My wife and I, gypsies that we’ve become, moved into our third sublet Sunday. Each has been perfect in its own right, but this one is probably the nicest by modern day methods of measurement. Our ‘host’ met us there to show us the place and give us the keys. ‘Host’ is the word airbnb.com uses to describe the men and women who offer their legal and illegal abodes to transients like myself. Each sublet has been an easy transition, at least mentally – home is where the heart is after all – but, like the others, this one has me believing I might soon find myself an underground-hidden-camera-internet-sensation. Probably not, but the more times we roll the dice on the paid-for-hospitality of others, the better the odds on finally staying at one that delivers on my worst mind-made scenarios. Possible outcomes of our being there currently include: The ‘host’ and his friend are junkies, and at some point, they will simply barge in and take our stuff, fully aware of it’s minimal resale value. Said ‘host’ is actually a vampire, and has yet to decide whether he wants to drink us dead, or turn us, as such, while I am there, I try to act badass enough to warrant becoming one. The apartment itself doesn’t belong to the ‘host’ at all – he just managed to get some keys to it, post some pictures, take our money, and any day now its true resident will come home from their month long Tokyo business trip and bludgeon our sleeping bodies. My money is on junkies, and as I believe them to be strong at times, I doubt the little chain on the door will do much to stop them once they commit to the theft – but I kinda hope my sweet strut from the bedroom to the bathroom each morning has proven me a worthy candidate for turning in the eyes of the bloodsucker and his fiendish friends. Only time will tell.