And the voice of the intersection activist trumpets across the land. : Spring Comes to the Street

Spring. Lilies bloom in the field and wackos bloom on the corner. Wino weather stirs the bums from their lairs. Oracles of doomsday rise and yawn. They meet in the street, an odd assortment of shuffling beggars and arm-waving proselytes. Spare a dime, save your wretched soul. Repent, relent, reconsider, reassess, rearm, revoke, rebuke, retreat. I love it.

Spring is not spring until the voice of the intersection activist trumpets across the land. Not all of them, of course, are wackos and not all of them are bums. Some are just out there campaigning for a cause, saving the whales, saving the park, saving the children and saving themselves from the tedium of a honey-sweet day spent indoors.

But often it’s difficult to distinguish the bums from the others. Either the derelicts are dressing better or we’ve rediscovered downward chic. The Princess Di look is out. Bag lady punk is in. So is creative begging.

Consider, for instance, those scratching for a handout along Ventura Boulevard. A woman in Woodland Hills needed money for a bottle of gamay Beaujolais. A man in Studio City wanted to buy CBS.

“Gamay Beaujolais?” I asked the woman. “Whatever became of Night Train in a paper bag?”

“I’m trying to better myself,” she said.

I explained to the man that it would cost a billion dollars to buy CBS. He had only asked for a quarter. He thought about that, then said, “Better make it a dollar.”

The God People are more prevalent this season. Probably because of the mini-series “A.D.,” which NBC offered as a salute to the resurrection. Not Christ’s, the network’s. I slept through most of it. Only television can make the rise of Christianity and the fall of Rome seem tedious.

I found one preacher who balanced a Styrofoam cup on his head while he summoned us to redemption. Another strummed a guitar and sang Commandments to the tune of “I Can Say My ABCs.” A third wore a badge, “It’s Too Late for Las Vegas.” My sentiments exactly.

I had gone looking for the street preacher who used to scream Jesus! on a corner. A thin, balding man who reminded me of the life-beaten, put-upon Mr. Peepers.

The Screamer stands quietly at an intersection as though he might be waiting for a light to change. When enough people have gathered, he suddenly bellows Jesus! in a voice gigantically disproportionate to his size. It sounds like an incoming missile. Children cry, men scatter and old ladies clutch their hearts.

Then he smiles, nods with satisfaction and waits quietly again to scare hell out of the next batch of unsuspecting sinners.

The Screamer wasn’t there, but the Warning Lady was. She handed me a pamphlet that said, “Watch Out, You Could Be Next!!”

It was a list of publications secretly controlled by the Vatican. Among them Playboy, Family Circle, Cuisine and The Los Angeles Times. Just as I thought.

“How did the Vatican manage to take control?” I asked.

“The homosexuals,” she replied mysteriously.

“Not the Communists?”

“Haven’t you heard?” she asked. “They’re part of the Vatican now!”

I must have missed that. Mosey on.

My favorite place for Being Saved, Joining a Cause or Hearing the Other Side is in front of the Gemco store near DeSoto. This time it was the Lyndon LaRouche hustle.

LaRouche, for those who missed 1984, has run for president four times. He has alternately been labeled a neo-fascist and a Soviet agent. He calls himself a great American and raises millions. Two dollars of it came from me.

I gave it to a sincere young woman who insisted that absolutely the only way to prevent annihilation is to build more missiles, stop Henry Kissinger and love Lyndon LaRouche.

I could understand the part about building more missiles to save the world. That’s national policy. But Henry Kissinger? I thought he was yesterday’s chicken soup.

“He’s a blood-sucker,” she said, savoring the term.

“How so?”

She handed me some pamphlets and a copy of a newspaper called New Solidarity.

“It’s all in here,” she said.

One story implied that Kissinger is now a hired tool of the Communist conspiracy. That’s a relief. I was afraid he might still be on our side.

I walked to Solley’s for some pastrami. There is nothing like Solley’s pastrami to cleanse the soul of evil influences. I had gathered what I needed for a column, including the methods by which most of us have already found a stairway to heaven. Catholics confess, Protestants sing and Jews donate to the City of Hope. What more did I need?

As I reached the deli, a man stopped me. There was no doubt this time. By scent and apparel, he was a bum. “Got change for the starving Ethiopians?” he said.

“How much have you collected so far?” I asked.

He grinned through gaps in his front teeth. “You’re the first.”

I gave him a buck. What the hell. It’s spring.