Out of all the iconic figures of Americana mythology none resonate so romantic as the hobo. Did you know that hobo actually is short for "homeward bound?" I learned that in Eat, Pray, Love but so what?! Hobos are actually just homeless people with more wanderlust, gumption, and personal style. Already possessing all these virtues, and growing weary of living the life of a pauper/ reverse stripper [a getting dressed-er] while masquerading as a bonafide person, I am considering this whimsical life with more and more measured consideration. And hello we're in a recession, and that's kind of like the Depression! Now is the moment to walk away from modernity and all its unsavory elements, like credit default swaps, bottle service, and socks. But then I stop and think, "Riding the rails and eating beans and singing Woody Guthrie anthems would grow tedious, and a mere bindle can't contain all my celebrity scrapbooks and half dried Diorshow mascaras." Life as a hobo is not for the faint of heart. But what is truly truly romantic, something I've been spending much time fantasizing about lately, is the idea of packing a bag, walking out the door, and just keep on walking. Walking and walking into the great wide open! Wandering the earth as a hobo! I will pack up my knapsack, put on my Vans, and walk. Jon Krakauer will write a book about me. The line between being a hobo and a homeless person is pretty thin in New York City. The logical median lands around "St. Mark's gutter punk," which is frankly dreadful. So I concocted an experimental hobo life just the other day, when I walked to the idyllic village of Cold Spring, New York. And by walk I mean walked to the subway and got on the Metro North. But don't worry, I rode in on boxcars! boxcars! boxcars! I have come to terrorize your town.
Here I am at the filling station, after liberating a cooling pie from a window sill. My hobo name is Jelly Belly Octo Limbs.
My new house. It lends a very Dick and Perry, old world charm.
And here's my new hobo stuff. The requisite non- descript cart and vaguely menacing rusty drawer.
And here I am walking the world with my traveling companion Jimmy Nine Toes. What happened to the nubile blond in the short shorts? you ask. Why do you look like a Steinbeck made- for- TV movie salvaged from the cutting room floor? Like I said, hobo life is not for the faint of heart, you bourgeois judge. Don't judge me!