Some Of The Ones Who Don't Really Speak To Me

 

Leaves in ballast - Point of Rocks, MD (photo by [Maris])

It shouldn't have been a surprise. With a group 700 strong (800, if you have the paperback edition of "The Areas Of My Expertise"), it should be no wonder that at least a few of them would have nothing much to say to me. And yet, there I was, skimming for the two hundredth time John Hodgman's list, puzzling at my inability to connect with certain names and ascertain their respective stories. How could it be? Most of these men and women go out of their way to tell me who they are. That there could be so many of them staring wordlessly up from the page (which here means screen) caught me rather off-guard.

To wit:

#31 James Fenimore Cooper. Hodgman includes some real historical figures in his list of 700 hobo names, and they always bother me. You know who James Fenimore Cooper was, and if you don't know, I can attest to the fact that Google knows. In what world could this man, this prolific powdered-wigged writer from our nation's infancy possibly have been a hobo (he would have been 140 years old at the beginning of the Great Depression)? I guess he was a really old hobo? Who loved writing about our nation's infancy, and referring to indigenous American's as "injins?" Yeah. That. [Maris says maybe he was the first hobo, which no one knew because they hadn't been invented yet]

#57 Orphaned Reynaldo, the Child with Haunting Eyes (while there were children hoboes, Reynaldo took this name when he was 45; prior to this, he was known as...[See #58])

and

#58 Reynaldo Reynaldoson, Who Will One Day Kill His Father.  Now, what am I supposed to do with this? Yeah, it's pretty clever, in a cutesy play-on-words kind of way - but the story is all there, already laid out with admirable succinctness in the name(s). Nothing should be added. It's all done. Finished. Complete. I should stop. 

#76 Vice President Garrett Hobart.  I had to look him up, of course. I assumed that he was the inventor of that enormous electric mixer that made pizza dough and ripped teenagers' arms off, in the kitchen of the Rockville Maryland Chuck E. Cheese Pizza Time Theatre (their choice of spelling on "Theatre" will never not crack me up). I was wrong. Apparently he was a real, live American Vice President - and he died in office. I wonder if he was hanged for adhering to the Constitution... Probably not. And again - he'd have been one OLD hobo. Pass.

#120 Cincinnati O'Gurk.  Technically, there's nothing wrong with this name. Just invent a hobo from Cincinnati - or humorously not from Cincy - and tell his (or her) story, right? Yes, I suppose, but the old [place/name] trope is a bit too wide-open for me. His name might as well be John Doe (who you'll recall, if you've been keeping up with Mostly Harmless Drivel, attended Woodlawn High School, outside of Baltimore). Just no spark, I guess. [[Maris]' note: Also known as Cincinnati Yogurt, by someone who was hard of hearing, but whom O'Gurk was too kind to correct]

#166 Dora The Explorer.  [For whom the series was named, by one of her descendants, who had always idolized her] I should just let [Maris] write this.

#189 Skywise The Sexual Elf.  Come on, now. We try to keep it clean, here at Club Hobo-- I mean, Mostly Harmless Drivel. Am I tempted to work this into some weird treatment of Soft Cell's immortal classic "Sex Dwarf?" Obviously - I mean, who wouldn't be? But no. This 'bo belongs on a different list. [The song is not "Sex Hobo," [Maris] is quick to point out] . . . While we're at it...

#642 The Fucky From Kentucky.  No. Just no. Come on, Hodgman - you're better than that. Although... maybe, being from Kentucky and all, this hobo just couldn't manage to spell "flunky."

#668 Andre The Indianapolist. It's right there in the name. It says indianapolis. No! You go to hell! You go to hell and you die! Remember how Susan Sarandon's character in "Thelma & Louise" could NOT go through Texas (from Arkansas, I think) to get to Mexico - and they never really tell us why, but we know something unspeakably horrible must have happened in Texas? Yeah. That's indianapolis. And even were it not, this is just another one of those name/place hobo names. Yawn.

#209 Nick Nolte.  WHAT??  [He paid to have his name on the list (twice - in the paperback edition)] Thanks, [Maris].

