I can’t imagine the comments being very “JOOOOO!!!!”-y this week, but I’ve been surprised before… [UPDATE: I spoke too soon!]
My grandmother told me that during the Great Depression, the homeless—then called “hobos”—really were down on their luck, through no fault of their own. But is even that true? Notice how many of those quaint old “hobo signs” equate to “lying about how bad off you are” or just “trying to get away with shit”? (I particularly like “2 Women here. Tell a good story.”)
I guess that’s why I’ve written about the homeless so much, even when I was “Ed Anger.” (Yes, I was Ed Anger.) And why when I do, I get so pissed off—and attract such attention.
I’ve been a professional writer for 30 years, yet only my musings on homelessness (and “poverty” in general, also mostly fake…) have ever been deemed worthy of (frankly insipid) condemnation by Salon beta-male faggot Alex Koppelman and hormonal fury-appliance Wonkette—and even ended up in a social studies textbook.
So Justin Keller, I feel ya, son.
