Dan sent me this excellently eloquent recounting of his journey on the bus:
I, The Third Busketeer
by Daniel Evans Tinsley
What can I say?
There was once a musical sensation that formed in the hollow of that big green bus. Of this pop collective, I was third of the Three Busketeers. My name is Dantagnion, and I joined Petethos and Arimos in the early months of two-thousand-and-twelve. The home of Athens is where they met me. We were introduced by the fairy spirit, Gretchen, who sings to animals. She called us into her pow wow pot luck, and the universe shall never forget that instance of acquaintance. Afterward, we went to the apartment of Jake, the great keeper of WiFi to watch Dr. Who.
My chapters of journey initiated with the visitation of that fairy spirit Gretchen in her waffle castle to say goodbyes with juke box medleys heralding our sure adventures. And the rumbling of that bus hoisted us away away.
I dare not delve too intricately into the details of my recollections-- lest those bright triumphs inflate this blog entry into a novella. But with the great enjoyment of brevity, I shall present only a montage of events in this florid writing style:
The vessel had just been tailored to perform with the peculiar fuel of dumpster grease. And while Pete the pilot steered at the helm, Ari and I manned the new oil boilers. It was a pirate crew like none the Highway 7C (seven seas) had ever been privy to. When the barrels became dry, the ship set port in safety and we scouted for fuel to pillage. Docking in Savannah, our eyes found no great grease, but was here that we first tried our talent as bards of the street.
Musicians we became, whose tunes did rap along the cobblestone streets of that curious city, St. Augustine. In league with ghosts, tricksters, dancers, drunks, popcorn vendors, jewelry craftsmen, polite police, and bonfire magicians, our eyes did wander and wonder through the haze of ocean mist that permeated that haunted town.
An oasis of peace came as we ventured out to West Palm Beach, where there was Kate. She maintained a calm abode. Cats and Eastern European roommates entertained us as we laundered our oil-soaked clothes. Kate let us borrow her dinghy to tarry at the beach and to siphon oil in the night.
Welcomed by a junkyard friend, we jumped the peninsula to St. Petersburg. There we swam in the open Gulf and gulped down tasty waffles. From there we headed to a haven in Jackson. But bus troubles befell this leg of our journey. At Mendenhall those great Samaritans had compassion rewarded with satiated curiosities. We witnessed the auctioning of tarnished treasures.
Onward to Jackson! Amongst the most hospitable of damsels we stayed within that rag-tag city. So enchanted with our performances, they entreated that we stay and play in the night cafe of a university. Games were had here, kicking in jest a cracked water vessel. Rubbish pizza over sirens' callings, what silly whims possessed us?
The damsel Rose accompanied our departure to the great Creole capital, New Orleans. We pioneered that DIY RV wharf, Bustopia. Twas our home beside the banging beasts, that clattered and clanged at every hour. Joining our new colony were the German honeymooners, the Frenchman from New Amsterdam, and free-spirited family of Ray, Felicia, and little 2-year-old Bowie (Bowie the Bada$$).
This city of celebration had every sort of people: tree-house people, tall-bicycle people, jungle camoflage people, projection people, fire swinging people, musical people, 4-square people, square dance people, pedal-cab people, water-supplying people, street artist people, plastic bead people, and gypsy people.
Pete bartered off his goods at the French Market. Ari departed on an expedition to the far-north tribal territory. I mostly looked, in vain, for labor.
Bustopia was bombed by tragedy one fatal night. There is no exaggeration of the human language which can heighten the terror of this event to its true proportions. This night, a vessel of gypsys were welcomed at our encampment. One among them aroused anger from a local gang of violent hoodlums. The whole mob stormed into our once peaceful village, demanding barbaric justice. Glass was broken, captives taken, an innocent girl was stomped in the face.
Before this event, I had felt compelled to return to my debts in Athens. Now I had an opportunity for a free-ride back to my home with a bus of circus jugglers, the Safety Third team. As glass still lay shattered on that asphalt pier, I said my goodbyes, and departed. But, twas not the ultimate segment of my great adventures as the third Busketeer!
Wait...for part II.