man seeking snowshoes

The weatherpersons were approximately correct. We did in fact receive a (in meteorological terms) "crapload" of snow.

This morning, my usual parking lot was inundated with the white stuff, having not been plowed at all. "Do you have any idea what the street value of my parking space is?" So I had to park like 8 feet closer for way-more money. Then I had to trudge into the office through knee-high snow drifts. Whoah but for the tiny feet which preceded me, I might have gotten stuck out there and eaten by hoboes (or fermented into a tasty wine).

All in all, not a bad Monday. Any day you can avoid becoming hobo hooch is a good day indeed.

roger's car doesn't go here anymore

So, my car got stuck in the snow yesterday. I was trying to get out of my lot and had nice, slushy, snowy, icey mix of precipitation under my wheels. Fortunately for me I had walked to the lot with a buddy of mine. I let him drive while I tried to push. But, I'm a sissy and that didn't work. Within a minute, a guy stopped his jeep and asked if he could help - SURE! And then another guy (i.e. hobo) stopped and was like, "Wait. I need to get you some traction." I have no idea what he had in mind (the bones of other defeated hoboes), but the 3 of us were able to get my car moving again. (Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I nickname him, "Salty Dogg Hobo").

Soon after, I got going, but was quickly in another could-potentially-get-stuck situation, so I yelled, "THANKS!" really loud out the window and drove off. What exactly is protocol in that situation? Do I stop the car and give everyone high five? A dignified fist-pump out the window? I was kind of funny because the "push out" was a multi-cultural affair. I kept thinking we were one lady in a wheelchair away from making it an after school special. She didn't show though. Besides, what kind of towing power does a motorized wheelchair have anyway.

The whole thing reminded me of another time during the worst-snowstorm-in-the-history-of-me-getting-my-car-stuck when I was on a road - and it was really bad, people were literally abandoning their cars in mid-street - just spinning my wheels, completely unable to get my car going. It was a relatively low-grade hill, but, man was I stuck. I was there for a good 15-20 minutes when two teenage guys passed by. They signalled if I wanted help. Hells yes. They pushed and I was able to get the car going. I had a mind to stop and give them both like 50 bucks, but there was no way I was going to slow down and risk getting stuck again. So I had to honk the horn in appreciation/jubilation and hope the gods repaid their kind deed in time. I still kind of feel bad I didn't pre-pay for that one.

I guess Cleveland is a great place to get your car stuck in the snow.

hobo say what?

You know, these days, I don’t talk to the hoboes too much. I’m mean, sure, Jesus Hobo is still out on the corner of Erie St. Cemetery some mornings, standing with his cup, right in front of one of this "It's ok to say no [to hoboes]" signs. He hasn’t really modified his pitch at all to take into account there's a sign 6 inches away that says a concerned citizen's money is better applied elsewhere, perhaps via donation to a homeless shelter. Nope. Jesus Hobo transcends such things and instead of saying, "Hey, this sign is bullshit." He still yells, "GOOD MORNING SIR!" And sometimes adds, "Anything helps."

I’ll say "good morning" to JH, but for the most part all I've been saying to his hobo brethren is "sorry, no." I am kind of sorry I can't help them for reals. I can help them get drunk, but I can't really help, you know? So I keep saying "no", almost to the point that it’s become reflexive. So yesterday, a buddy and I are at the Euclid Arcade for some China Wing lunch. We are bs-ing about his "moms" – the numerous older ladies in his work group – or I'm complaining about my hockey team ("Team, I'd like to introduce you to a good friend of mine, 'defense.' I don't believe you're acquainted. Defense – team. Team – defense.") or whatever and this old-timer (coke-bottle glasses, red winter cap, leather jacket, no noticeable hobo stank) comes up and mumbles something to me and I, reflexively, say "no." The words he said are starting to process in my head when my buddy asks, "What did he say?" And I say, "I don’t know. I think he asked for 5 bucks or something." But then Tony, the boy who lives inside my mouth, says, "Dude, he said something about his belt. I think he said, 'Can you do my belt?'" "But Tony, why would old school say that?" "Crazy old man? Not sure. Hey, fortune cookie."

As this inner-dialogue continues ("They are trying to steal the preciousssssss!"), I see Captain Belt going up to a bunch of people and asking them something. The grown-up Opie clone got this look of disgust on his face and said something like, "C'mon man." Watch out Belts! Don't get knocked the f- out. It occurred to me: maybe he is asking a bunch of dudes to play hide the salami with him. I started to watch closely and reading his lips I could tell he was asking people to "do his belt." Sure, he moved a little slowly, but he was in no way impaired. Maybe it was a really tricky belt with like a combination lock on it or something.

He disappears around the back seating area of the food court, out of my sight. We are giggling like school girls with the new issue of Tiger Beat. And suddenly he emerges . . . a look of "belt-done-ness" on his face. I'm not sure, but I can only guess that he found somebody to "do" him. If that's the case, Belts has got game. If you can find some random person to take care of your personal attire issues, you are a hero to me. Anyway, he goes over to a table of four women and says something to them, we think apologizing for asking to play pocket pool with him and then disappears into the distance – like a modern day Lone Ranger, with a malfunctioning belt. Touching.

Next week, the tale of Popeye’s Dad Hobo and the Emergency Manicure.

i overpay for jokes

So I'm walking down the street to my car after work. A guy, completely notHobo, dressed regularly, probably a ticket scalper comes up to me and says, "Maybe you can help me - if you're a nice guy." I muttered, "Probably not," and kept walking. He followed and said, "Can you give me 18 cents?" I kind of laughed and said, "18 cents?" "I don't ask for much because people don't have much."

Since he didn't phone it in, I gave him a quarter.

Dear Festering Sore Hobo . . .

When panhandling with a pussy, open wound, use it to your advantage . . .

"Hello sir. As you can see, maggots may attempt to feast on my face due to lack of proper nutrition."

Or, the threatening, "Sir. I have the ebola virus. I will rub my festering sore on an open wound of my making on your person."

Or, "Sir, I need a bottle of strawberry mad dog to sterilize this wound. You don't want it to become infected do you?"

You're really selling yourself short by shakin' the cup and saying, "Sir. Little help sir!"