They Don't Make Panhandlers Like They Used To.

Jen and I approach Columbus' homeless population very differently which is to say--I approach them and she walks the other way. I've seen homeless people scream obscenities at passersby. I've seen them chase after pedestrians with the jagged necks of broken beer bottles. Scariest of all, I've seen the homeless sneeze on people who are fishing in their pockets for spare change without even attempting to cover their noses. Given all this, Jen's method for dealing with panhandlers is, at worst reasonable, at best, wise beyond calculation.

It's a wonder Jen will even leave the house with me. I'd like to say that the reason I'll gladly stop and listen to the story of any panhandler I encounter is a sign of altruism. This is nonsense of the, politicians really love babies, and, therefore, kiss them at every opportunity vein. I fear being disliked to such an extent that I put myself in foolish, even dangerous, situations. I'll take a drink out of someone else's beer when they offer me a sip, for fear of offending them if they should think my refusal is an indication that I think they may have a dormant case of mouth herpes. I'll run off to Canada and marry a drug addict out of concern that one more rejection in her life could be the thing to finally convince her to inject a lethal dose of class 3 narcotics. I'll stand on a street corner and listen to a man who may very well have an Alien-style alien growing inside his stomach, because the thought of being labeled an uppity bitch would put a serious damper on my day.

A few weeks ago, Jen and I were leaving our hair salon in The Short North (Columbus' gallery district). Having just successfully finished an hour and a half long flirting session with our Kuwaiti hair stylist (exotic looking, laughs at all your jokes, touches you when she's talking to you--you get the idea), I was feeling pretty full of myself. If I'd been wearing a hat, I would have doffed it at everyone I passed--including the charming homeless fellow who approached us about a block from the salon. As you should have assumed from my earlier commentary, when this gentleman called for our attention, Jen smartly kept walking. I, on the other hand, didn't want this guy to think I thought myself too good to stop and talk to someone down on his luck. After all, aren't we all just one or two missed paychecks away from the streets?

There are a few types of beggars. There are the guys who stand on the side of the road at the end of exit ramps who let their "Hungry veteran. Anything will help. God bless you," cardboard signs do the talking for them. There are the honest, friendly drunks standing outside the gas stations who'll tell you straight, "Look buddy, can you spare a few cents? I really need a drink," and there are the story tellers who seem to exist everywhere else. I was able to take one look at this fast talker with the bouquet of red, white, and blue cloth flowers and know which type of he was. The conversation went thusly:

"Pardon me ma'am. I just need a minute of your time. Ma'am I don't mean to bother you, but I am homeless, and, praise Jesus ma'am, I do have cancer . . ." At this point my new friend crossed himself and lifted up the front of his t-shirt to show me what could only have been one of three things. Three very distinct tumors, three very painful hernias, or the head and two fisted alien claws of the otherworldly being gestating in this man's stomach waiting to achieve full maturity at which point it will A) burst through this man's stomach and wreak havoc on the city I love or B) high kick down the street in a straw hat singing "Hello My Baby" at the top of its little alien lungs. Obviously, I prefer the Mel Brooks version, but either scenario would be unsettling at best.

There are times in life when it's inconvenient to have an expressionless face. "Honey, we're having a baby," isn't one of them. "Ma'am please take a look at my cancerous baby alien stomach and give me some money," is. It would have felt rude to show outward disgust or fear or the sort of curiosity that could only be accompanied by the phrase, "Can I touch it."

When I looked unphased by this man's stomach. He continued. "I'm trying to save up some money for treatment. Now, I am selling these flowers today." (Thank God. I was really hoping there was going to be an opportunity to buy these flowers in this for me.) "Now I'm asking five dollars for them, but I would be grateful for anything you could afford."

I had about $40 in my pocket. "Aw buddy, I'm really sorry. I don't have much cash on me, but I can give you a dollar, just to have. You don't have to give me any flowers."