#242 The Nine Doctor Whos.  [Maris] says he was prescient, knowing that there would be nine Doctor Whos. Sadly, he died before anyone could tell him that there would actually be THIRTEEN of them - and counting...]  Also, really? Doctor Who? Was Lost In Space not available? Were you too afraid of Gene Roddenberry's estate to use Star Trek? Boo.

#232 Manuel Pants-Too-High.  meh. Once upon a time, there was a hobo, and his pants were, like, too high, or something. Oh - and his name was Manuel. The End. [Man, well his pants were too high, says [M]]. Do you see what I have to put up with, here?

#305 Roundhouse Farter.  Really? [Ooh - that's even worse than Indianapolis!]

#320 Modem-Sniffer Gunderson.  What hobo even knew what a modem was, when they were decades from having been invented? [Modems occur naturally, like truffles. It was a gift.] Never write on the couch next to [Maris] when she's reading fantasy.

#371 Shapeshifting Demon.  Yeah - with infinite shapes from which to choose, this idiot demon chose a homeless, jobless, hopeless flea-infested 1930s drifter? Dumb.

#399 Applebee O'Bennigan McFridays.  [Oh dear]  We're gonna get sued!

#413 "Taxachusetts" Glenn.  Coming from Maryland, I find this one kind of amusing.

#624 Bill Jaundice.  Who you callin' yella, mister?

There are actually still quite a few others that have me stumped. I mean, Spotted Dick? Really? Anyway, thanks for putting up with me and [Maris] for a few minutes. We'll do better next time - promise (we won't, we won't...).

Return Of That Thankfulness Thing - 2021

 

A long, long time ago - which here means 2012 - there was this thing. All thirteen of my Facebook friends were spending November posting something for which they were THANKFUL each day. That was too much commitment for me, so I stuffed all 30 of mine into a single blog post. In 2013, I did it again. Then, in 2014 I broke it up into three easy pieces. In 2015, back to one post with 30 things. Then... I stopped. Suddenly, there was seemingly nothing for which to be thankful. Has it really been SIX years?

So. Let's do this. In three easy-to-swallow little pills of 10 things each. Since The Dark Times Of Not Being Bloggilly Thankful included 2019, I should start with...

In Washington, this is once in a lifetime.

 

1. The 2019 Washington Nationals. Over their first 50 games, they were 19-31. It was bad. People were calling for the manager's head. Then, 104-year old Gerardo Parro came to town, and Mom's favorite player Anthony Rendon caught fire - as did Everyone Else On The Team, and by the end of October, demons had been exorcised and the entire long-suffering DVM was covered in magic Nats dust. I'll never forget it.

2. Gotta get this one out of the way, too. Riddance. I am thankful for riddance. No, I'm not going to sing praises to Sleepy Joe or anything. I'm not thrilled with what we have in 2021, but I literally don't care what he does. I am thankful to be (probably temporarily) rid of the bloviating monster (of our own making) he replaced. That's all.

3. David Bowie. I hear his music every day, and I'm thankful that he existed, in all his glorious weird genius. 

4. 1982. I've already expressed my gratitude for 1981 and 1983 (it really was all downhill from there), so here's some love for their middle sibling '82. How can you not be thankful for the year that gave us "Desperate But Not Serious," and "Stand Or Fall," and OMG Romeo Void! And "Blade Runner." 'Nuff said.

Behold my fiery goodness...

 

5. Patio heaters. By the end of 2020, with all its outdoor and semi-outdoor dining and socially-distanced front-yard happy hours, millions of us had come to appreciate these awesome metal lifesavers. They make cold not so cold, and for cold haters like myself, that's just so wonderful.

6. Dehumidifiers. It's no secret to those who know me that I've always loved humidifiers, with their white noise and their gift for de-winterizing the air. This year, thanks the sudden appearance of some weird mold in my tiny house, I got to learn first-hand about the equal and opposite gift of the de-humidifier. I pull out the collection tank thingy and I just marvel. "All this water was in the AIR? In this room? Wow..."

7. Dialogue. As the author-- sorry, writer -- of ELEVEN little novels, by way of both National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) and its summer version, Camp NaNoWriMo, I have come to absolutely adore writing dialogue, for its magical word-count enhancing properties. I also seem to be kinda okay at it. 

