I ran, I ran so far away.

So last night, I went to see The Birds in Bryant Park. I love that flick, and the park was a great environment to watch it in. Like NYC’s version of the drive-in. It was especially cool when, during the big attack-on-the-town scene, the wind kicked up and sent scores of leaves from the surrounding trees violently flapping into the crowd. People looked around in surprise, wondering briefly whether this was actually some elaborate physical enhancement to the film. Fun.

Shortly before the movie started, I had to pee and hence went in search of the porta-johns. On my way back, I noticed a guy in a black raincoat of sorts, totally covered in bird shit. I chuckled to myself, recalling shreds of a youthful memory of some parody of The Birds (Monty Python, perhaps? Mel Brooks?) that involved a number of people (for some reason, I associate Madeline Kahn with this memory, though I have no idea if she was really involved) running around being shat upon by flocks of seagulls. Or was it pigeons? Ah well. Then I was like, “Well of course someone would dress up like that here. It’s New York for chrissakes. I’m surprised there’s not an entire army of bird-shit splattered slicker-wearers running around, spreading their brand of Hitchcockian merriment.”

As I walked by, I tried to take a closer look at the guy’s raincoat and ascertain what, exactly, the spots of shit on the coat were made out of. I mean, they were pretty convincing. I dismissed the possibility that, for the sake of parody, one might don a coat covered in real shit; for even if one were willing, how would you convince the birds to shit all over it???

And as I stared, that’s when it hit me: the stains were real. The man was homeless.