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Monday, August 31, 2009
The Magical Reappearance of the Bicycle Lock
It's Monday, the last day of August, and the world shifts into gear again. Grim-faced people heading out for work. And a horde, a gaggle of runners, walkers, dog-walkers on the trails along the river. Never seen anything quite like it.
Had my morning coffee at McDonald's. It's a super-deal: 42 cents and it comes with two refills. This is the Senior Discount, of course, but it makes it lovely for an old geezer like me to get that caffeine fix in the morning.
I found a phone on the bridge this morning, and so I called and left a voice message. Of course I'm hoping for a nominal reward ($5.00 would be lovely!) but if not, no big deal.
And I found a large over-the-shoulder bag, somewhat the worse for wear abandoned down by the bridge; I checked it out, loaded it up, and it's working quite well thus far. It's bigger than the one I had attached to the rear of the saddle, and so of course that means more...STUFF.
You think just because I'm homeless that I'm not a pack rat? Grin. But the limited space imposes a certain discipline and puts a premium on STUFF that folds or rolls into small bundles. Nylon packs better than cotton. And yesterday I got some below-the-knee khaki-colored ripstop nylon capri pants, I suppose you'd call them. Much cooler than the blue jeans.
Last night was chilly. I awakened several times, wrapped in the blue tarp, feeling not quite comfortable. Finally I got up, slipped on the blue jeans over the capris and that was enough to do the trick.
Up by five. Why so early? The conventional "street wisdom" is that the cops start making their ticketing-rounds sometime after five, so it behooves the street people to recognize and honor that. Ergo, up and at 'em, boyz. Thank goodness for cell phones which have alarms and whatnot.
Lovely lady there where I got my capri pants. Some kind of director of community something-or-other. I'm terrible remembering titles and names, but she was very nice. Gave me a hot dog and some beans, so that took me through the day.
See how it is? When you first hit the street, it's all about chaos and not knowing what needs to be known. You don't know that the cops will ticket you in a heartbeat for the smallest little thing, and so when you DO get ticketed, you tend to pass that information on.
Yesterday, three men were ticketed for open container violations down by the river. They were drinking beer and wine, and it ended up costing them. The tickets, I understand, are $300 each. And that's a major ouchie out here. A week of community service. Bummmmmah.
Well, ya say, they shouldn't have been drinking out in the open. True, true. But where could they drink inside, being homeless and outside by definition? I, personally, am abstaining from alcohol. But what I observe down here at the nitty gritty level is that there's an awful lot of herb-smoking and quite a bit of drinking. Just the facts, ma'am, as Sgt. Joe Friday used to say. There's a lot of stress associated with being homeless, and the tendency is to self-medicate however you can.
Some of the street people are quite generous while others are devious and parasitic. Smiley, for example, is a very generous guy--and a sweet soul, to boot. I don't have his picture yet, but plan on catching him on camera soon. And of course I still don't have that cable which will allow me to upload some of the photographs I've been taking. Think I need to post a list of...THINGS I NEED.
Planning to bike up to Veggie Heaven (I think it's called) and see if they will fix me up some rice and tofu or whatnot. A bit hungry this morning, with no prospects in sight until this evening. That's a long time to be serenaded by the growling of the tummy.
Nuff for now.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah
THIS JUST IN: Just got a call from the owner of the phone, and he'll be here at the main library to pick it up in an hour. So....
There's lunch, as he said he most definitely would give me that nominal reward I not-so-subtly mentioned.
Tummy...growl away. Soon you'll be taken care of.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
The Santos Angel(s)
A couple of nights ago I went to "the Gathering" and apparently I somehow lost my bicycle lock. Which is pretty major, considering how many thieves scurry around this city. So I was in somewhat of a quandry. Obvious solution was to somehow find my way back up to that place I'd never been but the one time, hill and all, and hope to find it somewhere.
So I asked, was given directions, and actually found my way back to the top. It was a bit easier this time as I stuck to pavement rather than going cross country like when I was with the group.
But no lock. No tickee, no lockee.
Looked here, there, everywhere. And when you've done all that, it's time to say the Serenity Prayer. So there I am sitting on the bench resting when up walks Santos. He's exercising the dog, a part-pit bull, part-lab, and he tells me the dog is wearing him out.
We talk. Glory of glories, but it turns out he's in recovery, has his life back on track, good job, clean for years and years. That's always good to hear. So he laid a bit of his understanding of his Higher Power on me and I was totally good with that. More talk. Ten children by two marriages. Twenty-five grandchildren. Two great-grandchildren. Thirty-seven souls here on the planet thanks to him being here. (Well, he said, I had a little help!)
I tell him about losing the lock, my fear of losing the bicycle.
He sez, Got any tools?
"Yeah," I say.
Take the wheel off and take it with you. They won't steal a bike without a wheel.
It was one of those...DUH moments. Why didn't I think of that myself?
See, I was stuck in this box called the only way to keep your bike safe is to lock it.
And I couldn't get past that. So all of a sudden Santos comes walking up with a message I needed to hear.
And do you know the Greek word for "messenger"? It's...angelos. Angel.
I asked him if he knew how to tie an overhand knot in a scarf by holding and end in each hand without letting go of the ends. He tried this and that but of course it didn't work.
Then I showed him how it could be done, and he gave me a dollar. There ya go. Then he sez, If you're hungry, come on down where the balloons are.
And so later I did. They fed me, introduced me all around, and were just marvelously warm and friendly people. I took a couple of pictures of grandkids around the pinata. And one of Santos himself. So...if I ever get the little cable which will allow me to transfer my pics from camera to computer, you'll get to see him.
At any rate, Sr. Santos, your esposa, los hijos and all the grandkids and greats...much aloha from the man in the street you reached out your arms to one day. It was lovely to meet your family there, where the balloons were.
You're in my prayers. Y'all keep reading my blog now, you hear?
Peace.
Elijah Streetman
So I asked, was given directions, and actually found my way back to the top. It was a bit easier this time as I stuck to pavement rather than going cross country like when I was with the group.
But no lock. No tickee, no lockee.
Looked here, there, everywhere. And when you've done all that, it's time to say the Serenity Prayer. So there I am sitting on the bench resting when up walks Santos. He's exercising the dog, a part-pit bull, part-lab, and he tells me the dog is wearing him out.
We talk. Glory of glories, but it turns out he's in recovery, has his life back on track, good job, clean for years and years. That's always good to hear. So he laid a bit of his understanding of his Higher Power on me and I was totally good with that. More talk. Ten children by two marriages. Twenty-five grandchildren. Two great-grandchildren. Thirty-seven souls here on the planet thanks to him being here. (Well, he said, I had a little help!)
I tell him about losing the lock, my fear of losing the bicycle.
He sez, Got any tools?
"Yeah," I say.
Take the wheel off and take it with you. They won't steal a bike without a wheel.
It was one of those...DUH moments. Why didn't I think of that myself?
See, I was stuck in this box called the only way to keep your bike safe is to lock it.
And I couldn't get past that. So all of a sudden Santos comes walking up with a message I needed to hear.
And do you know the Greek word for "messenger"? It's...angelos. Angel.
I asked him if he knew how to tie an overhand knot in a scarf by holding and end in each hand without letting go of the ends. He tried this and that but of course it didn't work.
Then I showed him how it could be done, and he gave me a dollar. There ya go. Then he sez, If you're hungry, come on down where the balloons are.
And so later I did. They fed me, introduced me all around, and were just marvelously warm and friendly people. I took a couple of pictures of grandkids around the pinata. And one of Santos himself. So...if I ever get the little cable which will allow me to transfer my pics from camera to computer, you'll get to see him.
At any rate, Sr. Santos, your esposa, los hijos and all the grandkids and greats...much aloha from the man in the street you reached out your arms to one day. It was lovely to meet your family there, where the balloons were.
You're in my prayers. Y'all keep reading my blog now, you hear?
Peace.
Elijah Streetman
Friday, August 28, 2009
Oblivion Measured Out In Carefully Weighed Little Spoons of Despair
Things are happening quickly.
I came into town Saturday last, knowing no one, and now, just a few days later, I have been accepted into a loosely knit tribe of individuals who divide their time between the Pedestrian Bridge during the evenings and the Barton Springs site during the day. I probably know and am known by at least fifteen or so denizens of the street by now.
