First of all. When I am harassed by homeless men in Paris I pretend I am in intense physical pain. Homeless men want money but they usually do not want to help a person suffering from intense physical pain. Clutching your jaw works well. No one can argue with a bad tooth ache.
I also try and spread the gospel of being thankful they are not homeless in America. I explain in French that the land where you really do not want to be homeless is the USA. Over there you're totally fucked. So you see! It's all relative. And it may be cold here in Paris but atleast they don't leave you out on the hospital curb after the insurance questions don't add up. Call me Mr. bright side.
Here is the thing. I am a big believer in the quiet plight. I respect the homeless man or woman's need to beg but not his right to pretend everyone in the rest of the world is employed by Phillip Morris. The braggart is still a braggart no matter what his financial situation. One man's misery does not equal the whole metro cars' misery. I also do not have a lot of time to talk about Bob Marley and the message of his music. I actually think Bob Marley's lyrics are pretty shit.
I believe in being polite when warming up in laundromats and respecting that the soup shelter does not admit dogs. One may argue that they do not have a choice. You always have a choice in the way you do something. It's like suicide. I respect much more the quiet guy alone who tranquilly offs himself than the guy who chooses to jump off the Golden Gate bridge in rush hour traffic. Look at Elliot Smith, the alternative singer that no one listened to before he died. A model suicide! He didn't even bother a friend to ask if he would mind stabbing him. He stabbed himself!
I also reserve a special caustic vision of homeless guys who hang out in front of ATMS. This is like the cave man argument: "Look the wall is giving you money! Ergo: you must have money! What may be wrong with this insight is that the reality might appear something more like this: "yeah buddy but this is my overdraft and it's going to feed my cancer ridden kid."
Another tactic used by the Roma to let your six year old kid act out a tragic scene from a silent movie is also a pretty low blow which I reciprocate with even more theatre. That tooth ache never seems to go away! In fact, it's getting worse! Skip that guy! That's the guy who always has a tooth ache!
A Case Taken From Personal Observation
I have noticed that there is a homeless man near where I live who has reached some kind of zen point with his homelessness identity. He's young and pretty handsome. Think Sean Bean in his younger years. His faithful post is next to a newspaper stand that never seems to be open. He speaks fluent French, Russian and English. He has three dogs. It would seem to me one of the many hard choices of being homeless seems to me to be to stop investing in the dog food industry. And to perhaps consider being less a pet person until after you find an apartment.
But anyway, the guy does well. And by well I mean that he seems to attract more women that would seem humanly possible for a man in his economic position. Women surround him like moths to a flame. What do they talk about? I guess I am envious as this phenomenon could only happen in a Socialist country. Or I guess if you got it, you just got it. It doesn't matter how you smell. Perhaps it is his intellectual rigor. Perhaps it is his charm. Perhaps he is James Bond undercover. I would go up and ask him all these questions if he wasn't such an asshole. He's always got a cutting quip for me as I head off to my shitty job. He probably is a Russian nuclear scientist with more languages on his CV then the guy working for the city sweeping the streets around him but he has instead chosen the noble pursuit of hassling people with a job as his job.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I know I seem like grade "A" dick for picking on homeless people. But I guess perhaps that is my point. One can be an asshole in any lot. My rhetoric in criticizing homeless people echoes the same self righteousness I encounter from then when they're trying to ruin my day. And yes, I am aware that I am generalizing. I should have offer to buy a stranger a cup of coffee instead of being a wise ass on the web. But I find that there is a limit to how many ways I can agree with overly simplified dimestore philosophy, or insult Nicolas Sarkozy.
It is a horrible predicament to be homeless. I would not wish it on anyone. It's horrible to never have dry feet. To wonder where you might take your next shower. To drink to the point of numbness to try and prevent the cold from eating you away. It's horrendous to be hungry and not know where your next meal will come from. To be reduced to this survival state.
But doubling the misery is pretty callous. Causing others pain, injury and hurt is also shameful. So that's where I stand on homelessness in Paris. People are now going to think I am a really bad person. But I am still human, which actually, quite refreshingly, means that although our situations may be different (although being a teacher is actually pretty close to being homeless) one carries the same wretched, selfish personality whatever happens to one in life.
