Phil Collins is my arch nemesis.

Everyone does it; you're cruisin' down the highway, sunny blue skies, windows down, a song comes on the radio, you crank up the volume and before you know it you are singing right along like you're the next American Idol. Now take the amount of times you do this compared with the amount of time normally spent in the car. So if you've done your math right, it would probably equal 1 or 2 songs per drive per day, which most likely averages about fifteen minutes to one hour.

Now take into consideration that I spend most of my time in my car, especially since I live in it. I should really get my own reality tv show with the lyrical wonders that come out of my vocal chords. Seriously, I should have a record deal. Normally I am fine with this. I don't really tend to ponder or question my in-car rock concerts. Well, at least until today.

There I was, driving south on I-87 in New York. Two and half hour drive from New Paltz, NY to Washington, PA. Wispy white clouds danced across the crystal blue sky. The chilly weather that had hung over me in upstate New York had given way to a warm, fall, mid-60 degree day. Sick of my cd's and ipod, I turned to the search function on my stereo. And that's where it all happened.

Approximately half way down the I-87 thruway, I became consciously aware of what exactly was happening in the microcosm that is my 2002 VW Eurovan Weekender. Let me give you some lyrical hints here: "How can you just walk away from me,
When all i can do is watch you leave..So take a look at me now, oh there's just an empty space And there's nothing left here to remind me, Just the memory of your face."

Oh ya, I was driving along, rocking out to the musical styling of Phil Collins. And not the quality Genesis Phil Collins. I was getting down with the awful, 1980's, cream suit, loafers with no socks, No Jacket Required, Phil Collins.

I was luckily able to keep my myself from driving my van into the closest cement lane divider. I noticed a rest area sign, salvation was approximately 2 miles ahead. I focused and drove directly into the parking lot.

Without shutting the engine off, I chose one of the loudest and most lyrically unintelligible cd's I could find, Helmet. I placed it in the player and cranked it up as loud as it would go without damaging my poor dogs hearing. In The Meantime flowed out of the speakers like a ravage dog on crack. It entered my eardrums and travelled down to the pit of my stomach. As the thumping bass and screeching guitars and lyrics swirled around my brain, I felt it pushing out the spam that had been placed there moments earlier.

After about twenty minutes of this I finally felt close to whole. Although I will never forget this lyrical, body-snatching, rape, I feel at least ready to move on. Maybe I'll even put the radio back on later this week.

Smiles in the strangest of places.

I walked into the building already annoyed that it was pissing rain outside and I hadn't had a cup of coffee, tea, or anything other than water for the past 13 hrs. In the front sliding door. Through the second set, can you believe that you still have to open this set by hand, what is this 1994? Around the elevator shaft, never take an elevator when you can take the stairs (you can't get stuck that way). Down two flights to the basement. Wonder how many times I've walked this path either healthy or feeling like death. Stay to the right, first door at the end of the hallway.

I turn the corner to find that I am not the only one that decided this was a great time for blood work. Sign in, number 4. I'm never going to get on the road at this pace. Lab tech, without even looking up, directs me to sit in the lobby until my name is called.

In the lobby, all of the other patients are sitting in chairs on opposite sides of the room from each other. Can't get too close I guess, you don't know what everyone is really here for. TV is playing a loop of some diabetes infomercial. These people look really happy to have diabetes. They act like testing their blood comes in a close second to an all expense paid trip to Spain. If it's that much fun to have a life threatening disease maybe I'm doing this healthy living thing all wrong.

The woman four chairs away from me gets called in. I swear I was there first. Some guy comes in and sits across from me with coffee and a bagel. I think food should be outlawed here. Serious harm can be done, and I'm going to be the one to make an example of if I don't get called soon.

Finally, my turn. The lab tech, of course, mispronounces my name. Good thing I answer to about 15 different annunciations of it. Annoyed, hungry, and bored I enter the lab. I get barked at to hand over my lab sheet and insurance card to be copied. I know this process all too well, they're already in my hand.

The old copier takes what seems like minutes to heat up before this process can move on. Just then I hear a voice from behind me. I realize its coming from this tiny old woman, probably about 80 years old, with a weight about the same as her age. "Don't worry, I didn't feel a thing, and she took 2 things of blood out of me." I turn around and make some comment about that being a good thing. "You look worried. If you want I can hold your hand. I remember during the war I went down to the courthouse, you know the old one downtown, with my brothers to get blood drawn for the troops. I was so scared, but the nurse there held my hand the entire time. I remember that it made me feel like I was safe."

At that point the first smile of my day came across my face. Maybe this hour hadn't been a waste. I met this wonderful woman, who without knowing me from the next, offered to help me feel safe. I think that its the best thing anyone has offered for a very long time.

Livin' in a van down by the river, or highway, or ocean, or park, or...

Technically I am homeless. No, I am not living in a tent in Central Park. I don't ride the El all night when it gets below freezing. My meal times do not revolve around when the daily trash is taken out at Whole Foods (although I may eat better and cheaper). I don't wash car windows at intersections, or beg for money outside Macy's.

I do live in a van, with my dog Hemingway. I live on the road. My address lies in GPS coordinates that border the Atlantic Ocean to the east, Canada to the north, the Great Lakes to the west, and the Mason Dixon Line to the south. I sleep when I get tired, shower when I can find one (even facets at rest areas work well I've found), spend countless hours at coffee shops using wifi (I think caffeine may have replaced the majority of my red blood cells), and all along the way meet some amazing individuals and see some incredible scenery.

Typical thought process: Why would I choose to do this? Am I running away from something? Was there some scarring moment in my childhood that made me never want to settle down? The answers: I feel I need to, no, and no.

I have not always lived this way. In 31 years I have experienced life from the Midwest, to the east coast, to the west coast, to the Rockies all from the comfort of a climate controlled, permanently grounded structure. I've had normal jobs, been involved in normal activities, and lived life in typical American normal form.

As I entered my 30's I realized that I was almost as uninspired and unsatisfied as I was when I was trying to "find myself" in my 20's, and I was pretty sure of myself by this point. So I decided to take this almost complete person on the road to try to find that last little piece of the puzzle. It's that tiny part of me that is still slightly buried, yet also known to me on some level. It gnaws at my gut every once in while when I see someone doing something particularly inspiring or read something that makes me want to get up and do something. I guess I figured it's a little easier to get up and do something when I don't have a comfy couch to lounge on while watching all the newest reality TV shows.

My job allows me to be able to choose this path, and still afford to live the life I've become accustomed too. I'm no martyr. I don't need to give away everything, live off scraps, and drive around in a '68 Bus (although I would love one). I have a dog to feed, a life to live, and fun to be had. After all, this buried piece of me needs to be coaxed out, possibly even bribed.

So this is my journey, as I have chosen it. In the words of the great Ernest Hemingway, "The shortest answer is doing the thing." So off I go.