[If you're new here, please note that the names of the hoboes come from John Hodgman's book The Areas of My Expertise, and I do not have his permission to use them. I naively hope that, should he find out about my little back stories for his hoboes, he would be all, "I love it! You've helped me to sell many copies of my books. I am totally not going to sue you to death. You're cool!" And I'd be like, "Thanks, man. I appreciate your super laid-back attitude toward what many authors would have considered a totally litigious situation, or something."]
One of the most misunderstood hoboes was Bazino Bazino, The Kid Whose Hair Is On Fire. He was born to Czech immigrants in Newark, New Jersey in 1908, but they were destitute and terrified, and left him on the orphanage steps in an old Friedlander Brothers box when he was five weeks old. The nuns thought he "looked Italian," so they named him Bazino. When he learned to talk, his name was one of the first words he could say, and he always said it twice. He would toddle about the orphanage singing "Bazino Bazino! Bazino Bazino!" and the nuns would laugh and laugh and ask God to bless their little bambino Bazino.
They say legend is born, but myth manufactured. I don't know who "they" are - I heard it in a movie, once. If it's true, though, no one can say for sure who manufactured the myth that was Bazino Bazino's burning hair. At age 13, when virtually every other child who had entered the orphanage had long-since been adopted and/or hired to work in some factory, textile mill or freight dock on the Hudson, he sneaked away in the dead of night, leaving behind a note that read simply "I can't live here anymore, for I am a man, now. Thank you, Sisters." Within a few very traumatic weeks, he had joined the world of the hoboes. Within a year, most hoboes in the eastern two-thirds of the United States knew his name, complete with the reference to his flaming hair.
Since only a handful of the homeless vagabonds had ever actually seen Bazino Bazino, The Kid Whose Hair Is On Fire, it was assumed that he simply had red hair, Simply Red. Those with more active imaginations would try to argue that the kid's hair was truly en fuego, though their explanations for the phenomenon were childish and impossible - the stuff of Road Runner vs. Coyote cartoons, several decades before their time.
The fact is - and don't ask me how I know this, but please believe that I do know this - Bazino Bazino, The Kid Whose Hair Is On Fire, as many a hobo did, suffered from a terrible scalp condition caused by his vagrant lifestyle and utter lack of personal hygiene. Unlike most of his contemporaries, however, Bazino's head was not infested with lice or chiggers or termites or dermal spiders, nor was it a flaming case of psoriasis. He had an exceedingly rare form of dandruff, such that rather than shedding little salt-grain-sized flakes of skin, his scalp lost its surface cells one at a time, and the process happened so rapidly that his head appeared to emit a pale, dusty smoke.
A few of his fellow hoboes witnessed the smoking hair, added the descriptor to his name, and the rest is legend.
Another source of history's misunderstanding of this young drifter with the smoking head centers around the manner and circumstances of his death. It is widely accepted by the hobo academia that Bazino was killed when a Pennsylvania Railroad passenger special collided with a freight train on Horseshoe Curve near Altoona, derailed and rolled down the steep embankment onto the tent in which the burning-coiffed kid was sleeping.
The few surviving children of hoboes from that time and region - hard to find, on account of how little procreating those guys did - tell another story. Bazino, they say, suffered an agonizingly slow and painful death as the skin on his head literally smoked away until his skull was fully exposed. It continued, with his skull sloughing off over the course of a year, just as his scalp had - as smoke. Once a significant portion of his brain was exposed, a fatal infection developed.
But no one wants to talk about a guy dying because his skull disintegrated, the hobo offspring say. Being crushed in your sleep by a heavyweight Pullman coach is much more romantic.
Sunday, March 25, 2012
Tuesday, February 21, 2012
700 Hoboes: Marlon Fitz-fancy's Miracle Dog. And Goatee.
Not all hoboes were slovenly, stinky homeless drifters. One was a fastidious, stinky homeless drifter. Let's face it - there was not a lot a hobo could do about the stink. His name was Marlon Fitz-fancy, and he wore a purple suit made of velvet. Most hoboes made no attempt to keep themselves groomed, or clean, for that matter. They generally didn't have the soap, mirrors, running water combs, razors or vanity for such endeavors. This was one of the main reasons they were so unpleasant for members of the non-hobo population to be around for any length of time. Well, that, plus the fact that so many hoboes were dangerous criminals, and frighteningly insane.
Marlon wasn't insane, so far as he knew, and he prided himself on being the kind of criminal who only stole what he needed. Sometimes what he needed was whiskey, and one of those times was today, for today, the dog catcher had broken his heart. This morning, Nikki Fitz-fancy The Astounding, Marlon's best friend of nearly ten years, had sprinted off in chase of some old lady's poodle on the platform of Alexandria Union Station - a chase that had not ended well. The poodle was young and fast, and Nikki - more coyote than dog, but getting on in years - was quickly cornered and captured by a couple of porters, and handed over to the dog catcher. If Marlon couldn't produce three dollars - two for the fine and one for a license - by five o'clock, the dog would be destroyed. It was already three-thirty. Or thereabouts. Marlon had to take the average of three different bank clocks, because no one on the street would give him the time.
He was used to people not giving him the time. As hard as he tried to keep himself clean and groomed, it was a constant struggle. His missing eye didn't help, either. He had lost it as a bystander in a gangster drive-by when he was nineteen, and had never managed to find it again - or a suitable replacement. For a few years, he had a smooth, nearly-spherical river stone, but it had long since been lost. He had tried marbles and of course eye-patches with varying degrees of success, but today, unfortunately, was an olive day. It doesn't matter how clean you are, and you can smell like lilac and fresh-baked cookies; if you have a rotting olive for an eye, not many people are going to give you the time of day.
Marlon Fitz-fancy tied a couple of old handkerchiefs together and banded them around his head, covering his eye, and set about begging on King Street. By four-thirty, he was in a panic. He had collected only $1.55, leaving him well short of the fine itself, and he knew they wouldn't release Nikki to him without a license. He would have to steal the money. His two previous attempts at picking pockets had failed so spectacularly that he didn't even consider it, this time. He was fast enough, but the actual theft had to be easy, or he'd surely fumble it.
