"This bacon's terrible!" declares the man sitting across from me at the Frothy Monkey. This has nothing to do with this post other than it just happened and I couldn't come up with a title. So, thanks angry bearded man. Dude digs pork.

We’re being put up in a mansion in the Hollywood Hills, one owned by a company that synthesizes high fructose corn syrup and horse hoof into a palatable tooth rottener. Knowing we’d be staying here, I’ve packed light, leaving ample room for 50 or so packets of obesity fuel. What did Oscar Wilde say? Everything in moderation, including moderation?

The picture that sparks this memory is one of me sitting in this mansion, fedora’d and bespectacled, playing an ostentatious, USA-themed piano. Red, white and blue, baby. Part of the gig for bands staying at the Fructose Fortress is advertising your presence without giving up its super-duper secretive location, hashtag blessed etc, and this is my offering. I’m not opposed to ostentation here and there, and I like candy.

Post photo op, Jason’s shooting pool, Allen’s flying his drone and I’m in a sugar induced coma in the hot tub, glass of whiskey in one hand, cigar in the other. It’s in moments like these I reflect on the fact that many friends my age are married with easily describable jobs and young families. I'm in a hot tub, in my underpants, ashtray filled with gummy candy and a nice whiskey buzz preventing the one percent from harshing my mellow. It’ll come as no surprise that I’m single. I don’t own much- a few guitars, couple amps, a handful of clothes. Inspired by back health and generally not having stuff, I ditched my bed, preferring instead a thin mat on the floor and a couple pillows. You’d think that I’m about to launch into a tirade against the Man, the Industrialized Food Complex and see I’m already boring you. I live a simple, uncluttered life and, in decluttering, I have more space for others.

This blog’s actually been the catalyst for my downsizing. On a recent, particularly dreary afternoon, I shut my laptop in disgust, declaring to my empty living room that I sucked, was totally useless and there's no point even finishing this sentence. So, I started taking things to Goodwill. Seemed like a good idea at the time. I started with my closet, donating clothes I hadn’t worn in years, then moved on to the garage, sorting through bric-a-brac that’d inexplicably made the cross country trip from Seattle to Nashville. 8 hrs later, I realized I could now pack everything I owned into my Toyota Corrolla and not even fill it half way. It was time to retackle that blog post. You're reading it now.

For whatever reason, I’m living a kooky, Peter Pan lifestyle that seems to invite two perspectives. One, I can search for holes, things I’m lacking, hopelessly comparing myself to friends buying homes on fat Amazon salaries. Two, I can own my situation to an almost comical degree. Get rid of everything. Travel on a dime. Talk to everyone. Take nothing but pictures, spend nothing but time, trust I’ll become one with the Force eventually. Guess which one I've chosen.

I wrote a lyric recently- “I may be lonely but, when it’s time, I’ll let that go.” For now, it’s me. My shitty back, my foibles, but also my curiosity, my open-mindedness.

I’m where I need to be. When it’s time for a tiny Trevor perhaps or an infinitely patient woman convinces me to buy a bed, I trust I’ll have arrived there right on time.