life. I feel the same way about the woman of my dreams. I’ve given up all hope on anything great coming into my life, and I blame Clear Channel for this personal dilemma.
I further think that it is important to note that this event (Limp Bizkit’s Grammy nomination/the death of my idealism) occurred less than a year before September 11th, 2001. This leads me to believe that this event actually sent “the terrorists” into motion, for they were so outraged by America’s piss poor collective consciousness at this point in time, since the single last redeeming quality of our culture was our good rock music, that they saw this event as “the proverbial straw that broke the camel’s back.” Don’t kill the messenger; I’m just reporting the facts as I see them.
Back to me, and my transience: Ever since I bought my first car, in the late summer of 2000, I have been a road trip machine. I’ve driven to almost every single state, and I’ve flown to the ones that I couldn’t drive to. I once drove from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Tampa, Florida in only twelve hours. Go on Google maps and do some mileage calculations and you will realize just how much this statistic corroborates with my personal focus (read: insanity) when it comes to driving long distances. I only stop for bathrooms, gas, and coffee.
I love change. I love looking forward to “the next big thing.” And when you move around a lot, and constantly travel, you are always creating “big things” to look forward to. Think of road trips and moving as my own unique “mikeyopp” version of a carrot rope. I’m just so complicated and intrinsically-self reflexive, as a person (read: moronic, obtuse and slightly insane) that I have figured out how to create my very own carrot rope, and I have further discovered how to dangle it in front of my very own nose. I’ve cut out the slave driver; I need no middle man, hear me roar.
I think I like to travel so often because constant change prevents me from becoming close minded about my world. I enjoy making and perceiving connections between two seemingly unrelated, tangible aspects of my Universe on the same level that I enjoy drinking coffee, reading, eating chips and salsa, and doing a crossword puzzle; it’s a base pleasure for me, and one that I see no harm in indulging.
So I travel because weird notions pop into my head when I see new things, and I love to experience new thoughts! A good example of this occurred this summer, when I was driving in New Mexico and I happened to notice that New Mexico has the highest ratio of white cars to other colored cars in the lower forty eight states. This is an official Mike Oppenheim fact. I drove all the way through the state, and I swear to the god you do or do not believe in that two out of ever three cars with a New Mexico license plate is white. I have decided this is so because it’s so damn hot there that people are more inclined to buy a white car, since white reflects the solar radiation, whereas darker colors tend to absorb the heat from the sun.
New things sparkle, and old things do not. I call this my “new credit card theory.” I remember when I got my very first credit card, at eighteen, how exciting it was to possess such an item. I mean, having access to a bunch of money that I didn’t actually have was an amazing experience, at the time. I can fondly remember how exciting it felt every time that I used to pull that shiny little plastic card with my signature on the back from my wallet, and hand it to a clerk in a store; I mean, that little plastic card practically sparkled in my hands! But now? Now a credit card is a thick obstruction that bloats my wallet, and what’s even worse, instead of shining, it represents capricious spending and painful lofty bills with an itemized list of just how much I spend eating and drinking at bars, and how often I do this, and so, well, it’s old to me now, and it therefore doesn’t sparkle anymore!
I have realized, and accepted the fact that currently, in order for ME to grow as a person, I require a steady dose of change in my life. Moving around apparently provides me with ample medication for this psychological condition of mine. So be it. Some people cure their own boredom by using drugs or by getting drunk, by sleeping around or by dating a total loser who provides them with unlimited personal drama. Me? I just throw my favorite two shirts and some boxers and socks in a bag, grab a pack of smokes, and I hit the road for a night or two, whenever I need some excitement in my life.
But this year, a funny thing happened to me. Actually, depending on your perspective, it was possibly tragic, but in my loony world, it was quite comical. A car hit me and totally EFFed up my traveling life; and now that I’ve recovered a whole lot from that awesomely not awesome un-awesome experience of not traveling and sitting on my ass for weeks on end, my personal solution, or so it seems to be, is to not only travel very frequently, but to actually, literally, move very frequently. I’ve changed the carrot on my rope; I’ve raised my personal bar for achievement; yikes!
So it should now make perfect sense to you, dear reader, that after a brief stint in ABUC (say it backwards), and then an even briefer stint in Portland, Oregon, my old stomping ground (when it’s cold, rainy, and dark, I tend to stomp a lot and pout like a little baby…), I have decided that California was not properly sating my quench for some deeply intangible, yet nevertheless very real desire of mine, and I’m betting the farm (read: moving all my things) on the fact that Portland can best satiate this need of mine for the next six months. And fear not, because it’s a foregone conclusion that in about six months I will pick which graduate school to attend, and then I will pack up all my earthly belongings, for the fourth time in a twelve month period, and move, yet again.
The nature of the Universe is to constantly change and grow. Nothing lasts forever, and I’m just a working model of this deeply esoteric philosophy. I’m also an insanely superstitious sports fan, so I don’t think anything I write about the nature of our Universe should hold too much water with you (except my “New Mexico White Car Theory,” that’s as good as gold!).
So if you are reading this, and thinking that you might want to update your address book, I’d say, “don’t bother,” ’cause you know that the second I get to where I’m going, I’m already nine tenths of the way through with planning my next vacation, the vacation after that, and a contingency exit plan, just in case. My name is Mike Oppenheim, and I am addicted to transience.
