The Hobo Diet: Eat Less, Walk More, and Try Not to Die

Logan Mosier

Format ISBN Price   Paperback (6x9) 9781434396150 £ 9.20

After graduating from college, I decided to spend five weeks living as a homeless man in Sin City.

So on New Year's Eve, I boarded an airplane and flew to Vegas to be homeless (and, yes, I noted the irony).  All I had on me was a backpack with one change of clothes, a cheap blanket, and some pens and notepads.

The first person I saw as a "homeless man" was a cop. Actually, there were three of them , and they quickly pointed out that I was on the street and that I needed to hop the long fence bordering the casinos to get out of traffic.  In the process of doing so, I unwittingly cut my hand open on the fence and was immediately surrounded by police and paramedics.  Two ambulance rides and twelve stitches later, I found myself outside a hospital miles away from "The Strip" with no money, no insurance, and no identity. 

Over the next five weeks I slept in shelters and in drug infested lots, worked day labor jobs for minimum wage only to lose the money at the casinos, and met an array of interesting individuals ranging from Tiger Todd, motivational speaker to the homeless, to Black, a very high and horny gangster  with a gray glass eye and a seemingly endless supply of cocaine.  That said, the overwhelming majority of people I met living in the shelters and on the streets were compassionate, interesting, often inspirational individuals. 

Check out The Hobo Diet: Eat Less Walk More, and Try Not to Die.  It's like reading a firsthand account of homelessness if it were produced by Vh1, only with a lot less lists and a lot more drugs.

www.projectmeaning.com

    Seconds after I finish my Pitch Black II, I spot a red-shirted staff member approaching us with a small cylindrical yellow object in his right hand.  One by one, he searches our belongings and then holds the yellow object up to our mouths.  Despite a four year college career, I have never had a beer.  It just isn’t my style.  So it comes as no surprise that I have never taken a breathalyzer test.  It does, however, surprise me that taking a breathalyzer test is not an easy task.

    “Blow into this,” commands the staff member.

     I blow.

     “No, you’ve got to blow harder than that.”

     I blow harder.  Nothing.

     “You have to blow like you are inflating a balloon.”

      I pretend it is somebody’s birthday.  Still nothing.

     “Try aiming higher.  Blow directly into the hole.”

      I blow again and again.  Softer, harder, higher, lower, smoother, rougher, quicker, slower, happier, sadder.  Nothing works.  After hopping on one foot doesn’t work, I brace myself to try blowing while dancing the Macarena.  The staff member shakes his head.

       “Stay right there.  We’ll come back to you.”^[1]

        He moves on to the two men behind me in line.  They pass the test easily.  I brace myself for the moment of truth.

        “Alright,” says the staff member, coaching me.  “We’re going to try this one more time.  Remember, blow hard and aim high.”

         I close my eyes, breathe in deeply, and try to pump myself up with the Rocky soundtrack I am now humming silently in my head.

         One.

         Two. 

         Three.

         Blow!

         I give it everything I have.  Every molecule of breath inside me explodes out in a whirlwind of freedom.  There are typhoons that would be jealous of the wind power I generate.  Sure enough, two seconds later, a green light comes on and I am free to enter, following the staff member and my fellow “inmates” up the secretive case of stairs and into the sleeping room.

          I feel good about myself for the first time since this morning.  It seems like a menial task, but I view it as an accomplishment of epic proportions.  Michael Jordan hits game-winning shots, Bono brings debt relief to third-world countries, and I blow hard into little yellow tubes so that I can sleep inside for the night. 

           Lying down on my upper bunk perched in the corner of the room, I look down on my fellow “inmates” like a monarch would look down upon his kingdom.  Three things catch my attention.