Jimmy "New Man" Neandertal And Hugo Stares Are Not On The Same Page

 

"I have a message from the universe, but never mind." Photo by Joe

On a warm late-September afternoon in 1939, 30-year old Jimmy "New Man" Neandertal - so named because of his penchant for reinventing himself - was following the Southern Railway mainline north out of Charlottesville, Virginia, deep in thought. He was formulating the next incarnation of his persona, and felt that he was getting close.

"I feel that I am getting close," he said over his shoulder, in the direction of his traveling companion, a fellow hobo five years his senior, by the name of Hugo Stares. "Wanna hear what I've come up with? Hugo?" He turned to find the space previously occupied by Hugo now fully empty, save for a few gnats and a nosey dragonfly. Hugo had stopped about thirty feet back, and was now standing between the rails of a switch that led to a long siding. He was staring into a dogwood tree, hands on hips. Jimmy rolled his eyes and backtracked his way to where Hugo was standing with his gaze fixed somewhat accusingly on a sparrow sitting in the dogwood.

"Whaddaya suppose this guy's problem is?" Hugo growled, not interrupting his stare-down with the bird, who seemed puzzled, but undeterred from his chirping. "What the hell you want, ya dumb bird? What you think he wants, Jimmy?"

Jimmy looked at the sparrow, and the bird gave him a look in return, one that said, If I could shrug, sir, I most assuredly would. "I would be apt to wager that your diminutive avian acquaintance desires only what any sparrow would have - a meal, a song, a mate, and a nest - not necessarily in that order."

"Well I don't like him."

"Peep!" said the bird, as he made a tiny hop to the left and bent forward slightly, possibly in preparation for departure.

"My friend, it would behoove you to stand clear of that switch," Jimmy suggested, "lest you wish to find yourself here and there, a victim of the oft-overdue local freight, on its way to utilize this very siding at any moment."

Hugo finally turned his attention from the bird to his hobo companion. The sparrow decided that this was as good a time as any to depart, and departed - vanished really. "I see the switch, Jimmy - wait. Why you talkin' like that? That sounds familiar..." He thought for half a beat. "Say - are you quoting Foreign Tomas, The Strangetalker?"

"Um, yes - I guess so. More or less. That's what I was trying to tell you when I discovered that you had been waylaid by that malevolent presence, perched as it was so menacingly in a dogwood tree that you were left with no choice other than to engage it in an inter-species verbal tussle with nary a point in mind..." 

Hugo was staring at his friend, now. "What's wrong with you?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Nothing. I'm just tired of expressing myself, you know, not good. So, while my aim is not to imitate Foreign Tomas, or to be the next Foreign Tomas, I do indeed aspire to a more refined manner of verbal expression."

"Oh, I get it. You fixin' to become a new man again, mister New Man Neandertal? Again?"

"I am. It's what I do."

"Your pop was a two-star general in the Great War, and you guys was set to ride out the Depression just fine, but you took off, because you liked trains..."

"True enough," Jimmy agreed.

"And you decided to live up to your family name of Neandertal - never did understand how that could really be your actual honest to god name, by the way - and you spent your first five years as a 'bo using nothin' but grunts to communicate."

"Right. Admittedly not my most savvy move..."

"Yeah - you suffered more ass-whoopings than a delinquent in a nunnery - and that was mostly before I met you. Then, you assumed that tough, hunky Johnstown steel mill foreman persona. I gotta admit, you got the accent down pat, but you were not believable as a tough boss man type."

"Not my proudest few years," Jimmy sighed. "But I made it through, and you must admit, these last couple of years of being super-laid-back South Florida hobo Jim have worked okay for me."

"Eh... So-so, buddy. Everyone just thinks you're slow or something. And yeah - on the one hand, that takes the pressure off of me tryin' not to be the dumb one, but on the other hand, I kinda like bein' the dumb one, man! Fellas would ask me how I manage, takin' care of myself and my slow friend, and I had to just shrug like an idiot, and they'd walk away goin' 'well, birds of a feather and all that...' I hated it."