8. WHFS. The legendary DC area alternative radio station (before it was called "alternative") that started on Cordell Avenue in Bethesda, and later moved to New Carrolton. Google it if you don't know, but it was the David Bowie of radio stations - weird was okay, different was good, and NEW was gold. Even in the 80's, through their declining years. they were the best bunch of people playing the best music on any airwaves, anywhere. Thanks to deejay "Weasel," I know that John Doe of X went to Woodlawn High School outside of Baltimore, and I know who Difford and Tilbrook are. Useful!

Still here, boss. Need us to protest some more?

 

9. The protesters who aren't protesting anymore. I work at the Humane Society of The United States, so it's okay that this menagerie lives on my spare work space. They protested upside-down from about November 2016 to January 2021 (mostly they hated 45's Secretary of Agriculture, and his trophy-hunting moron sons), but now they're back on their furry little feet, and no matter how work-stressed I might get, when I turn around and see them, I have to smile.

10. The advice I got from my late Uncle Buddy, when I was separated and headed for divorce, back in about 1997 or so. I won't say that everyone else's advice wasn't good - it was. I got LOTS of good advice in those days. What I will say is that Uncle Buddy's advice was the best - and he imparted it in seconds. He was an awesome uncle.

There. Ten things for which I'm thankful, here at the back end of 2021. With any luck, I'll post two more batches of ten - sometime before Christmas...

Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins Tries To Explain

 

Choose wisely. East Brunswick, MD - 1992. Photo by Joe

As I've reported numerous times in these stories of John Hodgman's 700 hoboes, there were many who deliberately chose the life of the wandering poor. These men and women embraced the freedom of the road and were beholden to no one and nothing but their own hunger. Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins was not one of those hoboes. He lived among the ranks of hoboes who had lost everything and now spent their days searching for work, desperately seeking a way back to normal, back to the world as they had known it. 

He was born in 1913 to a working-class couple in Philadelphia. His father was a longshoreman at the seaport, and his mother was a homemaker who often washed and mended neighbors' clothes, when money was tight (money was always tight). The only store-bought toy they were ever able to afford was a big canister of Tinkertoy - essentially just a bunch of wooden dowels and spools with holes drilled in them. Little Bobby Nubbins adored Tinkertoy, and created impressive engineering works with them. Miniature carnival rides, cranes, bridges - even a replica steam locomotive - were all part of his repertoire, much to the chagrin of his mother, who had to navigate the floors of their small apartment with great care. When he was six, and his little brother Jimmy was four, their mother died suddenly, having not navigated the floors of the small apartment with great enough care, tripping and falling atop a particularly spectacular Tinkertoy Ferris wheel. Those little wooden dowels had punctured both of her lungs - and her aorta in two places.

Bobby became Jimmy's primary caretaker, while their deeply depressed father trudged back and forth to daily double-shifts at the docks. When he turned fourteen, he began working at the port, himself. A couple of years later, in June 1929, his father died of salmonella poisoning after a coworker had handed him a thermos of seafood bisque and said, "Does this taste right to you?" By the end of the year, Bobby Nubbins was laid off, and soon after found himself and his kid brother evicted. Jimmy was lucky; he had a girlfriend, and her parents were able to take him in - as soon as he married their daughter, which he immediately did at the courthouse, using his last couple of bucks for the license. They had no room for Bobby, so he hit the road in search of work, and was a full-fledged hobo within six months. 

He obtained an odd moniker, as hoboes do, and came to be known as Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins. The what of how that came to be was simple; the why of it, less so. After years of caring for his brother, Bob had developed some of the best characteristics of good providers, the most important being generosity, and the ability to put other's needs before his own. As a result, he was always quick to offer his fellow hoboes - especially those worse off than he - whatever he had, with humility, grace, and humor. Whenever someone approached his campfire, he would grab an old bowl from his pack and say "Beef? Or chicken?" His visitor would stare at him, puzzled. "Would you like beef," he'd ask, "or chicken?" At this point, his visitor would either state a preference (always beef), or simply continue to stare. "Hahahaha," he would laugh, "I haven't any beef or chicken - can't you see I'm a hobo! But I do have some pigeon meat, and lint, and I think there's still some squirrel - and I've got a couple pieces of venison jerky. What's mine is yours..."

