Notes to Self
Love Me Some SF Street Crazies
Favorite is the Angry Hispanic Jesus dude. He hangs out on Market Street, usually in front of the Westfield Mall and screams at people to read their bible and love Jesus.
It’s simply not possible in a written format to get across how genuine and heartfelt is his rage that you are not reading Corinthians as you avoid urine puddles on your way to coffee, work or to purchase yummy skincare products at one of Unions Square’s many fashionable temples honoring the ‘Sex in the City’ lifestyle. That is because there is no way to simulate his half-strangled, barely intelligible roaring. I will say that his tone, when ordering you to love Jesus, in the real world, is most often followed by a second degree murder, typically with a shovel.
He’s usually only there for an hour or three at a stretch before either his voice gives out or he violates parole. I’ve never been able to ascertain what predicates his curfew. It certainly could not be that he runs out of passionate love for all things Jesus and Jesus related.
He is a short and thick man and he is balding. He’s about five feet high and three feet wide and he’s fat in the way that some guys are fat, but not soft. All of his uncovered non-face related skin is covered in classic prison/gang tattoos. I assume. Not really an aficionado.
Sad to say, I do not have a picture of him to share with you at this time. In fact, that’s what prompted this blog. I haven’t seen him in a few weeks, and frankly, I miss him. Like all true Street Crazy geniuses, his crazy provides it’s own parody. That is a rare and precious thing to be valued provided it doesn’t physically attack you.
This brings me to the central, tragic, dramatic tension inherent to the enjoyment of street crazies. Short shelf-life is inherent to the species. That last time you saw them, might well be the last time you will ever see them. Each and every one of them is like a smelly, smelly haiku; to be treasured for that moment of grace they give in the light of impending mortality.
Come back to me Angry Hispanic Jesus Dude. I miss you.
Street Kooks Pt. II
Kooks 101
There are three essential classifications of ‘street kook’.
- The alcoholic with an alibi.
- The poser.
- The real deal.
But first, what is a street kook?
Well might one ask that question. A street kook is probably best defined by what he is not. A street kook is NOT a street crazy. They may look similar and given foreign chemical to blood ration optimization they may actually be the same person from moment to moment. The only surefire way to tell them apart is to listen to your instincts. Continue reading “Street Kooks Pt. II” »
Hello, My Name is Todd, and I’ll be your Street Kook Today
A picture can say a thousand words. The picture here is an excellent example of this, and at the same time, an even better illustration of both the limitations of technology and the critical need for context.
Technology-wise, I am of course referring to the lousy picture quality. Less easily appreciated is the weird time lapse inherent to sub-par digital camera technology. When I ‘took’ the picture, wing nut-boy was actively mugging into my camera/phone, by the time the capture actually took place, he had turned away towards other pursuits. Perhaps he was answering the telephone in his mind or channeling more messages from the Salt Masters of Gort.
What about this limitation of technology? First off, even with the suggestion of movement imparted by shitty camera technology, there was simply no way to capture the genuine fervor with which he was cutting the cement and urine rug of Market Street. The word passionate comes to mind, and is quickly dismissed as inadequate. The word frenzy is better. I will be returning to this subject in my next post.
What do I mean by context? Well, the picture told a thousand words, standard short short story length. But the reality was running more towards the novella.
BTW, by dancing in proximity, he has completely illegitimated them as artists. My nearly uncontrollable laughter is based largely on the absurdity of the scene but contains distinct undertones of schadenfreude.
Move over Dirty Harry.
So...you gotta ask yourself. Do you feel lucky punk?
I’m just going out on a limb and saying that I’m not 100% comfortable with the concept of eco-friendly cops.
First it was bike cops. As a rule, better groomed and less angry than the average bike messenger. Then the messengers started shaving and now, who’re you gonna buy your weed from. I expect one day to see a police officer memorial wall inside of Zeitgeist.
How far ARE we from cops who can totally thrash?