The corner drugstore over on Duke Street was his best bet. It had a soda fountain and a very elderly woman behind the counter. He didn't have time to case the joint, so he just sauntered up behind a man who was getting up to leave, waited for him to turn his back on the two dollar bills he had placed on the counter atop his check, grabbed the cash and ran. Had Marlon had the time to case the store, he would surely have noted the young man stocking shelves near the exit. He was tackled less than a block away. The lad was about to start pounding Marlon's face into a crimson stain when the pharmacist from the store arrived on the scene, breathing heavily.
"You get back to the store, son. I'll take care of this bum."
Marlon held his hands in front of his face and cried, "I'm sorry. I only took two bucks. It's for my only friend. You don't understand!"
"What are you yappin' about, bub? This ain't no Hooverville. We got laws around here. And decent folk. Where's the two bucks?"
"Please. I'll work it off. I'll clean up, or stock your shelves or something. I gotta get Nikki outta the pound before they kill her!"
"I don't think so. Just give back the-- Say, did you say your dog's name is Nikki?"
Marlon lowered his hands. "Yes sir. She ran off at the train station, and they got her. Please help a fella out."
"Is your name Marlon?"
"Huh?"
"Marlon Fitz-fancy? And Nikki Fitz-fancy The Astounding? Let me get a look at you."
"Do I know you, brother?" Marlon stammered.
The pharmacist reached for Marlon's makeshift eye-patch, causing an instinctive flinch. "It's okay. Just let me get a look at that eye... I knew it! I thought I recognized that ridiculous goatee and your voice, but the eye cinches it. I'm Bill Barker. Don't you remember me?"
"Oh sweet Jesus." Marlon sighed. "Billy! You saved me and Nikki from that gangster who wanted to be our business manager. I can't believe it! It's been, what, eight years?"
"Something like that. I see you're still wearing what's left of that purple nightmare of a jacket. Shoulda recognized that, too. And what did you call that bit of fuzz on your chin, anyway?"
"It's a charcoal demon, but the fellas always called it a rusty demon, on account of my red hair and secondhand razor. Look, I really will make it up to you. Can you help me get Nikki back?"
"I can't believe that mangy thing is still alive! Of course I'll help. Come on - I got a car. It's behind the store. You two still doing your act?"
"It's been a while, but yeah. Sometimes."
The conversation on the ride to the pound, many blocks away on Duke Street consisted mainly of Billy explaining the circumstances of his escaping hobodom, getting a college degree and finding his way into pharmacy. There was also a lengthy reminiscence of the act that Marlon and Nikki still occasionally performed. She was truly an astonishing dog, with great physical skill, a keen sense of comedic timing and no fear whatsoever. Her tricks had made Marlon somewhat of a hobo celebrity for a number of years. He credited her with saving his life on countless occasions, either by earning a buck with the act so they could eat, or by fending off cops or robbers or other baddies. As Bill's Model A puttered past a bank clock that read at least 5:01, Marlon began to hyperventilate.
"They killed her at five sharp, I just know they did!" he sobbed.
"They might not have. You don't know for sure. It's Friday. They might leave today's for Monday. Here it is - right here. Let's go." Bill left his car in the middle of Duke Street, and the two men ran for the door to the pound. It was locked.
"Dammit! I know she's dead. That dog catcher had it in for me. I could tell." Marlon cried.
"Well, I hear a lot of barking in there, for a place that supposedly just put down all its dogs. I bet they left 'em all for Monday. Let's see if there's a back door."
There was a back door, and there was the dog catcher. There was also very nearly a round of fisticuffs, as Bill and Marlon convinced the man that it would be in his best interest to take the three bucks and let Nikki go free.
Nikki had to think about it for a moment, as she had already found a boyfriend, but she said her goodbyes and ran to Marlon, knocking him to the ground and licking his face until the handkerchiefs and olive had come free.
She ate the olive.
Marlon wasn't insane, so far as he knew, and he prided himself on being the kind of criminal who only stole what he needed. Sometimes what he needed was whiskey, and one of those times was today, for today, the dog catcher had broken his heart. This morning, Nikki Fitz-fancy The Astounding, Marlon's best friend of nearly ten years, had sprinted off in chase of some old lady's poodle on the platform of Alexandria Union Station - a chase that had not ended well. The poodle was young and fast, and Nikki - more coyote than dog, but getting on in years - was quickly cornered and captured by a couple of porters, and handed over to the dog catcher. If Marlon couldn't produce three dollars - two for the fine and one for a license - by five o'clock, the dog would be destroyed. It was already three-thirty. Or thereabouts. Marlon had to take the average of three different bank clocks, because no one on the street would give him the time.
He was used to people not giving him the time. As hard as he tried to keep himself clean and groomed, it was a constant struggle. His missing eye didn't help, either. He had lost it as a bystander in a gangster drive-by when he was nineteen, and had never managed to find it again - or a suitable replacement. For a few years, he had a smooth, nearly-spherical river stone, but it had long since been lost. He had tried marbles and of course eye-patches with varying degrees of success, but today, unfortunately, was an olive day. It doesn't matter how clean you are, and you can smell like lilac and fresh-baked cookies; if you have a rotting olive for an eye, not many people are going to give you the time of day.
Marlon Fitz-fancy tied a couple of old handkerchiefs together and banded them around his head, covering his eye, and set about begging on King Street. By four-thirty, he was in a panic. He had collected only $1.55, leaving him well short of the fine itself, and he knew they wouldn't release Nikki to him without a license. He would have to steal the money. His two previous attempts at picking pockets had failed so spectacularly that he didn't even consider it, this time. He was fast enough, but the actual theft had to be easy, or he'd surely fumble it.
The corner drugstore over on Duke Street was his best bet. It had a soda fountain and a very elderly woman behind the counter. He didn't have time to case the joint, so he just sauntered up behind a man who was getting up to leave, waited for him to turn his back on the two dollar bills he had placed on the counter atop his check, grabbed the cash and ran. Had Marlon had the time to case the store, he would surely have noted the young man stocking shelves near the exit. He was tackled less than a block away. The lad was about to start pounding Marlon's face into a crimson stain when the pharmacist from the store arrived on the scene, breathing heavily.
