I remember at the beginning of last summer, Darin instilled in me a sort of charm about the possibility of being "Freewheelin Mikie Beatty". He used the nickname once in response to the freedom I was being handed by finishing college. I took it gladly and ran with it. For almost a year I freewheeled my way several times around the state, barely setting-up shop in any particular order or place. Even in LA, I never fully unpacked my stuff. So now the summer's rolled around again, and I'm uprooted and wheeling once more - sans 2 wheels of course.

Driving from Santa Cruz to the Sacramento Int'l Airport today, it occurred to me that I might finally be done with my Bob Dylan dreamings: spending frivolous earnings on gasoline simply for the joys of the open road. This is not to say that my bug to travel will ever truly escape me - heading east is intriguing, always has been and always will be. I want to study other cultures, immerse myself in new streets surrounded by strange people. But that's probably a natural urge for any world-curious boy or girl of my age (and since summer is the time of opportunity for these things why not pick up our feet and freewheel a little bit). But driving, leaving, packing, running - the travel is stale, singing alone in the car feels like a chore, it even takes a conscious effort to look at the mountains. The adventure, the grandeur, has been tapped out. I mean I think that's it, it's not adventurous anymore, not in the same way. What once was glamourous glorious and grand now feels just irrelevant, like leftover sweet rolls after dinner is over; living a Vagabond on the road, what was once such a dream that once enticed my little heart (from characters like Richard from The Beach or Sal Paradise from On The Road) has been lived, the experience is in my belly with the rest of the foods. I've eaten plenty of rolls, and now I've lost my taste for sweet bread.

So I'm sweaty and smelly in the sun this afternoon, pulling every piece of my life from the trunk of a rented Pontiac in an airport parking lot, and I couldn't help but be wary of the fact that instead of playing the role of Vagabond any longer (in some sort of story-driven great adventure I've been living in happily for a few years now) I've actually become one. Not a great actor eating the fruits and rolls of a meaty role, but an actual jobless carless homeless beat.

is this true? am I really convinced? Not quite yet..
Because beneath it all there's still all that formality of University education, years of working on stage and off in unshakable dedicatedness, long airplane rides for a hosting job, a financial aid office lecturer and college advisor, a hard-working Native American anthropologist, a pizza delivery kid who gets his sh*t done, an LA barhopper, a young uncle who can play and walk with the kids for hours, a totally inexperienced boyfriend, a tan rockjumper, an avid library browser, a pro snowboarder, a rafting guide, a health nut, a friend, a family boy, and an all-around over-lover of pretty much every thing.
we don many colorful faces as we eat all kinds of colorful foods. I just feel this Vagabond mask has molded onto my face too tight, and its hurting me. I'm ready to peel it off now and hang it on the wall.
Thank you mister Dylan, I love freewheelin.
But it's time to make some new things happen again.
And so i need a new title, a new mask to reach for.
Darin, any suave ideas?

here's some pictures