Things were simpler back then, when hobos ruled the earth. There weren’t as many pressures to appear ‘clean’ or ‘hygienic’ or ‘nonthreatening to children’; Whiskers were encouraged, explored for crumbs, made pointy. Food fell into two categories: stew and whiskey. Often the stews featured whiskey.
And people looked you in the eye. Unless, of course, they were missing an eye and the other tended to wander. There was a lot of that. Perhaps because of the whiskey stew, which was really room-temperature turpentine in a metal bucket.
Anyway, surf transportation was better then, too. No namby-pamby googaws like 'wheels,' or 'a roof,' and the combination of a plein air handcar, turpentine poisoning, and scabies made for a refreshing trip to the coast.
And the waves!
The waves were at least 100 times better then!
Or maybe they were 100 times worse.
It's tough to say, really, as the hobos wrote their histories in charcoal on the insides of their lambswool vests, then either traded their vests for berserker tonics or ate them outright. Oh well.
Although these days the redwood hobos are almost extinct, a few still survive. The most notorious are the Northcoast’s AppleJack Gang. Neither handsome nor in possession of a remarkable mental acumen, the AppleJack Gang is known more for shredding single fin logs with oldschool style, flagrantly experimenting with midlengths, and mercilessly schralping teeny fishes and eggs, mostly while under the influence of their self-distilled namesake thirst quencher (pictured bolted to car).
A rare sighting indeed: the entirety of the AppleJack Gang (From left to right). Boxcar Brent Bafflegab, the Soup Slurper. Dogballs Dan Dogballs, the Man With the Cat-Like Testicles. Linty Jay McStinky, the Cotton Sock Enthusiast. Acrimonious Andy O'Feely, the Absquatulator (aka: Sir Francis Drank).
