What's Beyond There?

Does It Matter?

I saw a man exit his tent and take a piss. No ordinary man. And no ordinary piss either, I might add. My daily commute takes me through Downtown LA, which is oddly inspirational to me. The city’s skyline anchors the basin and is visible from as far away as Pomona, 30 miles east. One can see her silhouette in a 360 degree radius, traveling only by freeway. She is good from far goes the old saw. And as it goes, it is true: she is far from good.

I say oddly, as the vision of DTLA shifts from shining city in a valley into an apocalyptic hell-hole, peopled by destitute creatures that have either lost their mind or blown it out. I used to say a prayer for each individual, asking God to focus His laser-like mercy on these poor lost souls.

But now, I can’t say that many prayers, one for each. Their numbers seem limitless and their living conditions bottomless. The drag on commuter and pedestrian souls must be taken into account as well. Why isn’t it? Why are we not more compassionate, they ask? What more can we do, we ask?

We already avoid them when they cross the street. We already avoid them when the sleep in the open. We already avoid them when the pee on our car. But we can’t anymore. Jesus says to embrace them. How can we do that?

So back to the man and his morning constitutional. As a man and avid camper myself, I identified fully with the primal act of waking up, crawling out of the tent, whipping it out, and letting it flow. What made this particular primal-pee picture-perfect is the same thing SoCal realtors sell all the time.

Location. Location. Location.

This man’s public urination became Performance Art. His tent sits at the intersection of N Broadway and the 101 overpass on-ramp. As I wait for the red light to go green, Mr. Morning stands at the railing of the overpass, pulls it out and opens up the floodgates. All over the cars below. Had the light been green, I would’ve enjoyed a piss shower on that day’s commute.

My first thought was Don’t tell me it was raining. But then, it caused a backlash in me. How can you help a lost soul when they are so lost that they cannot help themselves? It’s a circle in a square in a triangle in a box.

But the dude in the tent remains. We luckily miss his piss or likely suffer his salty shower. But it our battle to fight, not his. Mr. Morning’s piss takes precedence over all other users of public spaces. After he pee’s, can we compare tax bills?

It’s a tipping point here. How can this be fixed for the betterment of mankind? In prison, they called it Hot Meds. They made you take them. Not me. But when they didn’t, it was intentional. They used human loose cannons to make social structures or to impose discipline.

Seems like we don’t care. Hard to pull together a team to solve that problem when the Coaches don’t care.

Do what you can, save what you will, and enjoy your freedom while it lasts.

Ric