A Few Missed Bills

Paranoia

Part 26 of 30

You’d be suffering extensive, great, and persistent paranoia, too, if it cycled through your mind day and night, everyday, how things could still work out for you. I don’t know if I’ve ever felt 100% secure, but these days are ridiculous. It bounces up once in a while, but it always nosedives a little, with a strange nosedive that levels out before the final disaster, as though they're toying with me, stringing me along, never allowing me to get a firm grip on security and yet allowing me to keep enough hope and success so hitting rock bottom is that much more painful.

Naturally, winter’s the toughest time of year for picturing in your mind what could happen. I’ve been staying in my own place -- things aren’t terrible -- but any one of many different scenarios could burst on the scene. I’ve known guys better off who’ve had it all yanked away from them. They were foolish. They thought they had security, but I'd have the whole experience, security gone, knowing the depths a guy can sink. And it doesn’t necessarily get better. There’s no rule that things have to get better.

Let me tell you this, too, I have responsibilities, number one being my dog. She’s never been in the lap of luxury, but she’s never been hungry either. The day I took my dog from her mother’s teat, I promised her, “Underbrush, you’ll be all right with me. Put 'er there, pal,” and we shook on it. Which is a great trick she taught me, since I’ve long had a fear of touching animals or people. It goes back a long way, when I heard you could catch germs from everyone. Changing me from the gladhandiest kid to being completely mentally stoved up adult, tight as a tick. The dog also loosened me up quite a bit on that front, presenting her papers proving she’s had the next 50 years worth of shots.

Of course there’s no explanation other creatures really understand -- I barely understand it -- about money and being hard up. How can we be the so-called crown of creation, creatures of intelligence and sense -- and allow ourselves such a worrisome frame of mind, cutting off the legs of one another, our fellow citizens, our brothers and sisters. The country brags about what a great country it is, while half of us goes to bed nervous, teeth-chattering, having nightmares about our shots? Could their dog eat them tomorrow?

There’s a grove of trees up the street, I’ve mentioned it before, when some homeless folks were living there. Then they came and drove them off and put up a sign: “This property is monitored by satellites in space.” You see that and think, “This little two-bit sliver of land has its own satellite eye in the sky?!!” I laughed at first, then thought, “Where would I go to escape the satellites? I need a decent night's sleep...”

Barbarian Bowl

Like a lot of guys, I've been watching a few football games during the holiday season. The big bowls are something of a national pastime. We're just doing nothing, so to pass the time we watch them. They’re interesting to us, and give college athletes something to do.

Of course to enjoy these games you have to be able to overlook your scruples. And I regret to say I’m just as guilty, not any better. But at least I have regrets. I need to work on that, make it a New Year’s resolution, that I will be more socially responsible. And principled. It pains me to say I’m not quite there yet.

The problem’s obvious to everyone who’s looked at it objectively, the whole issue of land resources, especially in light of the human tragedy of homelessness and so forth. In short, friends, we’re running out of room. There’s more population than room to warehouse or provide living space for everyone. And we haven’t made enough headway on prevention, like regulating the sexual habits of people of childbearing age.

As tough as it'd be, that’s where I'd start, because I think our ability to go cold turkey sexually is stronger than our willingness to give up sports. I’d actually recommend a two-pronged approach. Not playing football games and regulating sexual activity. Then if we make progress, it's a win-win. And if we don’t, we'll just have to bear down more and continue some serious work on the problem. What's the alternative, to shrug and say, "We give up"? That's no alternative. In that case, our reign as the dominant species on this planet is over. We will have sex and go whole hog with sports until we’re extinct, dead as cheap door-nails.

If we devote so much land to football fields, basketball courts, and golf courses, we’re confessing that our priorities are shortsighted, just the fun of the moment and the future be damned! We will play our way into the grave, and no doubt at some point even run out of grave space, a loss of cemeteries, because of so much real estate foolishly dedicated to sports.

