Only in LA

For those long time residents, most are familiar with the sight of a man dressed in black tights, usually shirtless, dancing to a boom box in front of an antique shop on Robertson Boulevard just south of Third, across the street from Michel Richard. Sometimes he uses skates, although the outfit never varies. His body, from the excessive dancing, is sinewy and tanned. His strange dancing didn't seem to cause much concern for the shop owner or anyone else on the street. Most of us assumed he was homeless, for whatever reason. The urban myth, something all of us promoted, was that he was a wealthy man, who happened to be crazy and loved to dance. I, as most can imagine, have been fascinated with him all the years I lived there. When driving down Robertson, I would always look for him, a human signpost to a life that doesn't change much despite its big city pretensions.

When I was in LA for the wedding, this man came up in topic about those strange sightings in LA so synonymous with the city's eccentricities. He was like Angeline, the aged starlet whose billboards belied her actual physical age, and Dennis Woodruff, the wannabe actor whose cars were as much billboards about the hopelessness of Hollywood dreams as anything Nathanel West could have written. All of us speculated that he was a trust fund heir, whose eccentricities were the topic of much family distress. There was nothing sympathetic in our tone about this man's obvious mental condition.

The Wall Street Journal reported on the exploitation of this man, whose name is John Wesley Jermyn. It seems a couple of Beverly Hills kids--we can assume they grew up there--decided to capitalize on this man's obvious mental illness by befriending him, getting him to agree to use his likeness on clothes sold, aptly, at Kitson, a boutique up the street from where Mr. Jermyn dances. The t-shirts with his likeness say, "The Crazy Robertson" with the back touting "No Money, No Problems." This store, a staple for the young starlets copiously followed in the tabloids sells anything that is 'of the moment' and uber-trendy with a particular focus on HOLLYWOOD and LA. Mr. Jermyn, who suffers from schizophrenia, has a surviving sister, who, obviously, is distressed about the exploitation of his brother's mental illness. It seems all of our assumptions were wrong, or rather not as romantic. He grew up in Hancock Park, attended good schools, was a good athlete, and even a year of college before mental illness took hold. He refuses medication to help his schizophrenia, choosing to dance his days away, protected by his sister and others who have kept him shielded from the dangers of living on the streets.

What was so distressing about this story was the lack of remorse of those who are benefiting from this man's condition. The young people defended their decision by insisting Mr. Jermyn is cognizant enough to have a say in what is used or how it is sold. Hmmmm....A man who chooses to sleep on the streets and whose only focus all day is to dance is well enough to sell his likeness. The article pointed out how Mr. Jermyn was happy to get some 'fame'...

For me, this story encapsulates all that is wrong with that city--small town. There is a grotesque quality to these characters that are a part of this city's landscape as much as that Hollywood sign. If Flannery O'Connor lived in LA, she wouldn't have to make up a great deal to write many stories of woe that litter the boulevards where tourists flock to take pictures of their favorite entertainer's hand prints. This constant pressure for notoriety, even if negative, is the moral code above all else. This excessive narcissism of everyone makes for a strange land. And each year, as the sun gets hotter, the air drier, the air more polluted, the roads more congested, the more extreme the behavior of all those strange people. It is as if the social, moral compass were on the brink, turning and turning without ever stopping for itself and for the citizenry to take a moment to reflect.

The upside of this story was that the t-shirts sold out in no time with more orders placed. The creators, a term I use loosely, have stressed how little profit they have seen, thus neither has Mr. Jermyn. Surprise, surprise, Mr. Jermyn has seen so little of the 5% net. For those who bought the t-shirts, pleased they were part of the zeitgeist, even if completely regional to the westside of LA, will wear them until another new 'it shirt' replaces this one. This shirt like the ones voted for Jennifer Aniston over Angelina Jolie will end up in the bottom of some drawer, forgotten until a garage sale at some later date. This shirt will eventually end up the back of some recent immigrant, whose dreams of a better life, fuels them to take jobs that most of Americans would never want. He, or she, will never know the cultural significance of the image of this man dancing on roller skates. They will think it a peculiarity of the American life they are so desperately trying to adopt.