That’s not an eviction notice, of course; that’s just the building permit that says my erstwhile residence is not, in fact, a residence. There seems to have been some confusion about this among
my readers, but when I said I live in a
studio, I didn’t mean a
studio apartment. (Actually, what I said was “non-residential studio space,” so I can only assume that my readers, all three of them, are illiterate.) Please note the paint and brushes. This is not, as the landlady gently but firmly reminded us, “a place for sleeping in.” There was no hope of continuing to unfurl my bedroll on the sly, as the landlady’s hawk-eyed and dolphin-eared son was living in the upstairs apartment, which, while zoned residential, is probably not licensed for whatever sort of opium parlor or house of burlesque he seemed to be operating there. The bottom line is that I went quietly, so as not to get my mom (the tenant) in trouble, and now I am back to living in the “Green Goblin,” my trusty 1999 Ford Contour. But before I set about chronicling our late adventures together, the Goblin and I, I’d like to say a few words about the one meal I actually ate while living in the studio.
Yes, ladies and gentlemen, it was a can of Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. And my thoughts about this can of soup are as follows. It is simple and 
delicious, especially with a few dashes of Tabasco. When you’re a little kid and home sick, or coming in from a day of sledding, or some insufferable “Calvin and Hobbes” crap of that nature, it’s just the ticket. But when you are rounding thirty years old, semi-employed, and what little you own is in the trunk of a car whose brakes are about to go, do not eat this soup. Every watery bite will make you feel like the fingerless-gloves-wearing hobo you are on your way to becoming. And I should clarify that while this was the one meal I ate in the studio, it is not a meal I ate only once. It’s easier than you think to get into the habit of eating a can of soup for every meal, perhaps with a side of Andy Capp’s® Oven Baked Hot Fries. Remember, dear readers, you’re only as poor as your food tastes.
