America's Campers and Vagabonds

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Sofisintown

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I found this article about camping and I thought some may find it interesting.
It is from New Yorker, and sometimes they require subscription to read their articles, so I copy-paste it here instead of adding a link.
Consider adding a pinch of salt here and there due to the source. Cheers!

The Confounding Politics of Camping in America​

For centuries, sleeping outside has been embraced or condemned, depending on who’s doing it.
A recent book by the historian Phoebe S. K. Young explores what, exactly, camping is, and how the pursuit intersects with protest culture, homelessness, and identity.

By the eighteen-seventies, the society pages of Scribner’s Monthly could no longer hide it: the “American pleasure-seeking public” had run out of places to seek their pleasure. Summer after summer, vacationers resigned themselves to “broiling in a roadside farm-house” among the “odor of piggery and soap-suds.” Or they visited costly resort towns, finding “more anxious swarming crowds than those left behind.”
For solitude on a shoestring, Scribner’s suggested an exotic last recourse—a retreat into nature with only a tent and modest provisions. “We mean camping out,” the magazine wrote, as if to cue an awed gasp. Such a pastime would appeal to those with “a lucky drop of vagabond blood in their veins.”

Just a drop would do, though. Early campers didn’t wish to be mistaken for actual vagabonds, and the line between the two was easily smudged. In 1884, Samuel June Barrows, an outdoors enthusiast and, later, a one-term congressman, warned that a traveller carrying a “motley array of bedding, boxes, bags, and bundles” might arouse “suspicions of vagrancy”; to distinguish oneself from the riffraff, it was best to pack a “de luxe” tent and fashionable attire.
Barrows’s anxiety underscored the contradictions of recreational camping, which he described as “a luxurious state of privation.” One of its luxuries was that it was temporary. In the name of leisure, well-heeled campers sought out the same conditions that, in other contexts, they condemned as uncivilized, unsanitary, or criminal.

In “Camping Grounds: Public Nature in American Life from the Civil War to the Occupy Movement” (Oxford University Press), the historian Phoebe S. K. Young finds that Americans have long struggled to decide what camping is, and who is allowed to do it. Over the decades, the act of sleeping outside has served wildly varying ends: as a return to agrarian ideals, a means of survival, a rite of passage for the nuclear family, a route to self-improvement, and a form of First Amendment expression.
In Young’s account, it becomes a proxy for disputes about race, class, and rootlessness—all the schisms in the American experiment.

As Barrows slept beneath the stars, countless workers were forced to do the same. In the eighteen-seventies, a boom-and-bust economy and a burgeoning network of railroads compelled laborers to crisscross the nation, following the cycles of the market. The “tramp problem” vexed those of means. Allan Pinkerton, the founder of the ruthless, union-busting Pinkerton National Detective Agency, blamed the Civil War for giving men a taste of “the lazy habits of camp-life.” In 1878’s “Strikers, Communists, Tramps and Detectives,” Pinkerton detailed the “grotesque company” tramps kept by moonlight, writing that debauchees would doze “in a stupid sodden way that told of brutish instincts and experiences.” Scarier than the encampments was the fear that some Americans might find them appealing, retreating from society to enjoy “the genuine pleasure of the road.”

The travel industry soon recognized those pleasures by making tramping an aesthetic, something that campers could slip into and shuck off as they pleased. A writer for Outing, a magazine aimed at moneyed outdoorsmen, preferred to “rough it in the most approved ‘tramp’ style—to abjure boiled shirts and feather beds and dainty food, and even good grammar.” As Young points out, the quotation marks around “tramp” raised a barricade between the imitation and the original.
Real tramps led a precarious existence, subject to arrest, surveillance, poverty, and ostracism. When élite campers wore their costume, they shrugged at a world in which, as Pinkerton wrote, “a man may be eminent to-day and tomorrow a tramp.”

The double standard was especially glaring in Native communities. White Americans, including Barrows, saw tribal settlements as the epitome of savagery. The U.S. Office of Indian Affairs hoped that Native populations would disavow their “barbarous life” and take up “a distaste for the camp-fire.” Such goals were presented as matters of public health, but the message diverged sharply depending on the audience. Although Native groups “learned that the only way to prevent consumption was to give up camp life,” Young writes, “recreational campers read that exposure to fresh air and sunlight” could cure the illness.
The government forced Native children to attend boarding school and subjected adults to dehumanizing reëducation projects. Meanwhile, Outing, as it had with tramps, presented Indianness as an identity to be adopted and discarded on a camper’s whim. One contributor confessed that summer gave him “an irresistible desire” to “live the life of a savage in all of its most primitive simplicity.”

