"The Occupation must live!" Someone had yelled it the night Occupy Los Angeles got raided. There was no way that the authorities were going to let the Occupation live forever. True, many had become complacent, and bored, and lazy - including me - the level of national awareness of corporate tyranny had been raised by several points, thanks in large part to these protests. If this trend is to continue, and the goal of "shaking things up" is to be taken seriously, we must carry forth.

But where? And how? I've always wanted to traverse the open highways, and meet up with the ghosts of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson. If it weren't for an unfortunate DUI, I would probably have already been out there. There are many legends about dissent on those long, lonely highways, and it was important to do the same today, as revolution draws nears and we attempt to solidify our name into History. Enter: "Yum-Yum" - a guy who's name is as unforgetable as his personality, perhaps unfortuntely. An eccentric, crass, occasionally monsterous individual who's less restrained in excercising his personality than most others. When I told him that I needed a driver, he was all the more willing to help out. "The Gathering of Love," he suggested for our destination, in Florida - a gigantic gathering of hippies, freethinkers, and spirtual "something-or-others." 

There already are a few groups driving around the country with that same idea in mind. But make no mistakes: We're better; more animalistic; more savage; more revolutionary. We left Christmas Day, right after another bout with my tyrannical landlord. "You are not allowed to give showers to people off the streets! I want your pool key!" she screamed for all the tenets looking outside their windows to see. I was trying to forego the pagan holiday of Christmas and actually do what Jesus Christ had said: help people. She was referring to my partners who were standing by the street watching the woman in the heat of her tirade: Yum-Yum, Dizzy and Pirate. They're "lesser" people than herself, so no worries.

The vehicle of this excursion is my 1987 Nissan Pathfinder - a reputable car in it's day. She's got 155,000 miles on it, room comfortable enough for four, and a maroonish red that looks quite appropriate here on Planet Mars. All the windows are dark, with the back windshield proudly advertising three well-placed bumberstickers. One of them advocates Ron Paul for President. I am a libertarian, anti-socialist freedom fighter. For the first time in a long time a populist presidential candidate has risen in the ranks of this very corrupt system. He's got my vote not because I support his views, but because he supports mine. AntiWar.com is right below him, a good resource for those people attempting to educate themselves on Empire, and escape the plethora of bullshit propaganda coming from the likes of FOX News - who I warn against with my last remaining sticker that reads: "Turn Off Fox. Bad News for America." All three of the stickers have their purpose. Awareness.

"But how will you get gas?" my family asked me. A fair question for this sort of randomness, especially if there's no immediate funds. If one were to Google "spanging" you would come up with a definition that says something like, "the act of asking for spare change." Gas jugging is the same thing. Both are not really an act so much as an artwork of humility. And the trade works well-enough in every location we've ever been to. Before leaving we managed to hustle up a half tank, enough to get us out of San Dimas.

The first stop was to be Las Vegas, taking us a grand total of eight hours, crawling along on the 15 Freeway. A rest stop outside of Barstow showed no sign of help, as all the bathroom doors were locked. Around the back was urination central, with scores of men - and woman - peeing into the cold wind. Two bummed cigarettes later, and we were back on the crawl. I have no radio in my car, and my laptop only has a few songs, one of them being "The First of the Year" - appropriate for the occasion. Over and over it played, breaking up our little conversations about drugs and sex and all things unrelated to the Cause.

Arriving at the Nevada state line at about 1 in the morning, we went into Whiskey Pete's. Yum-Yum went to play the slots and get a drink. I went to the restroom. In the adjacent woman's room there was commotion. "Why the fuck do you need you're purse?" a man was shouting. A heavy phillipeno accent mumbled something and laughed. "Why do you need your wallet? This is why I dont trust you." As I finished washing my hands I turned the corner and saw the man pointing to a lady sitting on a stool. "I'm gonna kill you bitch" he said. I remember being told in Folsom State about the amount of dead bodies buried in the desert. I'd hate to one day read about his poor mail-in bride being another casuality of Vegas.

We parked at Circus, Circus sometime around 2. The Strip was mostly dead. A very few people wandered around in cold at 2 in the morning. Spanging was not going to work. About an hour later I retired in the front seat. Yum-Yum and Pirate came in around 6. Four people sleeping in a small SUV isn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it'll have to make do.