Life in the Parking Lot

I slept in a parking lot last night.

Oh, I had a bed. And walls. And a bathroom. In what AirBnB described as an “urban cottage.” I guess “studio apartment in a corner of a parking lot” lacks a certain romance.

Naturally, my parking lot home comes with its own designated parking space. Ironically, I cannot park in it because of the giant pickup truck nearby. 

Still, I would rather be in the parking lot cottage (“parking lottage”?) than in the sterile, cookie-cutter motel the conference had reserved for us. The lottage has character, if not little bottles of skin cream.

But my father was an insurance man, so part of me can’t help wondering about whether this arrangement skirts regulations. All these do-it-yourself hoteliers and taxi drivers—don’t we need someone to make sure they know what they’re doing?

With the GOP busy dismantling every regulation they can get their paws on, we may be better off with mom & pop operations—if mom & pop understand ethics and safety. It may take a while for corporations to fully appreciate their freedom from regulatory interference, but once they realize the shackles have been removed, who knows what we can expect?

The GOP may be deregulating businesses, but they’ve started slapping regulations on language. The EPA is now barred from using the phrase “climate change.” Do they think if we can’t talk about it, it will go away? The polar ice will stop melting? No one will notice the tides rising? The air thickening with smog?

I guess there are crazier things than sleeping in a parking lot. At least I’m moving on in a couple of days; the insanity of the deregulators and the truth police will be with us long after Velveeta Voldemort has left us for a minimum security golf course.

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