The Dharma Bum

The Dharma Bum by Jaysen Buterin

"Whenever you find yourself on the side of the majority, it is time to pause and reflect." -Mark Twain

Hey there true believers.

It's me, your dharmic friend Jaysen, writing to you from Greensboro, North Carolina. Greensboro, city of umm, well me and my dearest, Kindal, and well, thousands of other people. Anyway, first off, to settle the question on all your minds - no, not which Survivor really should've won; mon dieu that show thoroughly annoyed me and I never even saw it. You know it's pretty bad when a 90210 addict won't even watch a show. Back to the question on your minds - it was Crystal "no meat-extra beans" Jones who won the mini-van betting pool. My little van made it all the way to Greensboro without a single problem and is still working quite nicely.

I've spent some time trying to think of how to write another column after the emotional sojourn I went on last time. The two members of the only audience whose approval I sought, my beloved parents, gave their blessings and their emotional appreciations. Using that to overcome the succubus of depression and homesickness, I decided I couldn't try to ascend to that last column, so I could only hope to someday rise to it again.

No dear readers, what I want to share with you this time are universal to everyone. The machinations of what I'm prepared to talk about traverse well beyond the limits of excruciatingly painful. This motif I must share with you can reach heights of such Machiavellian proportions, evil (pronounced ee-veel) itself could only dare aspire to wear such a mask of exacerbative contempt and proportions. Yes boys and girls, that vivisectional paradigm that would make any of the circles of Dante's Hell seem like a drunken field trip at Six Flags. Yes, I'm talking about moving and all of the debacles, conundrums and annoyances that go along with it well, three of them anyway.

Problem #1: Packing

So after accepting this new job that I have and getting both elated and saddened at the same time, this problem occurred to me: how does one fit an entire two bedroom apartment's worth of stuff into a 1986 mini-van whose last leg fell of somewhere in between "the Clinton bomb and dot com"? As much as it pained me, the logical conclusion was to pay the exorbitant fee for a moving truck (Don't let that $19.95 a day propaganda confuse you - that's only if you're moving within a ten foot radius.). So after making the arrangements I tell my father my plans with confidence of my own decision-making abilities. My father has the uncanny ability to take my confident decision and turn it into a shining paradigm of idiocy. But the maddening thing is that you can't argue with the infallible and ineffable logic that is 'father' because he does it in such a loving and paternal way that you know he really does have your best interests at heart. Plus, he's right anyway. So I packed the mini-van with all the stuff I deemed "necessities" and he came down and loaded the rest of stuff to be brought down once I found an apartment.

Problem #2: Finding a place to live a.k.a. "The Apartment"

This surprisingly enough was the easiest of this triumvirate of problems. The day after I got here I spent its duration looking for those ominously hope-inspiring "For Rent" signs. I almost disobeyed the cardinal rule, and the motherly commandment, and went with the first place I looked at - a one-bedroom studio flat, completely renovated, right above a coffeehouse and simply three blocks away from my job. Only problem was that the street that it was on is kind of like Broadway in Cape on a Friday night, all the time - and there was no place to park, ANYWHERE. So needless to say I found a much better place - that first place was too new, I like an apartment with character (kind of like Town Plaza). So I found a great place a few blocks away, on the first floor - 2 bedroom, hardwood floors, bay window, parking in back, only problem was that I couldn't move in until the beginning of the following month. So I've been staying with my dearest Kindal at her apartment. Just her and I and her roommate. I love her dearly and I'm always up for "living in sin" but there's just something about living with two girls that's a little too "Three's Company" for me, but if Mr. Furley hasn't burst in yet, I suppose I can make it until the end of the month.

Problem #3: The DMV factor

My last problem was that hellish spawning ground of evil (ee-veel) incarnate where time slows to a dead crawl and the tortures you're subjected to rival the imagination of the Dark Lord, Satan, himself. Yes, I'm talking about the Department of Motor Vehicles, or as I will refer to it from now on, Hell. Getting a license should be fairly easy right? WRONG!!! I went to Hell (the DMV office), and stood in line with the other damned souls, only to find out that my name wasn't specifically listed on my parent's insurance card and therefore didn't count. So I called the insurance company who assured me they would fax Hell a card with my name on it. Two hours later the fax was nowhere to be seen. Again I called the insurance company and it turns out that I'm not covered on the insurance and thus have absolutely no coverage. So I leave Hell and pull out of its parking lot, go home and proceed to call around to get my own insurance. Only problem was that the title & registration for my beloved mini-van was in my beloved mother's name. So I've gotten that switched over. Now I can go get my own insurance. So I can get my license. All so I can be legal to drive and Boceephus,the Bouncer, at the bar or liquor store doesn't have to tax his three remaining brain cells trying to add up my age from the date, or remember where Missouri is on the map and what little "hidden object" is in their licenses. I told him the hidden object was a sailboat and that he should relax his eyes, but he wasn't as amused as I was.

So that's it boys and girls, other adventures and misadventures I'm sure will trickle out later. Greensboro really is a lovely city. I've already staked out the local coffeehouses and pubs. Kindal and I found a theatre that serves imported beers and wines at the refreshment stand. We drove three hours towards the coast, swam in the ocean, and fell asleep on the beach for a while. Conversely I spent two weeks as the poster boy for the "Irishmen don't tan well" campaign. And in a week I should have my apartment, my license, and all my belongings here. So dear readers - as the sun sets slowly in the West, I bid you a fond farewell from the back of the line of lost license souls who have apartments but just can't move in yet, and spend their days avoiding the Ropers and the Furleys of the world in true Jack Tripper fashion. Bonne nuit mes amis.