Jimmy put his hand on Hugo's shoulder. "I'm sorry, friend. I've been trying to put a stop to that dynamic for some time now. I only just came up with this 'talk like a smart and/or weird guy' persona. I memorized a lot of Foreign Tomas' sayings, and I think I can extrapolate from there. I think I can talk better. More interesting, you know?"

Hugo had found a wooly bear caterpillar making its way north on the polished steel of the outer rail of the Southern main, and he stopped to stare it down. "I dunno, Jimmy. Sounds like you might be headed for a whole bunch more ass whoopin's. Now, whaddaya suppose this little monster's beef is? What's your problem, fella?"

"Well, I intend to try it on for size, my old friend. I shall eat time and convert it to life, watching seconds become inklings, minutes begetting thoughts, and so forth... You're not even listening to me, are you?"

Hugo was not listening. Hugo was gearing up for a decidedly one-sided altercation with an insect.

"Good talk, Hugo. Good talk."

Rebooting The Resolutions Machine

Higher Resolution - Photo by Joe

I am frequently asked by no one why I don't make my NEW YEARS RESOLUTIONS until late January (if I make them at all). I never answer, but if I ever do, I'll probably say it's because I've never made a New Years Resolution to make my New Years Resolutions earlier. I resolve not to make such a resolution anytime soon.

I know how boring New Years Resolutions can be - especially someone else's resolutions. With that in mind, let's hit ctrl-atl-del on the ol' drivel generator, and see if that helps...

[ctrl-alt-del]

For starters, no more of this:

• This year, I will publish one of my twelve little novels. BOOOOO... We'll believe that when we see it!
• I will finally locate my Ebn-Ozn t-shirt. BOOOOO... We know you've never had an Ebn-Ozn t-shirt - probably because it's a safe bet that such a shirt has never existed.
• I will be more positive. Oh, please don't.
• I'll drink more water, reach my target weight, write a blog post every week, read a dozen books, blah blah blah... We're bored!

I resolve to say this whenever I leave a room...

Okay, cheese bags. That was just a few examples of what I'm NOT going to do. Onward! I hereby resolve that in 2024 I will:

• Take the Christmas tree down
• Make mac & cheese
• Shovel snow twice
• Pet a dog
• Deposit 130 checks within 24 hours at work
• Get home from work at 8:30pm or later
• Increase my 401-K contribution
• Not eat any charging cables
• Use, fewer, commas,
• Be courteous, kind, and forgiving
• Be gentle and peaceful each day
• Be warm and human and grateful
• And have a good thing to say
• Have a martini
• Incorporate one verse of Steve Martin's "Grandmother Song" into a blog post
• Turn the oven on
• Shout words of advise and encouragement at [Maris] as she completes this year's tax returns - earlier than ever!
• Be doomed
• Watch cartoons
• Repeat

HA!! Guess what? All done! I have achieved a 100% success rate on the above rebooted resolutions. 

Damn, I'm good.

Stay fresh, cheese bags...

 

See, What Happened Was... (A Toast, Probably A Short One)

Here's to you, 2023. You could have been worse.

I've done this sort of post several times before, so I guess it's a tradition, at this point. My favorites were 2013's See, What Happened Was... (which includes the origin story of that goofy title, and 2017... It's Not Me - It's You, one of my many breakup conversations with the inanimate. We have just under three hours of 2023 left, so let's be brief. 

Here's to January, which is mostly a blur of overtime and end-of-year gift processing for Beloved Employer, aided by my trusty endangered black-footed helperferrets...

"Is this really only one day's worth??"

Here's to February, the first half of which [Maris] and I spent with COVID. Yeah, I know. We were at least two years late. All the cool kids had caught it ages ago. What can I say? We've both spent our lives being unfashionably late for every fad or trend, ever. Why would COVID be any different? Our cases were relatively mild, which was still BLEAH, but made us grateful for all those shots.