This didn't always end well, for him. The hobo's life was a hard one, and many of them had long since had their humor worn away. But Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins' little joke landed at least as often as it missed, and eventually he developed a reputation. Hoboes who knew him knew that he had neither beef nor chicken, but they also knew that he was going to share with them whatever he had. His kindness was rewarded now and then, with referrals for day-labor jobs and the occasional interview for real employment. Great Depressions are Great Depressions, though, and he was of course a dirty vagrant, to any prospective employer. He kept at it, and saved his pennies in the hope that one day he could buy a suit of clothes, and rent a room and get cleaned up for an interview. And he kept walking.

One cold December night in 1934, as the Depression dragged on and there had been no work for weeks, and things seemed especially bleak, Newton Fig approached Bob Nubbins' campfire. Bob was cooking a pot of real kidney beans, which he had procured in the crossroads town of Chillicothe Ohio by way of begging - something he truly hated to have to do - and he was looking forward to his first full stomach in ages.

He looked up from his pot and smiled, dirtily but warmly, at Newton Fig (who was called that because he came from Newton, Massachusetts and his surname was Fig - hey, not all hoboes got super-clever monikers!). "Hey there, brother! You look hungry. Beef or chicken?" 

"Hardy-har-har," Newton deadpanned. "I know damn well you ain't got no beef or chicken, but friend, I'd love to have a sit by your fire, and maybe just one bite. I had a decent meal just yesterday at a church near Richmond Dale, and by the looks of you, that pot of whatever you got there is the first food you've had all week."

"Well, you're right about that, Newton," Bob sighed, "but what's mine is yours."

"You're the best hobo I know, Beef-or-Chicken Bob Nubbins. A better friend than any of us deserves, but you mind if I ask you a serious question?"

Bob laughed. "Is it about my hobo name?"

"Sort of."

"Fine. Ask away. I'll do my best to answer."

"We all know why you're called Beef-or-Chicken - that's obvious. But, why do you do it?"

"Mostly 'cause it's funny..."

"Yeah, but I've heard stories of you gettin' pounded pretty bad for your little joke - and robbed and whatnot," Newton said.

"Oh, that was only a few times," Bob assured him. "Besides, there's a lesson in my dumb joke."

"A lesson."

"Yup."

"There's a lesson in your offering strangers two options for dinner - neither of which you have?"

"Yup. Everyone knows there's no beef, and what hobo has any chicken..."

"Well..." Newton interrupted.

"Okay, yes - that one time, Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick had a whole chicken for Christmas dinner - a stolen chicken, I might add. Anyhow, everyone knows I got no beef or chicken, and I know they know it, but there's that little bit of hope in the offering, isn't there? That tiny optimistic voice inside that says, 'hey - maybe this time there really is beef or chicken.'"

Newton looked skeptical. "Okay - I suppose..."

"And here's the important part," Bob continued. "There may not be chicken or steak, but there's always something. As bad as things get - and we know bad, don't we - there is always something to be had. Like, maybe there's more than just two choices, in life. Maybe there will never be any beef or chicken, for us. But there will always be something. And if there isn't something today, there can be, tomorrow."

"You're an odd bird, Nubbins," Newton laughed, "but God bless you and your odd bird heart."

"Well, thank you, brother." He reached into his pack and pulled out an old bowl and a wooden spoon, and leaned over the pot steaming away above the fire. Now - will that be beef, or chicken?"

 

 

The Wisdom Of Professor Ω

This phenomenon is called inverted rubberclouding.

Remember when I made my half-assed resolutions for 2021, about four days before we saw my super-presciently-predicted SMOKE in DC? No? Well, here's a post about some nuggets of wisdom left behind by Professor Ω, the smartest hobo of the 1930's (except for 1933, obviously).

Some people presumed a low level of education and/or intelligence, when they saw hoboes. These people, we now know, were stuffy elitist know-nothings with monocles and foot-long cigarette holders. Hey - Thurston Howell III - if you can't stand having a cigarette touch your lips, then maybe smoking is not for you! Anyway. The hobo ranks were choc-full of smart men and women, cast into the world of the wandering poor for a million different reasons, and some of them were college graduates. 