"You get back to the store, son. I'll take care of this bum."
Marlon held his hands in front of his face and cried, "I'm sorry. I only took two bucks. It's for my only friend. You don't understand!"
"What are you yappin' about, bub? This ain't no Hooverville. We got laws around here. And decent folk. Where's the two bucks?"
"Please. I'll work it off. I'll clean up, or stock your shelves or something. I gotta get Nikki outta the pound before they kill her!"
"I don't think so. Just give back the-- Say, did you say your dog's name is Nikki?"
Marlon lowered his hands. "Yes sir. She ran off at the train station, and they got her. Please help a fella out."
"Is your name Marlon?"
"Huh?"
"Marlon Fitz-fancy? And Nikki Fitz-fancy The Astounding? Let me get a look at you."
"Do I know you, brother?" Marlon stammered.
The pharmacist reached for Marlon's makeshift eye-patch, causing an instinctive flinch. "It's okay. Just let me get a look at that eye... I knew it! I thought I recognized that ridiculous goatee and your voice, but the eye cinches it. I'm Bill Barker. Don't you remember me?"
"Oh sweet Jesus." Marlon sighed. "Billy! You saved me and Nikki from that gangster who wanted to be our business manager. I can't believe it! It's been, what, eight years?"
"Something like that. I see you're still wearing what's left of that purple nightmare of a jacket. Shoulda recognized that, too. And what did you call that bit of fuzz on your chin, anyway?"
"It's a charcoal demon, but the fellas always called it a rusty demon, on account of my red hair and secondhand razor. Look, I really will make it up to you. Can you help me get Nikki back?"
"I can't believe that mangy thing is still alive! Of course I'll help. Come on - I got a car. It's behind the store. You two still doing your act?"
"It's been a while, but yeah. Sometimes."
The conversation on the ride to the pound, many blocks away on Duke Street consisted mainly of Billy explaining the circumstances of his escaping hobodom, getting a college degree and finding his way into pharmacy. There was also a lengthy reminiscence of the act that Marlon and Nikki still occasionally performed. She was truly an astonishing dog, with great physical skill, a keen sense of comedic timing and no fear whatsoever. Her tricks had made Marlon somewhat of a hobo celebrity for a number of years. He credited her with saving his life on countless occasions, either by earning a buck with the act so they could eat, or by fending off cops or robbers or other baddies. As Bill's Model A puttered past a bank clock that read at least 5:01, Marlon began to hyperventilate.
"They killed her at five sharp, I just know they did!" he sobbed.
"They might not have. You don't know for sure. It's Friday. They might leave today's for Monday. Here it is - right here. Let's go." Bill left his car in the middle of Duke Street, and the two men ran for the door to the pound. It was locked.
"Dammit! I know she's dead. That dog catcher had it in for me. I could tell." Marlon cried.
"Well, I hear a lot of barking in there, for a place that supposedly just put down all its dogs. I bet they left 'em all for Monday. Let's see if there's a back door."
There was a back door, and there was the dog catcher. There was also very nearly a round of fisticuffs, as Bill and Marlon convinced the man that it would be in his best interest to take the three bucks and let Nikki go free.
Nikki had to think about it for a moment, as she had already found a boyfriend, but she said her goodbyes and ran to Marlon, knocking him to the ground and licking his face until the handkerchiefs and olive had come free.
She ate the olive.
Saturday, January 28, 2012
Listening To "The Jupiter Menace" Soundtrack, Drinking Crystal Pepsi, Eating A Priazzo, Reading An Etiquette Hell Thread And Late For My Spin Class
Okay, that's not my first choice of titles for this post, but Blogger made me shorten it. Originally, what I wanted was "Watching 'The Jupiter Menace' in my underwear while listening to Tangerine Dream, drinking Crystal Pepsi, eating a Priazzo Milano and reading a groomzilla thread on Etiquette Hell made me late for the spin class I haven't paid for yet because my last Ginsu knife order put me over my credit limit." Better, right? I know! What it lacks in succinctness, it more than makes up for in inaccuracy.
I wasn't really watching "The Jupiter Menace." I was actually watching my old VHS tapes of Live Aid. The only copy of "The Jupiter Menace" at Erol's was defective. I just thought it sounded cooler. Have you seen "The Jupiter Menace?" I have, but I don't remember it. Cool electronic soundtrack, though. I think. Can't really remember that, either.
And it wasn't Crystal Pepsi. It was Cherry Smash. What I was eating was, regrettably, actually a Priazzo Milano, one of the more heinous insults Pizza Hut ever hurled at Italy. But etiquettehell.com clearly did not exist yet, so obviously I made up that part. I wasn't reading at all. I was drawing an animated first-person perspective of a space battle involving tie-fighters in the corner of one of my Peanuts books. Used green pen for the laser beams, red for the explosions. It was pretty kick-ass.
Now, you don't have to know me very well at all to realize that there was no spin class. Are you kidding? Me? In a spin class? I don't even know what that is. Sounds like something washing machines do to my clothes - that part of the cycle that makes the machine sound like there might be a big dog in it. I assume it's some sort of fitness thing, based on conversations I've overheard about it, so yeah - I was NOT late for spin class. It was Pilates.
Okay, confession time. I've never owned a Ginsu knife, let alone multiple Ginsu knives. But it's not like I haven't tried. I've made several attempts to own a Ginsu knife, but something always seems to stop me from completing the order. You've been there, I'm sure. It's late at night. Your Discovery Channel special on the unique song of the Poison Dart Frog of Costa Rica (titled "Peep Peep Peep Peep Peep Peep") has just ended. You're about to go for the remote to search for something else to stare at, to avoid going to sleep for a little longer, because you know that once you go to sleep, it will be tomorrow, and who needs that? And there they are, cutting shoes and cans and tomatoes like master chefs. Look at that! It's like it's really, really sharp, and it stays that way! "How have I lived all these many empty years without one of those magical things?" I pick up the phone. It's toll-free! Ooh - it's ringing! It's a wrong number. It's some auto parts wholesaler, and they're closed. Commercial's over. Number, forgotten. Next time, hours of insomniac TV later, I actually write down the phone number. But my call is answered by my then future-wife [Maris], and she sounds hot, and for reasons I'll never quite understand, she flirts with me. When I finally remember to ask about the Ginsu offer, she talks me out of it. She's not good at sales. She hates sales. She's going to quit. We meet for Mountain Dew and Priazzo Milano and get married soon after.
