Tales of nonsense and items of little interest, sometimes true, always poorly thought through. Less sophisticated than most newspapers and magazines.

Thursday, August 9, 2007

An Army Of One

Call them what you will Tramps, Bums, Hobo’s, The Homeless, they intrigue me. If I see one of them exhibiting particularly strange behaviour I am fascinated and usually can’t put them out of my mind for at least a day or two until something else catches my eye and my attention. They always leave me with more questions than answers…

There used to be this bloke who lived on the corner or Broadway and 1st St for at least 5 years that I know of, who each morning would perform his exercises (jumping jacks) in his terrible arseless pants. It was truly a sight to amaze and horrify passers by. Every now and again they would cart him off (presumably to a mission) while they hosed down the pavement and got rid of all his rubbish. Next day he would be back, clean shaven and obviously washed yet still wearing the pants with no arse in them. Why the fuck did they not give him new pants? Or did they offer him new ones only for him to refuse? I suppose that wearing pants with no arse in them has its advantages, especially if you never get up to go and shit. One day he was gone for good. Dead? Relocated? Eaten by wild dogs? Who the fuck knows?

Then there was the lad who stood at the corner of Broadway & Temple every afternoon reading aloud from a three ring binder into a microphone, the wire of which led into his back pocket. I was determined to stop and listen to what the hell he had to say that was so important to him but parking was never possible and I would just drive right by. On the day that I said to myself “Okay, this is it. I’m going to risk a ticket and hear him out,” he was gone, never to be seen again. I will never know what was in the binder. Could have been blank pages, could have been the ranting of a mad man, could have been the secret to life, the universe and everything.

There was the bloke in the gas mask who would dance like a fuckin’ maniac outside the various discoteca stores that pump out loud banda, norteña, and salsa music down on Broadway, south of 4th St. What the fuck happened to that guy? Did he like the music that much? Did the store owners employ him to draw attention? I suspect he was just crazy as every now and again I would see him dancing outside Clifton’s to the sound of traffic and police sirens.

Since someone realized that they could convert all the old buildings downtown into high rent lofts and make millions, the LAPD have been cleaning up the area and getting rid of all the loonies, shadow fighters, screamers and urine reeking prophets. Causing dismay to dedicated people watchers like me. Luckily I will always have Hollywood. Santa Monica is fertile ground for jakeys too, but I don’t get out there that often. Hollywood is closer and to be honest, is home to a different breed of nutcase. There was this one lad who seemed to keep crossing the same street, backwards and forwards. Over his shoulder, he carried a black hold-all which held probably all he owned, a blanket and a stereo from which he was blasting what sounded like Smokey Robinson, but was, I was reliably informed, The Temptations. Every now and then he would stop, do a bit of a shuffle and mess with the volume, then cross the street again. The hold-all bore the legend “US ARMY – An Army Of One”, this was no doubt his free gift for his application to enlist (rejected). As interesting as this behaviour was, even more intriguing to me was what he carried in his right hand….a blue cellulose sponge. The kind that you wash dishes with, well the kind that the wife washes dishes with, I don’t do dishes. It didn’t appear to be wet, it was dried out. What the fuck was he doing with it? Did he like the texture? Was it his comfort sponge? Was it his favourite thing in the entire world? Could “the man” have taken his home, his pride, his dignity but not his sponge? I should have fuckin’ well asked him when I had the chance…..

This shit has my mind in a spin. I may not sleep tonight.

By the way, I commented on the lad with the furry yellow bike’s blog. It was moderated but he put up my comment anyway, he just didn’t answer my questions. He did not offer an explanation for the protest and did not offer his favourite remedy for saddle rash. So I still do not have closure on that bizarre event.

9 comments:

The Mistress said...

Maybe the bloke in the arseless pants was an unemployed cowboy wearing chaps.

Fat Sparrow said...

Yes, they were very entertaining back in the day when I had a car. Since I'm on public transportation with them now, they are much less entertaining, the lice-ridden, piss-smelling, drunken mentalists.

There was this one black guy on the bus who was pissed as a newt and a nutter, too, who would jump up and yell "James Brown! Black motherfucker! Huuunnnh!" even though the bus driver kept threatening to throw him off.

For a good while there that was the Spouse Sparrow's new phrase.... Picture me, sitting and reading all peacefully in a quiet house, and the Spouse Sparrow suddenly shouts out "James Brown! Black motherfucker! Huuunnnh!" Such is the life I lead.

Fresh Hell said...

Eddie... are you recycling stories?! This is all suspiciously familiar. Hmmm... I can swear that I've seen the blue sponge guy before. Did he do a little dance like a doo-wop girl? I've got the "splitting headache" version of a hangover so don't listen to a word I say. My brain isn't working too well.

Eddie Waring said...

MJ - He didn't have a horse, maybe he ate it?

Sparrow - The bus is always a good place for people watching. Not as good as a bus station though which is hard to beat. There you get the benefit of several bus loonies at once. How funny would it be if they all got on the same bus at one time?

FH - Did I tell you the one about the person in the Elmo costume with an Elmo backpack and an Elmo candy bucket and a stool?

FirstNations said...

i lived in Portland, Oregon. wall to wall nutjobs. there was Mr.Headbanger, a bald, elderly man no taller than a kid who would sneak up behind people and pretend to violently bang them with his forehead, missing them by milimeters. you could watch him systematically work an entire corner full of waiting people and not a one would notice.
there were the innumerable pee winos, the Leaking Eye Girl, the Razorblade Perm Lady, the Blonde Wig Schizo Prostitute...the Shitass Man used to pluck the grass all around the public plantings into geometric shapes, the back of his pants a solid clay slab of shit. one day went berserk and ringbarked all the trees for 30 blocks on Burnside. For that they jailed him. One year. oh, the stories....

Manuel said...

Belfast has many many hobos. My favourite being Ginger Gerry. He's a cad and no mistake. He has a lovely huge ginger beard covered in snot, booze and small mammals. He rants and raves about Vietnam and chickens. But over the last week he has been seen sporting a different hat every day. My favourite being the white Panama. Man from Del Monte meets man from Buckfast...

Old Knudsen said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Old Knudsen said...

I heard rich folk pay the homeless for the pleasure of hunting them as man is the ultimate prey.

Eddie Waring said...

FN - Portland strikes me as one of those places that is just rife with nutters on buses. SAD sufferers no doubt....Shitass Man sounds like my kind of loony.

Manuel - Where does he get these hats? Does he steal them from sleeping victims on park benches or buses? Or does he actually have a shopping trolley full of hats that he wheels around with him? See? These people are just intriguing to me.

Knudsen - They rear them in pens on the wooded estates and keep them blindfolded until the day of the shoot. Makes for a much easier, more confused target that way.