“God Bless You”
The only thing worse than ignoring a bum, is ignoring a bum and then hearing him request that God bestow blessings upon you.
The Extended Gaze
If you were planning on getting into a staring contest with a bum, think again.
While cursing the ride home on the subway, I looked up only to be greeted by the transfixed eyes of some guy wearing a 1996 Giants windbreaker, with no shoes, and less than stellar credit. Gazing into the depths of my soul, his blank expression was so paralyzing I barely noticed he was only wearing Splinter boxers. As in, the 5 foot tall, Japanese American Rat sensei of the Turtles. But more startling than his wardrobe selection was his unwavering glare.
Because the homeless are void of concern for social norms, violating the rule of ‘no staring at other people ‘ is of no consequence. Which is why, to re-affirm this directive, I stare right the f*ck back. And unless they’re totally bat shit, they get the point.
The Shopping Cart
The day the shopping cart was invented, bums were amped.
Can you imagine transporting ten thousand cans, 4 ominous looking hefty garbage bags filled with God knows what, a blanket and a sign, by hand? Me neither.
But what really leaves me in a pickle is when I notice abandoned shopping carts filled will Homeless goodies on the sidewalk. Are these guy’s so shit sh*t hammered they don’t realize they’re leaving behind everything they own? That be like buying a box, dumping your life savings, house keys, wallet and cell phone in it, and slowly walking away never to return. And are other Homeless too good for these discarded treasures? Beats me.
Dubious F-nails
Make Shift Percussion Set
I was once naive enough to believe that buckets were used for transporting water. Boy was I wrong.
Another hidden talent of the bum sect is the ability to bang on hard plastic. Fortunately for them, I’m a sucker for a solid beat that I can snap my finger to. Sure, it can be difficult at times for them to keep rhythym given their astronomical B.A.C. levels. And no, commuters aren’t exactly welcoming to this racket at 7 am. But one look into that bum’s fiery eyes is enough to melt your disdain away, only to be replaced with sheer bilwiderment as to how this guy manages to carry around 6 XL buckets with no car or metro card.
Scratch Ticket Lotto
As I schlep through the streets on a Saturday morning in aqua colored sweatpants I’ve owned since high school, a skull cap, Pea Coat, and Uggs slippers my girlfriend bought me that I’ve since pissed in while blacked out, the only thing on my mind is buying a Win For Life ticket from the bodega. Though I am not alone.
Particularly fond of chances to win free large sums of money, the homeless find solitude in corner grocery stores by the lotto section. My only gripe is, I’ve yet to figure out why they limit their opportunity for windfall profits to scratch tickets and no other form of the lottery. Did their broker not sit them down and explain the importance of diversification? Mine did. My only hunch is that in order to find out whether or not you’ve won classic lotto you need a television – apparently an automatic deal breaker for street dwellers.
Nonetheless, I am comforted to know that my affinity for throwing away 2 dollars is shared by many.
Bone Dry Humor
Believe it or not, lurking beneath the scent of whiskey and overgrown mane on every bum is a rock solid brand of comedy. While Dane Cook singlehandedly ruins stand-up, America’s derelict populace has me in non stop stitches. Perhaps its because, unlike most, I’m willing to stomach a little odor for a strong joke. Or maybe its that these brave comics offer a refreshing perspective amidst a sea of depressing short stories on cardboard. Whatever the reason, homeless people, I salute you for it.
Selling Their Own Personal Stash of Metro Cards as if the Machine isn’t right there!
Of all their habits, this brain teaser has me totally, f*cking, stumped.
As if riding the subway weren’t bad enough, now I have to deal with this bum’s clever riddles and figure out why the hell this guy is offering to sell me something that 1) I already have in my wallet and 2) if I didn’t have in my wallet, I could purchase 1 foot away at the machine.
The One Man Band
Introducing: the One Man Band. Typically seen in your local mall/train station (a popular architectural hybrid found in the homeless-heavy Philadelphia), the One Man Band comes in many different forms.
1) The Vet
2) The drunk guy just banging on sh*t with muppets
3) The recently made homeless hipster, convinced his ‘talents’ can still pry him from the claws of fiscal disarray
Boundary Issues
Studies show that conventional American interaction is prescribed by an average 3 to 4 foot distance. Standard human interaction in the Latin community however allows for a closer, more intimate, 1 to 2 foot distance between conversing individuals.
Either every bum on Earth is of Latin descent, or these guys have some serious boundary issues.
Too often do I find myself face-to-face with a homeless guy, alone in the street; suggesting there exists an indirect relationship between boldness and economic standing. I came to this realization when, yesterday, a guy resembling the gentleman to the right, walked up to me, disgruntled, spit on my sweater, said “F you”, and went on about his business. What I did to upset him? We’ll never know. What I do know is that, in 8 degree weather, I could not take my sweater off for fear of frostbite. Instead – riding the subway, tissueless – I wore his mucus like a badge of honor for the next 2 hours.
