Thursday, June 2, 2011

The Saga of the Homeless

I should preface this by saying that I don't hate all of the homeless people in the world.

I do, however, harbor a lot of anger towards a large percentage of the people who bother me for change as I walk down the streets, trying to mind my own business.

Why do I hate these people?

Well, lots of reasons. Quoting Jim Carrey from "Liar, Liar", "Because I believe you will buy booze with it! I just want to get from my car to the office without being confronted by the decay of western society! Plus I'm cheap. Ahh!!"(On a side note, I'm not cheap, I'm a recently graduated college student. I'm not cheap, I'm broke as hell. There is a difference.)

Remember when cell phones first came out, and you could avoid talking to anyone by pretending to be on it. Whether it was a bum, a green peace fundraiser, or some tourist with a fanny pack asking you where the nearest public transit stop was, they all left you alone. Well, sad to say for all of us, this no longer works. With the exception of the dude in socks and sandals, people will stop you, disturb your phone call (be it made up or real) and even ask you to take headphones out of your ear to listen to them. Do they not understand that the point of the headphone is to ignore the rest of the world?

Come on!

But the thing that really pisses me off about homeless beggars is the indignation they have when you don't give them money. Every time someone asks me for money, and when I inevitably don't give them any, they are upset and angered. As if it is my duty to give them my money. That I worked for. That, according to the rules of the capitalist economy we live in and abide by, is my money and belongs to no one else. It is not my duty to give my money away, and however nice it is (and believe me, the false sense of superiority is fantastic) I don't HAVE to give money to anyone.

People have said, and will say, that most of these people can't help their situation, right?

WRONG!!!!

According to The United States Conference of Mayors study on "Hunger and Homeless Survey" in 2008 (look at me, backing up my rants with facts and such), the leading cause of homelessness among single adults and unaccompanied youth is substance abuse (68%).

Here is the link to the study:
http://usmayors.org/pressreleases/documents/hungerhomelessnessreport_121208.pdf

So, statistically, if I give one homeless person sitting by themselves a dollar, that is one dollar going towards alcohol or drugs. Do you still want to tell me that I'm a bad person for not wanting to donate money to the "heroin for the homeless" fund?

When you think like that, how can you not help but get just a little bit angry at the man who gets upset at you for not giving him his beer money.

But this is not to say that the homeless people of the world don't have something to offer.

Some offer amazing advice. Such as The Guru.

The Guru is a character that myself and a good friend of mine, WopCulture, ran into on a BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) station. Somehow, the guru gathered enough nickels and dimes to get into the station, and was pestering the good citizens with jobs (or citizens that had parents with jobs, such as me at that time) for money. When he got around to us, WopCulture and I both said, "Sorry, I don't have any." It was at this point that the Guru looked WopCulture directly in the eyes and said, with complete conviction and sincerity, "Don't be sorry. Don't EVER be sorry." And then the Guru walked off into the night. After imparting such profound and deep wisdom to us, he ventured forth to continue to spread the gospel of the unclean. Clearly, his advice had really helped him so far.

Some homeless are just plain entertaining. Such as the World Famous Bushman.

Bushman is a god damn San Franciscan Legend. If you come to this city without seeing Bushman, then you haven't officially been to San Francisco.

And then there are my favorite type of homeless. The ones who move beyond conscious entertainment. These are the people who no longer live on this planet. The type of characters you would find in a Samuel Beckett play. They exist in a world that none of us are lucky enough to comprehend past our fifth birthday. They have imaginary friends, and problems, and lives, and possibly jobs. They don't ask for money, they don't ask for pity, they don't even ask you for a second glance. All they ask is that the six monkeys sitting on their shoulders stop chattering for one minute so they can tell the president of Uganda the very important sandwich recipe they have.

I was in Rome with two of my good friends, Emcee and TheModel. As we were walking around the city, we encountered RockLady. RockLady had striped back and white tights, a purple jacket, Ms. Frizzle-esque blonde hair, and 2-inch black heels. I never saw her face, because it was obscured by a main of fucked up hair that would make a lion drag queen jealous. We watched her gather a series of rocks from the street. And when I say rocks, I mean these big, jagged, pieces of concrete that were between softballs and american footballs. She gather her pile of rocks near what we assumed to be her base camp of garbage. It was at this moment that we realized what she was using the rocks for. It was her arsenal. She began throwing the rocks at the feet of passerby's. Not trying to hit them, but just trying to scare them a little. And this was not a one time thing. We watched her repeat this cycle at least three times. RockLady was a regular feature in Rome, we saw her at least half a dozen times, and each time she would just reaffirm my belief that she was a Hershey's side winder. And although she never topped her rock-a-pult act, she continued to entertain us for over a week. Oh RockLady, this ones for you.

But if there is one thing that infuriates me more than the hordes of uppity homeless people, it is Gypsies.

God Damn Gypsies.

And I don't mean the ethnic group of nomadic people, as in Gypsy.

I mean the army of organized "homeless" beggars who aggressively attempt to get your money from you, typically found in major European cities, especially in Paris, France.

Here is my horrifying Gypsy experience in Paris, just one of many. It still gives me nightmares.

I was in the Gare Du Nord train station with Pops, when a raggedy looking woman with a shawl around her head. The GypsySoldier asks me if I speak Enlgish. Like a dumb ass, I say yes. She holds up a sign that reads something like this; "My husband was killed in Algeria, and I have no home and no money. Please help, God Bless."

#1- I don't believe in God, suckah!

#2- This message would draw more sympathy from me, except that EVERY SINGLE GYPSY IN PARIS HAS HAD A HUSBAND WHO HAS BEEN KILLED IN ALGERIA. And with the exact same phrasing.

#3- It is around the time I finish reading this message that I notice there are 4 or 5 other GypsySoldiers working the area we are in, with a GypsyGeneral directing their efforts. They are working us in teams!!! WE ARE UNER A GYPSY ATTACK!

All I know at this point is that Pops and I need to get the fuck out of there. But here is the thing, no matter where I move, the GypsySoldier stays with me, with her hand outstretched and whispering please. Over. And over. And over. And over. Following me around.

At this point I am panicking. I am honestly scared that I am about to be mugged or eaten. So, I have a bright idea. If i give her money, she will go away! Fellow travelers, this never works. I give her 2 Euros ($3.50), but apparently this is not enough. She continues to follow me!! The fucking nerve on this GypsySoldier. Luckily, Pops steps in and politely tells GypsySoldier to "Fuck Off!" Luckily, Pops is a pretty muscular, tattooed guy who looks pretty damn intimidating. GypsySoldier regroups with her GypsyBatallion while Pops and I walk away briskly.

A friend of mine, TheGlasses, once encountered a GypsySorceress. She slipped a ring on his finger, and when he refused to pay her, she cast a curse on him. Needless to say, TheGlasses got the ring off his finger, threw it away, and sacrificed a lamb just to be safe.

You know, the funny thing about rants is that sometimes you end differently then you thought you would. Like this.

If I had to boil all of this down to one sentence, it would be this;

Homeless people may be irritating, but Gypsies are fucking terrifying.

You're welcome.

And now I leave you with a true success story, about a homeless man with an incredible voice.





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