This...tribe seems to live permanently in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. The goal seems to be the next hit of smoke, the next can of this chemical pleasure, that book of rolling papers, enough tobacco to roll a pinner. Oblivion measured out in carefully weighed little spoons of despair.
I met Courtney.
She's 19 years old, looks 17, and is down here on the lean and mean streets of Austin, doing her thang. She's the Sweetheart of the Rodeo, if you're looking for metaphors. The Princess of the Pedestrian Bridge. And I like her.
I mean, I can see her life, the entire thing unrolling in my imagination.
[Cue the theme song for Courtney's soap opera, clashing cymbals and thunderous drama.]
She's with this one guy (Snail) while her fiance is in jail (six more months to go) but...well, there was this other guy she met somewhere sometime yesterday, and poor old "Snail" just kinda shuffles along as she and the new guy grope each other. I feel sorry for Snail, but he seems to be taking it with a kind of equanimity one reads about in books with such catchy titles as The Heart Disconnected or Ain't No Big Deal. I can only imagine the torrent of emotions roiling along beneath that calm exterior.
My mother threw me out of the house when I was 13, he says matter of factly.
And the rock his stone-face is carved from...shows no pain. 30 years old, going on 13. Stuck in the tar baby of arrested emotional development. Still seeking out approval. A master at the whirling sticks. A teller of jokes. But not an alpha male. Too kind, too gentle. He's, well, boring. At least for a woman who's 19 years old and a hormone-driven machine.
Methinks Courtney is drawn to the alphas.
I don't want my heart broken again, she told me the other night.
I told her, Get used to it. It's gonna happen again and again.
Like noooooo waaaaaaaaaaaay, Dude, she said.
To her credit, she just hooked up with Snail two or three days ago and it's very much one of those "don't know" relationships. She doesn't know what to do. I mean, fiance in jail? Snail available but not so exciting...new guy (who knows what's going on w/ him?) and then the one she slept with after the drum circle the other night. He seems to have little to less-than-little interest in her now. What is not to her credit is how she shamelessly flirts with this new guy right in front of Snail. And a bit of the dazed look in his eyes, a bit of not wanting to look anyone in the fucking eye, dudes, like...you know....ain't no biggie but don't say a fuckin' word.
Small time hustlers move by the arse-busting benches of the Pedestrian Bridge. Wanna buy a joint? they ask. See? A bloody joint. And the collective shaking of heads nooooo, ain't got no money, Bro as he moves by with little lame feelers sent out, little crippled wishes: but I wish I could.... or ...sure could use a hit, Bro, hint hint.
The beat goes on.
The rhythm of the street moves from the Great Drought (where the fuck is the smoke????) to plethora where mota is leaping out of the cornucopia at ya and ya gotta gasp out, Nuff awreddy! Last night beneath the bridge, the rain just coming down rattatattat, felines and canines, and a circle of maybe eight people and four (count 'em) joints going, clockwise and otherwise. Classic feast or famine.
I sometimes feel that I have stumbled onto one of the lost tribes of Israel, the Lost Children who cannot grow up, but can only grow old. And I was accepted into this only because I could pronounce the shibboleth correctly. And, truth be told, I was on the streets long before any of these kids were even born. A long time ago.
For the older ones, those with experience, there is a tendency to protect what is there. By that I mean that they pick up after themselves, they urge the younger ones to put the rubbish in the rubbish cans rather than tossed over the shoulder into the memory shredder. They don't argue with the cops, they don't advertise their presence.
Yesterday, one of the guys got a broom and swept for at least an hour, cleaning the spillway rocks. Then the rain came and great acres of rubbish from upstream, all the flotsam of a disposable culture came rushing down the dirty grey-brown water. And it went on like that for quite some time until finally the waterways were cleansed and the stream ran free of plastic bottles and bags and the like.
I had to wade through the rushing water, bending to get through the little tunnel to where the Beast stood still in the midst of the raging current, coping with it all. Good strong old Beast. Good girl. Semper fi.
Courtney and Snail took me along to the Gathering. When we got there after this horrific hike, a group of 30 or 40 young people in various poses and costumes. One full-faced makeup, reminding me of a character out of a spinoff of Edward Scissorhands.
I felt out of place. I'd learned a magic trick a day or so before from a book in the library, one involving a bit of sleight-of-hand, and so I pulled my magic cord out and began practicing the trick. A young woman across from me began watching and finally said, Like, Duuuuude, what are you, like, DOing?
So I told her I had magical powers and blah blah and she said, Okay, show me what to like do, kay?
Within a couple of minutes her friends had gathered around as she tried and tried but of course could not do the knot. A freak named Sunshine came by, big man, and watched. He, too, couldn't get it. You're doing something, he said, but you're too fast for me to catch.
The dope was in abundance, a whirling mob of little priests and priestesses passing out the wafers of mota at the sacrament of the Gathering.
Bless me, Duuuude, for I have sinned.
Lay one on me, Duuuude, for I have sinned.
How kewl is that???
And just when the energy is building to orgiastic heights, two cops roll up on bicycles. The pagan in full makeup is caught both smoking a joint and drinking a beer--and is given a citation.
But the worst part is that the cops make everyone disperse. Another site is quickly circulated...like, kewl, duuuude, we'll like meet up over at yada-yada.
Which is too far for us. We the people of the street, in order to form a more perfect union...march slowly and dejectedly back to the...Bridge. One of the guys hobbles along on crutches, lower leg broken in five places, pinned. An alpha male, Courtney nervously hanging at his side. She cannot seem to see he has no real interest in her.
At the bridge, Tom called me aside. "Be sure to call me Tuesday," he said sotto voce. "I'm gonna have a shitload of money." Hmmmm. I suspect he might be open to getting the cable so we can upload some pictures. And just where did I put his number? Make a note to find it tomorrow.
He pulled out a cardboard sign he'd made. The caption read, "I'm just like Obama--all I want is a little change." Ahhhhh. Spare change. Clever.
A woman waltzes up. Tom rushes to introduce me. This is Elijah, he says pointing to me. Good dude, really like really good dude. I can vouch for him.
And later I began shivering, chilled. Had to climb on the bike and ride enough to get the blood pumping and the sweat beading. And when I lay my sorry old head down to sleep, I slept within the folded 8' x 6' blue tarp from Home Depot.
I came into town Saturday last, knowing no one, and now, just a few days later, I have been accepted into a loosely knit tribe of individuals who divide their time between the Pedestrian Bridge during the evenings and the Barton Springs site during the day. I probably know and am known by at least fifteen or so denizens of the street by now.
This...tribe seems to live permanently in the Land of the Lotus Eaters. The goal seems to be the next hit of smoke, the next can of this chemical pleasure, that book of rolling papers, enough tobacco to roll a pinner. Oblivion measured out in carefully weighed little spoons of despair.
I met Courtney.
She's 19 years old, looks 17, and is down here on the lean and mean streets of Austin, doing her thang. She's the Sweetheart of the Rodeo, if you're looking for metaphors. The Princess of the Pedestrian Bridge. And I like her.
I mean, I can see her life, the entire thing unrolling in my imagination.
[Cue the theme song for Courtney's soap opera, clashing cymbals and thunderous drama.]
She's with this one guy (Snail) while her fiance is in jail (six more months to go) but...well, there was this other guy she met somewhere sometime yesterday, and poor old "Snail" just kinda shuffles along as she and the new guy grope each other. I feel sorry for Snail, but he seems to be taking it with a kind of equanimity one reads about in books with such catchy titles as The Heart Disconnected or Ain't No Big Deal. I can only imagine the torrent of emotions roiling along beneath that calm exterior.
My mother threw me out of the house when I was 13, he says matter of factly.
And the rock his stone-face is carved from...shows no pain. 30 years old, going on 13. Stuck in the tar baby of arrested emotional development. Still seeking out approval. A master at the whirling sticks. A teller of jokes. But not an alpha male. Too kind, too gentle. He's, well, boring. At least for a woman who's 19 years old and a hormone-driven machine.
Methinks Courtney is drawn to the alphas.
I don't want my heart broken again, she told me the other night.
I told her, Get used to it. It's gonna happen again and again.
Like noooooo waaaaaaaaaaaay, Dude, she said.
