Sign of the Times.

I like to think of myself as an empathetic person. I often put myself in other people's shoes and imagine what life would be like. To that end, I know living on the streets of Los Angeles cannot be easy.

In fact when I first arrived here in the summer of 1979 with 99 dollars in my pocket and didn't know one soul in the entire state of California, I almost ended up with no roof over my head. 

Actually, I did end up with no roof over my head when I arrived at a UCLA frat house. They hadn't started renting out rooms to boarders (I was not a fraternity guy) but the house manager said...

"There's a mattress on top of the building, you can sleep there and shit and shower here until a room opens up. Only $75." 

That small act of kindness changed the vector of my life. And kept me from becoming a college educated dumpster diver. Like I said, I get it.

But last week my empathy ran its course. 

As I was returning home from a solid day of picketing with the Writer's Guild, where I was given an official WGA T-shirt, a WGA whistle and an invitation to nosh on some fine looking bagels and lox, I made my way back to my humble Culver City residence. On the way there I encountered a homeless man who had commandeered a substantial piece of real estate on the sidewalk of Culver Blvd.

I decided to walk around him and veered out into the street to circumvent a parked car. Now on the other side of the vagrant, who emitted an overpowering foul smell as well as the air of lunacy, I made my way back towards the sidewalk. 

That's when he came at me. Totally unprovoked, I might add. 

"Get the fuck outtahere, you fucking NAZI," he yelled at me.

I almost chuckled, as a man of Hebraic Seasonings is rarely addressed as a Nazi. 

But the adrenaline surge took over. 

I stepped back as this older guy (actually, probably younger than me, I don't think of myself as an old man) was flailing and swinging his arms and a ratty coat in my general direction. At this point I could see cars pulling over to watch the escalating altercation.

Following the wise advice of my karate instructors, I stepped out of the way, first left, then right. But he kept coming at me, with fiery eyes, and no doubt, a belly full of Fireball whiskey.

That's when I realized I was holding a useful weapon in my hand -- Two picket signs. 

One that read: We are not Gregg (an inside baseball joke about the stepped-on buffoonish character from Succession.

Two: A blank sign. I always pick up a blank one, which are hard to come by, for the next day's witticism. 

Now, in retrospect, I'm thinking, maybe he wasn't crazy at all. Nor even homeless. Maybe he was an actor/goon sent to the streets around Sony Studios to intimidate the writers and strong arm them into a settlement. If you know anything about the tense relationship between Management and Labor Unions, you know that's hardly out of the question.

It would also explain why I had a dream about Jimmy Hoffa last night --true story. I don't remember the details of the dream, but I do remember I have not once in my entire time on this earth ever had a dream about Jimmy Hoffa. Ever.

Word to wise. And to the writers. 

Be careful out there!