I am going to hell.
…Which is funny, because I really thought that I’d been to hell already a few weeks ago. In case you were wondering, hell is the small portrait studio wherein J’s sister and I attempted to corral our collective children for a group picture. Did I mention that they’re all under the age of 4? Because I think that ratcheted things up way past, like, general hell and hurled our collective asses right into the seventh circle.
Somehow, though, no one told this to my hobo friend.
I was on my way home, and he boarded the subway at the stop immediately after mine. He looked at me and pointed right at me, saying, “YOU. You need this!” And attempted to hand me, and me alone, a small, yellow card. I demurred politely, but he pressed it into my hand, and smiled at me in a creepy Manson-esque manner. Please note: He gave a card ONLY TO ME. Not the other 45,030,327 people jammed into the subway car. I, and I alone was deemed worthy of his hobo card.
This would be the day I ran out of Purell.
I glanced down at what I imagined was a pee-stained card covered with a fine dusting of crystal meth, and read it. I promptly learned that I was going to hell. The back of the card is covered with some rambling, nonsensical parapgraphs, with certain words placed indiscriminately in quotes.
A sampling: “He is the ‘mediator’…he is your ‘ticket’ to “Heaven”…he is ‘the door.’ It’s proselytizing by way of that old SNL skit where Chris Farley put everything is air quotes (“I don’t ‘bathe regularly,’ I don’t ‘wear deodorant…’”)…just really well-written, all around.
The best part of it by far, though, is the front:
It is the most condescending shit ever (right down to the "DO NOT LITTER" admonition). You will also notice that the side of the card has a number of small creases, from where I, loser that I am, actually “attempted” to “tear” my “ticket” into “heaven.” (See? I "can" do "it," too!)
I was finally able to get my mind off of it when I remembered that in a few days, this bad boy will be making its way to my doorstep. I. Cannot. Wait. (Apropos of which: Any of you out there who have/use a Digital Rebel--are there any books/websites that you find useful in learning to, um...use the magical camera of amazingocity? Please help.)
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14 comments:
I am here to attest that the hobo card is, in fact, unrippable. I spent many a minute trying.
Ahhh. Did anyone inform the printer that "7," as in a single "7" is the proported holy number not 777? 'Cause that's a lot like 666... But anyway.
I love your hobo stories.
Have you thought that maybe hobos are like cats? The reason cats flock to the ones who dislike them is because those people tend to not look at the cat and try to ignore it, and thus the cat feels far less threatened by that person than the one trying to gawk and pet. So maybe? Hobos are less threatened by you because you don't gawk and pet.
Stock up on the purell and try it.
Random thought (actually brought about by thinking about hobos and their lack of home-having): got a buch of awesomely random and funny pictures of the house he is trying to get, including one of his brother looking at him with a "WTF?!" look. Oh, this whole cross-cultural thing is awesome.
Perhaps the hobo knew about your connection to prom stars and thought somehow that connection tainted you?
If hell is hobo-free, hey, I'll take it.
Congrats on the Digital Rebel purchase! You will love it so! Write me if you've got questions.
Holy hobo, batman!
(I'm shaking my head at myself, believe me.)
Now, I'm not accusing you of anything, mind you, as I know you're a New Yorker and know the rules. But did you look up at him when he got in the car at his stop?
Consider a hat with a really nice brim. I took to wearing my crusher hat on the subway and pulling it down to my eyebrows. You can block out so much of what's happening around you with one of those.
I thought I was a weirdness magnet, but you, YOU are the queen magnet. I stand in awe.
I could never get bored of your hobo stories - they're too funny!
Sorry, no help on the Rebel. I'm a Nikon fan.
My advice for the subway is pretend you're Jack Nicholson and wear dark sunglasses everywhere you go. They can't make eye contact with you if they can't see your eyes. :-)
But then again, if no hobos contact you, that means no entertaining hobo stories for us. So, I'm sorry. You'll have to continue with your hobo magnet status.
That ticket to hell is ridiculous.
And don't worry, I attract the hobos too, but they all want to be my boyfriend.
I'm kind of freaked out by this magical, unrippable hobo card. REEE-PENT! Ahem.
Congrats on the camera - I've been lusting after a digital Rebel for some time now!
Your subway stories beat all, I tell you. I've never been given a ticket to hell. Why, I want to know, WHY? What if I WANT to go to hell? How am I supposed to get there?
The Rebel rocks. I am pitiful and have been basically poking around in its many menus and settings, trying to figure it out on my own with the user manual and a basic digital photography book, but I am impatient and my brain refuses to remember things like aperture and f-stop, so I mostly shoot in the auto modes. And you know, the pictures still kick butt.
Your subway stories beat all, I tell you. I've never been given a ticket to hell. Why, I want to know, WHY? What if I WANT to go to hell? How am I supposed to get there?
The Rebel rocks. I am pitiful and have been basically poking around in its many menus and settings, trying to figure it out on my own with the user manual and a basic digital photography book, but I am impatient and my brain refuses to remember things like aperture and f-stop, so I mostly shoot in the auto modes. And you know, the pictures still kick butt.
Here's a tip. Make up your own unrippable non-hobo cards. Have them ready to give out when they tell you that you're going to hell. Make sure the card says, "I am Satan and I will take you to hell with me. Mu-ahahahahah!"
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