February was also the month in which we learned that not only had Beloved Employer sold our dingy-but-cherished HQ building (5ish minutes from home), but they had also changed course and would not be finding another suburban space for us in-office personnel. We would be asked to commute to the fashionable but 75- to 90-minutes away "West End" of DC, where we maintain another mostly-empty office. I'm not exactly "cheers-ing" that... yet.

Here's to March, with its requisite Madness, made all the madder by the rapid preparation for leaving our HQ. If you've ever moved out of an apartment or house, you're no doubt familiar with being fully overwhelmed at seeing how much STUFF has accumulated and needs to be packed or thrown away/given away etc.. Yeah - try that with an office building that once held several hundred employees who apparently never got rid of anything over the past 35 years. So that was fun - and it was just beginning.

Wait - you know what? No cheers for March, either! I forgot Mom dislocated her shoulder for maybe the 30th time, and sat in an E.R. waiting room hellscape for about 13 hours. I was literally searching for an open walk-in clinic when they finally called her name. Next time, we're just going to slam her into a door frame, a la Mel Gibson's character in "Lethal Weapon."

Hmm... Cheers withheld for April, too. I grudgingly started shedding cubicle stuff in preparation for a downsized and not nearby cube in DC. Started taking wistful pictures of the old, rapidly-emptying office...

See? Sad.

Here's to May, because I feel bad not clinking glasses with one month after another. I worked my last day in the office right down the street...

Bye, cow painted by famous guy whose name escapes me...

...and worked my first day at the beautiful but distant DC office. To be fair, I love it there. There are some fabulous colleagues who, like me, actually come in to the office quite a bit, so that's been fun. The commute isn't even really that bad (when the weather is good and Metro's not broken). It just takes so LONG to get there. I marvel at you people with two-hour commutes for years and decades on end. Here's to you!

We're *DC* black-footed ferrets, now!

Here's to June! Nothing happened! Worked on my commuting skills, did some cooking and grilling and got a teensy idea for a possible twelfth novel, and a friend said, "do it," and [Maris] said "see you in August..."

Here's to July, during which I managed to crank out over 56,000 words, several of which might actually go together in ways that make sense. I don't know. I haven't reread it, yet - or finished it. I just kind of kept going. I can do that. It's a gift.

Here's to August! Nothing happened! It was hot, or something. Probably humid, too. Kept writing. Got a little bogged-down, but stayed in the fight...

Cheers, September. I'm sure you were a nice month. I appreciated learning of my promotion, which came a mere eleven months after I took on all that important, time-sensitive work. And the continuing wordiness that had my little novel #12 at over 80,000 words by month's end. Also, I was pretty much finished decorating for Halloween by then...

"Help!"

Here's to October, because vacation. 'Nuff said...

That'll do, OBX. That'll do.

Hi bird! Could you just scootch a bit to the right?

Here's to you, November, when I inexplicably decided to have another go at "National Blog Posting Month," and write a new post every day (which here means night) for the entire month. Actually, it's pretty explicable - it's because I am some sort of masochist. I did it, though! And one of those 30 bits of drivel was MY 300th POST!

Is that a lot? Also, do you dig our hats?

Also in November, we found The Last Spider. You can read about it in one of the "Thankfulness" posts from that month...

Hi. I'm not even hiding, dude. Sheesh.

Here's to December, still echoing in my exhausted ears. There was the Trans-Siberian Orchestra...

((Christmas Devil Horns))

There were [Maris]'s gnomes, and their 12 days of shenanigans...

They had a lot of help, this year. Merry Christmas, fellas.

There were downs, there were ups. Sadly, there was NOT peace on earth (not enough, anyway). But in my tiny sliver of the planet, the month ended strong.