In the early twentieth century, the automobile allowed legions of new drivers to flock to the countryside. Camping shed some of its élitist pretensions, but its popularity exposed new rifts. Eager for traffic, many towns constructed no-frills auto camps at their outskirts, where entry was often free, at least until the camps attracted hordes of families and their Model Ts.

These “tin-can” tourists, as Sunset magazine called them, ate canned food heated on the engine—or, more boldly, by a camp stove connected to the exhaust pipe. Camps couldn’t keep such people away; now that the backcountry, or even the frontcountry, was within reach, Americans intended to pitch their tents wherever they could. From 1910 to 1920, national parks and monuments saw a fivefold increase in visitors, reaching a million a year; by 1930, that figure had jumped to more than three million.

The deluge was unmanageable. In addition to arresting vistas and pristine forests, campers expected generous amenities—firewood, electric lights, running water, garbage collection—and they were not in the habit of leaving nature as they found it. California’s redwoods, in particular, were so frequently, heedlessly beheld that their roots began to choke underfoot.

To save the trees, Emilio Meinecke, a plant pathologist for the U.S. Forest Service, conceived a template still in use today: a one-way loop road with short “garage-spurs,” each of which functioned as parking for a designated campsite. By presenting campers with private, manicured spaces, Meinecke hoped to spare the surrounding plant life, reminding visitors that they were “guests of the nation.” Intentionally or not, his campsites had the flavor of the suburbs—the land, once for farming, was now to be savored as a consumer, and every family had its plot. The New Deal funded the “Meineckizing” of almost ninety thousand acres of federal campgrounds, about half of which were new, signalling the rise of what Young calls “the campers’ republic.” “Mixing leisure with nature,” she writes, “became a potent way for citizens to demonstrate national belonging.”
 
But all was not well in the republic. The Great Depression had pushed record numbers of Americans into homelessness: by one estimate, during one day in the spring of 1933, a million and a half people were sleeping outside or in public shelters, and the actual number was likely higher. Because camping was so popular, budget-minded vacationers were sometimes cheek by jowl with the down-and-out. Who could say which was which? Manufacturers of camping trailers went out of their way to disclaim the use of their products as “a permanent address.”

Others argued that campgrounds were too affordable or unsupervised. In 1940, J. Edgar Hoover, never one for understatement, alleged that roadside tourist camps had become “dens of vice and corruption” for “gangs of desperados.” Even Meinecke, for all his talk of hospitality, did not look kindly on extended stays at national parks. In an internal report, he complained that some visitors, “evidently camped for a long time,” had given one of his campsites a “ ‘used,’ second-hand look,” spoiling it for “decent people who are not slum-minded.”

Black visitors, too, found that the ordinary recreational privileges did not apply to them. The National Park Service couldn’t fathom how to attend to the needs of African Americans, so it simply dissuaded them from coming. “While we can not openly discriminate against them,” the minutes of a 1922 conference read, “they should be told that the parks have no facilities for taking care of them.” The numbers of Black visitors were low, which the N.P.S. took to mean that Black people had no interest in going; in fact, it was evidence that the agency’s deterrents had been effective. If there was wariness among Black communities on the subject of camping, it was, Young notes, well deserved: Black travellers had often been forced to camp in degrading conditions when inns and hotels refused to host them. Like many New Deal agencies, the N.P.S. was obligated to welcome all Americans equally, but parks in Southern states deferred to “local custom,” building segregated bathrooms, campgrounds, and picnic areas. When this policy was finally reversed, in the nineteen-forties, some Southern workers used just enough paint to cover the signs for “Negro Areas” without making them illegible. The discrimination remained, thinly veiled.

If the U.S. has dithered about the basics of camping—who can do it, where, and for how long—it’s been outright bewildered by camping as political speech.