To her credit, she just hooked up with Snail two or three days ago and it's very much one of those "don't know" relationships. She doesn't know what to do. I mean, fiance in jail? Snail available but not so exciting...new guy (who knows what's going on w/ him?) and then the one she slept with after the drum circle the other night. He seems to have little to less-than-little interest in her now. What is not to her credit is how she shamelessly flirts with this new guy right in front of Snail. And a bit of the dazed look in his eyes, a bit of not wanting to look anyone in the fucking eye, dudes, like...you know....ain't no biggie but don't say a fuckin' word.
Small time hustlers move by the arse-busting benches of the Pedestrian Bridge. Wanna buy a joint? they ask. See? A bloody joint. And the collective shaking of heads nooooo, ain't got no money, Bro as he moves by with little lame feelers sent out, little crippled wishes: but I wish I could.... or ...sure could use a hit, Bro, hint hint.
The beat goes on.
The rhythm of the street moves from the Great Drought (where the fuck is the smoke????) to plethora where mota is leaping out of the cornucopia at ya and ya gotta gasp out, Nuff awreddy! Last night beneath the bridge, the rain just coming down rattatattat, felines and canines, and a circle of maybe eight people and four (count 'em) joints going, clockwise and otherwise. Classic feast or famine.
I sometimes feel that I have stumbled onto one of the lost tribes of Israel, the Lost Children who cannot grow up, but can only grow old. And I was accepted into this only because I could pronounce the shibboleth correctly. And, truth be told, I was on the streets long before any of these kids were even born. A long time ago.
For the older ones, those with experience, there is a tendency to protect what is there. By that I mean that they pick up after themselves, they urge the younger ones to put the rubbish in the rubbish cans rather than tossed over the shoulder into the memory shredder. They don't argue with the cops, they don't advertise their presence.
Yesterday, one of the guys got a broom and swept for at least an hour, cleaning the spillway rocks. Then the rain came and great acres of rubbish from upstream, all the flotsam of a disposable culture came rushing down the dirty grey-brown water. And it went on like that for quite some time until finally the waterways were cleansed and the stream ran free of plastic bottles and bags and the like.
I had to wade through the rushing water, bending to get through the little tunnel to where the Beast stood still in the midst of the raging current, coping with it all. Good strong old Beast. Good girl. Semper fi.
Courtney and Snail took me along to the Gathering. When we got there after this horrific hike, a group of 30 or 40 young people in various poses and costumes. One full-faced makeup, reminding me of a character out of a spinoff of Edward Scissorhands.
I felt out of place. I'd learned a magic trick a day or so before from a book in the library, one involving a bit of sleight-of-hand, and so I pulled my magic cord out and began practicing the trick. A young woman across from me began watching and finally said, Like, Duuuuude, what are you, like, DOing?
So I told her I had magical powers and blah blah and she said, Okay, show me what to like do, kay?
Within a couple of minutes her friends had gathered around as she tried and tried but of course could not do the knot. A freak named Sunshine came by, big man, and watched. He, too, couldn't get it. You're doing something, he said, but you're too fast for me to catch.
The dope was in abundance, a whirling mob of little priests and priestesses passing out the wafers of mota at the sacrament of the Gathering.
Bless me, Duuuude, for I have sinned.
Lay one on me, Duuuude, for I have sinned.
How kewl is that???
And just when the energy is building to orgiastic heights, two cops roll up on bicycles. The pagan in full makeup is caught both smoking a joint and drinking a beer--and is given a citation.
But the worst part is that the cops make everyone disperse. Another site is quickly circulated...like, kewl, duuuude, we'll like meet up over at yada-yada.
Which is too far for us. We the people of the street, in order to form a more perfect union...march slowly and dejectedly back to the...Bridge. One of the guys hobbles along on crutches, lower leg broken in five places, pinned. An alpha male, Courtney nervously hanging at his side. She cannot seem to see he has no real interest in her.
At the bridge, Tom called me aside. "Be sure to call me Tuesday," he said sotto voce. "I'm gonna have a shitload of money." Hmmmm. I suspect he might be open to getting the cable so we can upload some pictures. And just where did I put his number? Make a note to find it tomorrow.
He pulled out a cardboard sign he'd made. The caption read, "I'm just like Obama--all I want is a little change." Ahhhhh. Spare change. Clever.
A woman waltzes up. Tom rushes to introduce me. This is Elijah, he says pointing to me. Good dude, really like really good dude. I can vouch for him.
And later I began shivering, chilled. Had to climb on the bike and ride enough to get the blood pumping and the sweat beading. And when I lay my sorry old head down to sleep, I slept within the folded 8' x 6' blue tarp from Home Depot.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Loki and His Magic Didgeridoo
Quotation of the day: "There's a difference between being homeless and being homefree. I'm homeFREE." --Loki, 26th of August 2009, in front of the Austin library, 8th and Guadalupe
Before I get to my "chance meeting" with Loki, a brief update. Last night I attended my first "Drum Circle" there on the north end of the Pedestrian Bridge. It was a hoot, to say the least. But I'll save that for a later post where I can go into detail.
Thing I wanted to mention was that I was riding the Beast along and spotted a one dollar bill lying there all abandoned and frantically waving her little arms, asking me to pick her up. Naturally, I took compassion on that pore little thang and gave her a place of refuge in my pocket.
She returned the favor this morning by providing me with my morning pick-me-up, a cup of coffee at (choke, gasp, shudder) McDonalds.
Okay, okay. I don't much care for McDonalds but they have "Senior coffee" for 42 cents (wow!) which comes with two refills. A rare bit of good karma coming from the High Priest of the Obesity Gods.
Began the long ride up to the main library. Stopped to take a few pictures of Juan Pelota's then walked the bike up the various hills, stopping wherever there was shade to catch my breath. By the time I made it to 8th and Guadalupe I was pretty well bushed, so I took a couple of minutes to pull my old act together.
Noticed a young street person on one of the arse-buster benches in front of the library. And young guy (turned out to be "Loki"--as in the Scandanavian trickster god) was carring a white plastic bucket inscribed with, "This bucket kills fascism." Also had a didgeridoo (man, I had to look that one up to see how to spell it!). And of course the old Streetman is always looking for photographs his readers might like, so here was an...opportunity.
He was chatting, so during a lull in the conversation, I gracefully but clumsily inserted myself into the conversation by saying, "Hey, brother, I like your rig. Mind if I take your picture?" And he graciously consented. Took a couple, probably should have taken more.
So here he is, but you'll have to wait for the picture until I get the upload cable. Loki: young, well-mannered, helpful. I asked him where the most "street-person friendly" place was, in his experience.
"San Francisco," he said. Ahhhhh. Grace Memorial Church. I remember it well. But it turned out that he'd never been to Grace, preferring to hang out in the Haight/Ashbury district. And of course his didgeridoo was useful in the Dept. of CC--that's Cash-Creation, for the uninitiated. Yeah, buddy.
Also had a guitar strapped to his back. Strapped for cash, if you'll pardon a very baaad pun.
Where do you eat breakfast or lunch?
He told me about Veggie Haven (or Heaven, not sure which it is). "What you do," he said. "is crack the door, hold up one finger, and they'll fix you up a box of rice and tofu or whatever."
And the price?
"Free, no charge."
Dang!
I asked him about his didgeridoo and he said that he makes them. Makes them?
How do you drill the hole?
"I use agave or pvc pipe. With the wood, I drill in as far as I can, then put some coals down in there and use my heat gun to keep them glowing. Keep some water handy just in case. Let the coals slowly burn through the center."
Ingenious, yeah? And the pvc??
"I use a heat gun on it, too. By twisting the pipe when it's hot, I can deform it and tune it in the process."
It turns out that twisting does one thing and bending does another. Apparently bending the heated pvc pipe allows one to search for the elusive note, "...usually E or C" Loki said.
Interesting.
So here was Loki, a free-spirit moving from place to place, homeFREE, no less. He explained that he was homefree by choice, that to have a home would mean being shackled to rent and/or mortgages.
And so he wanders, on his own little personal Walkabout. He was a delight to meet, and his gift to me was the gift of where-to-find food. And that is a kindness indeed. Go in peace, magic Loki, kindred spirit.
Thus does knowledge of the street pass along. It's an oral tradition, one person telling another, word-of-mouth moving from person to person, a long freight train of oral transmission.
