Hobo Frankenstein

When my stomach acid starts up, I know my neck will start to get tense, as well as my lower back. A careful assessment of my state of mind determined that I had to blow off some steam, de-stress, unwind, whatever. So, I decided to go to a few places that I haven't been for a while.

First stop: That scary military surplus compound/store out in the sticks. I don't know why I find this place interesting, but I do. Sticking out like a sore thumb and not giving a shit about it can be satisfying and funny. It was there that I found a good source for rip-stop army fatigues (non-cammo) and waffle stompers. One time I even bought a bag of radio knobs. I thought they looked cool and was going to toughen up the look of my system with them, but they turned out to be huge. It didn't work out, so if any of you need a bunch of battlefield radio knobs, I'm your man.

Back to the story, there's a section where all the hillbillies and whatnot's can get their IFA on. I generally steer clear of that section and go straight to the scary part: The outside surplus storage area. There's so much dangerous and useless crap it's mind boggling. I'm holding out hope for a chance to find a JATO or two--you know, those rockets they use to help the big cargo planes take off on short runways. I had plans to re-enact an urban legend about strapping those to a car, but the program "Mythbusters" beat me to it. There wasn't much to look at today, however. They had fenced off the good stuff. So, I went inside the warehouse.

Inside I found a large bin of, you guessed it, chest spreaders! I knew there was a reason for going there. I was planning on boning up on my open-heart surgery this weekend. Down a bit further, I found a section featuring used military parachutes. There was a notice above the inventory stating, "No returns on parachutes." No shit? How would you like to be the unfortunate soul who has to find this out the hard way? A dead man can't return anything; therefore, if you have the return department turn you down, you've probably already been effed for the rest of your short, crippled existence. On the plus side, I thought that I had met Larry the Cable Guy there and then promptly gave him the rods-up (English finger). Anyways, Ron (Tater Salad) White is way funnier--if you're into that humor, and that's about the only one of those guys I can stomach.

Second Place: The park. A good walk in the park is always necessary if you're going to unwind. It was there that I thought up a rather crude invention: Playdough Workshop for Dogs. If you've never played with Playdough as a kid, then I am moved by your exodus that you endured from Siberia. For the rest of us, Playdough had that workshop that you could squeeze the Playdough through a template that would make all these different shapes of extruded dough, i.e. star, square, leprechaun. Anyways, this idea hit me right after I stepped in a big pile of dog shit. This is what happens when someone gives you the idea to look out for bird shit and your attention is diverted from the ground to the sky (thanks C). So, I thought that it would have been a more positive and entertaining incident if I had stepped into a pile of sausage-lengthed, star-shaped dog poo. How this invention would work is still a mystery to me, and it's going to stay that way. Anyways, I can't see a humane way to implement the device.

Third Place: The old Union Pacific Station. A good haunted location. I almost got my ass kicked by a ghost there, once. Also, my other grandfather (not Vern) worked for the UP railroad, so it reminds me of him. I loved him and didn't get to see much of him before he died. So, I like to look at the old cars and locomotive engines and think about what life was like for grandad out working 16 hours a day in the railyard. It was there that I noticed some hobo and gang graffiti. Some of it was cool and some of it not so much (swastikas and other stupid racist shit). But one tag intrigued me above them all, it just said "Hobo Frankenstein". Who in the hell, or what rather, is Hobo Frankenstein? That name's the shit! I thought that my moniker was good, but I can't, and neither can any of you, top Hobo Frankenstein. So, my new life goal is not to do a film with Bollywood starlet Priyanka Chopra, but to meet Hobo Frankenstein.

This day is not over. I still have time to hang out behind a Mexican restaurant, which is hilarious fun, highly recommended. Who knows? I just might bump into Hobo Frankenstein.