So let's raise a glass to 2023, and eat, drink, and be merry. Most of us are keenly aware of what kind of show 2024 promises to be. I'll regret saying this, but tonight I say BRING IT. The good people of this country and others will find our way through this. We shall breathe in, breathe out, and stay in the fight - together.

Cheers...

Mad Max And The Goose And Not The Goose: A Christmas Story Sort Of

With snow and everything! Photo by [Maris]

Mad Max was in no mood. His feet were soaked and nearly frozen. Much of the rest of him was likewise damp and/or painfully cold. His sidekicks were fussing and bickering, which was not helping matters at all. "I am in no mood, you two!" he spat. "I gotta find us some shelter from this freezing rain - I'd settle for an awning, about now. I can't handle another Christmas like this. I wish I'd taken your advice and headed south a couple of months ago, The Goose."

The Goose growled out a low sequence of throaty sounds that could be approximately translated to, "Told you so." Under his breath, he added, "I'm just happy to be waterproof, tonight."

Maxwell Small hadn't always been mad. In fact, he wasn't at all fond of the "Mad Max" moniker his hobo brethren had bestowed upon him in the early 1930s - mostly because he didn't see himself as even remotely crazy (or angry, if we're going to split hairs). He'd had a normal childhood in Bedford, Indiana. He graduated high school and started work as an apprentice mechanic, repairing everything from Model A's to the newest farm equipment. He buried both his parents (double-fatal yo-yo trick accident), joined hobo nation, acquired a clingy Canadian goose, and later a German shepherd-golden retriever-half-albino Labrador mutt who thought she was a goose, and like it or not he became Mad Max.

The Goose and the dog, who came to be called Not The Goose, were best friends from the moment they met. It was often hard to tell whether The Goose thought he was a dog - or Not The Goose thought she was a goose - or both. They chased each other. They mimicked each other's speech patterns and dialects. They slept together, curled up like a pair of kittens. They stole each other's food and fought and made up and vied for Max's affection. But one of them... was a goose.

Most of the time, this fact was not a problem. It was cute. "Oh, look at that crazy hobo," they would say, "with his odd-looking dog, and his goose that thinks he's a dog. So cute." But Halloween would come, and then everything from St. Louis to Atlantic City would turn brown and dead, and just like that it was open season on critters that looked like The Goose. Getting past Thanksgiving in one piece wasn't too hard, but soon after, he'd start hearing the words "Christmas" and "goose" together, and things would take a turn.

"This is ridiculous," Mad Max groused, "We're going south, next year - if we live that long."

"Honk honk, hisssss, honk," said The Goose.

"Aroo rowrowooo," Not The Goose Agreed. And they shared a good long laugh.

The Goose had put on a pound or two since the previous December, so apparently he looked more appetizing than ever. As Mad Max had led his anserine and canine charges east from Dayton to Zanesville to Wheeling to Morgantown, they were harassed by a dozen cleaver-wielding maniacs, bent on turning The Goose into the centerpiece of Christmas dinner. Max and Not The Goose had been extra vigilant since Thanksgiving, and had fought off every threat, but they were exhausted. 

"I love you, The Goose," Mad Max groaned, "but I think if we find a fella with a campsite - or just a proper fire - I might let him have you, just so that I might warm my toes before they die and fall off. I'm sorry."

The Goose laughed it off, as if Max was obviously joking, but he shook his feathers from neck to tail, and hunkered down defensively.

They passed a shed along the B&O main into Cumberland, and found themselves bathed in a warm glow. "Say, strangers," a gravelly voice called after them, "care to share a fire?"

They turned. The Goose hissed reflexively, then relaxed a bit. Not The Goose growled reflexively, then stood tall and let her tail wag - just a little. Mad Max braced himself for another attack on his plump waterfowl, then likewise eased up. "Great day in the morning, guys - it's JACK SKUNK, working his way as far east as he can get before New Year's! Jack, ol' buddy - you're a lifesaver and a saint - a true gentleman. We can't repay your kindness, this cold and rainy Christmas Eve, but we will gladly walk the rest of our days in your debt..."