Even now I’m watching a bowl game and shaking my head. 1) How can I be so much a part of the problem as to enjoy this disgusting display? And, 2) How can those people sit in those huge stadiums unaware or uncaring about the issue, that there's a stranglehold on our ability to use land responsibly. The football lawns look so well manicured, it’s ridiculous, while the people needing land for basic living are a mess. I drove by a yard right here in the Big City with so much illegal dumping, you’d think we'd simply given up, and it's true.

As for basketball courts also wasting land, strangely that's not as obvious. Because we’re stupidly used to the idea that buildings are different, essential. Setting aside the obvious fact that buildings have to be built somewhere, also taking land that is so desperately needed. But instead of getting a grip on ourselves and doing it right, we have lost our way. If we can't get a grip on ourselves, what hope do we have in the long run? Zero hope, that’s the only conclusion.

It’s been in the news that we might even be colonizing Mars very soon. I’m just hoping that when we get there we reflect on what we've done. If we've despoiled the Earth, can we at least learn the lesson for outer space? We don’t want the other planets to be misused, too. Right now, we must pass a law restricting the building of sports arenas, football fields, and golf courses in outer space. Keep our previous space resources for what's really needed, a place for everyone to live their lives with dignity.

Homeless Seeking $ God Bless

With me in the Big City, everything's getting very real. Oh boy, what an eye-opener it is, the dregs of society. And that's just me, but there's plenty of others, standing on this corner, that corner, and of course freeway ramps. I thought of doing it, but don't want to get caught encroaching on another guy's territory.

I was staking out a place one day for panhandling, more like checking it out, trying to picture how I'd look this time of the day or that time. I don't want the sun in my eyes, definitely, and the less sunburn the better. I would want everyone to see me, if not for my financial benefit, then not to be run over. But I haven't brought myself to do it yet. I'm not up on the etiquette or logistics, and a big thing with me is doing it right.

In the picture above, the handwriting is from a couple signs I found. I expect they'll be a decent model for me for composing my own stuff. Even though I'm above average in religion, I don't think the religious approach toward an effective guilt trip is the best approach. Society's so secular these days, the tried and true assumptions of long-ago need to be updated. Frankly, instead of Jesus, I'd more readily mention Buddha or Hindu yogis. Because I think Big City people appreciate a global approach; it's beyond their expectations, which would probably pay rich dividends.

And look at the handwriting, just a damned scrawl. Which, I'll give 'em this, it's more effective than an overly-produced computer printout with picture-perfect fonts. But a certain amount of neatness counts. Too sloppy and the suspicion is you're too far gone to be helped. There's a happy medium between sloppy and overdone. Especially if you had a Buddha, let's say, and your handwriting recalled the mystic look of the East without being obscure. What would be really cool would be a Hindu ochre (orangish) robe and an occasional apparently-sincere mudra. Out in the open, naturally, chest high; you're not scratching your muladhara chakra by any means!

I've been watching a bunch of YouTube videos. And I came across a bunch of anti-panhandling guys there. Who park in the lonely corners of Walmart and zoom their cameras in on panhandlers infesting those environs. Who are there so often they've worn away the grass! You can't tell me that's a good look. Anyway, the YouTubers are doing real reconnaissance, documenting the panhandlers' lives and finding that quite a number of them aren't indigent in the least. Which they hold against them.

I guess I can sort of see their point. Which is that people who pretend to be homeless or pretend to be poor could very well be making it worse for others. First, am I homeless or poor? Well, going by the technicalities. I'm technically homeless as long as my house back home is leveled and they never get it fixed. There's so much mold, mildew, backed up sewage and odor, along with vermin, parasites, rats, and the occasional fly, that a guy is easily fed up with it. When I left the last time, those weren't dry heaves.

