For the past three years, my wife, Moon Daisy, and I have spent our time traveling in a dilapidated seafoam green 1971 Volkswagen Bus. The interior was a faded checkerboarded material that looked like cloth but felt like a damp sponge that sat in a dirty sink over the weekend. The van smelled of sex, caviar, and Drakkar Noir’s most nefarious scent, “Voyeur Connoisseur.” Throughout my years as a prolific mountain climber, award-winning hiker, and tantric sex thought leader, I have had many luxuries. I’ve dined in the finest restaurants in Hanoi. Slept on 1,000 count Egyptian sheets in Sudan. I’ve celebrated the new year with world leaders and billionaires in Club 33 in Disneyland. But one experience that separates “me” from “you” is trying to make ends meet and traveling throughout America in a piece of shit automobile for “fun.”
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Fancy Boys Club 