God Bless The Outcasts

Today I did not go to McDonalds. I just wanted to eat without homeless people around. As terrible as that sounds, it's the god's honest truth and I would say it to their face. It's not about them, it's about me.

Yesterday I did go to McDonalds. As I ate my McChicken I looked around and seventy five percent of the patrons were homeless. One woman sat snoring with the remnants of a Value Meal strewn before her. Another sat on what must have been her coffee break from roaming the streets, large bags full of plastic bags at her feet.

Today I decided to go to Jimmy Johns. While I stood outside having my pre-meal cigarette, a small man in a dirty winter jacket wandered around with a styrofoam cup. He carried a sign that said something about how he had the AIDS virus and needed money. I don't know exactly what it said, I read it quickly. It was a very large sign with lots of words and I was just too tired.

I chose Jimmy Johns because they don't seem to cater to the homeless. It's a cheery place with Kitschy signs that create a very relaxed environment for the temporary employee on their break. I sat down and ate my "Pepe" or "Tom Tom" or whatever whimsical name they have for a ham sandwich and read The Onion. In the world of Jimmy Johns and The Onion the world is a sarcastic, smirky, condescending place- we're all in on one big inside joke and we love it.

The thing is, I identify so strongly with that man on the street carrying that sign that it scares the hell out of me. In my head, I am just one missed Comcast payment away from being homeless. I can see myself so clearly wandering the streets with a sign "Please spare some change- No Netflix."

Yesterday I bought some RC on the way home. RC. That's how bad it's getting.

And what do I plan to do about. For the moment I plan to have another cigarette and take a nap, thank you very much. It's been a complicated week full of data entry and American Idol -my head is spinning.

It's good to be back.

i love you, you pay my rent

written 11/27/04

Worrying about rent money. It's that time of the month. I keep having a good time, relaxed, having fun. Then the thought of money comes and puts its dirty dirty hand over my eyes. I recognize the smell of that hand.

A waitress at the Golden Nugget on Clark stands at the register cutting up her credit cards while a Chicago cop watches.

"What are you doing," getting up from his seat at the turquoise stool at the counter, "Aren't those your charge cards?"

Charge cards. I need me some charge cards.

"Gotta stop spending money somehow," she says.

He whispers something to her, gives her a couple cigarettes out of his pack-- and a twenty dollar bill?

I'm not the only one worrying about money. I don't have a police officer feeding me cigarettes and money, though.

Wouldn't be bad. To protect and to serve.