In the Big City, yes, yes, I have a place to stay. Big damned deal. There's more to being down on your luck than whether you're homeless or not. Yet you about have to use the word homeless on your sign, because, look at the problem, you can't have a sign too complicated. I couldn't tell everything about my dismantled house. It's funny, but I myself barely look at panhandlers at all, I definitely haven't got all day to read the signs. Sheesh, it's all words, words, words, meant to create an atmosphere and push buttons, not be to be technically true, like you'd have to be in a court of law. This is where the YouTube thought-police cross the line.

Remember, I haven't panhandled at all. So if I had, of course I'd have more knowledge on the subject, what's effective and what should be avoided. And I never give anyone anything, so I haven't had extensive contacts with them. (A little, which I'll mention later.*)

But speaking as a layman, I have to think you want to come across as totally personable, kind, soft spoken, sincere, and not apparently putting the squeeze on folks. Watch the eye contact -- not too much -- and respect people's boundaries and keep them comfortable. Oh yes, this is getting me excited. I'm rubbing my hands together even now in glee at the haul I'd no doubt make! Being the nicest guy you've ever met. I believe I come across as someone without a selfish bone in his body. If I were standing at the off ramp, I'm sure you'd see me as someone doing you a favor. I'm just so intrinsically honest and pleasant, begging would make me a millionaire overnight. My pockets bulging out, a big sack like Santa Claus on my back, so full of money I'd have to hire guards to walk me home. Very soon I'd be strictly turning away all change in favor of more lightweight bills. A matter of policy.

Eventually I'd use some of the money to buy better clothes. So I'm panhandling during the day, probably an hour tops would give me enough to live well, then I'd be out at fancy restaurants at night. In my new clothes, some of the same people would see me and think I looked familiar, but there's lots of guys who look sort of like me. If they approached me in my off hours, I'd raise my hands and giving them a solid no comprende every time. Nicely, of course.

*Here's the reference to the panhandler I met when I got to the Big City. I was out scavenging soda/beer cans and cashing them in at the salvage yard. And I got a bunch of cans under bridges, right near this guy who was panhandling day after day. I'd also already met another guy in his circle, who was going to help guide me on the Shamanic Path; I called him Wolf, he called me Grandpa. So I was in the vicinity of the bridge where Wolf said he lived, but he was gone. The panhandler was letting me know where Wolf went, which was "That way." In our other meetings, he told me the direction Wolf went, "That way," and that was nice. I don't think my panhandler is rich, etc., but maybe he does go home at night to a nice place. I wouldn't begrudge him that. It'd be great.

Mute Invisible Guard Dogs

I’ve been living in “The Big City” while they work on Grandma’s house — fumigation is the least of its problems — so I’ve been out cattin' around everyday. Checking out things. Plus, I’m actually a minor player in the recycling industry, in that I pick up and cash in aluminum cans. I’ll make a post about it some time.

I see myself also as patrolling the ‘hood. But most of the vandalism I see appears to have happened years ago. With the bad guys long gone. Windows are out, broken glass is everywhere, and some of the buildings are on their last legs. Makes me rethink Grandma’s house; it's not too far gone.

In all this patrolling and can rummaging, I’ve been interested in the obligatory signs warning thieves, burglars, vandals, and squatters. There’s a small tree-covered area nearby, and I discerned right away some homeless folks were living there. Which was cool with me, so I didn’t do anything to disturb them, just kept my distance. After a while, though — and obviously it would’ve been better if they’d stayed there only briefly — their presence was discovered by the authorities or owners. Who went in, piled up all their stuff on the curb, then hauled most of it away. Now there's blinking light posts at the various entrances to the wooded area.

The other thing they have, to keep folks out, are warning signs. Yes, yes, in “The Big City” warning signs are very common. At the wooded area, the warning signs tell of “Video Surveillance,” which would seem to be false; wouldn’t you see an occasional camera somewhere? Or are they spending big bucks on a satellite system, a joint effort with NASA? Still, I don’t go in there, mostly because I already have a place to flop, and also I’m careful about crossing boundaries. There used to be an old guy in my neighborhood rumored to shoot kids with rock salt.

