Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #24)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

By Daniel Canada c.2010 

THE BEGGARS (Continued)

Now, after I've finished lambasting the homeless sham artist, I am burdened at last with the overwhelming need to vent a personal vituperation against a small group of the homeless that I've ran into along my travails...I meant travels. These guys and gals are not as insidious as the ones I've taken pain to "out," as the saying goes, to expose for the frauds they are. This next group is simply, how does one say? An eclectic lot among the undomiciled.

  

These are the homeless vegetarians.

HOMELESS VEGETARIANS

Yes. I had to go there. But I'll make it brief and as painless as possible. The reason I had to touch on this topic is that I was astonished to find such a thing actually existed out here.

Here's the scenario. I'm in a church, on a soup line. Everyone steps up to get a hot plate of whatever they're serving. The line suddenly comes to an abrupt halt.  Some homeless person is fussing with one of the volunteer servers over the contents of his plate.

“I said I don't eat meat. I'm a vegetarian!” he complains, as if there was some hidden conspiracy to sneak meat onto his plate.

“Well then, you're going to have to step aside, so we can prepare a special vegetarian plate for you.”

The homeless vegetarian finally steps aside to allow the rest of the waiting, hungry folks to move forward on the line. “And make sure they don't mix any scraps of meat into my food. You know I can't eat any meat!” he sternly warns the patient volunteer server, while waiting on the side of the line.

The server takes a good look at him. “You know all we have is some white rice and string beans. But I can give you an extra helping of that, if you want.”

The homeless vegetarian frowns, as if he's being giving the short stick out of a draw on Gilligan's Island.

What?

Wait a minute! Something's out of place with this entire business here!

This is the streets, and you're in a bloody-excuse the French-church soup kitchen.  Special orders are for five-star restaurants, like Tavern on the Green, buddy.  When you're out here, you have to eat what you're given.

Besides, what's up with the lack of gratitude?

Being on a vegetarian diet is difficult for working-class people to afford. For a homeless person to expect to be served steamy dishes of vegetable delight everyday on a church soup line is all together unreasonable.

The local Hare Krishna temple serves vegetarian diners on Wednesday nights, sunshine.

So be there.

Homeless vegetarians, on your mark...Get set...Go!

(To be continued...) 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #23)

 

 

 

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

THE COLLEGE KIDS (Continued)

 

 

 

 

 

Enough said.

All of us has had the occasion to be confronted with the decision to give up a portion of our hard-earned money to the street beggar. And many a sympathetic person has had to wrestle with their consciences, as whether to appropriate a few shekels to the outstretched hands of these most pitiable souls. However, I'm going to peel the veneer away from this type of individual, and expose the truth about the common beggar.

I might have to watch my back on the streets after this.

 

THE BEGGARS

 

After demonstrating how impossible it is for a homeless person to go hungry in any giving city, with all the abundant soup kitchens, courtesy of the selfless churches, synagogues, along with the begrudged run-of-the-mill, government grub establishments, all I have to say about the beggars is it's now obvious they are all full of shit. I like the beggars who post signs requesting money to purchase more beer. They're true to the game and are shooting from the hip. And believe it or not they have regular customers who give them donations anyway.

I reckon fellow drinkers, heading on their merry way to their favorite watering holes after work, understand what it's like to be thirty and need a drink or two, once in a while. As well-wishers, who have a few extra bucks to throw away at their favorite bars, they can afford to drop a couple of lettuce into this type of beggar's cup.

The rest of the hockey-pucks out there, hoisting cardboard signs about being hungry, stranded out of town, and what not, ought to get Tony Awards simply for mastering the art of bullshitting, or MBAs for selling the biggest hoax ever perpetrated upon hard-working Americans.

Next time you see a homeless beggar, give him a ham sandwich or a bagel instead, and see what he does with it.

Be sure to check the nearest garbage can later in the day.

 

(To be continued...)