Could anyone have a message so urgent that it can be delivered only by sleeping outdoors? The answer is yes, as thousands of protesters have made clear, but the government has seldom taken them at their word, instead casting them as devious freeloaders or closet indigents. Occupy Wall Street, which famously enjoined its participants to bring tents, honed an approach popularized after the Civil War, when the Grand Army of the Republic, a Union veterans’ group, camped near the Washington Monument to raise awareness of their sacrifices. In 1932, the Bonus Army—thousands of out-of-work veterans seeking their service bonuses—followed suit, encamping in plain view of the Capitol.

For weeks, the public debated whether the soldiers were heroes or hobos. President Herbert Hoover, deciding on the latter, ordered the clearing of the camps, resulting in a fiery conflict that claimed at least one life.
But a tent makes a forceful statement: someone is here, and that someone intends to stay. When Martin Luther King, Jr., and the Southern Christian Leadership Conference wanted to show Washington the true toll of poverty, they decided that camping was the only suitable action. The Poor People’s Campaign brought more than two thousand people to the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool in May, 1968, a month after King’s assassination.
Known as Resurrection City, the encampment lasted for six weeks, drawing support and ire. A concerned citizen wrote to President Lyndon B. Johnson that “a hoard [sic] of locusts” was abusing “hallowed ground.” Calvin Trillin, writing for this magazine, noted the irony: the poor had intended to show America that they were “sick, dirty, disorganized, and powerless—and they are criticized daily for being sick, dirty, disorganized, and powerless.”
By June 24th, the camp had dwindled to five hundred, and police fired tear gas to expel those remaining. A demonstration about homelessness, it seemed, was no different than homelessness itself.
Just three years later, Vietnam Veterans Against the War began planning to camp near the Capitol, and the Nixon Administration, fearing a repeat of Resurrection City, refused to give them a permit. The V.V.A.W. requested a stay on the ban, and the case went to court.
Determining the legality of protest encampments, Young writes, “required finding an elusive balance between Constitutional freedoms and public safety.” The N.P.S. would allow only a “simulated” camp on federal grounds: no fires, no tents. John Kerry, who argued for the V.V.A.W., maintained that a real campsite was the only way to “tell our story to the people of this country.” The judge hearing the case, meanwhile, felt that to camp was essentially to sleep and was an act that couldn’t “express a single idea”—and that couldn’t claim First Amendment protection. He upheld the camping ban; the Court of Appeals reversed it; the Supreme Court reinstated it. The V.V.A.W. decided to camp anyway, and, not wanting a public-relations disaster, Nixon let them be. The Washington Post quoted a Park Police officer who, looking over a National Mall clotted with sleeping bags, waxed philosophical: “What’s the definition of camping? You tell me. I don’t know.”

The ensuing decades did little to answer that question. By 2012, Congress was holding hearings on the subject, in which Trey Gowdy, a House member from South Carolina, grilled Jonathan Jarvis, the director of the N.P.S at the time. “What is the definition of camping?” Gowdy demanded. Occupy D.C. had been staying in McPherson Square, in downtown Washington, for months, and Jarvis had been reluctant to say that the protesters were camping—their actions were a means to an end, not the end itself, which was reason enough to avoid enforcing the N.P.S. ban. Gowdy seemed to understand the Occupiers as recreational campers in disguise; their politics were a cover story for a good time, and taxpayers were footing the bill. But the Occupiers emphasized that they weren’t camping at all. (“WE ARE NOT CAMPING,” signs on their tents read.)
Campers slept outside for the joy of it; Occupiers wanted “a redress of grievances.” Gowdy couldn’t compute how people camping “for fun” were permitted only in certain areas, while those “pitching a camp in protest of fun” were welcomed by the National Park Service. Without a clear distinction between camping and not-camping—the distinction that generations of Americans had tried and failed to make—he felt that “the fabric of this republic” was “going to unravel.”


Gowdy is now out of the House, but his comment echoes through a nation where camping, in its many forms, remains vital and perplexing—an emblem not just of our freedom but of its limits. Last summer, national parks saw a record number of visitors, leading to overcrowding and abundant litter.

