[.ca] Hobo (ISBN 1400048095)

The Vulgar is Often Profound:
Cotton sets out on a literal journey by freight train only to realise along the way that it was worthless without its complimentary and parallel, the figurative journey. In this way it resembles Kerouac's tireless hope, a faith in the future. But Kerouac died drunk young, and ON THE ROAD is a pipe dream, a sad book where there is no resolution, where Neal Cassady is found out a man, not a hero. Where Kerouac has Cassady, Cotton has the freight train, and no pretense about faith and hope, beatific enlightenment and redemption in the madness of music, women, words and poetry. Cotton's journey is a lonely one, and beneath the crude language there is a timid poet, but more importantly a very lonely young man who chooses not to flee sadness, but to immerse himself in it. In Cotton we find a reaction to the blighted idealism of the sixties generation - a person not contented so much with words and literary, artistic achievement, but concerned with the marriage of his art and action, the substance of his real life. After all, Kerouac never ate out of trash cans... So, let's not make too much of what he lacks in technical training, politcal agenda and ideals. He has no ideals, and thank him for it, that wonderful and rare quality of "hopelessness without despair," and his sense of humor and heart.

The Hobo Poet is Yet Among Us:
The first thing that must be recognized by any reader of Hobo is that it's not a pure, unimpassioned historical narrative, not an unretouched photograph--nor was it intended to be. Art, by definition, never is. The reader who expects a tourist's snapshot of Saint-Rémy will be disappointed to discover they've stumbled upon something more akin to Van Gogh's "Starry Night." Anyone familiar with Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" will quickly grasp what they've gotten themselves into. I do not mean to imply, mind you, that Hobo is fiction, masquerading as an unadorned personal history. If you pick up Hobo with the motive of looking over the shoulder of a contemporary descendant of the depression era hobo, yearning to feel the warmth of his campfire without getting burned by it--in all honesty, that was my motive--you'll find your $12 to have been money well spent. Far more importantly, if you have the perspicacity to recognize what the author was attempting to convey, the value of goods received will transcend the notion of dollars and cents: by the energy of the author's poetic skills, you will see through his eyes: see the electric lights of a Nevada town whisking by; feel the heartache of parting with a friend, with the certain knowledge that you'll never see them again; taste the acid roadhouse coffee, left on the burner too long; absorb the overwhelming sorrow of being no one, at no place, with nowhere to go. The reviews here have run the gamut, from "pretentious bunk," to raves, to one bothered by the bizarre irrelevancy that the author must have, at one time, consulted a literary agent--as if Jack Kerouac had stood atop a literary Mt. Ararat and handed down stone tablets, never defiling himself with business of survival. Survival is a matter that Eddie Joe Cotton must surely have learned quite a bit about in his decade aboard boxcars. It is the unfortunate fate of the artist of innovation, and the courage required to come forth with it, that his or her leaps over stagnate lakes of human conformity will most likely go unrewarded. Not unlike those of Van Gogh's, the value of Eddie Joe Cotton's effort won't be recognized--if ever--until generations after the embers of his campfire have settled to cold ash.

One of the most beautiful things you will ever read:
This is not, as some reviewers would have you believe, a juvenile attempt at autobiography, or a ripoff of Kerouac. Neither is it a work that is undeserving of praise, or trite. Instead, the author instills a great deal of poetry and threads it through the years of collective experience he had being homeless. The only thing I wish he had included more material on was the topic of fitting into society, of feeling like he couldn't reintegrate. He was basically on his own at 16 (not nineteen as it says above in the review). I find it both amazing and heartwarming that he finally reached a point in his life where he wanted to finally turn things around, through a literary achievement that tells a very American saga. It's gorgeous prose, and though he skips over time a lot, the stories he tells are both beautifully told and gritty, about people forgotten, or shunned by society, sometimes victims, sometimes insane, sometimes dangerous, sometimes just throwaways. It's a fascinating look at the gypsy culture in this country as well as how people really survive that way. I really recommend it if you're looking for that sort of read. Parts of it are uncomfortable but really, I found it a profound book, with meditations on the American dream and the American reality that was very cutting and nostalgic at the same time. I wouldn't ever welcome that life, the taste of it I've seen is enough, but yeah, his book is very well written. I suppose part of me liked it so much because it didn't shy away from talking about the things that make America exactly the hazardous place it is, and why. He really exposes a great number of things that make you go "wow, I am so glad I wasn't there to see this in person". Especially given what the current administration idealizes, this book is a perfect antidote for the person willing to say America is the best country on earth. This book is a wake up call to the people who tout the "no child left behind" act, and the lack of insight that is our system, one that constantly, irrecovably overlooks.

I hate to trash this, but. . .:
This is the first book in years that I've simply had to put down and walk away from. Mr. "Cotton" and his ramblings remind me of the pretentious b.s. of Anais Nin. Namely, overrated, trite, and without spirit. Eddy Joe wants us all to understand how sad he is, how hard life is out on the rails, and how all the hobos have heart and spirit simply because they live in a world of grime and impermanence. Well, there are some great people out there in the world, and some can be found drifting across the country, but if you believe Eddy Joe, the hobo community has a collective spiritual superiority simply by virtue of their lack of resources. My chief criticism, however, is the actual writing. Time and time again, the author employs extraordinarily tired literary cliches, writing with an annoying and hackneyed tone. Maybe I just don't "get it." But I aint no professional reviewer, neither. In other words, I don't have to get it . . .and my favorite authors, like Cortazar, Boll and Dahl, don't force this issue, the understanding, and the transportation, come effortlessly. Try this book out. . .it might fit you like a rail oil stained shoe. It sure might, Alabama. . .it sure might.

Freedom!:
Young bum-in-training Eddy Joe Cotton takes us along on his journey to freedom, riding the rails, scrounging for food in trash cans, freezing in boxcars, staring out at deserts and fields of grain for days at a time, and of course meeting fellow travellers. You never know what filthy old bum you will run into at a hobo gathering or what words of wisdom you will glean in between slugs of cheap wine. Filthy dirty? Yes - but free! Going noplace? Yes - but free! Picking through half smoked cigarette butts in order to roll your own? Yes - but free! Free, free, free! Well, if that's your idea of a good life, welcome to it. This book actually was pretty entertaining and informative. It does seem like a carefree, if uncomfortable, way of living, and nothing terribly bad seemed to happen to the author. There are also plenty of women who take an interest in this sort, though none of them stick around for long, having issues of their own. Good luck, Eddy Joe Cotton, I'll be thinking of you every time I hear the train whistle in the distance at night.