Michael's Chronicles: Rittenhouse Square

I haven't had much time to do blog writing these days, as anyone who wanders onto this page will quickly notice. My brother Michael is a heck of a lot more prolific with the writing these days than I am. He travels all over the country selling hardwood drums and playable furniture at high-end art fairs. He's got stuff to talk about, so he's up and I'm not. Maybe that's for the best? Anyway, here's the newest from Michael Thiele, Hardwood Music craftsman.

Friday, October 11
Philadelphia
Rittenhouse Square

“I’m not homeless. I’m just not living anywhere in particular.” The words stuck to my ribs more than the oatmeal I had just eaten. The man who spoke them was speaking to no one in particular. May, for all I know, have been schizophrenic. 

Another big city. Another park bench dweller. I wondered……where will he be living when the inevitable snow arrives? It won’t be long. Winter’s bite is only a nibble at the moment. But in this part of the country, she has teeth. She is indifferent to human needs. Not cruel. Just indifferent. I started to move on.

“Dilettantes.” 

I stopped. What strange force had sucked this word into this street guy’s vocabulary?

French for dallier or tinkerer. Who the hell was he talking about? 

“It’s not their fault if they have money. Not their fault. Not issued to everyone. Just some of them. Some of them.” I followed his eyes across the park to the PARC at 18th and Locust where, coincidentally, I had just eaten breakfast. Twenty seven dollars (tip included) worth of oatmeal and bacon. Hadn’t even eaten all of it. I don’t eat until I am sated - only until I’m satisfied.

I never eat breakfast. Well, pretty much never. This morning was an exception. I was downtown early in order to take advantage of a break in the all day parking fee if one arrives prior to 7 a.m. the “Early Bird” deal. Some deal. $45. It meant I had un-needed 
time to burn. Burned it at PARC.

He babbled a bit more and I almost moved on when I noticed a red rose on the end of the bench where he’d spent the night. Had to ask.

“What’s with the rose.” The answer nailed me.

“Aw, some homeless bitch dropped it off. Not my type.” Sound familiar? 

I learned something this morning. Misogyny is not just a class thing (can you say Trump?) it’s a guy thing. Oh, and another thing. Parking and breakfast on this square are expensive, dilettante or not.

Later……