This ones a bit longer than usual but bear with me.
My post-weekend entry today was supposed to be about seeing Clinic this weekend and how the art of stage banter has been, over the last few years, perfected by some, abused by others, and completely eliminated by others in favor of playing more music. I had planned on it being quite brilliant.
But thatll have to wait.
On Sunday I went downtown to take pictures of the urban art project (for those of you just tuning in, see my May 10 entry). This seemed like a particularly good day to check out the hearts of San Francisco, since there was a Happy Birthday Buddha festival in the Civic Center Plaza. I am slightly more interested in the reactions of people to the artwork than the artwork itself, and the festivities ensured that there would be enough of an audience to talk to.
I parked my car and, as I was getting out, a homeless man approached me and asked me to buy him a chicken wing. He wanted lunch. I realized that I was a bit hungry myself, so I pointed to KFC and he followed.
After a three-piece combo meal (he had me wrap up one piece for later) he asked me if I would walk with him. He needed an ear. There was still plenty of daylight, so I agreed. Besides, it had been quite some time since I had gone walkin in the hood, as he described it. Okay, so Id never gone walking through this part of town. He took me down streets in the Tenderloin I hadnt ever driven through, let alone walked down.
His name is Michael. I told him I was going to write about him and offered to change his name if I could quote him, but he insisted on me using his real name. Why would I want to be somebody else? I aint ashamed of who I am. Fair enough.
Our first stop was a liquor store where he bought a single cigarette. Im not sure how much change he handed the guy behind the counter, only that it consisted mostly of pennies, and maybe a nickel or two. He got his single smoke and a light and we left.
Michael was very concerned with impressing two things upon me during our walk. First, he wasnt always like this. He had no money, clearly, but the reason for his current impoverished situation changed with every telling. And he related his tale of woe to me at least half a dozen times.
Second, no matter how bad life seems, or how unfortunate his circumstances from one day to the next, the best attitude to have the only attitude to have is to count ones blessings every morning. You got your camera. Thats your thing. Me? I run the streets. My thing. What you see through your camera, I see every day. And I count my blessings that I get to see those trees, or go down to the beach and see the water whenever I want. You understand?
I was starting to.
At one point he asked me to put out my hand. He pressed a handful of change and a single, crumpled-up one-dollar bill into my hand and closed it. He asked me to go into yet another liquor store, close to where we were, and buy him a beer and however many single cigarettes I could afford with what was left over. Seems he was no longer welcome in that establishment.
Can of Bud and pack of smokes in a little brown bag (I didnt have the guts to ask to purchase single cigarettes; I spotted Michael the extra change), we proceeded down an alleyway that was, apparently, safe to have an open container.
Safe to drink in public although safe really wasnt an adjective I had in mind at the time.
Michael parked himself on the tiniest three-step entryway and slid over to make room for me. Cozy. We sat there as he drank his beer, smoked his cigarettes, and offered me a smoke three times (despite me telling him each of those three times that I hadnt smoked in over two years). He showed me how to properly conceal the beer in the brown paper bag, like a real street drunk. It was important that we were off the main streets, because if we were on the main streets, and it was a holiday, the cops would pick him up for sure.
And me? I aint never sure if its a holiday or not. I know what day of the week it is. But I dont ever know if its a holiday.
I told Michael it wasnt a holiday but he just smiled and kept drinking his beer.
I talked to him about the hearts art project. Hed seen them obviously, knew what I was talking about, but didnt really have an opinion about them one way or another. Theyre fine I guess. Fine.
Every time we passed by a woman, Michael would ask her for her number. Most of the women gave us plenty of space, and ignored us completely save for the signature expression of disgust. I wondered how many times my dismissal of panhandlers carried with it a similar, albeit unconscious, reaction. Once in a while, however, a woman would play along, saying No, or But youd never call! or something along those lines and smile. And Michael would smile.
Thats all Im trying to do, he would say. Make people smile. Some people dont look at you, and thas alright too. But sometimes a little thing like thatll brighten somebodys day. Understand?
He smiled to himself and nodded for a bit. Sides, not like I got a phone. Wouldnt do nothing with theys number even if they did give it to me.