Professor Ω was one of them - at least, he said he was. You can be the judge. We all can! Come on - let us don our old-timey judge wigs, and get to some judgin'. Lucky us - we have actual written wisdom nuggets, direct from Professor Ω; not half-remembered hand-me-down oral histories, distorted by time and failing memory. Of course, they were preserved in the hobo hieroglyphs of the time, scrawled on buildings and bridges and whatnot, so we could still lose a bit in translation. But, has that stopped us before? No. No, it has not. Here we go...

• Baldwin's mountain-type locomotives weigh more than seven hundred pounds. Each!
  
• We cannot trust President Roosevelt to lead us back to prosperity, because his father is Theodore Roosevelt, and that monster shot bears for sport. I mean, who does that??
• Pluto is not a planet.
  
• The new boss is just the same as the old boss.
• Ol' Barb Stab-You-Quick is neither old, nor named Barbara, nor fast with a knife.
  
• I left my tenured position at Yale and became a hobo for the simple fact that hoboes' lives are so much easier than professors' lives. That's why most professors are now hoboes. Studies have shown that, after the New Deal income taxes, the vagrant wanderer will actually be better-paid. Also, everyone knows hoboes smell better.
• Electric blankets cure polio.
• It's called a great depression because it's very large, and everyone is sad.
• Trains are the pinnacle of the evolution of travel. Nothing will ever surpass their speed, efficiency, comfort, or profitability.
• We should keep a watchful eye on Germany. Something tells me they're not quite done, yet.
  
• Wearing socks on the wrong feet brings bad luck. Shoes on the wrong feet bring blisters.*
  
• When this is all over, lint will replace the dollar as our national currency. 
• When the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, then peace will guide the planets and love will steer the stars.
• The hokey-pokey really is what it's all about.
• Okay, Pluto's a planet.
  

There. Sounds pretty smart, right? Stay tuned for more wisdom from hobo and non-hobo alike, coming real soon. Or, pretty soon. Soon, at least. 

Okay, not soon.

We'll see...

*This line is courtesy of [Maris], who is quick to point out that she's not speaking from personal experience (no matter how painful it was).

 

Rumpshaker Phil And His 25-ish Piece Lonely Hoboes Club Orchestra, And Their One Hit

 

"I got the high part! I got the high part!"

People (no one) often (never) ask me about hoboes and music. Did they play instruments, beyond their simple and awful-sounding whiskey jugs, washboards, and rusty harmonicas? Did they sing, and if so, can any of their lyrics be reprinted here, without fear of being banned from the internet for life? Could they read music? Could they stand to be in close proximity to one another long enough to harmonize? Other questions?

Well. Let me tell you. Legend has it, there were indeed numerous hobo bands, throughout the 1930s and '40s. Surely you've heard of The Pullman Brothers, or Coney Island Skee-Ball Bonanza, or The Wayward Yard Dogs. But while those acts might have attained some notoriety within hobo circles, none of them managed to break through. They never played the dirty back room at the Kit-Kat Klub, or score a hit record - or any kind of record. No, those distinctions belong to one hobo musical act, and one alone.

Rumpshaker Phil, after finding himself jettisoned from gainful employment at the international freight terminal of the port of Philadelphia a few months after the start of the Great Depression, had become a Pennsylvania Railroad hobo. On the docks, he had been called "the maestro," because he could conduct the work of men and machines, such that during his shifts, merchant ships were loaded and offloaded twice as fast as they were under any other foreman's watch. When he was laid off, he tried to bring legal action against the ports authority, for unlawful termination due to his handicap (did I mention that his arms didn't work, 'cause they totally didn't) - but as it was 1930, there was no such thing, and the judge laughed at him.

He learned to survive on the road and master the way of the hobo, but the unheard music wouldn't leave his head, and he knew that he needed to hear it - and conduct it. He set out to make a band. It took years, because he knew only hoboes, and hoboes are, on the whole, profoundly un-musical. But he was nothing if not determined, and one by one, he filled out his Lonely Hoboes Club Orchestra. In order of "signing," we have...