Finally it got to me.
Now you have it, too.
Free...no charge. Sometimes...to keep it ya gotta give it away.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah Streetman, Semper Fi
Before I get to my "chance meeting" with Loki, a brief update. Last night I attended my first "Drum Circle" there on the north end of the Pedestrian Bridge. It was a hoot, to say the least. But I'll save that for a later post where I can go into detail.
Thing I wanted to mention was that I was riding the Beast along and spotted a one dollar bill lying there all abandoned and frantically waving her little arms, asking me to pick her up. Naturally, I took compassion on that pore little thang and gave her a place of refuge in my pocket.
She returned the favor this morning by providing me with my morning pick-me-up, a cup of coffee at (choke, gasp, shudder) McDonalds.
Okay, okay. I don't much care for McDonalds but they have "Senior coffee" for 42 cents (wow!) which comes with two refills. A rare bit of good karma coming from the High Priest of the Obesity Gods.
Began the long ride up to the main library. Stopped to take a few pictures of Juan Pelota's then walked the bike up the various hills, stopping wherever there was shade to catch my breath. By the time I made it to 8th and Guadalupe I was pretty well bushed, so I took a couple of minutes to pull my old act together.
Noticed a young street person on one of the arse-buster benches in front of the library. And young guy (turned out to be "Loki"--as in the Scandanavian trickster god) was carring a white plastic bucket inscribed with, "This bucket kills fascism." Also had a didgeridoo (man, I had to look that one up to see how to spell it!). And of course the old Streetman is always looking for photographs his readers might like, so here was an...opportunity.
He was chatting, so during a lull in the conversation, I gracefully but clumsily inserted myself into the conversation by saying, "Hey, brother, I like your rig. Mind if I take your picture?" And he graciously consented. Took a couple, probably should have taken more.
So here he is, but you'll have to wait for the picture until I get the upload cable. Loki: young, well-mannered, helpful. I asked him where the most "street-person friendly" place was, in his experience.
"San Francisco," he said. Ahhhhh. Grace Memorial Church. I remember it well. But it turned out that he'd never been to Grace, preferring to hang out in the Haight/Ashbury district. And of course his didgeridoo was useful in the Dept. of CC--that's Cash-Creation, for the uninitiated. Yeah, buddy.
Also had a guitar strapped to his back. Strapped for cash, if you'll pardon a very baaad pun.
Where do you eat breakfast or lunch?
He told me about Veggie Haven (or Heaven, not sure which it is). "What you do," he said. "is crack the door, hold up one finger, and they'll fix you up a box of rice and tofu or whatever."
And the price?
"Free, no charge."
Dang!
I asked him about his didgeridoo and he said that he makes them. Makes them?
How do you drill the hole?
"I use agave or pvc pipe. With the wood, I drill in as far as I can, then put some coals down in there and use my heat gun to keep them glowing. Keep some water handy just in case. Let the coals slowly burn through the center."
Ingenious, yeah? And the pvc??
"I use a heat gun on it, too. By twisting the pipe when it's hot, I can deform it and tune it in the process."
It turns out that twisting does one thing and bending does another. Apparently bending the heated pvc pipe allows one to search for the elusive note, "...usually E or C" Loki said.
Interesting.
So here was Loki, a free-spirit moving from place to place, homeFREE, no less. He explained that he was homefree by choice, that to have a home would mean being shackled to rent and/or mortgages.
And so he wanders, on his own little personal Walkabout. He was a delight to meet, and his gift to me was the gift of where-to-find food. And that is a kindness indeed. Go in peace, magic Loki, kindred spirit.
Thus does knowledge of the street pass along. It's an oral tradition, one person telling another, word-of-mouth moving from person to person, a long freight train of oral transmission.
Finally it got to me.
Now you have it, too.
Free...no charge. Sometimes...to keep it ya gotta give it away.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah Streetman, Semper Fi
Senator Edward Kennedy Dead....
Just a very brief post to honor the late great Senator Ted Kennedy of Massachusetts. I was fortunate enough to attend a lecture of his at the University of Hawaii back around 1980 or so. He was in fine fettle and exuded compassion and composure. Just a real deal of a human being.
He gave us so much. And so much was taken from him over the years. The loss of his brothers, the lobotomizing of his sister Rosemary, the death of his nephew John Kennedy...the list goes on and on.
So this day, the old man of the street, will be thinking of Teddy and holding him close.
Rest in peace, old boy.
He gave us so much. And so much was taken from him over the years. The loss of his brothers, the lobotomizing of his sister Rosemary, the death of his nephew John Kennedy...the list goes on and on.
So this day, the old man of the street, will be thinking of Teddy and holding him close.
Rest in peace, old boy.
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
An Angel Named Barbara Stopped By Just Now...
You'll remember I mentioned Barbara from Switzerland the other day? Well, in my last post (which was just a few minutes ago) I had signed off and was about to climb on the Beast and head out for the library when suddenly this lady rode up and called out to me.
Barbara, as I live and breathe. Be still my heart.
So she sat down and we chatted. Both of us smiling like crazy. Showed her some of the pictures I've been taking and she was properly effusive and impressed. Great lady. Then she insisted that she take some pictures of me, so I'll post them when I come up with the little cord. Amazingly enough, the camera didn't break. It's a Samsung S630. Does 6.0 megapixels and is plenty good enough for my purposes. Tough little critter, too.
Then we took a few of us together. How beautiful it all is. She is just one of those people who has a beautiful soul and fantastic energy, and you can't help but feel like there's a kind of goodness, almost...holiness about her. First Allen, then Barbara show up to make my day.
How fortunate I am!
Barbara...you go get 'em, girl!
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah
Barbara, as I live and breathe. Be still my heart.
So she sat down and we chatted. Both of us smiling like crazy. Showed her some of the pictures I've been taking and she was properly effusive and impressed. Great lady. Then she insisted that she take some pictures of me, so I'll post them when I come up with the little cord. Amazingly enough, the camera didn't break. It's a Samsung S630. Does 6.0 megapixels and is plenty good enough for my purposes. Tough little critter, too.
Then we took a few of us together. How beautiful it all is. She is just one of those people who has a beautiful soul and fantastic energy, and you can't help but feel like there's a kind of goodness, almost...holiness about her. First Allen, then Barbara show up to make my day.
How fortunate I am!
Barbara...you go get 'em, girl!
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah
At Juan Pelota's, Grooving....
It's 10:34 am and I'm sitting here at one of the tables outside Juan Pelota's, certainly an extraordinary place in so many ways. It's the first installment in the adventures of the day.
I'm functionally broke now, and there's a certain relief in that. Kind of a "Whew, glad that's over!" No more watching the spending with a gimlet eye. Now I can relax. I have broken through that massive barrier called flat-broke and, hey, it's another dimension altogether. Kinda kewl in its own way.
Allen was on duty. On duty. Isn't that a heckofaway to talk about him? I mean, there he was just this fountain of information. So I asked, "How long you folks been open?"
"Since @$#%burblewalluspup," he said. I forgot to mention my hearing isn't what it used to be. I asked him to repeat it and he raised the volume a bit and slowed down. "It's been a year this May. So we've been open...what? Fifteen months now."
Very kewl.
"And what else can you tell me?" I asked. "Details, please. The readers demand details, the more dramatic the better."
"Well," he said, "you know that Juan Pelota is a nickname?"
"Oh?"
"Juan is a play on words. Kinda sounds like 'one,' right? And pelota in Spanish means--"
"Ball," I said. Might as well show off my meager Spanish while we're at it.
"Right. So...'one ball?'" He's looking at me like everything should now be perfectly clear, but it isn't.
I'm waiting for the punchline.
"Lance Armstrong owns this place," Allen says. Big grin.
Now that's--and suddenly...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I freakin' get it. Lance was diagnosed with testicular cancer and had one testicle removed.
Jeez, the cleverness of it. I feel like El Pendejo finally coming in out of the rain.
He also walked me through the punning of "Mellow Johnny's." Apparently it's a pun on the French for "yellow jersey," Lance's colors. Mmmmm, doesn't that speak volumes about this place?
Then he showed me the bikes in the other room that Lance rode. There are four there, and I just came back to the big notebook computer from asking for more information.