Eventually we did arrive at the Plaza. And there were plenty of people: vendors selling food, displays of Buddhist art and devotion, booths of brightly colored jewelry and wall hangings (Them colorful things see those? You got yourself a lady, you buy her one of those. You try to get that stuff at the store, you pay ten times as much. Go on.). And the eight or ten heart sculptures that dotted the Plaza were more or less lost amid the people, strollers, breeze-blown trash, and general festivities.
Make sure you get a picture of that monk. You dont see much of them. They all secret and shit, but they know all kinds of kung-fu shit. Keep a low profile. But theys really good people. I respect that.
It was at this point that Michael told me that he was going to tell me what he really thought about the hearts. He said I seemed like a nice guy so he felt comfortable telling me the truth.
The truth is, these hearts are pretty fucked up. Right here, see, right here, a few weeks ago they had that protest. Before any of these hearts were here. There was folks wasnt doing nothing but standing around and the police, the police with their clubs and shit, was beating them down. Whats that? Wheres the love when you getting beat upside your head with a billy club? Aint much of a heart, you ask me. You go looking for a heart, youre in the wrong place.
For the record, Im not sure what protest he was referring to. Nor do I recall a recent incident of police brutality. But I dont think it matters. I understood his point.
After three hours with Michael, I had learned a number of things. I learned where to go to buy single cigarettes. I learned that in the future I should buy Magnum, because Budweiser is too expensive. I learned that the adage of dont fuck with other people and they wont fuck with you doesnt always work. You need to identify people who are hoodlums, and people who are just trying to get by, running the street.
I learned that one way of keeping it real was to never wear socks. I learned that you could only drink in public if there was a street fair and you had lots of money. I learned that every day is a whole new ballgame. I learned how difficult it is to get your name on the shelter list, and if you have a common name, as Michael does, people can jump your place in line. I learned that a responsible drunk should never even apply for a drivers license.
I learned that no matter how much time I spend down here, or how much I speak with Michael, I will never come close to understanding what he has gone through, how difficult his life is on a daily basis, or how, through it all, he is able to count his blessings, every minute, and be thankful for who he is and how beautiful the world is.
What sticks with me most is something Michael told me in the plaza, as we were looking for hearts.
If you have a good heart, a good heart will come to you. Just happen naturally. Remember that.
Will do.
My post-weekend entry today was supposed to be about seeing Clinic this weekend and how the art of stage banter has been, over the last few years, perfected by some, abused by others, and completely eliminated by others in favor of playing more music. I had planned on it being quite brilliant.
But thatll have to wait.
On Sunday I went downtown to take pictures of the urban art project (for those of you just tuning in, see my May 10 entry). This seemed like a particularly good day to check out the hearts of San Francisco, since there was a Happy Birthday Buddha festival in the Civic Center Plaza. I am slightly more interested in the reactions of people to the artwork than the artwork itself, and the festivities ensured that there would be enough of an audience to talk to.
I parked my car and, as I was getting out, a homeless man approached me and asked me to buy him a chicken wing. He wanted lunch. I realized that I was a bit hungry myself, so I pointed to KFC and he followed.
After a three-piece combo meal (he had me wrap up one piece for later) he asked me if I would walk with him. He needed an ear. There was still plenty of daylight, so I agreed. Besides, it had been quite some time since I had gone walkin in the hood, as he described it. Okay, so Id never gone walking through this part of town. He took me down streets in the Tenderloin I hadnt ever driven through, let alone walked down.
His name is Michael. I told him I was going to write about him and offered to change his name if I could quote him, but he insisted on me using his real name. Why would I want to be somebody else? I aint ashamed of who I am. Fair enough.
Our first stop was a liquor store where he bought a single cigarette. Im not sure how much change he handed the guy behind the counter, only that it consisted mostly of pennies, and maybe a nickel or two. He got his single smoke and a light and we left.
Michael was very concerned with impressing two things upon me during our walk. First, he wasnt always like this. He had no money, clearly, but the reason for his current impoverished situation changed with every telling. And he related his tale of woe to me at least half a dozen times.
Second, no matter how bad life seems, or how unfortunate his circumstances from one day to the next, the best attitude to have the only attitude to have is to count ones blessings every morning. You got your camera. Thats your thing. Me? I run the streets. My thing. What you see through your camera, I see every day. And I count my blessings that I get to see those trees, or go down to the beach and see the water whenever I want. You understand?
I was starting to.