• Spasmodic Hilary - Percussion, usually in 5/7 time, but often in no discernible time signature at all, because she hated to see her audience "get bored and start tapping their toes or nodding along like donkeys."
• Crispus T. Muzzlewitt - Long horn (this was actually a trombone).
• Grant Sharpnails, The Scratcher - Chalkboard. He was not well-liked by people who could hear.
• Mmmmm Dandy Dundee - Humming.
• Randal Mouth-Harp - NOT harmonica. He played a teeny, tiny harp. With his mouth. Look it up. It sounded like a toy piano, or maybe a toy harp. He could also tie gift wrap ribbons into beautiful bows with his tongue and uvula. Fun at parties.
• Maury The Monsoon - Bassoon. He cut his own reeds. Sadly, he could not read music, and had no capacity to learn - and the only thing he could play was a badly-memorized version of "Peter And The Wolf," which can be heard meandering beneath the otherwise majestic hit record by Rumpshaker Phil's band.
• The Ornamentalist - Exclusively played those delicate blown-glass Christmas ornaments. Often became overzealous in the first few measures, broke them all, and spent the rest of the performance tap-dancing on the shattered remains.
• NPR Willard Hotz, The Soothing-Voiced - Your host and emcee for the evening.
• Frypan Nonstick McGee - Black kettle. Also skilled in the popping of corn.
• Nicholas Crackknuckle - Musculoskeletal Percussion.
• Amazin' Jack Caroo - Played the kazoo, the most favorite instrument of his niece, who was two, and couldn't pronounce her Z's.
• Tom False-Lips Real-Teeth - Trumpet, obviously.
• Whitman Sampler - Fairlight CMI Series III. Yep.
• Sir Mix-a-Lot - Chief Engineer.
• Fry Pan Jim Fry - You probably think this hobo banged on a frying pan like some sort of early Disney cartoon character. Oh, yes you do. So did I. Until I listened to the record. Jim Fry's soulful, yet meticulously thoughtful and diligently-practiced flute-and-guitar arpeggios will make you weep. He learned them by studying the sounds his musician father made, over months and years of falling asleep with his ear against the bedroom wall. He was okay on flute, but his work on the six-string was inspiring. Speaking of guitar...
• Self-Taught-Guitarist Edmund - His scratch-built electric guitars sounded like nothing else ever made by man or god, and did you know that he could play piano? He could. He was a genius and a gentle, happy soul, most at peace when blazing through a 100-decibel improvised solo in front of 15,000 screaming fans. We'll not see the likes of him again.
• Lamant The Junkman - Percussion (junk).
• Roadrunner "Meep Meep" Fabong - Didn't play an instrument; just occasionally went "MEEP MEEP," as needed.
• Sssssssssssssssss, The Hisser - Used only on "Snake Jazz," the orchestra's failed followup to their lone hit record.
• The Railbender - When steel rails were stressed or bent, they emitted high-frequency shrieks/squeals. It was most unpleasant, but art does not care it it hurts your ears.
• Fleabottle Boone - Because the band was sorely lacking a jug player, and this was the best they could find.
• Slam Dance Dooze - Jumped around a lot and crashed into his band mates.
• Amanda CeeCee Strobelight - Dooze's girlfriend. She was always trying to turn the band on to the music of the B-52's - especially their early stuff.
• Salad-Fork Ron - Utensils. Also pots, pans, rocks, cats, and sitar. And Hammond organ. Probably triangle, but only if right.
• Warbling Timmy Tin Voice And His Voicebox - Soloist. With a larynx made of tin, well - you do the math.
• Souvenir-Selling Mlodinow - See him in the lobby for tacky caps and pins.
• Owlie - Hoot-hoot sounds, as needed. It is said the band's one hit would never have made the airwaves at all, were it not for his haunting backing vocals.
• Astonishing Shaun Eyelash - Played several instruments - perfectly - with his eyelashes. Piano, harpsichord, glockenspiel, timpani, stand-up bass, and French horn, to name a few.
• Mr. Pendleton - First chair (and also lead) violin. He was not actually a hobo, and his time in the band sent him into a desperate, violent depression, which doesn't make a lick of sense, but it doesn't matter, because when their record made the Hit Parade, it was all that he had ever dared to dream, and more.

