F O O D
"Picture yourself . . . in a boat, on a river." Fuck you, John. Picture myself, broke, in a building with tangerine stains on my carpet and two-year-old marmalade in my fridge. It's still in there 'cause I've convinced myself that in a few years it'll turn into brandy or something. Yeah, the marmalade's right next to the salad dressing. Ranch. It might have been Italian once, but it's Ranch now. I say you can tell a person's state of mind from the contents of his refrigerator.
Lots of food means contentment. Peace of mind. An empty fridge, on the other hand, signifies depression, stress, or, of course, poverty. Right now, I'm in my "burrito" phase. I'll eat home-made burritos, non-stop, for a month or so until I can't stand the sight of another pinto bean. Then I'll move onto the Kraft Mac & Cheese phase, the baked potato and cream corm phase and so on. Every now and then, I'll throw in a McDonald's to break up the monotony. In my neighborhood, the hoboes loiter around McDonald's like hyenas around a fresh kill. It's not uncommon to get panhandled three times in a single drive-thru. There's this
certain bum who calls himself "Flex-man." His trade, if you can call it that, is to flex his enormous pecs and biceps for you while you're in drive-thru, stuck between two cars with nowhere to go. He does quite a routine, and all you can do is smile and acknowledge his "flexing" with a bit 'o change. I guess that beats the alternative, namely, him killing you.
The majority of the homeless live in the abundant undergrowth where the 5, 10, and 101 Freeways converge in East L.A. There's acres of nooks and crannies where an enterprising hobo can find a home. Like my boy, Flex-man, for example. He's actually a prince compared to some of the other Ubermensch. At my local market, we have some early morning alcoholics who help the bakery
truck deliver its goods. They know all the drivers by name and earn a dollar or two pretending to "help" carry in the day's bread and rolls. In actuality, they just kinda watch. Then when the store opens at 8:00, they go in and buy their first beer of the day. The rest of the day is a quest to keep that first beer flowing. I feel sorry for them and hate them at the same time; I don't know why. Maybe it's because I too am an alcoholic and perhaps see a little bit of myself in these pathetic outcasts. I'm positive they never pictured themselves living in some shrub under the Hollywood Freeway. No one sets out to be a Bushman . . .
The real gone ones come up to me, sometimes twice a week, and give me a spiel about needing money for a "bus ticket" home. Car got stolen, wallet in car, etc. What gets me is the tone and the sincerity with which they can deliver the same fucking lie, every time. Do they not know me by now? Are they so fucked up that they don't recognize me? I'm not so hard to pick out of a downtown L.A. line-up; I'm the white guy. In fact, you could say my phosphorescent Irish skin glows like a beacon in the downtown skyline.
When I was down and out, my bandmates and I would often stand in line for a free meal at the Midnight Mission. I think there's probably nothing more uplifting for one's self-esteem than to stand in line with 75 hoboes for 45 minutes to get a cold cheeseburger and fruit drink. And then on top of it, to get shit from the hoboes about taking their food. THEIR food. Next I'll be fighting the ants for cockroach legs. Let's get back to MY refrigerator. Let's see . . . . Cookies, of course. Got to have cookies; cookies above all else. Coffee beans, too. I grind my own beans. It's my only throw-back to my more affluent past. My ex-girlfriend gave me a coffee bean grinder for my birthday once. I gave her a diamond ring. I still have the grinder. Oh, and lest we forget, I also have the obligatory box of Arm & Hammer Baking Soda. That's so the 17 year old cicadas in my crisper can smell fresh and clean when they emerge from their pupaes, 17 years from now.
I console myself with the fact that I'll never get fat. If some girl wants to count my ribs, they're right there for the counting. And like the Hunza tribe of the Amazon, I'll probably live to a ripe old age. Yeah, it's a good thing . . . it's better this way. Wouldn't want to get fat. What's the alternative, you say? Work? The bane of every self-deprecating musician. The vibe-ruiner. The career killer. That and a child will seal your doom. Sometimes I do odd jobs to make money.
Paint someone's house, move furniture. The occasional doggy-fuck film, whatever. I don't want a boss. I don't want a pager. Working in a factory is DEATH. It's like a malignant tumor growing in your upper colon, slowly constricting your ability to shit. Downtown L.A. is studded with small factories, sweatshops. Yeah, whoever coined that phrase sure knew his oats. Everyday I see hundreds of Mexican ladies, both young and old, tred the slow tred of the condemned on their way to their sewing machines. Zippers on jackets, buttons on coats, day after day, year after year 'till the end of time. I don't know how they do
it. Aside from the argument that they're immigrants and can get no other work, it begs the question: just how DO they do it? Do their higher brain functions go into
cryo-sleep for the ten hours or so a day they spend at the infernal machine?
For less than minimum wage. Consider that the next time you pay $65 for a pair of Guess? jeans. Fuck Nike too. I wonder if they're like postmen. Maybe the millionth zipper sends them over the edge. Maybe they hit a "zipper wall" . .
Think of it. In some isolated sweatshop somewhere east of Alameda, a small Mexican lady patiently works, sewing the trillionth zipper on the same fucking blouse she's sewn since the Korean War. Suddenly her mind clicks; she has finally hit the "zipper wall." Slowly, she looks up from her work, the sewing machine stops, she reaches over for her long-handled scissors she keeps by her side. Her supervisor, noticing the uncharacteristic behavior of bench person #33, races over to berate her. Before he can open up his mouth, however, she plunges her scissors into his chest, to the hilt, like Excalibur. He staggers back; he's not used to any sort of back-talk. The other ladies, their senses awakened by the blood lust, also reach for their scissors. The carnage begins. They lay him down on the large cutting table and proceed to carve intricate patterns on his legs and torso. No bridal gown, this. This is some sort of primeval sewing-bee and the supervisor has become the Wicker Man. After some time the front office notices that all the sewing machines have stopped. "Time is money," yells the head honcho as he prepares to give the supervisor a piece of his mind. But as the door opens, the women set upon him like wolves, ripping and tearing. The rest of the
front office tries to barricade the door, but it is too late. All must die, all must pay. No one is spared. The evil overseer and his lackeys have become so much chorizo. And . . . when the killing is done and the scissors have been washed and put back on their respective tables, a sort of calm descends. A few nervous giggles break the ice. The women gather up their lunch pails, reach for their time cards, and slowly line up to clock out for the day. They get on the bus, go home, hug their kids, cook dinner, watch TV, fall asleep.