Oh! Most abject apologies are in order. I have another correction to that title. I almost forgot - I was most certainly NOT sitting there watching Live Aid and all that nonsense - in my underwear. I would have gotten yelled at, no doubt. No, I was wearing my terrycloth running shorts and a raincoat. No, wait - that was my Atari-playing getup. I don't know what I was wearing for the Live Aid Tapes Marathon. I bet it was stylish, though. Yeah, no. It wasn't stylish. We're all friends, here. It was definitely not stylish. But it was blue. Or greenish-blue.
Wait! Don't go! I have a point! I wanted to talk about blog titles and the blog posts about which they mislead us. I used to find it amusing, reading a title like "Things I Wish I Hadn't Said In Job Interviews," clicking on the link and finding some drivel about the dangers of having a cat on the kitchen counter when you use the toaster. Yawn. I get all fired-up to read something that sounds bizarre and clever, like "How To Make Your Own Vicodin With Master Hand In The Flowerpot," and it ends up being some mommy blog, and the post is a horribly-written, error-filled, droning narrative of the "funny" things somebody's 6-year old said at the dentist when they gave him the ha-ha gas. Blech.
I think some of these bloggers may actually be doing this on purpose. Found one today called "The Party Was Just Getting Good When The Cops Showed Up, And Then It Got Even Better." It was by a blogger who goes by Eight Arrests, No Convictions. How could it not be at least a little bit interesting or entertaining? I'll tell you how. It was about a Longaberger basket party, and the cops were at the wrong address. That was it! I looked at some other posts on the blog. Even the blogger's pseudonym was a lie. No evidence of arrests or arrest-worthy behavior, and nothing remotely fun to read. Total rip.
So, please don't give your blog or its posts super-weird titles if you aren't going to back them up with some serious Mark Leyner-esque prose. Okay?
And it wasn't Live Aid. It was "Saved By The Bell." And I was drinking Coke.
In my underwear.
I wasn't really watching "The Jupiter Menace." I was actually watching my old VHS tapes of Live Aid. The only copy of "The Jupiter Menace" at Erol's was defective. I just thought it sounded cooler. Have you seen "The Jupiter Menace?" I have, but I don't remember it. Cool electronic soundtrack, though. I think. Can't really remember that, either.
And it wasn't Crystal Pepsi. It was Cherry Smash. What I was eating was, regrettably, actually a Priazzo Milano, one of the more heinous insults Pizza Hut ever hurled at Italy. But etiquettehell.com clearly did not exist yet, so obviously I made up that part. I wasn't reading at all. I was drawing an animated first-person perspective of a space battle involving tie-fighters in the corner of one of my Peanuts books. Used green pen for the laser beams, red for the explosions. It was pretty kick-ass.
Now, you don't have to know me very well at all to realize that there was no spin class. Are you kidding? Me? In a spin class? I don't even know what that is. Sounds like something washing machines do to my clothes - that part of the cycle that makes the machine sound like there might be a big dog in it. I assume it's some sort of fitness thing, based on conversations I've overheard about it, so yeah - I was NOT late for spin class. It was Pilates.
Okay, confession time. I've never owned a Ginsu knife, let alone multiple Ginsu knives. But it's not like I haven't tried. I've made several attempts to own a Ginsu knife, but something always seems to stop me from completing the order. You've been there, I'm sure. It's late at night. Your Discovery Channel special on the unique song of the Poison Dart Frog of Costa Rica (titled "Peep Peep Peep Peep Peep Peep") has just ended. You're about to go for the remote to search for something else to stare at, to avoid going to sleep for a little longer, because you know that once you go to sleep, it will be tomorrow, and who needs that? And there they are, cutting shoes and cans and tomatoes like master chefs. Look at that! It's like it's really, really sharp, and it stays that way! "How have I lived all these many empty years without one of those magical things?" I pick up the phone. It's toll-free! Ooh - it's ringing! It's a wrong number. It's some auto parts wholesaler, and they're closed. Commercial's over. Number, forgotten. Next time, hours of insomniac TV later, I actually write down the phone number. But my call is answered by my then future-wife [Maris], and she sounds hot, and for reasons I'll never quite understand, she flirts with me. When I finally remember to ask about the Ginsu offer, she talks me out of it. She's not good at sales. She hates sales. She's going to quit. We meet for Mountain Dew and Priazzo Milano and get married soon after.
Oh! Most abject apologies are in order. I have another correction to that title. I almost forgot - I was most certainly NOT sitting there watching Live Aid and all that nonsense - in my underwear. I would have gotten yelled at, no doubt. No, I was wearing my terrycloth running shorts and a raincoat. No, wait - that was my Atari-playing getup. I don't know what I was wearing for the Live Aid Tapes Marathon. I bet it was stylish, though. Yeah, no. It wasn't stylish. We're all friends, here. It was definitely not stylish. But it was blue. Or greenish-blue.
Wait! Don't go! I have a point! I wanted to talk about blog titles and the blog posts about which they mislead us. I used to find it amusing, reading a title like "Things I Wish I Hadn't Said In Job Interviews," clicking on the link and finding some drivel about the dangers of having a cat on the kitchen counter when you use the toaster. Yawn. I get all fired-up to read something that sounds bizarre and clever, like "How To Make Your Own Vicodin With Master Hand In The Flowerpot," and it ends up being some mommy blog, and the post is a horribly-written, error-filled, droning narrative of the "funny" things somebody's 6-year old said at the dentist when they gave him the ha-ha gas. Blech.
I think some of these bloggers may actually be doing this on purpose. Found one today called "The Party Was Just Getting Good When The Cops Showed Up, And Then It Got Even Better." It was by a blogger who goes by Eight Arrests, No Convictions. How could it not be at least a little bit interesting or entertaining? I'll tell you how. It was about a Longaberger basket party, and the cops were at the wrong address. That was it! I looked at some other posts on the blog. Even the blogger's pseudonym was a lie. No evidence of arrests or arrest-worthy behavior, and nothing remotely fun to read. Total rip.