The housing crisis continues to deepen; researchers estimated that, on a single night in 2020, roughly five hundred and eighty thousand people were homeless. And Young’s central insight—that camping both reflects and challenges notions of “national belonging”—is borne out in new ways every summer.
In June, 2020, in Forks, Washington, residents mistook a mixed-race family for members of Antifa. The family, unemployed because of the pandemic, had been living in a modified school bus, and had hoped to spend a few nights nearby while the bus underwent repairs. Instead, they were accosted by “patriots” in a supermarket parking lot, and then trailed into the woods by men driving trucks and A.T.V.s. At the family’s campsite, they heard bursts of gunfire, and found their escape route blocked by felled trees. According to Wired, Shannon Lowe, one of those harassed, later said, “They looked us right in the eye, and didn’t believe we were camping.”
 
On december 18, 2001 I was working 200 miles from home, hating the 5 hour round trip every day, I spent the work week near the job site in a slide in camper. At 2 am the pilot light on the stove ignited the gas that had leaked, filling the camper. the windows, vents disappeared, the door landed 40 feet away in the street, & the curtains were on fire. When the fire department arrived I had just put the last of the flames out & was putting my pants on.
It was a matter of protocol for them to call the American Red Cross. I wasn't hurt except for a pin prick of a cut on a finger from broken glass & first degree burn on my hands & face. Mind you this was a week before x-mas when always there's a story on the news about a family being left homeless by a house fire, & the Red Cross coming to their rescue. The person at the call center told the fire department that I was homeless & should find another cardboard box to live in.
Is there a fine line between homelessness and camping? Is it black or white, or is there a very wide gray area?
When I was about 7 or 8 years old I remember my grandfather writing checks to different charities around the holidays, the Salvation Army, Boys Town, and some others. When asked he got loud & angry about the Red Cross. During WWII, they charged ten cents for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, while the USO was giving them away. I can laugh about it now, what does Starbucks charge for a cup of coffee & a doughnut? Are they plain or jelly filled?
Tink tink, that's my 2 cents worth today.
 
When asked he got loud & angry about the Red Cross. During WWII, they charged ten cents for a cup of coffee and a doughnut, while the USO was giving them away. I can laugh about it now, what does Starbucks charge for a cup of coffee & a doughnut? Are they plain or jelly filled?
Tink tink, that's my 2 cents worth today.
Starbucks doesn't claim to be a charity, asking for donations.
10¢ in 1945 is $1.62 today.
 
I found this article about camping and I thought some may find it interesting.
It is from New Yorker, and sometimes they require subscription to read their articles, so I copy-paste it here instead of adding a link.
Consider adding a pinch of salt here and there due to the source. Cheers!

The Confounding Politics of Camping in America​

For centuries, sleeping outside has been embraced or condemned, depending on who’s doing it.
A recent book by the historian Phoebe S. K. Young explores what, exactly, camping is, and how the pursuit intersects with protest culture, homelessness, and identity.

By the eighteen-seventies, the society pages of Scribner’s Monthly could no longer hide it: the “American pleasure-seeking public” had run out of places to seek their pleasure. Summer after summer, vacationers resigned themselves to “broiling in a roadside farm-house” among the “odor of piggery and soap-suds.” Or they visited costly resort towns, finding “more anxious swarming crowds than those left behind.”
For solitude on a shoestring, Scribner’s suggested an exotic last recourse—a retreat into nature with only a tent and modest provisions. “We mean camping out,” the magazine wrote, as if to cue an awed gasp. Such a pastime would appeal to those with “a lucky drop of vagabond blood in their veins.”

Just a drop would do, though. Early campers didn’t wish to be mistaken for actual vagabonds, and the line between the two was easily smudged. In 1884, Samuel June Barrows, an outdoors enthusiast and, later, a one-term congressman, warned that a traveller carrying a “motley array of bedding, boxes, bags, and bundles” might arouse “suspicions of vagrancy”; to distinguish oneself from the riffraff, it was best to pack a “de luxe” tent and fashionable attire.
Barrows’s anxiety underscored the contradictions of recreational camping, which he described as “a luxurious state of privation.” One of its luxuries was that it was temporary. In the name of leisure, well-heeled campers sought out the same conditions that, in other contexts, they condemned as uncivilized, unsanitary, or criminal.

