Mad dogs and englishmen.
It should be a peaceful day at Newport Transportation Center. The sun is out in full force and the wind brings it to my neck like a warm feather duster brushed alluringly by one of pigalles finest. The roads that circumnavigate Fashion Island, channel traffic which brings the peace of white noise to what should be a serene afternoon. But there is always a mad dog. A too often shaved head off his meds fucking with my zen. His three sizes too big filthy blue T-shirt hangs loosely over a drug binged ripped body as each stride and step are menacingly made, feral dancesteps, without any syncronized movement, devoid of fluidity, as he eyes up his panorama and I drop off his map.His incongrous shouts juxtaposed next to the hopelessness of the homeless mix like a forced out shit sneakily taken in a showroom toilet. One haughtily sneaked glance over my shoulder confirms and he weaves like a eddy into the distance.