So, please don't give your blog or its posts super-weird titles if you aren't going to back them up with some serious Mark Leyner-esque prose. Okay?
And it wasn't Live Aid. It was "Saved By The Bell." And I was drinking Coke.
In my underwear.
Monday, January 16, 2012
700 Hoboes: Lord Dan X. Still Standing.
The next hobo on the list is Lord Dan X. Still Standing, and writing about him is extremely exciting to me. This is because he is number seven on the list (yes, I'm still going through the names in order), so when I finish talking about ol' Dan X, I will have achieved the call-your-mom-and-tell-her-to-turn-on-channel-four-worthy milestone of one percent completion of this ridiculous project. Which reminds me -- any new readers (haha - I just launched an outward-bound spray of Patron Resposado, nasally. New readers. I slay me.) should note that I did not make up these marvelous hobo names. They come from John Hodgman's hilarious book "The Areas Of My Expertise," and I do not have his permission to use them. I figure if each and every one of you nice readers were to run out and purchase a copy of this book, it would make him just that much less angry with me, should he find out about my use of his list.
Lord Dan X. Still Standing was one tough hobo. He rode the old Union Pacific rails throughout his 20s and 30s, during the '20s and '30s. His toughness was not an innate characteristic; it was a trait made necessary by his own inflated sense of self-worth. For a while, he had tried to call himself Czar Dan X, but when the great hobo known as Czar King Rex The Glorious Leader caught wind of it, well, that was the end of that.
It probably isn't fair to call Lord Dan X self-important; he was really more of a know-it-all. He was at least somewhat noteworthy in that he was one of a small minority of hoboes would could read and write, beyond the cryptographic signs and messages his kind left for one another on telegraph poles and such, and he mistakenly thought this skill could help him lord over his boxcar brethren with his fantastic knowledge of everything. He was wrong - on a couple of levels.
There were many things hoboes hated - yard cops, winter, padlocks, debutante balls - but the two things they most reviled in each other were literacy and bossiness. Lord Dan X was just literate enough to be exceedingly bossy. He would read a found bit of newspaper and instantly become a leading authority on world events (in which hoboes had absolutely no interest), or baseball, or the weather. He corrected his fellow hoboes' grammar, lectured them on politics, told them where and when to camp to avoid weather or cops and harangued them about their health and hygiene - all with an utterly intolerable air of intellectual superiority.
As a result, he was beaten up a lot. He was beaten with sticks, rocks, stop signs and cans of beans. On several occasions, he was nearly beaten to death. But he always got back up. Before long, he added the defiant "Still Standing" to his moniker. He didn't learn anything from his beat-downs. He never stopped trying to impress and control his fellow drifters with his vast knowledge. The beatings continued. He kept getting up. In 1940, he became one of only a few hoboes to successfully leave the vagrant's life behind. He won a seat in the Texas State Legislature as the last Tory candidate in our nation's history. His bossiness continued in that venue, as did the beatings.
But he kept getting up. He was Lord Dan X. Still Standing.
Lord Dan X. Still Standing was one tough hobo. He rode the old Union Pacific rails throughout his 20s and 30s, during the '20s and '30s. His toughness was not an innate characteristic; it was a trait made necessary by his own inflated sense of self-worth. For a while, he had tried to call himself Czar Dan X, but when the great hobo known as Czar King Rex The Glorious Leader caught wind of it, well, that was the end of that.
It probably isn't fair to call Lord Dan X self-important; he was really more of a know-it-all. He was at least somewhat noteworthy in that he was one of a small minority of hoboes would could read and write, beyond the cryptographic signs and messages his kind left for one another on telegraph poles and such, and he mistakenly thought this skill could help him lord over his boxcar brethren with his fantastic knowledge of everything. He was wrong - on a couple of levels.
There were many things hoboes hated - yard cops, winter, padlocks, debutante balls - but the two things they most reviled in each other were literacy and bossiness. Lord Dan X was just literate enough to be exceedingly bossy. He would read a found bit of newspaper and instantly become a leading authority on world events (in which hoboes had absolutely no interest), or baseball, or the weather. He corrected his fellow hoboes' grammar, lectured them on politics, told them where and when to camp to avoid weather or cops and harangued them about their health and hygiene - all with an utterly intolerable air of intellectual superiority.
As a result, he was beaten up a lot. He was beaten with sticks, rocks, stop signs and cans of beans. On several occasions, he was nearly beaten to death. But he always got back up. Before long, he added the defiant "Still Standing" to his moniker. He didn't learn anything from his beat-downs. He never stopped trying to impress and control his fellow drifters with his vast knowledge. The beatings continued. He kept getting up. In 1940, he became one of only a few hoboes to successfully leave the vagrant's life behind. He won a seat in the Texas State Legislature as the last Tory candidate in our nation's history. His bossiness continued in that venue, as did the beatings.
But he kept getting up. He was Lord Dan X. Still Standing.
Friday, December 30, 2011
700 Hoboes: Jack Skunk's New Year
Jack Skunk wasn't the worst-smelling hobo. He wasn't the second-worst-smelling hobo. Jack wasn't even in the top eleven worst-smelling hoboes. Such was the magnitude of the hobo stenches with which he had to compete. And yet, the man had a stink about him. Riot-police-grade, eyeball-melting, gag-inducing fumes emanated from his wiry frame at all times. He had few friends.
Somehow - and no one who knew him was quite sure how - he had a son, about fifteen years his junior. He didn't smell at all. At least, when in the company of his father, the boy didn't seem to have any odor. He was a Skunk, however, and his smelliness was assumed. They called him Jack Skunk Fils.
It is a well-known fact that many, if not most, hoboes embraced their meager and difficult lives as penniless drifters. Some of them, before the hobo wars, even chose to drop out and ride the rails and sleep under the stars. Jack Skunk was not such a hobo. Jack had returned from The Great War after surviving two years in the mud and blood of France, only to find that his job at Walton's Hinge Pin Factory in Evanston, IL was no more. He had held a half-dozen jobs across the Midwest over the following year, before finally losing his home, his wife and his hope, and taking to the rails with three-year old Jack Junior.