I also try and spread the gospel of being thankful they are not homeless in America. I explain in French that the land where you really do not want to be homeless is the USA. Over there you're totally fucked. So you see! It's all relative. And it may be cold here in Paris but atleast they don't leave you out on the hospital curb after the insurance questions don't add up. Call me Mr. bright side.
Here is the thing. I am a big believer in the quiet plight. I respect the homeless man or woman's need to beg but not his right to pretend everyone in the rest of the world is employed by Phillip Morris. The braggart is still a braggart no matter what his financial situation. One man's misery does not equal the whole metro cars' misery. I also do not have a lot of time to talk about Bob Marley and the message of his music. I actually think Bob Marley's lyrics are pretty shit.
I believe in being polite when warming up in laundromats and respecting that the soup shelter does not admit dogs. One may argue that they do not have a choice. You always have a choice in the way you do something. It's like suicide. I respect much more the quiet guy alone who tranquilly offs himself than the guy who chooses to jump off the Golden Gate bridge in rush hour traffic. Look at Elliot Smith, the alternative singer that no one listened to before he died. A model suicide! He didn't even bother a friend to ask if he would mind stabbing him. He stabbed himself!
I also reserve a special caustic vision of homeless guys who hang out in front of ATMS. This is like the cave man argument: "Look the wall is giving you money! Ergo: you must have money! What may be wrong with this insight is that the reality might appear something more like this: "yeah buddy but this is my overdraft and it's going to feed my cancer ridden kid."
Another tactic used by the Roma to let your six year old kid act out a tragic scene from a silent movie is also a pretty low blow which I reciprocate with even more theatre. That tooth ache never seems to go away! In fact, it's getting worse! Skip that guy! That's the guy who always has a tooth ache!
A Case Taken From Personal Observation
I have noticed that there is a homeless man near where I live who has reached some kind of zen point with his homelessness identity. He's young and pretty handsome. Think Sean Bean in his younger years. His faithful post is next to a newspaper stand that never seems to be open. He speaks fluent French, Russian and English. He has three dogs. It would seem to me one of the many hard choices of being homeless seems to me to be to stop investing in the dog food industry. And to perhaps consider being less a pet person until after you find an apartment.
But anyway, the guy does well. And by well I mean that he seems to attract more women that would seem humanly possible for a man in his economic position. Women surround him like moths to a flame. What do they talk about? I guess I am envious as this phenomenon could only happen in a Socialist country. Or I guess if you got it, you just got it. It doesn't matter how you smell. Perhaps it is his intellectual rigor. Perhaps it is his charm. Perhaps he is James Bond undercover. I would go up and ask him all these questions if he wasn't such an asshole. He's always got a cutting quip for me as I head off to my shitty job. He probably is a Russian nuclear scientist with more languages on his CV then the guy working for the city sweeping the streets around him but he has instead chosen the noble pursuit of hassling people with a job as his job.
And yes, in case you were wondering, I know I seem like grade "A" dick for picking on homeless people. But I guess perhaps that is my point. One can be an asshole in any lot. My rhetoric in criticizing homeless people echoes the same self righteousness I encounter from then when they're trying to ruin my day. And yes, I am aware that I am generalizing. I should have offer to buy a stranger a cup of coffee instead of being a wise ass on the web. But I find that there is a limit to how many ways I can agree with overly simplified dimestore philosophy, or insult Nicolas Sarkozy.
It is a horrible predicament to be homeless. I would not wish it on anyone. It's horrible to never have dry feet. To wonder where you might take your next shower. To drink to the point of numbness to try and prevent the cold from eating you away. It's horrendous to be hungry and not know where your next meal will come from. To be reduced to this survival state.
But doubling the misery is pretty callous. Causing others pain, injury and hurt is also shameful. So that's where I stand on homelessness in Paris. People are now going to think I am a really bad person. But I am still human, which actually, quite refreshingly, means that although our situations may be different (although being a teacher is actually pretty close to being homeless) one carries the same wretched, selfish personality whatever happens to one in life.
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