Rorschach's Journa, March 17th, 2009

Rorschach’s Journal, 5:08pm. Saint Patrick’s Day. All the drunkards are out tonight. Starting early, it appears. Every so often one stumbles by with enormous green hat, hooting and hollering. For the most part, ignoring me, however, monetary contributions have been on the rise today. Either the sign is effective or they are not really sure what they are doing. One commented on my red hair and asked if I was Irish. Not Irish, Polish. Still, the donations will buy some groceries for a welcome change.

Outside 9:30 club. Sign in hand. Almost time to call it a day while in my disguise so that I may slip on my face for the night to patrol streets. Shots rang out an hour earlier. Watched from the front of the pawn shop as police and hysterical drunks run about.

Television in Pawn Shop’s window catches the eye. News. Short report on the new Michelangelo exhibit opening tomorrow.

“Oh God not that again, I can’t get away from it.” A young girl of 22 spoke from my left. Dressed like a green colored whore. No doubt “clubbing” or celebrating the holiday in some kind of debauched way.

“Hurm, not a fan?” I spoke to her, reluctantly, but perhaps she knew of anyone a little too interested in the paintings.

“Oh God, my mother can’t shut up about it. Michael Angeles this and Michael Angeles that, who ever the hell he was anyway.” She grouched, “Same with my boyfriend. God, he’s even worse."

“Not impressed by art? Art is a reflection of society and culture. Can be controversial but important nevertheless, even if you don’t agree with it.”

“Hah, so you, homeless guy, are an expert on art.” She laughed as she looked at my sign. “I like your sign. Here.” She handed me a 20 dollar bill, “You convinced me.” She smiled stupidly, “My boyfriend would kill you if he found me talking to you.” She smoothed her hair vainly.

“I’d like to see him try.” I thought to myself, but did not speak it out loud.

“There she is.” She pointed at the screen again, “Mom’s on the news.”

I stared at the woman on the screen. Well to do, patron of the arts. Socialite. I then looked at the girl. How could this apple have fallen so far from the tree?

“Hey baby, you ready to go?” a male voice said as he approached the girl. He looked over at me. It was one of the hoodlums I saw last night in front of the museum. The one who wrinkled his nose at me. Suspicious. Wonder if he was involved in the shooting a block away as well.
“What the F**k you lookin’ at?” he said as he lead the girl away, “Shit man, take a shower, Wooow!” The two laughed as they walked away.

"Aw, baby I thought he was cute!"

I contemplated following them had it not been that they were going out on the town and it was a holiday. There would be no covert operations tonight.

Stopping at the store, I pick up groceries and meet James at the house. Cat had managed to empty out every container in the place. He sat, amongst torn papers and looked up innocently.

“Mew” Purring, he enjoyed a can of tuna with me. A night in, reading New Frontiersman, cacophony out in the streets.