And the three wet, frozen travelers huddled around the fire of one of the smelliest hoboes ever known, and were welcomed and warmed and not eaten, and it was good.

Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder Hitches A Ride

 

I failed subject-centering class. Photo by Joe

I think by now it's been well-established that life was hard for America's hoboes. We've probably also touched on the added difficulty of hobo life for minorities and women (I'll check later to confirm that). But to all of the above hoboes, tonight's 'bo says, "Hold my beer..."

Try traveling the country and hopping freight trains whilst having zero legs, and presumably just as many feet. How would that even work? Some sort of wheeled conveyance, and a ton of upper-body strength? A horse? Cyborg legs? For Mister Torso, The Legless Wonder, it was mostly the wheeled thing. 

In late 1940, he lost his job as a side-show attraction in the Cruel Horrible Circus, and became a hobo. He did indeed use a kind of homemade cart to get around. It was a lightweight plywood box with oversized rubber tires. It operated much like a simple wheelchair; he sat on his leg stumps and worked the wheels with his hands. It worked great on smooth, flat surfaces, but for obvious reasons, it was rubbish on railroad tracks and the gravel ballast in which they rested. He could steal rides on trains, but they had to be very slow-moving trains, and it really only worked if he was on a train-adjacent freight or passenger platform, as said train rolled past. Even then, it was incredibly challenging to grab one of the train's iron ladders with one hand, and the cart with the other, and then not die (or drop the cart).

The cart-dropping bit happened, one miserable, rainy night in 1941 - in Gary, Indiana. He rode the train until it stopped in Cleveland, racking his brain for ideas, but apart from "build a new cart," ideas wouldn't come. He was summarily evicted from the train by an unsympathetic yard cop, who recommended that he find a shopping cart and a gondolier's pole, for the getting around. Mister Torso pulled himself through the jagged ballast and out of harm's way, next to the tracks, and felt the weight of his disability. Woe was him. Some hours later, the rain dried up and the sun warmed everything just a bit, and he noticed a big, square silhouette stomping purposefully down the yard lead track toward him. The figure stopped when it was perpendicular to Mister Torso's trackside moping spot.

Atlas Flatshoulders was huge - at least six-foot four and 270lbs. - and he stood for a moment assessing Mister Torso and his situation. "Brother, where you bound?" he said at last.

"Pittsburgh," Mister Torso replied sadly. "Or, that is, I was - until I lost my wheeled cart. I'll never get there, now."

Atlas thought, scratching his big square chin. "Well, brother... How do you feel about heights? You okay sittin' up high?"

"I guess so," Torso speculated.

"I ain't had a traveling companion in I don't know how long," Atlas said. "And I've always wondered what use I'd ever have for these oddly flat shoulders of mine. What say we try an arrangement?"

For the next seven years, the two hoboes were inseparable. Atlas Flatshoulders had a friend, and Mister Torso The Legless Wonder had a ride - and a great view. And a friend.

The End.

 

Thanking The "Muses"

 

Shootin' trains w/Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name), who wasn't there that day. Photo by Joe

I'm often asked by no one about who inspires me to write - 300 blog posts and 12 novels and counting. "Have you ever had a muse?" They would ask, if they existed and asked me questions. The short answer is, "YES!" An even shorter answer is, "YA!" I have had, and continue to have, a few muses - and I need to thank them for nudging me along my muddy little creative path to nowhere. 

Before I start - I know that there's a certain implication in the word "muse," that a relationship between artist (writer, in this case) and muse is inherently romantic and/or sexy. I must point out that mine are not your sexy, romantic muse stereotypes - except for [Maris], of course. (Speaking of [M] - she is being obnoxiously literal, right now. It is mildly amusing, sure - but it is NOT helping...)

