Crazy people here are far different from the ones in Chicago. In Chicago it's cold more than half of the time. The bums are practical there. "Give me a smoke man, I'm freezing over here. Don't leave a brother out in the cold." Much harder to refuse than, "In 1987 our Lord Jesus abducted me for three weeks, and took me for a trip with him around our solar system. It was on Venus that he knighted me and gave me full reign over Hollywood and the use of all the Disney character voices." As the typical L.A. bum clears his throat and goes into a rendition of "Under the Sea" by Sebastian the Crab, it's hard for me to believe that anyone here could have it rough. It's sunny 361 days out of the year, for Christ's sake. The 3rd Street promenade in Santa Monica is probably the most accepting place of the homeless in the state, as long as it is after 11p.m. If one hangs out long enough to see the shops close and the tourists go home, they'll realize that no bench is left vacant. There are different types of homeless people. Some are the down-on-their-luck, I've lost the keys to my apartment sort of people, the kind that will be your new best friend for an egg McMuffin. These people are fine to come in contact with, a pleasure even. Then there are some that are so far gone, the best thing to do is move to the other side of the street. I've seen a woman walk into a cafe, order a cup of really hot water, then throw it in the guys face. These are the people who pick a bench and sit there all day, sinking deeper into their own psyches. They are easily recognizable by their tanned hides for faces. I'm encountering more and more people who, at first glance, appear to be normal folks on their way to work or wherever it is that people go. But when I watch long enough, I see them either talking to themselves, nervously fraying a napkin between their fingers, twitching discretely but noticably, or engaging in some wierd obsessive act that can only lead me to believe that beneath their semi-composed exterior, they are completely insane. Why are their so many in this city? Could it be that the weather is too consistently nice, and that people are given no time to turn inward and collect their thoughts at some point in the year, and eventually turning inward for good, only to consiousness of what is going on around them? When I take the bus, I bring a book, it keeps my gears turning, and thinking about what to do next. I make sure the subject matter isn't too funny though, because some wrinkly, red skinned man in sweatpants might see me laughing to myself, and mistake me for one of his own kind.
