Monterey, California and the homeless spoke to me of Freedom.

This all so surreal. I blogged a few days ago of Cannery Row and the homeless who live and exist side by side with the well to do. My text included visions of cigarettes being thrown onto the sidewalks and streets only to be gathered up by someone less fortunate to consume the smoke from this discarded evil.

Saturday night, Monterey, CA with clear skies and a gentle breeze coming in off of the Pacific found me parking Mozi under one of the many walkways which lead from the waterfront side of the street to the other side where the fish have been processed for a countless number of years. The parking meter would be shared by myself and another motorcyclist. One of the advantages of searching for a a parking spot for a motorcycle is the fact that we share. With 2 hours of coins dropped into a slot and not really knowing where this money goes doesn't really bother me at all. I have secured a space on Cannery Row, the famed setting for John Steinbeck's mind to unfold story after story about fishermen, gambling, prostitutes, and corrugated iron.

It took me about 40 minutes of walking up and down the street, crossing over several times in search of a target, a person who, tonight, will sleep in a space we might never see. A place called the Mayor's Office exists beyond the old tattered seawalls and foundations of once active fish houses. It is a piece of land covered with trash and smelling of urine. The human dump site is known by the policemen who herd these men and women off of the streets when the hustle and bustle of tourism dies off after midnight. I looked as I rode by this stretch of chain-link fence that resembles a construction site. I saw no one. The depressed lot was vacant of human life, but littered with non-refundable containers which surely hold the secrets of cheap vodka and McDonalds Coke, left in the lower corners of a round cup due to a straw with a flat end, unable to catch the last drop as a slurping sound must have echoed across the street to passersby.

I was admiring a well-dressed man trying to repair a halloween mask with a broken elastic band. When he walked away, I noticed a man wearing a winter jacket, pleated and puffy with the gray inside of the collar exposed at his thick, long light brown beard. Perhaps, it was gray too. His hat was definately brown and made of thich felt or canvas. He was carrying a single bag which I had already deduced to be filled with all of his worldly belongings. He suddenly clossed the street and I followed his lead as if I were attempting to stop him from reaching the goal line and scoring a touch down. I intersected his path about 20 feet west of Mozi's hitching post. My trusty steed attracted his eye before he even concidered I was the owner.

"Moto Guuuuuzi." he spoke out to me.

Wondering if I had seen this motorcyle, he said it again, "Moto Gutzi, as it is properly pronounced in Italy."

I just leaned against the building and listened to him speak of his brother's death on a motorcycle that somehow engaged in a battle with a guardrail back in the early 70's. As he continued telling story after story of his life and where he was headed, I asked him what was in the bag. Maybe I was a little blunt, but I just asked and he answered without hesitiation,"Vodka and Beer. Do you know what tomorrow is? It's Halloween. When we celebrate the DEAD!"

To make a long story short...would be a shame, so I hope I will soon be blogging about the rest of this night and the video interview with Dan and Al.

Mozi on...