Let's start with Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name). Oh! Wait! I forgot about High School Crush #2! Technically, High School Crush #2 was my first muse - and she actually did fit the romantic muse stereotype - or, the would-be romantic muse stereotype. She didn't inspire me to write a lot. I was rather lazy, at the time. But we shared an affinity for ancient progressive rock music, and we would often listen separately to 98Rock's "Headphones-Only" show until 2AM on Wednesdays - and then compare notes on A) how far we made it into the show before falling asleep, and B) cool sounds and lyrics we'd heard. I was dropped into the friend zone in short order, but it was during this time that I first began to be aware of my fledgling creative spark. So, thank you for that, High School Crush #2. Now, if you could just tell me what "The Carpet Crawlers" is about...

Okay, so - Godfrey Ozzen-- Wait! Let's get Stan and Janine (not their real names) out of the way. I worked with Stan and Janine (not their real names) almost twenty years ago (WHAT??), and the three of us had an odd dynamic. Stan (not his real name) and I were both in our separate committed relationships, and had worked together for a year or so, and along came this pretty, crazy-smart single woman, who seemed to actively embrace a muse-like role in our lives. We worked well together, and she had a flirtatious, intimidating confidence. Both she and Stan (fake name) were smarter than I am, but what ensued - through an ongoing 3-way workplace instant-messaging chat - was a strange, competitive game of one-upmanship of witticisms between the three of us. I hadn't written much of anything in several years, at that point, and this little triple mind-meld was instrumental in keeping that poor little flame flickering. Thanks, guys. I thoroughly enjoyed our weird time together.

Alright, on to Godfrey... You know what, let's talk for a minute about the newest muse-like figure in my world. Current coworker-friend Amelia (not her real name) is the smartest human I've met since [Maris], and yet super-crazy nice to EVERYONE, and the most genuinely positive person I've ever met. It probably helps that she's still young enough that the world hasn't had a chance to adequately trample her, yet. Anyway - common ground, similar offbeat humor, instant friends and all that. This dynamic is different. Yes, she kind of kick-started my writing, starting with this summer's Camp NaNoWriMo project, but unlike my time with the muse-y people described above, I'm not writing for or with her. I writing again because she told me to. Said she believed I had a gift and should be using it. She said these things on faith - hadn't read so much as a paragraph of my writing, at that point. Probably still hasn't seen more than a blog post or two. But when someone so positive and bright encourages you to do something, you gotta do it, right? Oddly, it's kind of freeing to know that she'll probably never have time to read much of my stuff. Takes the pressure right off! Thank you SO much, Amelia (not your real name). You're an absolute gift.

So. Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not his real name). A lifetime ago, Godfrey was my best boss ever. He's been my confidant, best man, co-grifter, go-cart enthusiast, porn critic, mentor, turtle painter, ranting partner, career counselor, and would-be Jim Jordan beater-upper. We've remained friends, lo these many years, and he continues to inspire me to be a better, more creative writer. Before the days of texting and instant-messaging (yes, we're not young - shut up), we exchanged weeks-long threads of emails so bizarre and clever and rant-y that we still have them saved in our respective archives. His humor is steeped in a stew of cartoons, Saturday Night Live, Rocky & Bullwinkle, politics, and the weirdest, funniest stuff the internet has to offer - a bit like mine, but on steroids. When my writing starts to bland out on me, a quick exchange with Godfrey (real name - not) steers me right back onto the looney track - probably because his writing is like the coke-addled offspring of Hunter S. Thompson and Mark Leyner. Heartfelt thanks to you, Godfrey Ozzenbarq III (not your real name). For the yucks and the insanity and the friendship. I'm still not giving up on a collaborative writing project - hopefully before we die.

Last, and most...