There. Go look up that record, now. It's like "Gates Of Delirium" meets "Bolero" meets "Eruption," with a backing track of "Star Wars Imperial March." You're welcome.

Ante Vaccine Living, 1A - 1B - 027 - HO Arriba!

So. I owe my friend Godfrey O. Ozzenbarq III (not his real name) an email (yes, we still use email. sue us), and I haven't produced a blog post in almost two months. I'm nothing if not efficient (that's a lie; I'm not efficient - at all), so I thought I'd combine these two tasks and save myself like five minutes...

 

From: Your friend Joe, via Mostly Harmless Drivel

To: Godfrey O. Ozzenbarq III (not your real name)

Date: Saturday, February 20, 2021, 8:49 PM EST

Old-timey Dude,

Your list of categories of people who are ahead of you in the long and winding COVID vaccine queue was almost as amusing as it was depressing. I mean, you're behind blue-eyed Arabs, and it's not even close! Jinkies! That's bad. Carnival barkers and retro duckpin bowlers and Waffle House assistant managers in training - and ALL of the Roberts and Svens?? That list was daunting. I feared that your estimated vaccine appointment date would land several years beyond your expected life span. 

 

A small sample of the people ahead of you

 

But dig THIS!

I was checking out the 71 vaccine information websites for Maryland (2 of them were NOT 100% fraudulent!), and it turns out that you are in better shape than we thought. Yes, you're still behind appendicitis victims (2000-2012), Calvinists, Blockbuster Video clerks, self-parkers, all motor car operators since 1899 and everyone who has a "proper name," but there has been some kind of reassessment of prioritization. I'm happy to report that, because somebody sued the state of Maryland (probably that dimwit asshat Robin Ficker), you have officially moved ahead of:

• Teachers
• Nurses
• Police officers above the rank of recruit
• All other first responders
• The elderly
• Model train store operators, but only "O" and "027" and larger scales
• Movie theater lobby carpet sanitizers
• Ultra-high-speed poultry slaughter line monitors and their victims
• Hoboes
• People who still haven't tried the Popeyes chicken sandwich because they know damn well it's far superior to KFC's, and makes Chic-fi-la's (learn to spell, you assholes - and learn to make food) seem like a slurry of human thumbs, breaded in deer hair and deep-fried in cellulite. That's not really fair, that bit about Chic-fi-la, because that is precisely how they make their "chicken" sandwiches (although because I am a gentleman, I left out the step with the unhealthy person urine).
• Barbara Bach. Is she alive? If she's alive, you're ahead of her. If not, then sorry but you gotta get behind her.
• All "regular" bar patrons at Applebee's
• Me
• Okay, you were already ahead of me, on account of your advanced age, but I thought a reminder might make you feel better.
• Teetotalers
• Gen Z (it was determined that they are as unnecessary as they are invincible)
• Accountants (they are the WORST)
• Veterans of Up With People
• While we're at it - the Starland Vocal Band
• Other duties as assigned

So, yeah. Not so bad, right? Now, with our respective vaccination dates so fast approaching, let's get back to our normal routine of bitching about literally everything and inventing complex, vulgar, horrifically-insulting nicknames and descriptors for politicians and Kardashians. 

Yours in doom,

JMSeriouslydudewearejustasdoomedaswewereamonthagomaybemoreso

P.S. How's it going?

The Storm

 

A storm...

"Life is a shitstorm, in which art is our only umbrella."

- Mario Vargas Llosa

 

I've been thinking about New Year's resolutions - my own, and those of my (which here means John Hodgman's) 700 hoboes. Lately, thinking has been a struggle - and creativity, normally one of my core strengths as a human, has become depressingly hard to summon. A few months ago, I scrolled back to the beginning of this blog and reread every post. I cringed at a few lingering typos, and at some clunky prose and even clunkier ideas, but I laughed a lot, and came away feeling pretty good about a lot of it. I also couldn't help but notice that all that fun and frolic and productivity has dropped off rather precipitously since sometime in 2015. Over the past five years, I've managed to peck out about seven little blog posts per year. In the five years before 2016, I averaged 31 (with that drop-off starting in 2015). You might see where I'm going with this.

