I Resolve Nothing (But What About JR Lintstockings?)

This document was found in 1934, rolled-up and stuffed into an old whiskey bottle floating in the Wabash River near Terre Haute, Indiana.  It was written in charcoal on the back of a faded photograph of a woman in early-twenties attire, posing with a happy smile next to a Singer sewing machine.  Scratched into the photo is simply "Mother."  The writing on the back is sloppy, but it is noteworthy in that it was not riddled with grammatical and spelling errors, as most of the limited written material the hoboes left behind usually was.

NEW YEAR'S RESOLUTIONS

of

JR LINTSTOCKINGS

1930

I resolve to make a second pair of trousers, and to wash the ones I have.

I will make an effort to start conversations with something other than "I want to die."

I will only steal what I need, starting with the ring on No-Shoulders Smalltooth Jones' finger, should he freeze to death tonight.  I need that.

I will stand up straight, as Mother taught me.

I will go to church on Sundays, and I will do so to worship.  No more breaking in on Monday mornings to steal the offering, or on Saturday nights, to steal the wine.  At least, no more than necessary.

No more hookers.  They know I never have any money, and I always just get beaten up.

I will find gloves with more than two fingers intact.

I will appreciate the little things, like fine wine and walks in the park and evenings at the theatre, the soft hands of my many happy children and my beauty-queen wife, our warm feather bed, a quality filet mignon, a good Dodgers game on the wireless, and the writing in the New Yorker.  Ha ha ha - that's dumb.  I resolve to appreciate all that stuff, if ever I encounter it.

I resolve to learn how to juggle while riding a unicycle.  I can do either one separately; this is the year I need to put them together.

I will take down my pants before relieving myself, even in the winter.

This will be the year that I finally finish my novel.

I will learn to control my violent urges when I hear singing.

I will not get locked in any more box cars.

I will visit Mother's grave and leave some nice flowers, this year.

I will set fires only for warmth and to cook my squirrels and beans, not simply to watch things that I can't have go up in flames.

I resolve to spend less time out of doors.

I will get a job, and a home, and a new life.

Failing that, I will walk on, keep myself alive, and be grateful for the dawning of each new day.

I will walk on.      

In Defense Of Mr. Wilson Fancypants

FREE MR. WILSON FANCYPANTS!!

Now, I'm not going to argue for one second that he didn't do it.  He definitely did it.  He very nearly beat those two fellow bums - Poo-Knickers Elias and Huge Crybaby McWeepy - to death.  They suffered multiple broken bones, cuts, bruises, bloodied noses - and each ended up with a severe concussion.  I don't think anyone is disputing the facts of the assault.   

What I - and many, many others like me - want considered is why he did it.  He's never, ever lifted a finger against another person until now.  It is said that the man hasn't even stolen before.  I mean, what hobo has never stolen anything in his miserable, poverty-riddled life?  Those two took everything from Mr. Wilson Fancypants.  His attack on them wasn't even about revenge; it was a heartbroken reflex - a crime of passion.

He built those fancy pants with his own hands, and they were the most useful in all of hobo nation - and McWeepy and Elias destroyed them.  They didn't steal them, which many had tried to do before.  They destroyed them.  They ripped off the bean cans.  They mangled the can opener and the corkscrew.  The cuffs, ingeniously-fashioned from old cans of creamed corn, were hopelessly bent and pried loose.  The shaving mirror was cracked, and its four-foot extendable accordion arm was in no fewer than twenty pieces.

The yarn was all gone.  The wireless was broken - tuning dial, speaker, power cord and all.  The trumpet was all bent, the telescope's optics were melted and the zipper was stuck.  Gone were the sequins, rubbed off was all the glitter, clear down to the burlap.  The books and the hat rack and the iron skillet - broken, broken and gone.  The Herbert Hoover campaign buttons had been painted over with Mickey Mouse ears.  The snorkel was clogged with glue.  The Polio-correcting leg extender and the bicycle had been rendered useless.

All of the things that had made his pants fancy were ruined or gone.  Even the telegraph terminal and the back pockets were no more.  All Mr. Wilson Fancypants had ever done in his bleak, miserable, hopeless life was to take a pathetic pair of burlap trousers and turn them into something fancy, something incredible.

So yes - I think his attack on those heartless bullies was more than justified.  I think he should be set free, to start over with a new pair of pants and a dream of utilitarian greatness.  It's the humane thing to do.

FREE MR. WILSON FANCYPANTS!!