[Maris] - Photo by Joe

Yeah. [Maris]! Our origin story is rooted in witty banter, both written and verbal. When I met her, I was desperate to impress her, and thinking that words were all I had going for me, clever emails and whatnot ensued. It worked! Yes, it helped that we had chemistry and were soul mates, but we know for a fact that well-constructed assemblages of words were instrumental in assuring our forever togetherness. She is still the only muse I am writing FOR. Just about every sentence is written with her entertainment (and approval) in mind. I live to hear her laugh at something I've written - unless it's something that's not supposed to be funny, but that rarely happens. It means extra because she reads SO much, and has ridiculously high standards - and because she is a RUTHLESS natural-born editor. She's the only beta reader I'll ever need. So [Maris] - obviously I can never thank you enough for like EVERYTHING (I just deleted FIVE commas from this sentence for you). But thanks for letting me keep trying!

There. Muses thanked. Also thanks, readers - for coming back for more drivel!

The 300... (...th Posting Of Drivel-y Bits To The Drivel-y Place)!

 The 300...

Islamorada, FL - Photo by Joe

300 times have I done this. I sit and stare at this screen and wonder, "What in THEE hell is wrong with me?" I'm not sure how to commemorate my 300th post. For POST #100, I shared the first sentence of each of the first 100 posts. Tedious, but the results were kind of cute, I guess. When it came time for my 200th POST, I spent hours stringing together the first word of the first post, the second word of the second post, and so on - all the way to 200. That post reads like the offspring of a fever dream and a dictionary on acid. For some reason, I felt compelled to mark my 250th POST with a "clip show" - not a true greatest hits collection; more of a random sampling of my first quarter-thousand posts. You're welcome to click on that one and then on the links within it, for old times' sake. I'll wait...

Did you go? I went. I even clicked on some of the links! One still mystifies me, and gives me an idea that isn't very good but when has that ever stopped me...

Presenting the Mostly Harmless Drivel 300th Post Awards! 

• Most Viewed Post: I still don't know why, but CARDBOARD & APATHY: A LOVE STORY is still my most-viewed post, by a LOT. I like it, but it's not that good. Some cute dialogue, a stupid ending, but what brought this post to so many screens? I just don't get it.
• Least Viewed Post: Okay - technically, a couple of the posts from this month are the least-viewed, but that's not fair. So, of the 270ish posts from before this month, the least-viewed is We'll Drink To That! And That! And That.... Brings back memories. [Maris] and I used to have shots and chips for dinner, and this post utterly FAILS to capture the fun and buzzy cleverness of those evenings and their toasts. I remember, though...
• Best Hobo: It's a tie! SANTA FE JINGLEBELL, THE WORLD'S MOST CHRISTMASSY TRAMP and JACK SKUNK will have to share this trophy. No matter - some fellow hobo will steal it within the first week. What can I say - I'm a sucker for a hobo with hope - and second chances.
• Worst Hobo: Wicked Paul Fourteen-Toes. Yeah, he's not very nice at all.
• Best Picture: 

  

  Jim Sees Me! Photo by Joe

  Okay, technically not my best picture, by a longshot, but it's got Jim and Charlie, and Jim's saying hey to me (or, "hey - put your phone down, mate!"), so I dig it. Also it's not the muddy Bart Simpson doll, for the dozenth time, and you're welcome!
• Author's Least Favorite Post: [Deleted]  Ha! Sorry, it really has been removed. If it hadn't been, this would be post number 301, and space-time would collapse in on itself like a neutron star. 
• Author's Favorite Post: This one was hard, and if you ask me to choose again next week, I could easily come up with several other selections. But tonight, this award goes to Heads, We're Dancing. It's just a wee bit of flash-fiction-y romance with a title stolen from Kate Bush, but it begat my favorite and most potential-ish novel. So, yeah. 

Lasers. Why'd it have to be... lasers? - Photo by Joe

So, there are 300 of these things, now. How 'bout that? Not sure I have another 300 in me, but who knows? There are at least that many names left on John Hodgman's list of hoboes. And I still have muse-like influencers - like three of 'em! So stay tuned. Maybe we can celebrate some more hundreds together...

Thank you for taking the time to read my mind, such as it is!