Fascinating, and I don't know why: on You Tube there are all these people who make videos showing themselves living in their RVs.
They range from people living and traveling in huge rock-star-type buses that are like luxurious houses driving down the road, to regular-sized motorhomes, to truck campers, fifth-wheels, to camper vans, conversion vans, people who have a bed and cooking facilities in the back of a pickup or a car....
Reasons people do this:
save money on rent or mortgage;
adventure;
see America without staying in motels;
be outdoors more;
take photographs;
paint;
write;
blog....
And some people's reason for doing it might be -- to make You Tube videos...
There are whole philosophies, belief systems, and mission statements behind this lifestyle, for some of the people who do it. They find new ways to do things -- save space -- have less stuff... I find it really interesting, although it would not be practical to do it myself. I find it almost addicting to watch their videos.
The views of the inside spaces in these campers etc. are just intriguing to the max. A couple living in their van -- I was playing their video -- and they were discussing how they built the interior themselves. They have a dining table, and a -- Creativity Table.
The man was describing his idea for something he built in there -- he said, "I'm not a carpenter, but..." and continued to explain his van interior concept. The phrase "I'm not a carpenter but--" reminded me of when I was lobbying, in the '90s, sometimes you would hear a lobbyist testifying before a legislative committee begin a sentence with, "I'm not a lawyer, but..." They had a Lobbyist Axiom about that.
Many lobbyists are lawyers, so of course only the ones who weren't could invoke that caveat....
Later in the Van Video, the guy said, "I'm not an electrician, but..." It's also kind of like "You know you're a redneck if..." The unfinished sentence... a vast plain of possibility....
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Mississippi John Hurt, The Best Of album has on its fourth groove the song, "Baby What's Wrong with You" -- it's a song whose jumping rhythm depends upon a regular strong downbeat. This would be provided by bass guitar and/or drums, in a band, but Mississippi John does it himself on an acoustic guitar: Bomp, ba-da-dah-da-da... His thumb....
Type on You Tube:
Mississippi John Hurt - baby whats wrong with you
and Play
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---------------------- [excerpt, Woodward and Bernstein] --------------------------
But the first priority on that Monday was Hunt. The Miami suspects' belongings were listed in a confidential police inventory that Bachinski had obtained.
There were "two pieces of yellow-lined paper, one addressed to 'Dear Friend Mr. Howard,' and another to 'Dear Mr. H.H..,'" and an unmailed envelope containing Hunt's personal check for $6.36 made out to the Lakewood Country Club in Rockville, along with a bill for the same amount.
Woodward called an old friend and sometimes source who worked for the federal government and did not like to be called at his office. His friend said hurriedly that the break-in case was going to "heat up," but he couldn't explain and hung up.
It was approaching 3:00 P.M., the hours when the Post's editors list in a "news budget" the stories they expect for the next day's paper. Woodward, who had been assigned to write Tuesday's Watergate story, picked up the telephone and dialed 456-1414 -- the White House.
He asked for Howard Hunt.
The switchboard operator rang an extension. There was no answer. Woodward was about to hang up when the operator came back on the line. "There is one other place he might be," she said. "In Mr. Colson's office."
"Mr. Hunt is not here now," Colson's secretary told Woodward, and gave him the number of a Washington public-relations firm, Robert R. Mullen and Company, where she said Hunt worked as a writer.
Woodward walked across to the national desk at the east end of the newsroom and asked one of the assistant national editors, J.D. Alexander, who Colson was. Alexander, a heavy-set man in his mid-thirtites with a thick beard, laughed. Charles W. Colson, special counsel to the President of the United States, was the White House "hatchet man," he said.
Woodward called the White House back and asked a clerk in the personnel office if Howard Hunt was on the payroll. She said she would check the records. A few moments later, she told Woodward that Howard Hunt was a consultant working for Colson.
Woodward called the Mullen public-relations firm and asked for Howard Hunt.
"Howard Hunt here," the voice said.
Woodward identified himself.
"Yes? What is it?" Hunt sounded impatient.
Woodward asked Hunt why his name and phone number were in the address books of two of the men arrested at the Watergate.
"Good God!" Howard Hunt said. Then he quickly added, "In view that the matter is under adjudication, I have no comment," and slammed down the phone.
Woodward thought he had a story. Still, anyone's name and phone number could be in an address book. The country-club bill seemed to be additional evidence of Hunt's connection with the burglars. But what connection? A story headlined "White House Consultant Linked to bugging Suspects" could be a grievous mistake, misleading, unfair to Hunt.
Woodward called Ken W. Clawson, the deputy director of White House communications, who had been a Post reporter until the previous January. He told Clawson what was in the address books and police inventory, then asked what Hunt's duties at the White House were. Clawson said that he would check.
An hour later, Clawson called back to say that Hunt had worked as a White House consultant on declassification of the Pentagon Papers and, more recently, on a narcotics intelligence project. Hunt had last been paid as a consultant on March 29, he said, and had not done any work for the White House since.
"I've looked into the matter very thoroughly, and I am convinced that neither Mr. Colson nor anyone else at the White House had any knowledge of, or participation in, this deplorable incident at the Democratic National Committee," Clawson said.
The comment was unsolicited.
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{All The President's Men, by Carl Bernstein and Bob Woodward. Simon & Schuster. 1974.}
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