The first bike is one he rode in 1996 while he was sick. "That's why that one's so significant," I was told by a very helpful young man.
The yellow Trek was one he rode in winning the Tour de France (date not available). And the other two are also winners.
I walked around the display room just a bit, feeling somewhat guilty to be a pauper in the midst of such gleaming and wonderfully constructed machinery. And of course I'm a bicycle junkie who is currently riding...junk. Oops, the Beast heard that so I can expect some rough pedalling today. Royal Purple Majestic junk, I must add. My mechanical Sweetie who lugs me hither and yon.
Personal history tidbit: In 1973 I rode a Fuji with sew-up tires from Lawrence, Kansas to Boulder, Colorado. It was one of those peak events Maslow speaks of. Molly rode all the way with me, and we stopped in every little tavern all the way across the sweltering state of Kansas. August of 1973. We camped, we drank, we made love, we laughed, and we were young and our lives stretched out before us like a highway whose end is so far away it's beyond the horizon of the possible. I was still immortal then, if you know what I mean. And the trip was so extraordiary, it made me feel so wonderfully alive that I promised myself I would do this again and again.
But that was, what? 36 years ago this month. And I've never done anything like it since. Shame on me! (Maybe this Vision Quest will qualify?)
Now I am drinking some delicious coffee in a place owned by Lance Armstrong, who is surely a quintessential American Hero. I'm feeling so honored and delighted to have stumbled on this place. Again, a tip of the hat to Darrin, the barrista at Blu. Darrin turned me on to it.
And you know what? Sooner or later lots of people will be reading this blog. And when that happens I want to ask you to do yourself a favor: keep Juan Pelota in mind. Their coffee is just right, their service is terrific, and they gotta have one of the best bike shops on the planet. If you're gonna buy a bike, why not buy it from Superman? Or the essential equivalent thereof?
And tell 'em Homeless Elijah sent you. Smile.
I just started this blog a couple of days ago, and I have some ideas for creating readership. Yesterday I made up some invitations and will have them printed out. Fortunately, I have enough coins for the copy machine--I think. If not I can do them by hand.
It's all good.
This is Elijah, your man on the street, in the third day of his Vision Quest. By the very act of reading this, you, too, are on the Quest. You're with me. Someone whose life I have touched, however slightly.
Good to have you here. Bookmark me? I'll get RSS going once I figure out how to do it.
The coffee has given up the ghost. I will push on.
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah
I'm functionally broke now, and there's a certain relief in that. Kind of a "Whew, glad that's over!" No more watching the spending with a gimlet eye. Now I can relax. I have broken through that massive barrier called flat-broke and, hey, it's another dimension altogether. Kinda kewl in its own way.
Allen was on duty. On duty. Isn't that a heckofaway to talk about him? I mean, there he was just this fountain of information. So I asked, "How long you folks been open?"
"Since @$#%burblewalluspup," he said. I forgot to mention my hearing isn't what it used to be. I asked him to repeat it and he raised the volume a bit and slowed down. "It's been a year this May. So we've been open...what? Fifteen months now."
Very kewl.
"And what else can you tell me?" I asked. "Details, please. The readers demand details, the more dramatic the better."
"Well," he said, "you know that Juan Pelota is a nickname?"
"Oh?"
"Juan is a play on words. Kinda sounds like 'one,' right? And pelota in Spanish means--"
"Ball," I said. Might as well show off my meager Spanish while we're at it.
"Right. So...'one ball?'" He's looking at me like everything should now be perfectly clear, but it isn't.
I'm waiting for the punchline.
"Lance Armstrong owns this place," Allen says. Big grin.
Now that's--and suddenly...ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh, I freakin' get it. Lance was diagnosed with testicular cancer and had one testicle removed.
Jeez, the cleverness of it. I feel like El Pendejo finally coming in out of the rain.
He also walked me through the punning of "Mellow Johnny's." Apparently it's a pun on the French for "yellow jersey," Lance's colors. Mmmmm, doesn't that speak volumes about this place?
Then he showed me the bikes in the other room that Lance rode. There are four there, and I just came back to the big notebook computer from asking for more information.
The first bike is one he rode in 1996 while he was sick. "That's why that one's so significant," I was told by a very helpful young man.
The yellow Trek was one he rode in winning the Tour de France (date not available). And the other two are also winners.
I walked around the display room just a bit, feeling somewhat guilty to be a pauper in the midst of such gleaming and wonderfully constructed machinery. And of course I'm a bicycle junkie who is currently riding...junk. Oops, the Beast heard that so I can expect some rough pedalling today. Royal Purple Majestic junk, I must add. My mechanical Sweetie who lugs me hither and yon.
Personal history tidbit: In 1973 I rode a Fuji with sew-up tires from Lawrence, Kansas to Boulder, Colorado. It was one of those peak events Maslow speaks of. Molly rode all the way with me, and we stopped in every little tavern all the way across the sweltering state of Kansas. August of 1973. We camped, we drank, we made love, we laughed, and we were young and our lives stretched out before us like a highway whose end is so far away it's beyond the horizon of the possible. I was still immortal then, if you know what I mean. And the trip was so extraordiary, it made me feel so wonderfully alive that I promised myself I would do this again and again.
But that was, what? 36 years ago this month. And I've never done anything like it since. Shame on me! (Maybe this Vision Quest will qualify?)
Now I am drinking some delicious coffee in a place owned by Lance Armstrong, who is surely a quintessential American Hero. I'm feeling so honored and delighted to have stumbled on this place. Again, a tip of the hat to Darrin, the barrista at Blu. Darrin turned me on to it.
And you know what? Sooner or later lots of people will be reading this blog. And when that happens I want to ask you to do yourself a favor: keep Juan Pelota in mind. Their coffee is just right, their service is terrific, and they gotta have one of the best bike shops on the planet. If you're gonna buy a bike, why not buy it from Superman? Or the essential equivalent thereof?
And tell 'em Homeless Elijah sent you. Smile.
I just started this blog a couple of days ago, and I have some ideas for creating readership. Yesterday I made up some invitations and will have them printed out. Fortunately, I have enough coins for the copy machine--I think. If not I can do them by hand.
It's all good.
This is Elijah, your man on the street, in the third day of his Vision Quest. By the very act of reading this, you, too, are on the Quest. You're with me. Someone whose life I have touched, however slightly.
Good to have you here. Bookmark me? I'll get RSS going once I figure out how to do it.
The coffee has given up the ghost. I will push on.
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah
Monday, August 24, 2009
On Pedestrian Bridge, 11:05 PM
It's an hour short of Shakespeare's witching hour, and I'm sitting on one of those butt-numbing benches up on the bridge. And what a bridge this baby is! If Austin never did another thing right, they did some major on-top-of-the-situation when they made this thing.
Here's how it is tonight: two young lovers sitting down the way, their voices low and murmuring, nothing really recognizable wafting to us. But that doesn't matter. Young love is pretty much the same everywhere a person goes. Been there myself some decades ago, and it's kind of a lovely thing to see the hormone-monkey on somebody else's back for a change. I'm old enough now that I am not led around by the nose of my second chakra. Not much, anyway. Well, okay, a wee bit. Still, a lovely thing.
To my left is Tom, a good old boy who spent the day actually volunteering his services for eight hours or so--and this is a guy who sleeps on the street and yet manages to reach out to others in need. I don't know about you, but I think that says an awful lot about who he really is. Very nice, methinks.
And this: cardboard laid out for Tom to sleep on. A palatial bed down here. A few feet away, a man on a blanket. And others on these bum-numbing benches. A community of sorts. A community of the down-but-not-quite-out crowd. Been down for a long count but we ain't reached the count of ten yet and I think some of us are gonna struggle back up on our feet.
And Chet Nichols sang, back in the 1970s...."...gimme the count, boys/Is it six or eight or ten?/And have I been down so long/I'll never get up again?"
I've asked Tom, sitting immediately to my left, and who's been reading this over my shoulder, to come up with some words of wisdom or sass or whatever so I can pass them along to you.
And here's what he said: "Faster horses, younger women, older whiskey and more money. The secret to life, the song said." And he leans back and laughs.
The young man on the next bench to my right has a broken leg, dressed out in a stylish cast of sorts. High-tech bone-fixing. Another real-life example why we need real health reform. I could point out a dozen who need some kind of health care but won't get it because the system has been designed and tweaked to leave them out. I am not trying to be some kind of whiner here. This is just how it is. Reality lives by its own rules.
