Every person in all the events of your life is there because you have drawn them there. What you choose to do with them is up to you.
As far as our Ozarks Shooter, Drew Beetlepoop, is concerned, anyone whoever did anything great somehow came from Kansas. In fact, Jesus came from Kansas. He sways and rocks in the current of the blue demon, thrown from the passenger seat by a wave, all the while his camera remaining still, like a hummingbird dipped in whiskey and sprinkled with Doritos. Don't be deceived by the fact that his beard is bigger than his head, he'll cut you like a knife of the topics of politics and carbon footprints. Always weary of being on the wrong road, he's always keen for an adventure, a late night bottle of whiskey with someone, anyone who doesn't speak his language or even a good sleepover outdoors with a hobo for his story, or any story. Because he is now our wayfaring troubadour.
And even though we kicked his ass on this trip, he passed with flying Ozarks colors.
Two months ago, I asked Drew to join us, after meeting him on a film, not because he chose to shoot my post movie interviews in the local Laundromat amongst locals but because I could see the yearning for adventure in his twinkling Kansas City eyes. Little did he know though, is that he'd be jumping on the Dean Crowe traveling circus where anything and nothing can happen. But little did we know too, that Drew was also apart of the gonzo tribe of story tellers.
'I'm a fly guys. I'm gonna be a fly so if I'm not talking it's because I'm a fly on the wall so pretend I'm not here' was the first thing Drew said to me as I met him in the Medellin hotel lobby.
He hid behind his four bags of camera equipment for the first day or two but by the end of the third he was going nuts to butts with a local cafe racer with his hair on fire. We embarked at dusk on this third leg of our journey through smokey Medellin traffic. And with a lot of testosterone under our ass. I'm riding along side Drew for the first ten minutes who's yelling like a gaucho with his camera in the wind. I've already lost Nik to a local motorcycle shop owner and seven other locals racing up ahead. I look to Drew right as I leave him in my rear view mirror to go back to his gear in Medellin and fly to meet us in Peru, 'Well, this guys in....'
I can't see Nik anywhere.
My harley begins to sputter.