Jim's Fix

I attended the University of Texas in the early nineties. This was the time of Nirvana, Pearl Jam and grunge. It was also the heyday of Lollapalooza, a music fest of diverse acts from Seattle that, to maintain its diversity, had a "which one of these is not like the others" band in the line-up. In 1993 between Primus, Rage Against the Machine and Alice in Chains there was this hippy-ish rap band from Atlanta... Arrested Development Their shtick was that they were not Mac-10-toting gangsta rappers from south-central but peace loving hippy agrarians from the south. So whereas the other acts on the bill had stages designed to resemble post-apocalyptic dystopias, Arrested Development had a stage that looked like a rural paradise complete with an outhouse. Because, as we all know, Utopia has bliss but no indoor plumbing.

The band had a monster hit in the early 90’s with the song "Everyday People" and a lesser hit with the catchy ditty "Mr. Wendle", a song about an otherwise brilliant homeless man that in between delusional bouts of talking to himself, drinking his own urine and eating the accumulated gunk in the cracks of the sidewalk, held an uncommon wisdom we would be privy to if only we would stop and pay attention. So inbetween bouts of incoherent shouting and alcohol-induced hallucinations, Mr. Wendel was a wellspring of uncommon wisdom and possibly even winning lottery number combinations. But we, the oblivious universe, would never know because we were too wrapped up in our minor dramas to look past a face covered in feces and really see, I mean reeeeaaaalllllyyyy see, the man behind the image.

I recently rediscovered this song on iTunes, a music service designed as a co-venture between Apple Computer and the Legions of Hell. Although it has an infectious groove that some might describe as bootylicious, the message seemed a little naive and idealistic. I mean... really... who buys that there is a brilliant mind under five years of accumulated grime. But as I was driving to the office the other day I noticed a dirty, shirtless man who happened to be waving and gesticulating to nobody in particular. He wore a back pack, his homeless kit I presumed, and shorts that were a little unfashionable in their length. He was at the crosswalk at the intersection and seemed to be caught in some odd rhythm, dancing to a soundtrack only he could hear. I just looked at him trying to figure out what the hell was up with the schizophrenic hand-jive when suddenly the “don't walk” signal changed to” walk” and he started... to jog. And it hit me. He was a homeless jogger. His shorts weren't walking shorts. They were running shorts. And not unfashionable, just filthy. And he didn't need an iPod. He had all the songs he needed right there, in his head, stored in-between the voices. The backpack kept him mobile. And maybe had a number for the LA Marathon.

Los Angeles is for the most part a wildcatter’s town, except that instead of drilling for oil, we drill for fame or fortune or recognition. Some of us even drill for self-worth, but most of that was drilled out of the region when the Native Americans left the area to aspiring actors. And like most prospecting towns, the line between bounty and despair is very thin. One day you’re up. The next day you’re down. Rinse. Repeat.

Being that we are a nation defined by a work ethic fueled by blind, irrational optimism it is important to be prepared for every and all possibilities. That means all possibilities. So as much as I like to spend time planning for my bacchanalian feasts, drug-fueled orgies and Saturday football in the mansion in the Hills I will one day own, I find that it is important to prepare for the other, inverse possibility... homelessness.

I have done a good amount of field research at the Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf at the corner of Sunset and Fairfax into the different kinds of homeless people. Generally they can be split into two large groups... male and female... and further divided into two subgroups... active and bat-shit crazy. Although both smell like urine, the females are distinguished from the males by a tendency to wear pink. The actives are distinguished from the bat-shit crazies because they are active where as the bat-shit crazy are bat-shot crazy. So to classify the jogger I mentioned previously… he would be a male, active homeless because he... and I have to assume this because I had the AC on in my car... smelled like urine, was not wearing pink and was jogging. The homeless guy on the corner of Robertson and Third Street is also a male, active because he, one, smells like urine, two, does not wear pink and, three, dances all day to the songs in his head.

So assuming my life takes a turn for the worse, it is important for me to be proactive in my choices and not simply settle into whatever homeless type presents itself. I would make choices. Bold choices. First, I would choose to be male as I do not own pink. Second I would choose to be an active because what I failed to mention is that both of the homeless male, actives mentioned previously had killer abs. I mean… their abs were SHREDDED! There was so much definition is would make Merriam-Webster cry. And I would choose to be a hybrid between the dancing and the jogging. So I would jog to various street corners where I would dance until it was time to jog to another street corner. And… see this is where preparation and planning come in… when the inevitable reinvention happens... because if Flav can do it, so can I… and I was able to stop jogging and running from street corner to street corner in Los Angeles... and I reclaim my mansion up in the hills... I would return to my life of bacchanalian feasts, drug-fueled orgies and Saturday football but this time I would do it with killer abs. Sick, crazy, defined abs. Simply, I would be better the second time around. Kinda like homemade soup that has had time to marinate in the fridge overnight. And that is what I call progress.