In “Camping Grounds: Public Nature in American Life from the Civil War to the Occupy Movement” (Oxford University Press), the historian Phoebe S. K. Young finds that Americans have long struggled to decide what camping is, and who is allowed to do it. Over the decades, the act of sleeping outside has served wildly varying ends: as a return to agrarian ideals, a means of survival, a rite of passage for the nuclear family, a route to self-improvement, and a form of First Amendment expression.
In Young’s account, it becomes a proxy for disputes about race, class, and rootlessness—all the schisms in the American experiment.

As Barrows slept beneath the stars, countless workers were forced to do the same. In the eighteen-seventies, a boom-and-bust economy and a burgeoning network of railroads compelled laborers to crisscross the nation, following the cycles of the market. The “tramp problem” vexed those of means. Allan Pinkerton, the founder of the ruthless, union-busting Pinkerton National Detective Agency, blamed the Civil War for giving men a taste of “the lazy habits of camp-life.” In 1878’s “Strikers, Communists, Tramps and Detectives,” Pinkerton detailed the “grotesque company” tramps kept by moonlight, writing that debauchees would doze “in a stupid sodden way that told of brutish instincts and experiences.” Scarier than the encampments was the fear that some Americans might find them appealing, retreating from society to enjoy “the genuine pleasure of the road.”

The travel industry soon recognized those pleasures by making tramping an aesthetic, something that campers could slip into and shuck off as they pleased. A writer for Outing, a magazine aimed at moneyed outdoorsmen, preferred to “rough it in the most approved ‘tramp’ style—to abjure boiled shirts and feather beds and dainty food, and even good grammar.” As Young points out, the quotation marks around “tramp” raised a barricade between the imitation and the original.
Real tramps led a precarious existence, subject to arrest, surveillance, poverty, and ostracism. When élite campers wore their costume, they shrugged at a world in which, as Pinkerton wrote, “a man may be eminent to-day and tomorrow a tramp.”

The double standard was especially glaring in Native communities. White Americans, including Barrows, saw tribal settlements as the epitome of savagery. The U.S. Office of Indian Affairs hoped that Native populations would disavow their “barbarous life” and take up “a distaste for the camp-fire.” Such goals were presented as matters of public health, but the message diverged sharply depending on the audience. Although Native groups “learned that the only way to prevent consumption was to give up camp life,” Young writes, “recreational campers read that exposure to fresh air and sunlight” could cure the illness.
The government forced Native children to attend boarding school and subjected adults to dehumanizing reëducation projects. Meanwhile, Outing, as it had with tramps, presented Indianness as an identity to be adopted and discarded on a camper’s whim. One contributor confessed that summer gave him “an irresistible desire” to “live the life of a savage in all of its most primitive simplicity.”

In the early twentieth century, the automobile allowed legions of new drivers to flock to the countryside. Camping shed some of its élitist pretensions, but its popularity exposed new rifts. Eager for traffic, many towns constructed no-frills auto camps at their outskirts, where entry was often free, at least until the camps attracted hordes of families and their Model Ts.

These “tin-can” tourists, as Sunset magazine called them, ate canned food heated on the engine—or, more boldly, by a camp stove connected to the exhaust pipe. Camps couldn’t keep such people away; now that the backcountry, or even the frontcountry, was within reach, Americans intended to pitch their tents wherever they could. From 1910 to 1920, national parks and monuments saw a fivefold increase in visitors, reaching a million a year; by 1930, that figure had jumped to more than three million.

The deluge was unmanageable. In addition to arresting vistas and pristine forests, campers expected generous amenities—firewood, electric lights, running water, garbage collection—and they were not in the habit of leaving nature as they found it. California’s redwoods, in particular, were so frequently, heedlessly beheld that their roots began to choke underfoot.

To save the trees, Emilio Meinecke, a plant pathologist for the U.S. Forest Service, conceived a template still in use today: a one-way loop road with short “garage-spurs,” each of which functioned as parking for a designated campsite. By presenting campers with private, manicured spaces, Meinecke hoped to spare the surrounding plant life, reminding visitors that they were “guests of the nation.” Intentionally or not, his campsites had the flavor of the suburbs—the land, once for farming, was now to be savored as a consumer, and every family had its plot. The New Deal funded the “Meineckizing” of almost ninety thousand acres of federal campgrounds, about half of which were new, signalling the rise of what Young calls “the campers’ republic.” “Mixing leisure with nature,” she writes, “became a potent way for citizens to demonstrate national belonging.”
Reminds me of the first thing I learned in vanlife:

Never look like you live in your van.
 