Oh, tell me you're NOT going to attempt to blame five years of writer's block on the President!

Okay, firstly - it really is a shitstorm, out there. Look:

See? Stormy! Told you!

Secondly - I haven't truly had writer's block. Over those same five years, I did manage to crank out five more of my little Camp NaNoWriMo novels - and one or two of them may even have some potential. And the few blog posts I've emitted haven't been bad. It's just a challenge to create, lately. Joy is in short supply, and hope has been outlawed.

But, yeah. I kinda DO blame my personal creativity drought on the bloviating tangerine Mussolini currently stealing the silverware and setting fire to the White House and the nation, flipping the Monopoly board over as he tantrums his way toward the door. Okay - technically, I blame the storm, but we all know it is partly of his making. You've seen it. It's real. It's everywhere. It's bad. It's a shitstorm. No need to waste time describing it. It started in 2015, and has built and built and built its way to the Category Five monster that rages around all of us, today.

So. What to do? First, I'll find the horizon. Remember that all storms end. Eventually:

Yes, I know the horizon was visible in the first two pics. Shut up.

 

Second, if I can't be funny or creative, then dammit I'm gonna be twisted. Like, baby-hobo-in-a-blender twisted. Here:

America.

That picture will be old enough to rent a car, this year, and it still says more than most of my other photographs. I resolve to get the old Nikon out - and maybe the ancient 35mm Minoltas - and take some weird pictures. There! A resolution! I probably won't do it.

Ooh! Wait! Here come some more!

• If the country continues to burn, I'm gonna toast some marshmallows.
• I will become a better pickpocket, and not get caught all the time.
  
• I guess I'll try (harder) to avoid the plague like the plague.
• Once the smoke clears - and yes, there will be smoke - I'm going to go downtown and take a good, long sniff, just to prove to myself that even the foulest four-year stenches can dissipate.
• I will finally find an editor or agent or something, and try to get my 2013 novel published. You guys know anyone?
• I'm going to go through the building where I work, and take down all the calendars. They're all stuck on March 2020, and they make me sad sometimes.
• I will see the stars for what they are, and feel the cumulative age of their light.
  
• Two words: ferrett-juggling. I guess that's one hyphenated word. Whatever. Gonna need one more ferret for this.
• I resolve to get one more endangered black-footed ferret, for the ferret-juggling, if [Maris] says yes.
• [Maris] said no. It'll have to be 2 ferrets and a panda.
• This year, I will find a new place to hang the cute little lighthouse cross-stitch my sister gave [Maris] and me when we got married. The new towels in that bathroom don't quite go with the colors in the cross-stitch, and while it's not a problem at this time, I fear it could become one. UPDATE: [Maris] would rather just change the towels. Crisis averted!
  
• I'm going to get my grilled cedar-plank salmon to turn out as perfectly as my late father-in-law's always did.
• Gonna find my Ebn-Ozn t-shirt.
• Mirrored contacts. I've wanted them since I was fourteen.
• Who am I kidding? I will never get my grilled salmon to come out the way Dad-in-law's did. 
• I resolve to take the Christmas tree down.
• I will learn to like snow. HAHAHAHAHA just seeing if you're paying attention.
  
• Drink more water. I'm not going to do this. I'm telling YOU to drink more water. Please.
• Okay, I'll drink more water, too. There's water in gin, right?
• I will laugh at the typo on my 10 years of service certificate at work, every day - instead of rolling my eyes at it.
• I will demand a better future.
  
• I will stop making lists.
• I will stop making lists.
  
• I will stop repeating myself.
• See what I did there?
  
• And I will hold [Maris]'s hand more - especially when she's trying to type. [blogger's note: on my phone, I have a shortcut set up so that when I type two m's, I get the full [Maris]. I keep trying that on this laptop, and obviously it doesn't work, and it wasn't until about the third try that I realized why.]
• I resolve to be a little smarter, maybe.

Okay, that's all for now. If you're still here, you are a trooper, and I applaud your patience. Thanks for climbing inside my head for a few minutes. It's time for my martini. I will toast to the end of the storm - and to the art that protects us in the meantime...

Photo by mm - see? I did it again! Photo by [Maris]