Marvin Should Have His Own TV Show

Sometimes you witness encounters that defy expectation. You find people interacting in ways you never anticipated. You observe unique individuals coming into contact with other unique individuals resulting in utterly unpredictable scenarios. Something along the lines of a Hari Krishna giving directions to a midwestern pipe fitter outside of a San Francisco hotel.

Well, I witnessed one of those firsthand the other evening. Without a doubt, it was the highlight of my evening.

I left Farmer Brown's at about 10:15 on that Thursday evening. I was well lubricated with the drinks I'd imbibed with my cousin and his girlfriend and a woman I've gone out with a few times. Drinks had been drunk for going on about four hours and I was feeling no pain. After wandering down Market Street for a of couple blocks, I strolled into the Powell Street BART station. Inserted my fare card into the turnstile which opened with an audible "swoosh-clunk". Looking around, I simultaneously noted the absence of anyone else in the station and the dizziness that resulted from turning my head side to side. After contemplating the possible implications of both, I proceeded to the stairs and descended to the train platform below. I don't know if I ever appreciated a railing like I appreciated the one on those stairs.

Reaching the bottom, I was greeted by the familiar sight of any train station in the country. Cold cement floors. Posters advertising movies and tv shows and sporting events and improved cell phone coverage. A schedule and a map with a rainbow of colored train lines imposed on a simple, easy to read map. And an utter diversity of people. Businessmen and laborers. Young and old. Students and teachers and travelers and preachers. Social and racial diversity that could rival any jury room. And on this night, I was blessed with the opportunity to witness a bit of economic diversity as well.

As I stopped at the black marks on the floor that signaled where the doors to my car would open, a group of six older people walked up behind me. They were dressed in expensive evening wear with overcoats and scarves and furs and broaches and the like. And out of the three men and three women, two of them were carrying orchids. As if the rest of their presentation wasn't descriptive enough, there were two blossoming metaphors for high society staring me in the face. Their discussion was focused on the opera they had apparently just seen and they seemed to have enjoyed it as all of them agreed that the lead soprano was a burgeoning star. For the life of me, I couldn't figure out why they were taking BART instead of driving or taking a cab. Maybe they were conducting an experiment for one of the college classes they taught. Maybe they lost a bet.

And then, as I saw him approaching, a smile crept across my face.

Walking up to us was a homeless man who could have been anywhere from 35 to 60. His hands looked callused and worked. His jeans had gone from the blue of their beginnings to a color that reminded me of the SF bay. His red shirt hung loosely off of his thin frame and left a portion of his stomach exposed where a hole was burned into the material. But his face was smiling. He was talking to everyone he passed and his wrinkled, dusty brown face was dominated by that grin. As he got closer, he noticed the group beside me and focused all of his attention there.

"Hey, can y'all help me out? My name's Marvin and my wife's been kidnapped. I need 75 cents to get her out. Any of you got 75 cents? Yah ha ha ha!" He was as pleased with his invention as I was with what was inevitably unveiling before me. The three couples shifted and turned as they attempted to ignore Marvin.

"Seriously, folks, y'all got any change? I got some jokes for you. I don't expect to get somethin' for nothin'" The group kept up its absurd pretense of ignorance.

"Aight, here's the first one. What time is bedtime at Michael Jackson's house? When the little hand's big -- I mean when the little hand's on the big hand! Oooh hoo hahaha!" Marvin's cackle echoed through the station.

At this point the group could pretend no longer. Marvin was right in front of one of the men and eye contact had been made. Not wanting to miss even a little bit of this exchange, I took out my phone and pressed "record" to get an audio file of it all. All that I was missing was a couch and a bowl of popcorn. The show continued.

"You like that one? I got more of 'em . . . Uhhh, yeah . . . Ummm, here's one. Why'd Michael Jackson go to Macy's?"

The man in the group finally acknowledged Marvin by responding, "I don't know."

"Because his pants were off-- uhh, wait a minute, that's not it. Because kid's pants were half off! Ahahahah! 'Cause the kid's pants are off and Michael likes those boys, ahahahaha! You like that one?"

An uncomfortable smile appeared on the man's face as he offered an ambiguous response, not wanting to agree and not wanting to offend. Seriously, I was as riveted to this scene as I'd ever been to an episode of the Sopranos or Lost or any of that other crap. This was awesome.

"You wanna hear another one? I've got a whole bunch of 'em. I keep 'em in my folder here. Y'all like these jokes?" His enthusiasm would have put Robin Williams to shame. Not waiting for any encouragement, Marvin proceeded, "What did the man say to Michael Jackson at the beach?"

