I bought a house. It's a duplex. I'm a landlord. I have a mortgage payment. I'm responsible. I'm Shane Kinney, and I live in Windham now.

Owning this house is truly another column, but in short, it's really no different than renting, mostly because nothing has broken yet, except for my financial freedom. But with these chains of debt comes power. And oh, am I powerful, now that I'm a landlord. Having the word 'lord' in my title makes feel real powerful, in a Dungeons and dragons kind of way, but in reality, it makes me realize that I'm now in debt for the next thirty years, and the laws of karma say that I may get the rent around the twelfth of the month.

But I need to reward myself, and at the same time, make this reward useful, a tool of convenience. Maybe a blender would work, so I can mix cocktails when I cut the checks. Wait, already got one. How about caller identification, so I can dodge the call when Columbia house call? Got that too. So what does a landlord need?

A landlord needs an object of utilitarian transport. A big car with little space in the front, a big bed to put stuff in towards the rear of said vehicle. I'm not sure, I must check my sources, but in many parts, this vehicle is referred to as a truck.

Just typing and reading the word 'truck' baffles me. The same can be said for 'second vehicle.' A truck to me has always been is a paddy wagon and a second vehicle is a taxicab. The ten years of city life has given me tunnel vision when it comes to what I would refer to as vehicle diversity. I admit, I stereotype. I'm closed minded and I only fraternize with certain four wheeled friends, and bash the others. They're not like my people, or me, so they must surely be inferior, along with the people who drive them.

A truck is for one of three types of people, someone who plows snow, (another new expense for this remorseful homeowner) or someone who needs to cart around large dead animals, or for someone who needs a bed to throw their empty beer cans into. I fit into none of these profiles, so what am I doing buying a truck? I don't run with this crowd. This is not who I am. I don't belong here. I must surely leave and crawl back into my shell that is a sedan and head for the city lights, the land of unpaid parking tickets. The land that provides cab drivers for me when I'm feeling talkative and bloated. The land that will ban me from parking when the snow starts to fly. The land that dings up my four-wheeled debt anchor, tarnishing the resale and graying my hairs. That's the land I know. But I don't live there anymore, because I'm Shane Kinney, and I live in Windham now.

Like an animal going to the veterinarian, I entered this new, gift-like purchase with a tad of suspicion and urination. But something happened. I took one look at that sun bleached red, the magnificent color of power, swirling together with the illuminating bondo gray, and I got goose bumps. I walked down one side, and up the other. I caressed the fenders and it's body filler augmentation, and came to the head of this massive tool of destruction, a two wheel drive 1986 Chevy S-10. I stared straight into its one working headlight, and slowly approached my new steed. I adjusted the torn seat cover and got in. Oh majesty! I turned the key and the four cylinders of pure Detroit power began to hum in semi unison.

As I turned on to the highway-I began to realize that this beast possesses nothing but torque. I careened along at an impressive thirty-five miles per hour, displaying my confidence with a lizard like pace only to realize one thing. A sedan may spot me. But I didn't care. I am different now. I have a dream. I have a dream that all vehicles can live together as one, under the same sky, with the same opportunities. And I have a long bed truck that I love. It has almost enough space to carry around my new debt. Need a lift?