Here’s a piece of useful advice: If a random hobo says he’s going to lead you to a magical, faraway land with crystal fountains, handouts growing on bushes, a lake of stew, lemonade springs, and cigarette trees — don’t go. It’s probably a trick, and that place, like the subject of Harry McClintock’s 1928 song “Big Rock Candy Mountain,” likely doesn’t exist. (And good thing, too, as most of those geographic features sound terrible for the environment.) Plus, with jails “made of tin, and you can walk right out again,” it can’t be very safe either. But a hobo can still dream, right?