When they finally come to destroy the earth, they'll have to go through you first.

I haven't seen Mr. Rickets in ages. Do crazies just disappear when you're not paying attention? Do they migrate to other climes for the winter? And if they do, what do they call a pack of hobos? I mean, a pack of rats is a mischief, a mass of geese is a gaggle, a flock of crows is a murder...I like that, a murder of hobos. That's what I'm going to call it. I'm going to say that someday. "Watch yourself, here comes a murder of hobos!" So do murders of hobos shuffle south for the winter? I don't know, I'm not very familiar with secret lives of crazies yet. I have noticed that the crazy hobo population is like a hydra, though, in that when one disappears two are bound to take its place. Now, instead of Mr. Rickets and his fixation with planes and SHUTTIN' UP THE POW POW THE BOOM BOOM PEEPS TRYIN' T'SLEEP, I have Grandma Pee Pee and Johnny Rotten.

I've seen Grandma Pee Pee a few times now, and every time she lives up to her name. I don't know if it's really eau de incontinent baglady or if the distinctive aroma was donated by a vindictive cat, but wherever it came from, she wears it like it's goin' out of style. And every time I see her, I'm stuck in the seat behind her on the bus. Every time. Lucky me!

Johnny Rotten, on the other hand, isn't a crazy. I just see him often enough that he warrants a name. He is a fortysomething punk burnout with the studded black anarchist jacket and tight ripped black jeans and assortment of metal bits and pieces and sunglasses and everything, and he always looks so delightfully angry. He somehow manages to do all this and not look completely ridiculous, and that fascinates me, because usually when I see my peers dressed like him, I think it looks silly, and he looks like he could be more than twice my age at least. That sort of thing would usually cause a little bit of my soul to die. And yet every time I see him it's like, ooh! It's Johnny Rotten again! I find myself keeping tabs on what his hair is doing. The first time I saw him it was fiercely orange and spiked, the next time it was green, and just yesterday at Starbucks it was bleached out white. Which reminds me, I have to find somewhere that sells bleach and redye my own hair. The nuclear red + neon yellow combo was pretty cool when I first did it, but I'm not too into this faded peach and pink thing I've got going on now.

You know, I just realized that this recognizing people business could easily be a two-way deal. God, I wonder what Grandma Pee Pee calls me.