Pete and his stylist both fear that they will end up here or on Vice's Dos and Don'ts--Pete's stylist has already appeared once--for getting a haircut on a bench in Tompkins Square Park (to the bemusement of many passerbyers). The best part of hobo haircuts is no clean-up; and as Pete's shorn locks rolled like tumbleweed down the pathways and joined forces with the pollen and stuck to passed out homeless people, Pete daydreamed that one of park's many birds would fortify their nests with his hair. Like all good tramps, Pete believes in the barter system, so in exchange for his haircut he took his stylist out for the quintessential hobo food: hot dogs. (Fuck you, Swine Flu!) Crif Dogs on St. Mark's Place is not a Hobo Baked Beans kind of joint though; they serve their dogs Jersey-style--deep-fried in vats of oil. Pete had the Crif Dog with grilled onions, sauerkraut, and mustard, and the chihuahua--a bacon-wrapped dog topped with avocado, sour cream, and salsa. (Pete couldn't help but wonder if a
vagabundo had ever had an actual chihuahua for supper
while riding the rails. (Sorry, Bo.)) Pete was slightly disappointed with the snap factor of the dogs themselves but with all of its toppings blending together nicely, the chihuahua tasted as good as a second serving at a soup kitchen, and the waffle cheese fries were as pleasant as finding an apple pie cooling on an open window sill. With all that greasy goodness in his belly, Pete threw his bindle over his shoulder and set off on a hobo stroll home.