policestanye!!!

 

Hmmm. OK, despite the fact that trying to avert the street stage drama of loud and unruly homeless people is not the most pleasant experience, there is one that I find even more unnerving.

 

You know it, occasionally you see a human specimen lurching through the downtown streets with all the proper card-carrying, homeless affectations…aimlessness, nervous mania, a bit emotionally askew. Yet you find yourself hesitant to call them “homeless” because they are dressed normally and cleanly, have a hairstyle that appears to have been combed this morning, at the earliest. They look normal in every way except in their mannerisms. The way they deport themselves looks seriously indigent. This is always an odd predicament. How do you respond to such a person who may decide to engage you?

 

Well you see, tonight I did not get engaged by such a person but I witnessed him in all his spastic glory at the corner of 5th and Hill while I waited for my bus. The usual large, scattered crowd had accumulated for the rush hour wait because the corner is major transfer point for a multitude of SoCal regional bus lines. People wait here for a bus which will take them north, south, east, west…every little corner to the Los Angeles area possible. There I stood, waiting patiently, waiting…and then I heard it.

 

The chant.

 

“Policestanye!”

 

I heard it again.

 

“Policestanye!”

 

That’s when I saw the Policestanye dude himself. Just a normal-looking white guy, brown hair, wearing clean blue jeans and a clean Henley. White sneakers. And as he crossed Hill, he repeatedly raised his right fist in the air while yelling “Policestanye!” Tell you the truth, my hearing is not the best…at least, that’s what I thought he was yelling. He was so nondescript that I might have guessed he was catching the bus which would take him home after a full day at a pencil-pushing desk job. Uhm, wait…that’s me I’m thinking of. Anyways, he would have blended in just fine if it had not been for his ritualistic Policestanye chant with the accompanying arm pump. When he crossed the street, he waited for the light to turn red in the other direction, his cheer uninterrupted. Suddenly a woman sitting in a big black SUV started chanting that shit right back to him through her open window. Emboldened, he turned up the volume Policestanye!! and he pumped his fist at her fiercely and she yelled back and laughed before taking off. I was puzzled now. Was she goofing on him? Everyone on the corner was smiling. It was bizarre. With the light green, Mr. Policestanye crossed the street, continuing his chant.

 

What the hell is policestanye?
I even Googled the word. Unsurprising, not one bite. Google didn’t even have the balls to fill in my search query according to popular usage.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Was the dude crazy?
At first I thought so.

 

Perhaps he was chanting the name of an imaginary Xanadu he contrived in his loopy brain, maybe he was living a private World Cup fantasy in which Policestanye has just whooped Argentina’s ass. Or maybe Policestanye was a figment of his political madness, a political candidate dragged back from the land of insanity.

 

Policestanye!!! One must pump their wrist for full effect. If you can dig up a Henley, better yet.

 

I thought of the magical Policestanye.

 

In my own private madness, Policestanye is an idyllic country.
A small country, lush with endlessly deep green brush. Gentle hills, narrow roads, small cars, bicycles. A comforting and mild wind, year-round temperatures in the mid 70s. The population is sparse.

 

Children listen to their parents yet possess a healthy skepticism and are capable of impetuousness but are fully aware and accepting of the fact that they do not know everything and that life is a learning experience. Realizing this, they are filled with a zest for life and for learning through meaningful experience.

 

Policestanye has no celebrity culture for everyone is a performer. No one aspires to mimic a trashy and superficial icon because there are no icons.

 

There are no lawyers or auditors in Policestanye. There are no contracts. Trust is unconditional and a handshake is an absolute conveyace of one’s intention to fulfill a verbal promise.

 

Policestanye!
Earlier, while getting dinner ready, I found myself chanting it. It’s…catchy.
If I ever tumble into insanity, you can be sure I will be finding refuge in that verdant wonderland behind the madness that curtains my soul.