By 1931, Skunk and son were expert hoboes, not merely surviving, but thriving along the high steel of the Grand Trunk Railway, the Chicago and Northwestern and the Detroit, Toledo and Ironton. So at home as railroad vagrants were they that the onset of the Great Depression had taken them months to notice. They had gradually realized that there were more hoboes, and that the ones who could stand the elder Jack's stench long enough to converse with them had stories of bread lines and massive unemployment in the cities.
Jack Fils was about twelve years old as 1931 drew to a close, and his father was annoying him. It had become an odd tradition for Jack to annoy his son at the end of each year. Between the hobo Christmas parties to which they were never invited and the hobo New Year's parties to which they were never invited, Jack Senior moved the two of them as far east as he could, working along the Pennsylvania Railroad - sometimes even the Baltimore and Ohio - until December 31st. This New Year's Eve found them in the woods near a Pennsy yard in Wilmington, Delaware.
"Are you happy, Pop? Delaware. I don't think we could get any farther east without taking that miserable short line to Atlantic City - and we'd probably have to walk the last fifty miles." Jack Skunk Fils poked at the campfire as it struggled against a mixture of snow and sleet.
"It'll do, son. It'll do." the old man of 27 years sighed. "You gonna stay up this year, or should I wake you?"
Jack the younger grunted. "Can't I just sleep in? Or better yet - just freeze to death and be done with this stupid life?"
"Don't talk like that, boy. This is the one thing - the one thing - I ask of you each year. I've never made you eat a vegetable - ever. I let you stay up late. You've been drinking hobo beer for two years, already! Stay up with me."
"Come on, Pop. Why? Every year you drag us east on these railroads we don't know. Every year we get our rear ends beaten. We get chased by yard cops. Last year, we got arrested and held for six hours. And for what? So you can freeze us nearly to death all night, trying to stay awake for the 'first light of 1932' or whatever you call it. Why? What's the big deal?"
Jack Skunk shook his head sadly. "Never mind, son. Go to sleep."
Jack Fils happily complied, crawling under their tattered, leaking tent, wrapping himself in shreds of burlap and disintegrating Army blankets and passing out almost immediately. He slept for no more than half-hour stretches for the rest of the night, as the sleet changed to rain and eventually ended. Each time he woke, he peered outside the tent to confirm that his father was, indeed, still clinging tenaciously to consciousness, drinking hobo coffee, slapping himself or just letting the cold rain drench his face.
Eventually, the black sky turned to indigo, then to purple and finally it began to glow. Jack Junior grudgingly joined his old man by the fire and watched the sun creep over the horizon, painting the thinning clouds in blazing pink and orange as it rose. He watched his father, watching the sunrise. He had done this every January 1st for nearly a decade, but had never fully understood it - until now. This year, having been a hobo adult for three years already, he saw it. It was obvious, now. He started the declaration that his pop usually uttered, "We are very likely the first hoboes to see the dawn of 1932..."
Jack Skunk looked at his son for a moment, then smiled at the morning sky. "...Anything is possible," he concluded.
Young Jack was connected now to his strange, annoying father, united in a single emotion. It was in the man's eyes at every New Year's dawn. It was hope, and this was the one moment each year when it dared show itself. The world was born again. There was hope. The hardships and struggle of the road could end, and it could happen in this new year. A job, medicine, food, a home, a stink-free life - it was all possible.
"Anything is possible, Pop," he repeated.
Somehow - and no one who knew him was quite sure how - he had a son, about fifteen years his junior. He didn't smell at all. At least, when in the company of his father, the boy didn't seem to have any odor. He was a Skunk, however, and his smelliness was assumed. They called him Jack Skunk Fils.
It is a well-known fact that many, if not most, hoboes embraced their meager and difficult lives as penniless drifters. Some of them, before the hobo wars, even chose to drop out and ride the rails and sleep under the stars. Jack Skunk was not such a hobo. Jack had returned from The Great War after surviving two years in the mud and blood of France, only to find that his job at Walton's Hinge Pin Factory in Evanston, IL was no more. He had held a half-dozen jobs across the Midwest over the following year, before finally losing his home, his wife and his hope, and taking to the rails with three-year old Jack Junior.
By 1931, Skunk and son were expert hoboes, not merely surviving, but thriving along the high steel of the Grand Trunk Railway, the Chicago and Northwestern and the Detroit, Toledo and Ironton. So at home as railroad vagrants were they that the onset of the Great Depression had taken them months to notice. They had gradually realized that there were more hoboes, and that the ones who could stand the elder Jack's stench long enough to converse with them had stories of bread lines and massive unemployment in the cities.
Jack Fils was about twelve years old as 1931 drew to a close, and his father was annoying him. It had become an odd tradition for Jack to annoy his son at the end of each year. Between the hobo Christmas parties to which they were never invited and the hobo New Year's parties to which they were never invited, Jack Senior moved the two of them as far east as he could, working along the Pennsylvania Railroad - sometimes even the Baltimore and Ohio - until December 31st. This New Year's Eve found them in the woods near a Pennsy yard in Wilmington, Delaware.
"Are you happy, Pop? Delaware. I don't think we could get any farther east without taking that miserable short line to Atlantic City - and we'd probably have to walk the last fifty miles." Jack Skunk Fils poked at the campfire as it struggled against a mixture of snow and sleet.
"It'll do, son. It'll do." the old man of 27 years sighed. "You gonna stay up this year, or should I wake you?"
Jack the younger grunted. "Can't I just sleep in? Or better yet - just freeze to death and be done with this stupid life?"
"Don't talk like that, boy. This is the one thing - the one thing - I ask of you each year. I've never made you eat a vegetable - ever. I let you stay up late. You've been drinking hobo beer for two years, already! Stay up with me."
"Come on, Pop. Why? Every year you drag us east on these railroads we don't know. Every year we get our rear ends beaten. We get chased by yard cops. Last year, we got arrested and held for six hours. And for what? So you can freeze us nearly to death all night, trying to stay awake for the 'first light of 1932' or whatever you call it. Why? What's the big deal?"