"Useless eaters," Kissinger is alleged to have said of us.
And I say us because I am very much a part of all this. I'm here on some kind of quasi-spiritual Vision Quest, it's true, but I have a few physical issues myself that I've learned to more or less live with: a hernia that needs repair and is just getting worse and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it.
I am reminded of Mary Lou Wingate in John Brown's Body by Stephen Vincent Benet:
"...staring at pain with courteous eyes;
when the pain outwits it, the body dies."
Stop complaining, I tell myself. Focus on what you DO have.
This night just seems to be beginning. The story goes that we can sleep up here so long as we get our funky selves up off the concrete and the benches and hele ( that's Hawaiaan for move) on down the road before 5 AM. That's the saying hereabouts, the wisdom of the collective mind. And of course it's always subject to the whim of change. They used to leave the street people alone on Pedestrian Bridge, I'm told, but now the pressure has increased. They come now with the book of laws, and more and more they are going with the very strictest of interpretations. See below.
A data-base emerges from the collective experiences of the street. Hear about Brian? Used to come up here? Found him dead. Yeah, some signs of violence.
And...so-and-so was ticketed this morning. Another this afternoon.
Even I was ticketed today. Here's how it came down:
I was down eating the free dinner from Loaves and Fishes and went across the street to eat the food. So I'm sitting there on the sidewalk, leaning up against a black wrought-iron fence when of a sudden two bicycle cops come up out of nowhere and corner me and a black guy who'd just been smoking ganga. He looked worried and I felt none too fine.
The upshot was that it's illegal to sit on the sidewalk. And the unspoken subtext was that "Ignorance of the law is not excuse." Bingo. I sat there while the officer filled out the ticket, a bum with glazed-over eyes caught in the headlights of the system. So I signed the ticket, promised to show up. Arguing would have been futile, even counter-productive. It would have made things worse. So we were both polite and went with the flow of the unequally enforced law. Cops know, and we know, and you know that a crowd sitting on the sidewalk in some of the more upscale parts of town would have been left alone, or at worse given a warning. We were just nailed.
I want to talk more about this at some future date, but for now there's some bare nuts and bolts of the deal. There was so much texture: the adrenaline, the you-gotta-be-kidding-reaction, the suppressed sense of injustice which clamored out to be heard, expressed.I came away from the experience relieved that I didn't have to go to jail. And also...pissed, dammit. I was doing nothing worthy of that public humiliation. And it is a shame and a discredit to the Austin Police Force to have their men out there violating the intent of the law.
I'm told the law was originally passed because the Drag Kids were massing on sidewalks and effectively blocking traffic. So an ordinance was passed prohibiting the sitting on a sidewalk. But it was meant as a specific remedy to a specific problem. And then the particular of that intent was generalized and the cops just started running with it. Another tool in their arsenal of harassment.
Okay, okay. I'm pissed. I'll get over it.
VULGARITY ALERT: WHAT FOLLOWS IS A VERY EARTHY COLLOQUIALISM USING GROSS SEXUAL IMAGERY. IF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE SKIP THIS PART. IF NOT, COME SIT BY ME.
So here's Tom and he's been thinking about cute and clever sayings and this one is just kicking at his chest walls and throat, clawing its way out, like that monster popping out of John Hurt's chest in Alien. So let's let him get it out of his system: Here's one of his grandad's colorful (cough) sayings: "That's tighter than a preacher's dick in a calf's ass."
I told you it was gross. Tom is roaring with laughter now, looking at me to see if I appreciate. Yep, I do. KindaSorta. Sorry, but Jimmy Swaggart just suddenly popped into my head...heading for the barnyard...Lawd have mercy! That's an image I do not want to hang onto.
Ok, just think of it like this: Tom is this great big Falstaffian character, for those of you who know Shakespeare. Yes, Falstaff. Larger than life. Reincarnated and living on a bridge. Bluff, hearty, but one you wouldn't want to mess with. This clown has a wicked right.
And this just in (from his grandpa): "If I tell you that a rooster can pull a freight train, hook up."
In other words, my word is my bond. Kewl, eh? I love these colloquial sayings.
And this final jewel: "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." LOL.
Enough for tonight. Time to ride off into the darkness.
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah the Homeless
Here's how it is tonight: two young lovers sitting down the way, their voices low and murmuring, nothing really recognizable wafting to us. But that doesn't matter. Young love is pretty much the same everywhere a person goes. Been there myself some decades ago, and it's kind of a lovely thing to see the hormone-monkey on somebody else's back for a change. I'm old enough now that I am not led around by the nose of my second chakra. Not much, anyway. Well, okay, a wee bit. Still, a lovely thing.
To my left is Tom, a good old boy who spent the day actually volunteering his services for eight hours or so--and this is a guy who sleeps on the street and yet manages to reach out to others in need. I don't know about you, but I think that says an awful lot about who he really is. Very nice, methinks.
And this: cardboard laid out for Tom to sleep on. A palatial bed down here. A few feet away, a man on a blanket. And others on these bum-numbing benches. A community of sorts. A community of the down-but-not-quite-out crowd. Been down for a long count but we ain't reached the count of ten yet and I think some of us are gonna struggle back up on our feet.
And Chet Nichols sang, back in the 1970s...."...gimme the count, boys/Is it six or eight or ten?/And have I been down so long/I'll never get up again?"
I've asked Tom, sitting immediately to my left, and who's been reading this over my shoulder, to come up with some words of wisdom or sass or whatever so I can pass them along to you.
And here's what he said: "Faster horses, younger women, older whiskey and more money. The secret to life, the song said." And he leans back and laughs.
The young man on the next bench to my right has a broken leg, dressed out in a stylish cast of sorts. High-tech bone-fixing. Another real-life example why we need real health reform. I could point out a dozen who need some kind of health care but won't get it because the system has been designed and tweaked to leave them out. I am not trying to be some kind of whiner here. This is just how it is. Reality lives by its own rules.
"Useless eaters," Kissinger is alleged to have said of us.
And I say us because I am very much a part of all this. I'm here on some kind of quasi-spiritual Vision Quest, it's true, but I have a few physical issues myself that I've learned to more or less live with: a hernia that needs repair and is just getting worse and there's not a bloody thing I can do about it.
I am reminded of Mary Lou Wingate in John Brown's Body by Stephen Vincent Benet:
"...staring at pain with courteous eyes;
when the pain outwits it, the body dies."
Stop complaining, I tell myself. Focus on what you DO have.
This night just seems to be beginning. The story goes that we can sleep up here so long as we get our funky selves up off the concrete and the benches and hele ( that's Hawaiaan for move) on down the road before 5 AM. That's the saying hereabouts, the wisdom of the collective mind. And of course it's always subject to the whim of change. They used to leave the street people alone on Pedestrian Bridge, I'm told, but now the pressure has increased. They come now with the book of laws, and more and more they are going with the very strictest of interpretations. See below.
A data-base emerges from the collective experiences of the street. Hear about Brian? Used to come up here? Found him dead. Yeah, some signs of violence.
And...so-and-so was ticketed this morning. Another this afternoon.
Even I was ticketed today. Here's how it came down:
I was down eating the free dinner from Loaves and Fishes and went across the street to eat the food. So I'm sitting there on the sidewalk, leaning up against a black wrought-iron fence when of a sudden two bicycle cops come up out of nowhere and corner me and a black guy who'd just been smoking ganga. He looked worried and I felt none too fine.
The upshot was that it's illegal to sit on the sidewalk. And the unspoken subtext was that "Ignorance of the law is not excuse." Bingo. I sat there while the officer filled out the ticket, a bum with glazed-over eyes caught in the headlights of the system. So I signed the ticket, promised to show up. Arguing would have been futile, even counter-productive. It would have made things worse. So we were both polite and went with the flow of the unequally enforced law. Cops know, and we know, and you know that a crowd sitting on the sidewalk in some of the more upscale parts of town would have been left alone, or at worse given a warning. We were just nailed.