OK, the signs. That’s what I’m on about today. While searching for beer cans (and other aluminum goodies), I’m always seeing warning signs. A bunch of them are posted on buildings that have been ransacked so many times, it’s obvious no one takes them seriously. Actually, my biggest fear would be to have other ransackers there when I went in, then they’d ransack me... Anyway, the chances of these old buildings having anything of huge value in them now are pretty low.

Thinking it over, though, I had a great idea, which would be to make signs saying, “THIS BUILDING IS PROTECTED BY MUTE INVISIBLE GUARD DOGS.” Is it true? I mean, really, someone could diligently search and find actual non-vocal dogs who’ve also had the added misfortune of being born invisible. When it rains, it pours, right? So there they are, a big bowl of food and water keeping body and soul together, the whole works. They're healthy, they usually get decent sleep ... until the big night comes.

Finally someone's stupid enough to enter. Some guys, looking for metal bathtub fixtures and wanting to strip the precious wiring out of the walls, show up one night. They’re drinking up a storm just before this, getting up their nerve. Because a sign about mute invisible guard dogs truly is intimidating. But they convince themselves, "This sign’s just like that one at the wooded area, a big fat fake!” Then they go in, and these dogs — vicious bastards when provoked — get hold of their legs; one nearly escapes but the dog takes a chunk out of his ass. Exciting stuff.

Pretty soon the dogs have the bastards cornered — who by now have dropped the bathtub pipes — and they make their final merciless lunge, right for the jugular! Blood’s spurting out everywhere, it’s a mess for the ages. Enough blood to make you sick. The perps go on to meet their reward in hell. The next day the dogs aren’t all that hungry. I come along on my bike, find the cans outside that the guys drank from (who were also litterbugs), catch a glimpse of the sign about the invisible dogs, shiver to myself in fear, grab the cans, and get the hell out of there.

Sneaking Around, Sleeping in a Thrift Store

DISCLAIMER: I have to be careful the disclaimer isn't longer than the post. But I know this is where a guy needs to tread lightly. You can't be positing illegal activity without giving at least a passing nod toward warning people from actually doing it. In this particular post, I am only imagining what a person might do, not suggesting anything that anyone should actually try or do. It's just like the ads on TV that say "Do Not Attempt." No one, for example, has any reason to think that you would mimic the actions of "Mayhem" on the insurance commercial and fall off the top of a garage backwards. But it's still necessary to say "Do Not Attempt" to be legally covered against that one idiot who might try it. Similarly, I am going to write about sleeping in a thrift store, which I in no way endorse as an activity that anyone should actually do. To conclude, please don't try this, and if you do, don't tell me. There's a place downtown where they sell smoking paraphernalia, but they say they won't sell it to you if you so much as hint around what you're going to do with it. That's my disclaimer as well. Do not even read this post if you're so much as tempted, even slightly, to actually try it.

It's cold again, with the coming of winter. Leading me to think about what I would do if I didn't have a place to go at night. So far I've never been very homeless. But I always wonder ... What if?

I was near a thrift store today that I know sells mattresses. They're stacked up against the wall. I don't think the place has a 24-hour security system, but if they did this idea would be totally out. I was thinking of the obvious scheme, that a guy could go in there and insinuate himself between the mattresses and wait for everyone to leave. Follow me? I figured you would.

OK, here's where it gets good. Once I'm totally sure everyone's gone, then I picture myself lowering the mattress and sleeping on it. Which is what anyone would do, of course. My big difference is I do not make any movement in the store, unless it be very minimal and then done only by crawling, shimmying along on my belly, or just up on my hands and knees. This keeps down shadows in case any traffic is near the door or windows.

You figure they have a bathroom. So I go crawling along the floor till I get to it. At this point, most bathrooms don't have windows so I might feel comfortable enough to stand. But I do not turn on the light. That might be disastrous. Then I crawl back to the mattress.