 

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #22)

 

 

 

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

THE COLLEGE KIDS (Continued)

 

 

O.k. So here's how I suppose it went down. After making the formal request to be initiated into Alfred E. Neuman Phi Fraternal House in F. U., they are told to meet up at a certain place and time. They are sternly warned not to reveal this information to anyone else, or they'll be hung upside down by their toenails. 

They show up. A van with dark windows pulls to the curb, and out charges three hooded, overly zealous, pubescent, fraternal brothers or sisters, who grab a halt of them, shove them into the van, make them change their school clothes for a pair of worn-out, homeless, "Skeksy"-looking gear. They tell them that if they want to enjoy the rights and privileges of the fraternity, then they must submit to the harsh ritual of "slumming it" as homeless people, all day for several days, and that they will be promptly picked up by the same van and in the same location at mid-night.

So, there you have it! If you take the time to notice you too will see their kind, squatting around with cardboard boxes, all throughout the Midtown areas. To the average person, all homeless people are the same.

But not to us! 

We have eyes that can truly see.

One night I'm going to drum up the nerve to case these kids out, and I bet you-say a quarter, since that's something I can afford to lose-that at midnight a dark, mysterious van's going to pull up. Several hooded adolescent kids will pour out of the partially opened door, and whisk the other kids away, back to the warmth and safety of the college dorms.

I wonder what happened to the days, when fraternities use to parade their candidates down the street with ropes around their necks, hazing them along the way, like making them pick up cigarette butts from the sidewalk, and what not? 

Ah! The good old days!

If you ain't homeless and on your ass out in the street, stop shamming! It's hard enough getting the average working-class person to comprehend the complexities that brought millions of once productive citizens to their knees, and out in a world sans the comfort of a home. It's tough enough to get others to understand how difficult it is to survive out in this wild concrete jungle, without a pot to piss in and a window to throw it out of. 

Don't complicate matters, in the name of a science project, or university sponsored study. On the other hand, if you guys really belong to a college fraternity, I submit that you speak to the Grand Poobah, or whoever's in charge, and suggest going back to the old rope and collecting cigarette butts, hazing ritual. 

That way people can separate the homeless from the student.

 

(To be continued...)

 

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #21)

 

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

THE COLLEGE KIDS

 

If you're taking up psychology, if you're taking up political science, fine. I don't give a hoot in hell if you're just meandering about in the dorms of the universities, studying liberal arts and don't have a fucking clue what in the hell you want to do for the next semester, or the rest of your life. But don't get the notion that you're so goddamned smart that you can outsmart a homeless person about being homeless. 

Ah! You know what I'm talking about? 

I’m talking about you college kids I see hanging around on street corners, sitting on the ground with cardboard signs, saying "I'm broke, and homeless, and need a few dollars to eat."

Yeah, that shit. 

As I walk down the streets of Fifth Avenue, or anywhere in the Mid-Town area of Manhattan, and run into these youngsters, I have to shake my head in disbelief. 

Where the Christ do they come from? 

Ok. I’m going to let you in on a little homeless secret. 

Most homeless people know each other. We're part of an unknown, underground "community." We eat at the same places, use the same public facilities, shower at the same places, and yes, sleep generally in the same areas. So homeless people in Manhattan , or the Bronx , or where ever they live, see each other all the time. Once in a while we'll even exchange pleasantries, or curse words, or just flip each other the bird in passing. But if we threw a stick in a crowd of homeless people, chances are the average “Skek” probably could name ninety-five percent of the ones the damned stick hit.

So, once again the question. Who in God's earth are these middle-class, suburban looking youngsters, fronting about on the sidewalks like they're homeless, and down and out?

Where the hell do they come from?

College, of course.

They're college students, engaging in some kind of undercover college study. Perhaps it's about homeless life in America, or demographics. I can't wait to see their thesis when it comes out! I hope they got all their facts straight, and they're gearing up to become lobbyist, to pressure congress to appropriate more funding for the homeless in America. 