I want to talk more about this at some future date, but for now there's some bare nuts and bolts of the deal. There was so much texture: the adrenaline, the you-gotta-be-kidding-reaction, the suppressed sense of injustice which clamored out to be heard, expressed.I came away from the experience relieved that I didn't have to go to jail. And also...pissed, dammit. I was doing nothing worthy of that public humiliation. And it is a shame and a discredit to the Austin Police Force to have their men out there violating the intent of the law.
I'm told the law was originally passed because the Drag Kids were massing on sidewalks and effectively blocking traffic. So an ordinance was passed prohibiting the sitting on a sidewalk. But it was meant as a specific remedy to a specific problem. And then the particular of that intent was generalized and the cops just started running with it. Another tool in their arsenal of harassment.
Okay, okay. I'm pissed. I'll get over it.
VULGARITY ALERT: WHAT FOLLOWS IS A VERY EARTHY COLLOQUIALISM USING GROSS SEXUAL IMAGERY. IF THIS OFFENDS YOU, PLEASE SKIP THIS PART. IF NOT, COME SIT BY ME.
So here's Tom and he's been thinking about cute and clever sayings and this one is just kicking at his chest walls and throat, clawing its way out, like that monster popping out of John Hurt's chest in Alien. So let's let him get it out of his system: Here's one of his grandad's colorful (cough) sayings: "That's tighter than a preacher's dick in a calf's ass."
I told you it was gross. Tom is roaring with laughter now, looking at me to see if I appreciate. Yep, I do. KindaSorta. Sorry, but Jimmy Swaggart just suddenly popped into my head...heading for the barnyard...Lawd have mercy! That's an image I do not want to hang onto.
Ok, just think of it like this: Tom is this great big Falstaffian character, for those of you who know Shakespeare. Yes, Falstaff. Larger than life. Reincarnated and living on a bridge. Bluff, hearty, but one you wouldn't want to mess with. This clown has a wicked right.
And this just in (from his grandpa): "If I tell you that a rooster can pull a freight train, hook up."
In other words, my word is my bond. Kewl, eh? I love these colloquial sayings.
And this final jewel: "I'd rather have a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." LOL.
Enough for tonight. Time to ride off into the darkness.
Much peace and aloha,
Elijah the Homeless
Sunday, August 23, 2009
"I Rode Into Nazareth...."
Isn't that how the song goes? "Rode into Nazareth, I was feelin' bout a half-past dead?"
I rode into Austin this time on the 22nd of August with $17 and change in my pocket, the beautiful Madame LaBelle driving like a bat out of Hades with me nervously riding shotgun.
We both knew I was headed for the mean or not-so-mean streets of Austin. It made her sad. Made me feel like...gawd, what's it gonna be like this time? A sense of anticipation and adventure, though, which was absent the last time.
Personal history tidbit: I became homeless on Thursday, the 10th of June 2009, and began a fall from grace not unlike Icarus when he flew too close to the sun. Burn, burned, burnt. Toast. Free falling as I ran through what little financial cushion (savings) I'd put together. The whole thing was like some kind of cosmic baseball bat come swinging through the ether, connecting upside of my head, leaving me bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It's hard to think straight when the specter of homelessness is right there, like right in front of you, and it's growling and frothing at the mouth and you just know it's some kind of pit bull from Hell and it's got your number.
I took the Greyhound to Minneapolis just to check it out, and left a day later. Lovely city but gawd the winters. Greyhound again. A four day stint in Austin which turned out to be four days in Purgatory. Hot, hotter, Hades. Trudging up and down those hills with a backpack filled with too much stuff. Standing in line there at the park whose name I don't yet know, waiting for a little sack lunch from the Loaves and Fishes ministry.
Madame LaBelle came and picked me up, drove me to Houston, and gave me a couple of months to get my act more or less together. She provided me with a...how shall I say it? A major upgrade when it comes to the street.
She loaned me her bicycle. It's one of those Wal-mart knockoffs which could stand to lose about twenty pounds. Think: hefty. Rethink: heavy. Kinda tough for an old man on the wrong side of 60 to get around on, but I'm grateful to have her. I'm calling the bike the...Beast. She's purple, the color of royalty. Squeaks when I brake, slips and slides and complains, but basically gets the job done. She's a good old girl and I'm growing quite fond of her. She's my little Beast of Burden.
And now I'm jumping ahead in time. It's Monday, the 24th of August, and I'm sitting at Juan Pelota's little coffee shop down here at 4th and Nueces. Helpful hint: never get behind me in a line. I have the uncanny knack of always picking the slowest line (which I submit as prima facie evidence of my psychic powers) and this time was no exception, even though there was but one line. In the absence of other lines, one will do quite nicely. The lady ahead of me put in an order which took forever to fill, and I stood behind her meditating on the philosophical implications of eternity, patience, and acceptance. This helped: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
A charming and attractive young lady from Switzerland named Barbara just gave me some information about coffee shops here in Austin. I'm looking for something...down-homey. Comfortable. I'd feel good being in a place with chairs that don't match, tables obviously destined for a yard sale in the not too far distant future. Where the refills are cheap, the wifi works, and the staff quickly makes you feel welcome. That kind of place.
A place where everybody knows your name, always glad you came kinda place. Like Cheers, the old tv sitcom. Do they make those kinds of places anymore? And, more importantly, is there one in Austin?
Barbara is headed for Ecuador, Columbia, and Chile. Speaks Spanish. Looks to me like a Free Spirit. Whoever reads this, please join with me in sending her good vibes and wishing her nothing but the very best as she moves through life. Thanks. And Barbara? If you read this (as I think you will) please bookmark my blog and stay tuned to my little adventure. I'd love to hear how things work out for you! You're the very first person I gave my blog addy out to, so that alone makes you very special in my books! Big hug, girl!
And a quick shout-out to Darrin, barrista at Blu, for pointing me to Juan Pelota's.( I had coffee at Blu's yesterday, a smallish cup--very tasty--which set me back $2.11 with tax.) He's a very handsome, kind man who went out of his way to make me feel like a real human being. Thanks, Darrin!
And now Barbara is gone, riding off on her bike. I felt a little sad to see her go. ("I did but see her passing by/And yet I love her till I die." --anonymous) We come into each other's lives for a moment or two, then move on. And who can say if her information will change the direction of my life here in Austin? Just as Darrin pointed me to Juan Pelota's and led me to a fantastic large cup of house coffee and a chance meeting with a Free Spirit from Switzerland?
I will probably add more to this later in the day, but for now my fingers are starting to run out of gas. Running on empty. And there is so much that I both want and need to write about, things which have already happened.
In future posts I'll be talking about what it's like to be homeless here in Austin. The search for a good and safe place to sleep. A safe place to stash one's personal belongings so as not to have to lug them around. People I've met, including but not limited to the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Might as well add Smugly while we're at it. Where to get food. Coffee. Internet access. You know, the basics of life in the 21st century.
AND...I do have a little digital camera. But when I became homeless, I forgot to bring along the little cable which allows me to transfer my photographs from camera to computer. I want to add them to the blog as I go along, so you'll be able to share visually in my life a bit. This cable is one of the vital things I need to do this blog right so bear with me while the Universe brings it into my life, no doubt via the agency of a human godsend. I'll do some research soon on cost, availability, etc. As it is I don't even know where the nearest Radio Shack is--or if they would even have something that would work. We'll see.
This adventure isn't all about drama followed by cliffhanging quick cuts. There will be a lot of slow parts. So think of the little cable as being just a piece of technology which will help connect me to you. You who read this. Once I get it, I'll post a pic of my lovely old mug so at least you can wave at me when we meet on the street.And do feel free to give me a shout on Yahoo IM. My user name there is jean.deaux. (That's jeandotdeaux)
Last night as I was sitting up on that marvelous Pedestrian Bridge (what a fantastic skyline Austin has!), it came to me that I will not get up off the street by myself, that there will be a whole host of people I will meet who will reach out that collective hand of Aloha in friendship. I know this is coming as surely as I know anything. And i think that's kind of exciting. I have no friends here--YET. I know no one by name other than Darrin the Barrista--YET--and a few street people who spend their nights on the Pedestrian Bridge and sleep during the day.
In my life I've been both broke and quite comfortable, been up, been down. Back in the '80s I was averaging a bit more than $100 net an hour creating and selling t-shirts of my own design over in Honolulu. But that was then. Now I am here, older, and hopefully a bit wiser, and I have no idea where this adventure, this trip, this so-called Fall From Grace will go.
