I'd like to elaborate on the charm I hold the over the domicile-deprived. Call it the kavorka, they just find me. My first such instance occurred when I was a naive study-abroad student in France. (by "study abroad" I really mean living in any interchangable foreign country but still hanging out with the same 10 people, only now with have zero classes, zero job, and mommy and daddy pay for everything on the euro?) I was walking across a bridge with my roommate from both college and abroad, when we heard the not-so-distant hollers of an unidentified man leaning against the hood of a car. My friend instinctively walked around the trunk of the car; I mistakingly chose to walk across the hood of the car, meer inches from who would later be termed, "Le Perv." I presume my trajectory may have encouraged Le Perv, considering he took my false approach as the perfect opportunity to display his greater groinal region for my viewing pleasure. I saw it all: one peen, two balls, alert and staring directly at me. Of course my knee jerk reaction (no pun intended) was to scream like a child, grab my roomate and run across the bridge. In America, chances are if pedestrians see people running and screaming through the streets, they may not do anything but they will at least stare with curious interest. Not in France. They simply point and laugh, pondering how else they can add to your misery. After five minutes of running around aimlessly, shouting in search of an off-duty policeman who would most likely be on strike for not enough cigarette breaks, our spirits were broken. We started home, when not five minutes after the first incident I noticed yet a second homeless man stumbling towards us down the sidewalk. I quickly stepped in line behind my roommate, assuming the single-file formation would clear a wider path for the stumbling (and obviously D-runk) man. However, the plan backfired and seemed to offend my future attacker. He became enraged at my courtesy; clearly this is a homeless man of principle. He wont to take any favors, in any form. The man was now staring at yours truly, locking in his target. He quickens his pace, maintaining eye contact and wabbles at me. Before I knew it, he had KICKED ME IN THE SHIN! The fact that he looked me in the eye while doing it really made me feel dirty. Apparently, this seemed to satisfy him as he continued in his path, now with a cheerful bounce in his step. Within 5 minutes, I had respectively seen some unanticipated (and unwelcomed) penis and recieved a kick to the shin by two separate admirers. I guess not everyone can be this lucky.

My Pioneer Post

This blog has been a long time coming. After countless encounters with the various homeless and generally insane people of the world, my friends and I were convinced to record these exceptional encounters in a collective blog. Friends and family have always been amazed at my uncanny ability to attract unstable characters even in the safest environments, and it's time I share my experiences with the rest of the world. If only one person learns a valuable lesson from my posts, such as how to avoid a rogue hobo loogies, then I will be satisfied. The first encounter I would like to share occurred this past March. I was home in NY interviewing for graduate school (an Art History major has -100% chance of scoring a job in this vacuum of a market) when I encountered a rather indignant homeless man, or should I say, he encountered me. Luckily the incident occured after my interview, on my modest walk from the school on 42nd & 6th to meet my brother at his office on 56th & 6th. The street was busy with people shuffling from office to office, but this hobo thought I had something special. I was on the phone with my father, briefing him on the events of the interview, when hobo approached me and spit on my shoes. Now, such an isolated and momentary incident like this would not normally surprise me in NYC, but this man had an agenda. After the initial projectile of saliva directed towards my feet, I made brief eye contact with Mr. Bojangles and continued in my path. This seemed to aggravate him even more, as he continued to walk along side me, shouting incomprehensible utterances and producing even more saliva projectiles. Within moments of our encounter, I find myself running down 6th avenue with my aggressor chasing me at an alarming pace, spitting on me throughout the entire pursuit. Loogies were flying over my head; I could only imagine this is how our soldiers felt dodging attacks in Vietnam. Luckily, a brave business man who was one of the only bystanders on the street pretending not to notice what was happening came to my rescue. He yelled at the bum and escorted me across the street to salvation. After thanking my rescuer and parting ways, I noticed my hobo spying on me from across the street, waiting for the light to change to attack once more. I quickly ducked into the nearest Jamba Juice, assuming homeless people never enter commercial establishments. I frantically finished my call with my father (who was very confused) and called my brother urging him to meet me immediately. Completely distracted and oblivious to every employee and patron in Jamba Juice at the time, I can only imagine how insane I must have looked as I hysterically relayed the incident over the phone, repeatedly peeking my head outside the entrance, looking for the hobo chasing me. However, my evasion tactic was a success, and I returned home unscathed.