Engaging Marvin more than I anticipated, the opera afficianado said, "Well, I assume that the answer will have ironic significance so I cannot possibly know." Was this guy trying to portray the cliche of pretention? My only solace was in the fact that Marvin didn't miss a beat.

"Get out of my sun! Ahahahahah! Not like the sun in the sky! Oooh hooo hahahah! Like get your dick out of my son! Hahahahaha! I like that one." The smile returned to my face as Marvin continued laughing and describing what was so funny about the last joke. He certainly wasn't bashful.

Then the man who was the acknowledged representative for the group decided to really class things up. He made a chivalrous move backwards and slid in behind his wife, using her as a shield against future vulgarities. It was special. I mean, the guy was so uncomfortable that he was willing to sacrifice his own wife in order to extricate himself. And there she sat, with a horrified, confused look on her face. Marvin reiterated his need for 75 cents in ransom money to the woman and kept on laughing as, to the woman's relief, he decided to move on to another more receptive audience.

I hit "stop" on my phone and sat there for a moment contemplating what I had just witnessed. Then I noticed an Indian man, about my own age, standing next to me smiling.

"That was pretty amusing, wasn't it?" he said.

"The highlight of my night. And I got almost all of it recorded for future enjoyment." I held up my phone and smiled as I said this.

"And I thought you were holding it out to your side trying to get reception down here."

"Just trying to preserve a bit of real life."

The train arrived cutting our conversation short. It was a nice reality check, though, to know that others out there find these interactions as amusing as I do. Seriously, it was better than any movie I've seen in a while. I'm just mad that my phone doesn't record video. Fuck Kenny vs. Spenny or Survivor, Marvin should have his own reality show.

Gary vs the Key-tar

Don't tell me there is more of a rocker on the planet earth....ladies and gents....Gary Grr....vs the Key-tar.

All Hallow's Eve

Last night I found myself staying in. I wasn't terribly interested in getting trashed on a Wednesday night and certainly wasn't inspired to dress up. I blame it on the unstoppable passage of time and the effect it seems to have on my life. Not that getting older has impaired my ability to suck down liquor or anything. It's just that I don't need to search for reasons to party it up anymore and Halloween sounded like more trouble than it was worth. Plus I'm already doing a costume party this coming weekend.

So, there I was, sitting on my couch watching tv and sipping on a beer when the doorbell rang. A moment of panic passed through me as I contemplated who could be at the door and then it hit me. Of course, it was trick-or-treaters. Kids excited about the prospect of free candy, maybe even a full sized bar if they were lucky. But, unfortunately, this was not gonna be a lucky house. During my contemplation of how to spend my Halloween evening, I hadn't even considered buying a sack full of candy to hand out to the little pirates and ninjas and Dora-the-explorers. And might I ask, in what warped world does "Dora" rhyme with "explorer"? Unless your in the Kennedy household.

Nevertheless, there I was. In my house with three kids on my front porch awaiting their bounty. I stayed perfectly still and gradually turned down the volume on the TV until it was a barely audible hum. They knocked again. Tiny fists pounding on the wood and glass of my door like a cacophony of woodpeckers. Persistent beyond reason. I sat there deciding whether it was prudent to answer the door and apologize for my lack of preparation or to simply pretend I wasn't home. Pretend I wasn't home despite the lights shining through the blinds and the changing volume of the television. It seemed like a better approach than answering the door and either giving out something lame in place of candy or explaining my predicament. I have a distinct memory of approaching a similar house when I was a young and knocking on the door despite an utter lack of light from the front porch. After waiting for at least 60 seconds, a man came to the door with a slightly panicked look on his face and unrolled something out of his shirt and into my bag. I left, satisfied that I had successfully gained more candy only to find out that the guy had given me a tin of tumeric. That's right. Turmeric. I mean, who the hell comes up with turmeric when trying to find a suitable substitute for candy? Turmeric? Really? Perhaps that's why my mom subsequently sent the cops to his house.

But suddenly I was able to empathize with that guy's actions and understand why he made such an odd choice. He was sitting there, unwittingly unprepared for Halloween when the doorbell rang. He panicked and grabbed the first thing that seemed vaguely appropriate. And, now, there I was as well. I chuckled to myself as I perused the spice rack while searching for a bit of sweets. And then, in a rare moment of clarity and maturity, I decided to answer the door and apologize for my lack of holiday enthusiasm. I walked across my living room to the entryway, turned the knob and swung the door open only to find the front porch utterly empty. A subtle smell of half eaten almond joy still hung in the air. The kids had been unwilling to wait for me to find my candy or make it to the door or to do whatever else it is that makes us grown ups dawdle. Or maybe they'd just already filled out their spice collections.