At this point Jen was ten paces south of us, looking at me like why are you giving this crazy person our grocery money, and this is where things turn ugly. While I'm digging in my pocket, Baby Alien Head Man looks up at Jen and says, "Hey what about you?" Now, Jen and I have been together for a couple years, and we're so together that I assume it's obvious to anyone who happens upon us that we're together, and, therefore, when one of us acts, we're acting on behalf of the whole unit. Even if one half of the unit is 30 feet away. Because of this, there are some things that still take me a bit aback (at least when we're in Columbus, where you can't swing a dead cat around without smacking at least one half of a lesbian couple upside the head). For example, there's a moment of confusion if we're at a restaurant and our server asks us if we want the checks separately? Really? Similarly, I find it a little jarring when I'm getting ready to hand a panhandler cash and he calls up to my girlfriend, "Hey, what about you?" At this, Jen, similarly surprised, ignored him. "What's a matter? You don't talk to black people?" And this is why someone should start a nonprofit that teaches successful selling techniques to the homeless.

"Whoa man, that's not cool."

"Well look at her. She looks scared."

"I'm sorry. I'm not going to be able to help you out today."

"Oh come on."

"Look I'm standing here trying to do you a favor and you call my girlfriend a racist."

"I wasn't calling her a racist."

"You said, 'What's a matter? You don't talk to black people?' you don't think that's the same as calling her a racist?"

"I'm sorry. Look, here, have some flowers."

"Sorry man. Have a good afternoon," and I walked away from the host of what could be the scariest thing ever to descend on Columbus and toward one pissed off girlfriend who was more displeased that I'd stopped to talk to this guy in the first place than she was charmed that I'd tried to defend her honor.

I'm fully aware that I'm the one who comes out of this story looking like the asshole, and part of me still feels bad about not giving him money. Not just the one dollar I promised him, but all of it. It's not like we wouldn't have bought groceries anyway. I just hope that he survives the tumors or the hernias or the explosive abdominal alien syndrome long enough to have the last laugh. Something tells me he will.

The Bitch Is Back

A lot has happened in the world since my last post.

With Glenn Beck as their fearless leader, thousands of lunatic, gun toting men and the women who love them held rallies is major cities all over the country. In the beginning they proudly proclaimed themselves to be Teabaggers until someone got wise to exactly what that means and they casually decided to start referring to themselves as Tea Party-ers. I assume they hoped that the rest of us wouldn't notice the switch. Sadly, since a clan of angry white men running around state capitals proudly telling the world just where they'd like to stick their balls is the greatest thing to happen to me since Dick Cheney shot his friend in the face, I promise never to forget.

According to this ABC Affiliate, 92 famous people died in 2009. Among them are Gordon's wife from Sesame Street (you know, the lady from 227--no, not Jackee, and not the lady from The Jeffersons. The other one), Brittany Murphy (who I saw swear to Ellen Degeneres that she was speaking in full sentences at 6-months-old), and University of Georgia's bulldog mascot. I know there were plenty of other famous people (and possibly animals) who died in 2009, but these folks at ABC have defined "famous" so loosely that I couldn't make it further than example 20 without falling asleep, so I can't list them all for you.

In October, the Dow closed above 10,000 for the first time since October 3rd, 2008 even though I'm told that Obama is running this country into complete financial ruin. Al Franken was finally sworn in as the freshman senator from Minnesota, health insurance reform passed, 25 coal minors died in West Virginia due to lax regulation, 11 oil drillers died off the coast of Louisiana due to lax regulation, an ecosystem was destroyed. I could go on. My point is--there's a lot of shit I could have written about in the last 15 months. Instead, I have sat on my ass feeling uninspired and sorry for myself.

Well, I'm back. No gimmicks, just getting back to basics and typing whatever pops into my head (that won't get me fired). This is my 60th post to DISCONNECT, but it won't be my last. There are fascinating topics on the horizon. Jen and I are driving on a cross country adventure next week; it's festival season here in Columbus, and that means lots of suburbanites to make fun of; the midterm elections are right around the corner; did I mention my brother-in-law is living with us; and, oh yeah, there are still a million gallons of oil spewing into the ocean every day. I want to talk about all of it.

In the meantime, I've started a new site where I'm uploading some posts from my old blogging days at myspace. Just a little something to remind myself of where I came from and what it felt like not to give a shit what human resources or anyone else thought about what I had to say. Unlike in banking, there are no confidentiality laws in cookie sales.

Now, like Tina Fey says, "Bitches get shit done." So let's get to work.