At this point I really have to rely on my ability to wake up on time, because if I'm still there when the manager unlocks, like Goldilocks in the well-known story, he will catch me. Once I wake up, I assume there's an alarm on the doors. So I can't just leave. Instead, I have to prop up the mattress and stand there till the place opens, PLUS 15 minutes.

Voila, a decent night's sleep!

Have you ever stayed in a roomful of other guys? Like a youth hostel, something like that. I remember one time sleeping in a room of guys. The snoring and farting were unbearable, and that was just me.

Honoring Ned Hogan, Great Criminal

Today, we're honoring one of the great criminals of the past, Ned Hogan. When pictured here peeling potatoes at the end of 1922, he had been in jail in Milwaukee a record 117 times.*

Hi, Machine Gun Ricky Wayward writing in honor of our fine brother in crime, Mr. Ned Hogan, 76 years old in the picture, and a native of Milwaukee.

As you will see in this brief tribute, Ned was so often drunk that he couldn't handle his affairs and needed a place to flop. That may not sound like great crime, but we honor it, because it is likely that Ned tied up the system enough -- taking the time of jailers, judges, and the cops -- that other criminals had freer rein.

The Milwaukee Sentinel of Dec. 24, 1922, (easily found on Google) profiled Ned, calling him a bum, derelict, and prohibition fighter. In addition, they said he was a vague and shadowy character.

In earlier times, he worked at the circus grounds in Milwaukee, and also did any odd jobs that would bring him a dollar. But the paper said the nearest thing to a regular occupation he ever had was unloading coal boats. Ned was what they called a dock walloper. It sounds like honest work, but we're very glad he left it, or we wouldn't be honoring him today. Since we don't care about dock walloping.

Alfred O. Wilmot, court reporter at the time, who knew Ned when he, Alfred, was a kid, remembers that Ned was all right when he was sober. The newspaper paraphrases Alfred: "Unless he was waylaid down in the lumber yards and got a pony of beer, he took his savings home to his old mother. He is not a thief. With all his arrests, he has never committed a real crime."

It was after Ned stole a tire that Alfred said, "Except for his lack of culture, Ned was a gentleman. I have heard him give a fellow a lecture for insulting a woman on the street. He was never brought in on a charge of anything but vagrancy until this last time. And this larceny charge was just a ruse of Ned's. He didn't want to steal. He had no use for the automobile tire that he walked off from a garage up near Eighth and Wells street. He only took it so as to furnish an excuse to get arrested. He went right down to the Rescue Mission with it and sat there until the police came."

Ned greeted the officer by saying, "Well, it took me two hours to get arrested this time." At first he had tried to get arrested by taking some bandana handkerchiefs from a dry goods store. There were even hanging out of his pockets in the store. But that plan failed, so he resorted to taking the tire.

Of course all the old cops knew Ned. When he wanted to be taken in, they accommodated him. Younger cops weren't so nice, saying, "Get about your business. You haven't done anything for me to take you in." To which Ned would retort, "You better take me in. If you don't I'll do something so you will have to pinch me." Ned's oldest friend on the force, Ed Baivier, chuckled, "He would, too. He has been known to pick up a brick and heave it through a window when the patrolman was stubborn."

Milwaukee's Judge Page said, "Ned is an old figure around here. He is getting old now, must be nearly 70. He manages, by sleeping on park benches, to get along in the summer, but when cold weather comes he needs a more comfortable place. As sure as the thermometer drops we can expect to see Ned in the bull pen next morning. As you know, it was pretty chilly the night before his last arrest a few weeks ago."

Roy E. Briggs, assistant superintendent of the Rescue Mission, said of him, "His mind is so run down from drink that he is 'rum dumb' as one of our men puts it. He has lost control of his power to think, but retained enough mind to know it. He wants to go right but can't quite reason out the way if left to himself. So he voluntarily puts himself where someone will make him do what he should."

So there you have it! We proudly honor Mr. Ned Hogan, one of the great criminals of the past. To summarize, he got drunk a lot, broke windows, and stole a few bandana handkerchiefs and a tire.