Jack Skunk shook his head sadly. "Never mind, son. Go to sleep."
Jack Fils happily complied, crawling under their tattered, leaking tent, wrapping himself in shreds of burlap and disintegrating Army blankets and passing out almost immediately. He slept for no more than half-hour stretches for the rest of the night, as the sleet changed to rain and eventually ended. Each time he woke, he peered outside the tent to confirm that his father was, indeed, still clinging tenaciously to consciousness, drinking hobo coffee, slapping himself or just letting the cold rain drench his face.
Eventually, the black sky turned to indigo, then to purple and finally it began to glow. Jack Junior grudgingly joined his old man by the fire and watched the sun creep over the horizon, painting the thinning clouds in blazing pink and orange as it rose. He watched his father, watching the sunrise. He had done this every January 1st for nearly a decade, but had never fully understood it - until now. This year, having been a hobo adult for three years already, he saw it. It was obvious, now. He started the declaration that his pop usually uttered, "We are very likely the first hoboes to see the dawn of 1932..."
Jack Skunk looked at his son for a moment, then smiled at the morning sky. "...Anything is possible," he concluded.
Young Jack was connected now to his strange, annoying father, united in a single emotion. It was in the man's eyes at every New Year's dawn. It was hope, and this was the one moment each year when it dared show itself. The world was born again. There was hope. The hardships and struggle of the road could end, and it could happen in this new year. A job, medicine, food, a home, a stink-free life - it was all possible.
"Anything is possible, Pop," he repeated.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
700 Hoboes: Holden The Expert Dreamtwister Bothers The Rza
Holden The Expert Dreamtwister raced from the hobo camp, chased by a stick-wielding and enraged The Rza. "Take it easy, Rza! I didn't touch you or your stuff!"
"You know what you did, you dreamtwisting little sorcerer. I told you if you did it again I was gonna kill you - now you gonna die!"
"I didn't do it, this time! I swear! Back off, man." Holden had done it this time. He felt bad for swearing that he hadn't. He was in no immediate danger, as The Rza was not built for extended foot pursuits, what with his ingrown foot, and all.
"Liar! One second, I'm on the beach at Fort Lauderdale, untying Elizabeth Banks' string bikini. Next thing I know, I'm being tried for high treason, and the judge is a six-headed hamster..."
"It's not my doing, Rza. You got weird dreams. Some kind of issues with y'all's subconscious, I bet."
"You go to hell, you evil wizard! I know it was you. My dreams never do that. I get the girl. Every time. You done twisted that dream and you know it. I mean, those six heads. What was that? Laraine Newman? Falcor? Dean Rusk? Jack Pardee? Wendie Jo Sperber? And Judge Judy - how nice. You're the one with issues, you dream-ruining freak of nature."
"Okay, okay, okay. I'm sorry. I twisted your dream. I heard you mumbling in your sleep about 'the back door' and I lost it. I can't help it. It's not like I do it on purpose. I really am kind of out-of-body when it happens." Holden stopped and held up his hands in surrender.
The Rza paused, but kept the stick raised, ready to do some serious braining at a moment's notice. "You got memory problems, bro. You already told me how you do it. You even told me why you do it. Last year, at the Hobo Christmas Sing-along, Rhea Perlman Lookalike Contest and Lint-swap? You got drunk on hobo wine and told a bunch of us all about it. About how you can't dream for yourself, so you mess up everyone else's dreams, on account of how you can't stand to see anyone have a good dream. You told us how you pitch your voice just so and talk all low and clear and gentle-yet-authoritative into the ear of some poor shlub who's at just the right stage of shuteye. About planting characters or settings or plot devices into whatever the guy is dreaming. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"No," Holden lied. "No it's not."
"Liar! You gave us a demonstration! You found that yard cop in Cumberland, asleep in his chair, and you went up and said all your hokus pokus in his ear, and he woke up thinking he was being buried alive in Betty Boop dolls by all the US Presidents of the 20th century as Stooges and Marx Brothers. When he regained his wits, he said he had been dreaming about Betty Grable and his mother's apple crisp. You goddamn told us, man! I'm sick of it. Leave my dreams alone! They are all that I have."
"I'm sorry, Rza. I won't let it happen again," he lied. "I promise."
Over the following two and a half years, The Rza's path and Holden The Expert Dreamtwister's did not again cross. When at last they did, at a small hobo encampment outside of Gary, Indiana, Holden once more succumbed to his dreamtwisting impulse, turned The Rza's nocturnal vision of boozy hotel saloons and chorus girls into some wretched nightmare involving pickles, a dental drill and Ovaltine, and promptly died of a crushed skull.
The Rza had resumed his slumber before Holden's body was cold.
"You know what you did, you dreamtwisting little sorcerer. I told you if you did it again I was gonna kill you - now you gonna die!"
"I didn't do it, this time! I swear! Back off, man." Holden had done it this time. He felt bad for swearing that he hadn't. He was in no immediate danger, as The Rza was not built for extended foot pursuits, what with his ingrown foot, and all.
"Liar! One second, I'm on the beach at Fort Lauderdale, untying Elizabeth Banks' string bikini. Next thing I know, I'm being tried for high treason, and the judge is a six-headed hamster..."
"It's not my doing, Rza. You got weird dreams. Some kind of issues with y'all's subconscious, I bet."
"You go to hell, you evil wizard! I know it was you. My dreams never do that. I get the girl. Every time. You done twisted that dream and you know it. I mean, those six heads. What was that? Laraine Newman? Falcor? Dean Rusk? Jack Pardee? Wendie Jo Sperber? And Judge Judy - how nice. You're the one with issues, you dream-ruining freak of nature."
"Okay, okay, okay. I'm sorry. I twisted your dream. I heard you mumbling in your sleep about 'the back door' and I lost it. I can't help it. It's not like I do it on purpose. I really am kind of out-of-body when it happens." Holden stopped and held up his hands in surrender.
