Slab City

Someone brought this article in today's NY Times to my attention:
Parked in Desert, Waiting Out the Winter of Life
A few years ago, over the course of 1 year, I slowly drove around the country in a mini Toyota Chinook motorhome. The most unique time I had was during my 2months spent at this decommissioned WWII era military training ground in Southern California, Slab City. All that remains of the base are concrete foundations of structures that once stood and a grid of craggely ol' asphalt roads that partition otherwise uniform stretches of desert land. Vegetation is sparce, the only trees were a few randomly placed creosote and ironwood that created the rare and highly sought after swathes of shade. The onsite water is the Coachella canal and a very hot spring... neither are for drinking. Swim and fish in the canal, soak in the hot spring.
There are 2 distinct groups that live in Slab City:
1. Snowbirds: Old, middleclass, grey hairs who've cashed in equity and bought a nice (sometimes giant) motorhome. These folks travel south in the winter, and north in spring and summer. Can be found in Slab City between November/March
2. The Fringe: Roughnecks, homeless, migrants, outlaws, shellshocked, maltempered, granite livered drunks, and or a whole host of other (un?)desirable traits. Just plain, all out, shut-the-fuck-up libertarians to the nth degree. Many of The Fringe live in Slab City year round, meaning they survive the summers. True or not, they say the summer highs are 120+degF and lows 100. If they clash during the winter, they help each other survive in the summer; each summer, they say, there are casualties (the massive amount of alcohol consumed no doubt contributes)
As with most articles on Slab City, the emphasis seems to be on Snowbirds and Christians "missionary" sorts. During my stay, I found The Fringe infinitely more interesting, full of life, and yearning for expirience. I didn't drink while there; my buddy, a 50+yr/old cowboy, oil driller, baby maker/leaver, story teller, and sporadic gormet camp chef drank a fifth of whiskey and half a 12pack of warm, cheap beer everday. He drank all that untill, that is, when his disability check ran out days before the end of the month... then he'd go into detox shock. He rarely bought food. He was famous for saying, "I can get food and clothes for free, my check only buys liquor and tobacco." (or something to that effect) His name was Kenny. Hard to say why we got along so well but we bonded... kinda like I needed a father and he a son, but our roles seamlessly reversed constantly. Damn, it's making me sad, the guy's probably dead by now. He told me sugar made him into the alcoholic he became. When he was a kid, he'd come home from school and eat a big spoonful of sugar... then it became 2... as I remember it, he eventually downed very large quanitities and if he didn't his body would freak out, he was addicted. In his teens it moved to alcohol. He claimed that there was some scientific evidence that perports physiological similarity between and alcohol addiction. He was in bad shape when I knew him, but I tell you there was wisdom and compassion buried deep benieth all the haze, shit, junk, and disappointment he lived through. He rolled his own cigarettes from the cheapest tobacco I imagine can be out there. $10 for a 1/2 gallon of tobacco in a ziplock bag. He had a mustache that went down his chin, wore black drugstore sunglasses, and combed his hair straight back with water and grease that'd escaped from his scalp. One time I went to take a photo of him and his girlfriend. They said wait, dropped there pants and mooned me, pulling their butt cheeks apart with corresponding hands. Laughing like he did, he asked me if I could see their 'assholes', I said yeah. Months later I developed the film, and I'll be damned, there are 2 assholes dimmly clear in one-a'm. The dude was out there, and could he piss people off like no one I'd never met before; even I wanted to run him down once or twice, but it was only a matter of time till we and others were playing horseshoes waiting to get in that next game of chess. I'll tell you with all honesty, he was a friend of mine.