A few
years ago while visiting friends in California I made my first trip
to San Francisco. Mike and I spent the day seeing sights and eating
great food and having fun. Completely fortuitously Cherie Currie,
former singer for the 70s band The Runaways, had announced a concert
in San Francisco the same day that we had already planned on being
there. When I discovered this I called Mike and told him we were
going, then bought tickets online. I wrote about that concert in more
detail HERE, so that isn’t what this is about.
There
were two experiences I had while waiting in line outside of the Red
Devil Lounge waiting to go into the show. We were approached by a
homeless man. He was the epitome of the downtrodden. His hair and
beard were long, dirty and matted. He was thin and filthy, wearing
clothes so ragged I’m not sure how they stayed on him. He came
straight to me and I fully expected him to ask us for money and then
move on.
‟Hey,”
he said to me. ‟Nice shirt. They’re one of my favorite bands!”
I was
wearing a t-shirt with the logo of the Glam Band The Sweet (Ballroom
Blitz, Fox on the Run). Perhaps ungenerously I assumed this was just
his opening line and the ask for money would come next. Nope. He
enthused about The Sweet, telling me about seeing them in the 70s. He
was knowledgable about them and we had a completely enjoyable
conversation, just two guys who shared an interest in a specific
band, swapping stories about favorite songs. For the duration of the
conversation he lit up, happy to be just talking and connecting. At
the end he just smiled and started to go on his way. He never asked
me for a dime (though I did give him some money, which, though
grateful, he seemed hesitant to take).
Just
after he left two couple walked by. Older. Well-dressed. Out for an
evening. One of the women looked up and saw the marquee which
announced, ‟Tonight: Cherie Currie!”
‟Cherry
curry?” she said while scrunching up her nose. ‟I don’t think
that would taste good at all.”