The Rza paused, but kept the stick raised, ready to do some serious braining at a moment's notice. "You got memory problems, bro. You already told me how you do it. You even told me why you do it. Last year, at the Hobo Christmas Sing-along, Rhea Perlman Lookalike Contest and Lint-swap? You got drunk on hobo wine and told a bunch of us all about it. About how you can't dream for yourself, so you mess up everyone else's dreams, on account of how you can't stand to see anyone have a good dream. You told us how you pitch your voice just so and talk all low and clear and gentle-yet-authoritative into the ear of some poor shlub who's at just the right stage of shuteye. About planting characters or settings or plot devices into whatever the guy is dreaming. Any of this ringing a bell?"
"No," Holden lied. "No it's not."
"Liar! You gave us a demonstration! You found that yard cop in Cumberland, asleep in his chair, and you went up and said all your hokus pokus in his ear, and he woke up thinking he was being buried alive in Betty Boop dolls by all the US Presidents of the 20th century as Stooges and Marx Brothers. When he regained his wits, he said he had been dreaming about Betty Grable and his mother's apple crisp. You goddamn told us, man! I'm sick of it. Leave my dreams alone! They are all that I have."
"I'm sorry, Rza. I won't let it happen again," he lied. "I promise."
Over the following two and a half years, The Rza's path and Holden The Expert Dreamtwister's did not again cross. When at last they did, at a small hobo encampment outside of Gary, Indiana, Holden once more succumbed to his dreamtwisting impulse, turned The Rza's nocturnal vision of boozy hotel saloons and chorus girls into some wretched nightmare involving pickles, a dental drill and Ovaltine, and promptly died of a crushed skull.
The Rza had resumed his slumber before Holden's body was cold.
Friday, December 2, 2011
700 Hoboes: Cholly The Yegg
[Note: This is the second of what may or may not eventually be seven hundred stories, tidbits and interesting facts about author (and professional writer) John Hodgman's 700 hoboes. The list comes from his hilarious, completely inaccurate almanac, "The Areas Of My Expertise," and I do not have his permission to use them. I'd like to think he'd be cool with the idea, but let's not tell him yet - I'd like to get through a few more names, first.]
Cholly the Yegg cracked his first safe when he was nine years old. His father, the manager of the Topeka Bank and Trust, Textiles and Feed Company, locked Cholly with a basket of bread and a quart of bourbon in the bank's vault one Friday afternoon, closed up shop and disappeared forever. Young Cholly (given name: Chollendrical Abernathy Section) was discovered Monday morning by the bank's president and caricaturist, Howling Jim Steeb, but not in the vault. Cholly had managed to defeat the locking mechanism on the vault door, and he had passed out on a desk full of bread crumbs in his father's office. Mr. Steeb promptly adopted him.
The boy didn't know much, but he quickly realized that he could not live with Jim's howling, so after a month, off he went, riding the rails in the direction of Santa Fe. He lived by his wits, moving from town to town, ingratiating himself to suckers for free meals and the occasional real bed, and stealing. He took pride in his pilfering. He made sure he stole at least one thing in every town. By his sixteenth birthday, he had mastered defeating safes and vaults from the outside, and found himself in the employ of a band of train-robbers. He plied his trade with great skill, but unfortunately for him and his mates, it was the 1920s. Trains had become well-guarded fortresses. Train robbing was a thing of the past. Cholly was obsolete.
It took getting shot by a US Marshall, captured and spending seven years in Leavenworth Prison for him to accept that those days were gone. Three days after his release, he successfully emptied the vault of the largest bank in St. Louis, making off with nearly $100,000 in cash and bearer bonds. He hit the rails again, at first as a paying passenger, and later as a penniless hobo.
The hobo years were Cholly's happiest. He was revered by most members of Hobo Nation, not merely for his thieving past - most hoboes had thieving pasts - but for the fact that he had stolen from The Man. Like most hoboes, Cholly spent much of his time alone, but when they gathered in groups, he was King Hobo, and was given the large can of beans and extra moonshine. The only other significant skill Cholly ever picked up was only useful at Christmastime. He made the best hobo eggnog anyone on the Santa Fe Railroad had ever tasted. They called it Yeggnog.
He lived to be at least ninety - a rare feat for a hobo - but no one knows his final age. He walked off into the woods outside Kansas City one fall day, and was never heard from again.
Cholly the Yegg cracked his first safe when he was nine years old. His father, the manager of the Topeka Bank and Trust, Textiles and Feed Company, locked Cholly with a basket of bread and a quart of bourbon in the bank's vault one Friday afternoon, closed up shop and disappeared forever. Young Cholly (given name: Chollendrical Abernathy Section) was discovered Monday morning by the bank's president and caricaturist, Howling Jim Steeb, but not in the vault. Cholly had managed to defeat the locking mechanism on the vault door, and he had passed out on a desk full of bread crumbs in his father's office. Mr. Steeb promptly adopted him.
The boy didn't know much, but he quickly realized that he could not live with Jim's howling, so after a month, off he went, riding the rails in the direction of Santa Fe. He lived by his wits, moving from town to town, ingratiating himself to suckers for free meals and the occasional real bed, and stealing. He took pride in his pilfering. He made sure he stole at least one thing in every town. By his sixteenth birthday, he had mastered defeating safes and vaults from the outside, and found himself in the employ of a band of train-robbers. He plied his trade with great skill, but unfortunately for him and his mates, it was the 1920s. Trains had become well-guarded fortresses. Train robbing was a thing of the past. Cholly was obsolete.
It took getting shot by a US Marshall, captured and spending seven years in Leavenworth Prison for him to accept that those days were gone. Three days after his release, he successfully emptied the vault of the largest bank in St. Louis, making off with nearly $100,000 in cash and bearer bonds. He hit the rails again, at first as a paying passenger, and later as a penniless hobo.
The hobo years were Cholly's happiest. He was revered by most members of Hobo Nation, not merely for his thieving past - most hoboes had thieving pasts - but for the fact that he had stolen from The Man. Like most hoboes, Cholly spent much of his time alone, but when they gathered in groups, he was King Hobo, and was given the large can of beans and extra moonshine. The only other significant skill Cholly ever picked up was only useful at Christmastime. He made the best hobo eggnog anyone on the Santa Fe Railroad had ever tasted. They called it Yeggnog.
He lived to be at least ninety - a rare feat for a hobo - but no one knows his final age. He walked off into the woods outside Kansas City one fall day, and was never heard from again.
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