It's not writing...it's typing.

It's getting harder and harder to be an outlaw in this world.  

In order to break free and set out on a vagabond's life ridin' the rails of the US of A, free from worry or care, I would first have to pay off two credit cards, find an apartment sublet, and finish out the terms of a five year car lease.  At that point, I could could conceivably go off the grid.  But even then, I would probably still have to stop in whatever small town I happened to be in at the time, and find some free Wi-Fi to check email.

This is the Twenty-first century.

Gone are the days when you can find fleeting romance in the form of a Mexican woman named Terry sitting in the bus seat next to you.  If you've ever ridden a Greyhound bus in the last decade, you know that Kerouac's America is dead.

It's too scary to hitchhike, and even scarier to live without adequate insurance coverage, so my "On the Road" adventure will not be so daring as to hop in the back of cars headed towards Mexico in search of Jazz and that damn Dean Moriarty.  

No, my adventure will just be an uprooting of my midwestern possessions and a move out west to see what kinds of people they keep out there.