Panhandler Protest

New York panhandlers are to the subways and streets as rats and water bugs are to the sewers.

They’re everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong - I am a compassionate person. I do feel sorry for homeless people. (Sure, I feel even sorrier for their poor pooches.) But no, I’m not a completely coldhearted snake when it comes to those sad, unfortunate folks.

My problemo with panhandlers is that most of the time, they are sporting leather shoes and semi-decent clothes. They don’t appear genuinely homeless. In my NYC experience, I find that for-reals homeless people are those who don’t, in fact, beg for money.

Which is even more depressing and messed up.

Yesterday, I attended a publishing seminar at Random House in midtown. Which means I had to - gasp - take the train. During rush hour. Like a real commuter (said in Pinocchio voice).

Lordy, lordy. I haven’t had to do that in almost two and a half years - and let me tell you, I am NOT looking forward to the day when I must twice daily ride trains that are positively busting at the seams with grumpy commuters. No. Thank. You.

What I found most alarming about this commute, though, was the fact that there was a panhandler on the train. A train so crowded, so not-an-inch-of-space packed, it reminisced visions of fruit flies attacking a rotten banana. And we were the fruit flies. Gross.

Horrid. Horrific. Horrifying. The panhandler (and the commute itself).

Really people, come on. If you’re gonna beg for money, talk about how you’re “sick” (they always sound fine to me - I don’t buy a put-on sniffle), how you got no where to sleep, nothing to eat, that you just got laid off - don’t - I repeat do not attempt it at rush hour.

Dum. Mies.

Even I know not to bother people first thing in the morning. Well alright, I am one of those people that does.not.want.to.be.bothered. Fine. But we’re at our most irritable, most irate. No one wants to be going to work! So hell NO are we gonna be willing to yank out our wallets and throw a few bucks at you.

Same goes for the post-workday commute.

Thankfully, we smartypants NYCers have an excuse. Those geniuses over at Apple invented the lovely, magnificent iPod. I find this to be the perfect antidote to panhandlers. When the headphones are on, my ears - hence my being - is shut down to anything but my bee-bopping tunes.

Including la roar de handler, “Please, every penny matters [yeah right], GOD BLESS YOU!” Seriously. Shut. Up.

I promise I am not as bitchy as I seem. If someone is playing a saxophone, or there is a group of exceptional Doo-Wop singers, (noooooo thanks garbage pail drums, or horrific synthesized keyboards, and a HUGE hell no to 80s karaoke-machine-singalongs), and they are actually good, I have been known to offer up a dolla or two.

And I have, on more than one occasion, given my food to homeless people. One in particular on 3rd Street.

I’ve even bought candy from little kids “fundraising” (who knows if they’re really raising money for something other than themselves).

So no, I’m not heartless. But I find it extremely, extremely difficult to feel any sort of sympathy for these pseudo-spongers, these faux-hobos that play the part of the panhandler to make some moolah, then go home to their nice, warm, regular ole apartamento.

I want to smack their stupid money jugs to the floor.

Buddy!!!! You’re obviously not homeless. You’re obviously perfectly capable of getting a job. So stop being such a parasite!

It just really, really, really irks the shit out of me. I’m on a panhandler protest yo.