Somehow, I just don't think that this is the case.

Racking my brain on this strange phenomenon, I was forced to entertain the thought that what I'm looking at is really not what I'm looking at. Let me explain my conjecture. If what I’m witnessing is not some new wave of middle-class, suburban, college kids, "slumming it out," to gather real-life facts about living out on the streets, then perhaps they are members of a secret fraternity.

That's right, a fra-ter-nity, for those of you who might be aghast at this declaration.

Maybe all this sitting in the back of cardboard boxes with handwritten signs, supplicating passersby for money, wearing less-than-persuasive cheap swag, and looking all down and out, is just part of a fraternity initiation process.

You know, a couple of college kids succumb to peer pressure. They want to be popular and to get laid. So they join the local college fraternity. Be it Alpha, Beta, or Sigmund Freudian Phi, most colleges have a fraternity and plenty of young men and women want to have the prestige of belonging to such a fraternal order. So they line up in mass to get their asses branded. It looks really cool at parties, and once again, it gets you laid.

 

(To be continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #20)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

 By Daniel Canada c.2010

 

 

 

THE SKEL(SIE)

“Skelsie” is a combination of the two words, “Skeksis” and “Skell.” Firstly, I need to explain what a “Skell” is. "Skell" is an abbreviation for skeleton, and is a terminology used by most police officers when referring to a homeless person. 

Like a lifeless skeleton, with no hope of returning to the world of the living, they have come to view all homeless to be nothing more than mere skeletons. When you don a skeleton custom for Halloween, you're a “skeleton” for a night. The homeless are “skeletons” for life.

Now, a “Skelsie” or “Skelsy” is a "Skeksis"-or "Skeksy," as I like to spell it-that has become one of the living dead, a virtual zombie.

Are you confused enough yet? I hope not.

Nevertheless, they are considered to be the soulless ones, who may not even know they exist anymore than a person in a vegetative state, on a respirator.

Besides the fact that they have long-since given up on the upkeep of their bodies, they have very little communication with the outside world. You might see them in a rush hour crowd, starring off into space or holding a vigorous conversation with themselves. Their ship has lifted anchor and sailed away into the azure horizons many moons ago, friends.

This is what I mean by a "Skelsie."

Even the police leave them alone. And if they have to respond to some irritated neighbor's call, complaining about some crazed man or woman being a blatherskite at two o'clock in the morning, the police call an ambulance to take them to Bellevue Hospital or the nearest hospital that has a psyche ward. The polite police officers refer to these as EDPs, emotional disturbed persons. They really don't care to have any further dealings with them.

The “Skelsie” stands alone. 

Now, I would like to further illuminate upon an otherwise, hither-to-unknown, homeless phenomenon. One that, would it not be for my drawing attention to it, would go unnoticed among the pantheon of homeless folks you pass on any given day of the week. It's a strange, eclectic group of homeless folks I dubbed "The College Kids." Even you will have difficulty wrapping your brain around this one.

 

(To be Continued...)

 

Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York (Excerpt #19)

THE HOBO HANDBOOK: MEMOIRS OF A HOMELESS POET IN NEW YORK

By Daniel Canada c.2010

                                                         (Continued)

 

 

 

THE SKEKSIS(SIE)

As you can see by the above title, the correct spellings are as such. However, I like to rearrange the spelling of words, thus my spelling of “Skeksy,” or “Skeksies” for the plural. There's also the word “Skek,” which is the abbreviated form of “Skeksy.”

So much for that.

In reality, the word “Skeksis” comes from a Walt Disney Movie, entitled “The Dark Crystal.” In this great puppeteer work by the late Jim Henson, there was a bunch of evil buzzards, who ruled the land with a despotic iron hand-or should I say claw. Anyway, these buzzards called “Skeksis” were the epitome of uncouth and gross behavior. When they ate at the dinner table, they squabbled over pieces of meat. Food would daggle from their mouths as they partook of their victuals. They were filthy and unkempt.