At one point he asked me to put out my hand. He pressed a handful of change and a single, crumpled-up one-dollar bill into my hand and closed it. He asked me to go into yet another liquor store, close to where we were, and buy him a beer and however many single cigarettes I could afford with what was left over. Seems he was no longer welcome in that establishment.
Can of Bud and pack of smokes in a little brown bag (I didnt have the guts to ask to purchase single cigarettes; I spotted Michael the extra change), we proceeded down an alleyway that was, apparently, safe to have an open container.
Safe to drink in public although safe really wasnt an adjective I had in mind at the time.
Michael parked himself on the tiniest three-step entryway and slid over to make room for me. Cozy. We sat there as he drank his beer, smoked his cigarettes, and offered me a smoke three times (despite me telling him each of those three times that I hadnt smoked in over two years). He showed me how to properly conceal the beer in the brown paper bag, like a real street drunk. It was important that we were off the main streets, because if we were on the main streets, and it was a holiday, the cops would pick him up for sure.
And me? I aint never sure if its a holiday or not. I know what day of the week it is. But I dont ever know if its a holiday.
I told Michael it wasnt a holiday but he just smiled and kept drinking his beer.
I talked to him about the hearts art project. Hed seen them obviously, knew what I was talking about, but didnt really have an opinion about them one way or another. Theyre fine I guess. Fine.
Every time we passed by a woman, Michael would ask her for her number. Most of the women gave us plenty of space, and ignored us completely save for the signature expression of disgust. I wondered how many times my dismissal of panhandlers carried with it a similar, albeit unconscious, reaction. Once in a while, however, a woman would play along, saying No, or But youd never call! or something along those lines and smile. And Michael would smile.
Thats all Im trying to do, he would say. Make people smile. Some people dont look at you, and thas alright too. But sometimes a little thing like thatll brighten somebodys day. Understand?
He smiled to himself and nodded for a bit. Sides, not like I got a phone. Wouldnt do nothing with theys number even if they did give it to me.
Eventually we did arrive at the Plaza. And there were plenty of people: vendors selling food, displays of Buddhist art and devotion, booths of brightly colored jewelry and wall hangings (Them colorful things see those? You got yourself a lady, you buy her one of those. You try to get that stuff at the store, you pay ten times as much. Go on.). And the eight or ten heart sculptures that dotted the Plaza were more or less lost amid the people, strollers, breeze-blown trash, and general festivities.
Make sure you get a picture of that monk. You dont see much of them. They all secret and shit, but they know all kinds of kung-fu shit. Keep a low profile. But theys really good people. I respect that.
It was at this point that Michael told me that he was going to tell me what he really thought about the hearts. He said I seemed like a nice guy so he felt comfortable telling me the truth.
The truth is, these hearts are pretty fucked up. Right here, see, right here, a few weeks ago they had that protest. Before any of these hearts were here. There was folks wasnt doing nothing but standing around and the police, the police with their clubs and shit, was beating them down. Whats that? Wheres the love when you getting beat upside your head with a billy club? Aint much of a heart, you ask me. You go looking for a heart, youre in the wrong place.
For the record, Im not sure what protest he was referring to. Nor do I recall a recent incident of police brutality. But I dont think it matters. I understood his point.
After three hours with Michael, I had learned a number of things. I learned where to go to buy single cigarettes. I learned that in the future I should buy Magnum, because Budweiser is too expensive. I learned that the adage of dont fuck with other people and they wont fuck with you doesnt always work. You need to identify people who are hoodlums, and people who are just trying to get by, running the street.
I learned that one way of keeping it real was to never wear socks. I learned that you could only drink in public if there was a street fair and you had lots of money. I learned that every day is a whole new ballgame. I learned how difficult it is to get your name on the shelter list, and if you have a common name, as Michael does, people can jump your place in line. I learned that a responsible drunk should never even apply for a drivers license.
I learned that no matter how much time I spend down here, or how much I speak with Michael, I will never come close to understanding what he has gone through, how difficult his life is on a daily basis, or how, through it all, he is able to count his blessings, every minute, and be thankful for who he is and how beautiful the world is.
What sticks with me most is something Michael told me in the plaza, as we were looking for hearts.
If you have a good heart, a good heart will come to you. Just happen naturally. Remember that.
Will do.
VIEW 16 of 16 COMMENTS
I'm guesing that it's borrowed from another system...
I followed it just for fun, and funny enough it had interesting results.
Try not to laugh too hard.