A Cinecle View – Home Invasion, Part 2: How I Nearly Destroyed HoboTrashcan.com

Tony Marion

Tony Marion

Okay, so this week is going to be a little less traditional column and a little more “peak behind the curtain”…

When I pitched the “Home Invasion” concept to Hobotrashcan proprietor and internationally renowned extreme ironist, Joel Murphy, I assured him that it would be nothing more than a piece of cathartic “performance art”; I was getting the calls, I did track down the owner of the call center and I do possess his personal info. But I had no intention of actually contacting him.

The plan was to mock-up a certified letter to add some theatricality as I spent my weekly allotted Hobo real estate taking more shots at Mr. (LAST NAME REDACTED)’s vocation and pretending that he bowed to my demands while cowering in fear of your (the HoboTrashcan readership’s) wrath and soiling himself. And hilarity would ensue.

That’s what was supposed to happen.

But shortly after I finished my original draft of part 2, I decided to pound some Captain and Coke and catch up on some Bittorrented – I MEAN, DVRed – programming. I was completely engrossed in an episode of Westworld, when my phone rang, un-suspending my disbelief and ruining what was otherwise turning out to be a pretty cool Tuesday morning.

Guess who was on the line?

There are two things that you never, EVER do unless your goal is to witness a stunning display of my anger management issues and poor impulse control:

  1. Harsh my Captain and Coke buzz
  2. Interrupt when I’m trying to concentrate on a naked Thandi Newton

If you do both of these things simultaneously, a curious phenomena occurs. My rage doesn’t double; the rate and amount of increase can only be calculated with exponents.

I don’t remember exactly what I said to “Sally,” but I’m pretty sure that she hung up when I started doing my best impersonation of Chang from Star Trek: The Undiscovered Country.

Shit was on. I grabbed my iPad, or as Mrs. Marion calls it, my Linus blanket, and tried to log on to Linkedin. Of course, I rarely remember passwords when I’m sober, so four Cuba Libres deep, there was no way that was happening.

I went to my iMac, requested a password reset from Linkedin, only to discovered that I couldn’t remember the password to the email account that I use for Linkedin, either.


I composed a message in the hushmail account that I use to periodically take advantage of certain stock footage/music/After Effects templates websites that offer free one week trials, but when I was ready to cut and paste the text from Home Invasion, Part 1, I realized that said text was on a portable drive … in my office … an hour and a half away.

There are two things that can’t happen when I’m on a drunken, angry, Thandi-nudis-interruptus fueled rampage:

  1. Needing a thing that’s in Baltimore when I’m in Lancaster
  2. Forgetting the password to whatever online account I need to access

The math on how pissed I get when all of these factors align is too advanced for anyone to calculate. Except maybe Will Hunting. Or Sheldon Cooper.

When I finally remembered that I don’t submit my column to Joel on parchment via raven each week – I use my work email – I was SO far down my Labeouf-style rabbit hole that I didn’t think about what I was doing, and in three keystrokes and a click, I went scorched Earth on Mr. (WE’RE ALMOST TO WHY HE’S STILL ANONYMOUS). But who cares? I never mentioned where my column appears – what’s the worst that could happen?

It felt sooooo good. Like getting home from work and finally being able to reach that itch that you couldn’t scratch in the middle of the marketing meeting because that’s not the right venue in which to jam your hand down your pants.

I finished Westworld, forgetting about the message until …

… a few days later, when Access Hollywood torpedoed both the political future of Donald Trump and the career of Billy Bush. I decided to postpone the conclusion of Home Invasion to write about Bush’s arrested adolescence. Afterward, I remembered my tantrum, checked my hushmail messages … and my heart was in my throat.

I’m finished poking the tiger, so I won’t reprint the actual reply, but here’s the gist of what his lawyer said:

Publishing Mr. (NO WAY IN HELL I’M REVEALING THE NAME NOW)’s personal information on HoboTrashcan.com, cineclepictures.com, or any other site would result in complaints/site take down requests being filed with ISPs.

Offering bounties for pics, footage, online interactions or me showing up at his place in (I’M NOT EVEN GOING TO RISK REVEALING THE CITY AND STATE) with a camera would result in calls to the local police and/or FBI.

I replied with a meek: “Heard and understood. Sometimes I drink.”

In my rummy fog I forgot that the Internet is a two way street; I’m sure it took 10 milliseconds to discover the outlets where my little Wikileaks-esque crusade could potentially hatch. The last thing that I want (and the only thing that I ever promised Joel that I wouldn’t do) is to endanger HoboTrashcan. Sorry, Joel; it probably won’t happen again.

But, all’s well that end’s well. Mr. (SCARY POWERFUL)’s information was never revealed, HoboTrashcan is still running, I saw Thandi Newton naked and everyone learned a valuable lesson. And by “everyone” I mean “me”, and that lesson is ALWAYS SILENCE YOUR CELL PHONE.

Though, come to think of it, I haven’t received a phone call from Mr. (PROBABLY PUSHING MY LUCK NOW)’s call centers since … and I have an idea for an edgy column about Comcast …


Tony Marion is a writer and filmmaker who splits time between Lancaster, PA and Baltimore, MD. He lives for the work of Descendents (the band), Chuck Palahniuk and Rian Johnson. Check out the digital embodiment of procrastination he calls his website here.

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