What else can you expect from buzzards?

Unfortunately, a good portion of the homeless population fit this description too.  That's why I refer to them as “Skeksies.” Watching a "Skeksy" eat is enough to convince you that humans really don't need to eat food in order survive. It will certainly turn your stomach upside down and completely ruin your appetite.

I still haven’t figured out why it's necessary for "Skeksies" to leave food particles around their mouths when eating. Are their lips magnetic? Dining at the table with "Skeksies" is a hard ordeal. They talk with mouths full of food, and with foodstuff falling out of their maws. They throw food on the floor when a garbage can is within handy reach. They just don’t give a good-flying-Dutchman's fuck about anything they do.

"Skeksies" don’t bother to wash or change their clothing either. They seem as if they want to be left alone. You can spot a "Skeksy" coming down the block from a good distance too. No one else on the surface of the planet walks like them. They have the walk of the preternatural, of the living dead. It's as if some body part on them has failed, and they have to get along the best they can without it.

I’ve often wondered why they hobble from side-to-side, like a metronome when walking. And then one day I realized what it was. Before they became homeless, they were use to walking about the street with a cool, ditty-bop, but now after being out here on the street so long, sleeping on the hard concrete and what not, their ditty-bop got broken down. Now, all that's left is an awkward wobble.

Even their speech has deteriorated into guttural groans and indecipherable grunts. Neanderthal sounds have replaced what was once their diction. It's impossible to describe it in words, but once you've experienced a "Skek" and heard them speak, you'll know exactly what I'm talking about.

What more can one say about a "Skeksy," other than they are considered, even by homeless people, to be the lowest of humankind. This poses a challenge to Darwinian Evolution. Humankind is supposed to have evolved from a primitive state to what we are now.

The "Skeksy" has apparently devolved back to the primitive. Before long, they will be swinging from trees in Central Park. I learned something vital, in which I would like to share with you. Whatever you do, during your time spent on the streets, do not fail to give constant attention to your person. As the saying goes, "check yourself, before you wreck yourself." Then you won't lose respect for yourself, and not be able to correct yourself, and have to reject yourself. O.k. I'm sure you get the point of where I'm proceeding with this logic. Bottom line is, you don't want to end up being a "Skeksy, just because you're homeless."

Life is hard enough for an undomiciled person. Elevating oneself back to the level one has taken a tumble from is a real challenge, but there's still hope. However, once you've descended to the level of a "Skeksy," chances are you might not be able to return to the place from whence you've come.

Aside from this, there is another group that I've run into out here, that is definitely on the long slide to the point of no return. This is what I call the "Skelsie." Just from the name of it, I'm sure you can tell it's not going to be pleasant discussing.

 

(To be Continued...)

A message from the Author Concerning Homeless Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York

Message From the Author:

 

I'd like to pause from posting and just take out the time to thank all of my readers on Face Book & my subsequent blog sites, for your support;  your reading and commenting on my Face Book site & blog site, concerning the "Hobo Handbook:  Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York." I'd certainly greatly appreciate your words and suggestions.

Firstly, I like to apologize for several typographical errors that I discovered upon reviewing my own works.  These misspellings have crept up a number of times, and are insidious little bastards, in that they can undermine the seriousness (or humor) of the text. Once again, I apologize for these, and shall do my best to be more diligent in catching and righting these matters.

Lovingly, not one of you have ever remarked upon this-because you all are so fantastic. Nevertheless, I like to also announce to one of my faithful readers, whose name I'll leave anonymous, that I will do my utmost to make each excerpts a little longer than the snippets I've been providing in the past. I'm thrilled to know that you enjoy them that much.

Once again, I want to thank you all for your commitment to following the posted excerpts of my yet-to-be-published, "Hobo Handbook: Memoirs of a Homeless Poet in New York." With that I shall return back to posting.

-Sincerely yours & always indebted to you all,

Daniel  Canada  a.k.a  Obsidian