But I believe this: that I am here to learn something. And that I am here to share something with the people the Universe puts in my path. Here's where you sashay in, Stage Right. Yep, that's YOU. You're most definitely a part of this cuz how am I gonna write all this down if I don't have an audience to read it? I also believe that YOU are here to teach me in some way. And for that, I honor you. Thank you for showing up for my life.
Soon I'll write about my first night here in Austin. I may call it "Sleepless in Austin" or "Cops Gone Wild!" We shall see. I've got the notebook computer charged up and tonight I'll go to the Pedestrian Bridge and try to write something for y'all to read. Gawd, the skyline. Surreal, majestic. Quick aside: I rode and walked the Beast down to the Frost Bank building. I was hoping there would be some information about it, but if there was I didn't find it.
Came to the main library at 8th and Guadalupe, did a google, and discovered that some people think the building is an Illuminati rendering of the pagan god Moloch! I have my own ideas which I may get to tonight.
So...to my very few readers...a hui hou. That's Hawaiian for, roughly, until we meet again.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah
I rode into Austin this time on the 22nd of August with $17 and change in my pocket, the beautiful Madame LaBelle driving like a bat out of Hades with me nervously riding shotgun.
We both knew I was headed for the mean or not-so-mean streets of Austin. It made her sad. Made me feel like...gawd, what's it gonna be like this time? A sense of anticipation and adventure, though, which was absent the last time.
Personal history tidbit: I became homeless on Thursday, the 10th of June 2009, and began a fall from grace not unlike Icarus when he flew too close to the sun. Burn, burned, burnt. Toast. Free falling as I ran through what little financial cushion (savings) I'd put together. The whole thing was like some kind of cosmic baseball bat come swinging through the ether, connecting upside of my head, leaving me bewitched, bothered, and bewildered. It's hard to think straight when the specter of homelessness is right there, like right in front of you, and it's growling and frothing at the mouth and you just know it's some kind of pit bull from Hell and it's got your number.
I took the Greyhound to Minneapolis just to check it out, and left a day later. Lovely city but gawd the winters. Greyhound again. A four day stint in Austin which turned out to be four days in Purgatory. Hot, hotter, Hades. Trudging up and down those hills with a backpack filled with too much stuff. Standing in line there at the park whose name I don't yet know, waiting for a little sack lunch from the Loaves and Fishes ministry.
Madame LaBelle came and picked me up, drove me to Houston, and gave me a couple of months to get my act more or less together. She provided me with a...how shall I say it? A major upgrade when it comes to the street.
She loaned me her bicycle. It's one of those Wal-mart knockoffs which could stand to lose about twenty pounds. Think: hefty. Rethink: heavy. Kinda tough for an old man on the wrong side of 60 to get around on, but I'm grateful to have her. I'm calling the bike the...Beast. She's purple, the color of royalty. Squeaks when I brake, slips and slides and complains, but basically gets the job done. She's a good old girl and I'm growing quite fond of her. She's my little Beast of Burden.
And now I'm jumping ahead in time. It's Monday, the 24th of August, and I'm sitting at Juan Pelota's little coffee shop down here at 4th and Nueces. Helpful hint: never get behind me in a line. I have the uncanny knack of always picking the slowest line (which I submit as prima facie evidence of my psychic powers) and this time was no exception, even though there was but one line. In the absence of other lines, one will do quite nicely. The lady ahead of me put in an order which took forever to fill, and I stood behind her meditating on the philosophical implications of eternity, patience, and acceptance. This helped: "God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference."
A charming and attractive young lady from Switzerland named Barbara just gave me some information about coffee shops here in Austin. I'm looking for something...down-homey. Comfortable. I'd feel good being in a place with chairs that don't match, tables obviously destined for a yard sale in the not too far distant future. Where the refills are cheap, the wifi works, and the staff quickly makes you feel welcome. That kind of place.
A place where everybody knows your name, always glad you came kinda place. Like Cheers, the old tv sitcom. Do they make those kinds of places anymore? And, more importantly, is there one in Austin?
Barbara is headed for Ecuador, Columbia, and Chile. Speaks Spanish. Looks to me like a Free Spirit. Whoever reads this, please join with me in sending her good vibes and wishing her nothing but the very best as she moves through life. Thanks. And Barbara? If you read this (as I think you will) please bookmark my blog and stay tuned to my little adventure. I'd love to hear how things work out for you! You're the very first person I gave my blog addy out to, so that alone makes you very special in my books! Big hug, girl!
And a quick shout-out to Darrin, barrista at Blu, for pointing me to Juan Pelota's.( I had coffee at Blu's yesterday, a smallish cup--very tasty--which set me back $2.11 with tax.) He's a very handsome, kind man who went out of his way to make me feel like a real human being. Thanks, Darrin!
And now Barbara is gone, riding off on her bike. I felt a little sad to see her go. ("I did but see her passing by/And yet I love her till I die." --anonymous) We come into each other's lives for a moment or two, then move on. And who can say if her information will change the direction of my life here in Austin? Just as Darrin pointed me to Juan Pelota's and led me to a fantastic large cup of house coffee and a chance meeting with a Free Spirit from Switzerland?
I will probably add more to this later in the day, but for now my fingers are starting to run out of gas. Running on empty. And there is so much that I both want and need to write about, things which have already happened.
In future posts I'll be talking about what it's like to be homeless here in Austin. The search for a good and safe place to sleep. A safe place to stash one's personal belongings so as not to have to lug them around. People I've met, including but not limited to the Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. Might as well add Smugly while we're at it. Where to get food. Coffee. Internet access. You know, the basics of life in the 21st century.
AND...I do have a little digital camera. But when I became homeless, I forgot to bring along the little cable which allows me to transfer my photographs from camera to computer. I want to add them to the blog as I go along, so you'll be able to share visually in my life a bit. This cable is one of the vital things I need to do this blog right so bear with me while the Universe brings it into my life, no doubt via the agency of a human godsend. I'll do some research soon on cost, availability, etc. As it is I don't even know where the nearest Radio Shack is--or if they would even have something that would work. We'll see.
This adventure isn't all about drama followed by cliffhanging quick cuts. There will be a lot of slow parts. So think of the little cable as being just a piece of technology which will help connect me to you. You who read this. Once I get it, I'll post a pic of my lovely old mug so at least you can wave at me when we meet on the street.And do feel free to give me a shout on Yahoo IM. My user name there is jean.deaux. (That's jeandotdeaux)
Last night as I was sitting up on that marvelous Pedestrian Bridge (what a fantastic skyline Austin has!), it came to me that I will not get up off the street by myself, that there will be a whole host of people I will meet who will reach out that collective hand of Aloha in friendship. I know this is coming as surely as I know anything. And i think that's kind of exciting. I have no friends here--YET. I know no one by name other than Darrin the Barrista--YET--and a few street people who spend their nights on the Pedestrian Bridge and sleep during the day.
In my life I've been both broke and quite comfortable, been up, been down. Back in the '80s I was averaging a bit more than $100 net an hour creating and selling t-shirts of my own design over in Honolulu. But that was then. Now I am here, older, and hopefully a bit wiser, and I have no idea where this adventure, this trip, this so-called Fall From Grace will go.
But I believe this: that I am here to learn something. And that I am here to share something with the people the Universe puts in my path. Here's where you sashay in, Stage Right. Yep, that's YOU. You're most definitely a part of this cuz how am I gonna write all this down if I don't have an audience to read it? I also believe that YOU are here to teach me in some way. And for that, I honor you. Thank you for showing up for my life.
Soon I'll write about my first night here in Austin. I may call it "Sleepless in Austin" or "Cops Gone Wild!" We shall see. I've got the notebook computer charged up and tonight I'll go to the Pedestrian Bridge and try to write something for y'all to read. Gawd, the skyline. Surreal, majestic. Quick aside: I rode and walked the Beast down to the Frost Bank building. I was hoping there would be some information about it, but if there was I didn't find it.
Came to the main library at 8th and Guadalupe, did a google, and discovered that some people think the building is an Illuminati rendering of the pagan god Moloch! I have my own ideas which I may get to tonight.
So...to my very few readers...a hui hou. That's Hawaiian for, roughly, until we meet again.
Me ke aloha,
Elijah
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