^Since the title of the article refers to "the politics of camping", it's not unreasonable for someone to say that it sounds political. ;)
 
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Everything sounds “political” to those without an understanding of politics.
I agree although I am not one of those people. My understanding of politics is quite good. But would be a waste of time trying to discuss the issue since some of my posts have already been removed or altered.
 
What kind of world would it be for grumpy old men if they had nothing to grouse about?
If the grandfather who made it thru WW2 is one of the grumpy old men you are referring to, many people would say he had earned the right to do all the grousing he wanted ;)
 
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a 'camper' will never be the definition of a 'vagabond' or could it?

a camper will never be homeless and no job thru forced issues, ( a few could be ovby) but put that against the MILLIONS of people doing just that as being a vagabond, homeless, no hope of future but what life options do they even have? ditch the camping 'kinda try' into this all and leave it as it should be....homeless and desperate for change and despondent for whatever issues etc and take real truths from old times to now ya know. (I see it that way kinda :))

eh, nowadays most out of work ain't searching for work cause the 'era' took it away.....now it is the more homeless have 0 hope 'to find' better life on the road kinda.

we are screwed for our futures and how cities etc deal is beyond me but it is what it is kinda and we are all gonna be in on what goes down whether we like it or not, or can run from it and never be effected or we become 'it', who knows.
 
^Since the title of the article refers to "the politics of camping", it's not unreasonable for someone to say that it sounds political. ;)

Haha, yea!
I think it's only when someone here stands up for one side while claiming the other side is wrong/bad/evil/unworthy that the danger of being banned becomes real.
 
It's much bigger than politics.
There has been distrust and at times strife between the nomadic and settled populations.
The Bible's Cain and Abel is a great example. The moral of that story was that agrarians with their wheat were wasting their time. The nomadic shepherds with their animals were more important!
Some anthropologists and archeologists like to pin the start of civilization to the switch from nomadic to settled agrarianism.
Though the discovery of the 11-15k year old buried structures at Gobekeli Tepe upset that timeline a bit.
 
I think we are probably safer to avoid "opinion" as much as possible. But we are now entering a time when teaching documented historical facts is not allowed if it makes someone else uncomfortable. Unfortunately, that makes it hard to learn from our mistakes. Or from the mistakes of our forebears.

To address the concept of camping vs a wandering lifestyle, I think it may be more a matter of duration and intent. If you are doing it for a short while before going back home, you are camping. If you are home wherever you are, you are a nomad. Or whatever word floats your boat. And one can always transition into the other. So, who does it really matter to?
 
Reminds me of the first thing I learned in vanlife:

Never look like you live in your van.
.
Since 2003, we full-time live-aboard in our ExpeditionVehicle.
Although we prefer to boondock in forests and on beaches, we occasionally house-sit.
Our rig would be an unlikely candidate for that goofy 'stealth' label.
Accordingly, we go preemptive.
.
We knock.
If no answer, we leave a flyer describing our service, date in and date we potentially leave, plus our contact information.
.
And sometimes, we invite our new neighbors-friends over for a pot-latch or BBQ.
And I try really hard to sincerely smile.
And I try really hard to not project defensive 'us versus them' energy.
In our experience, a good percentage of folk want to be -- and will be -- us, living and traveling and having a grand old time.
Part of our gig is doing the 'role-model', showing folks an alternative to 'them versus us' energy.
.
.
An aside:
I would like to retire the word 'stealth'.
Pretty much anybody can recognize a live-aboard.
Stealth does not exist, stealth never existed.
I could spot a live-aboard in a crowded parking-lot.
On a dark and stormy night.
One hand tied behind my back.
.
I bet most of us would.
 
I think the difference is how you maintain your camp. Keep it tidy, and it gives the impression that you're just camping.

If it looks like a trash pile, you do, too.

I think the drunks and junkies give the word 'homeless' a bad name. These are people who have no intention of going by anyone else's rules, just their own. I live near Olympia, WA, a place that encourages parasites. Trying to get around a blocking accident, I drove into a drunk/druggie camp. I didn't see any who looked like a true homeless person. I Ieft a lot faster than when I went in.

True homeless people seem to live in small groups, away from society's parasites.
 
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