An unusually stoic Jokemon totes his sign. Note the slightly crossed out "R" in "Free." Photo courtesy of Matt Fitt.
"You went to school to study media manipulation?" a Berkeley, CA
bum once barked after hearing I was a marketing and communications
student. "We're homeless and we manipulate the media all the time!"
I need to hand it to the guy for being so clear-sighted.
Homelessness, perhaps particularly so in Berkeley, isn't so much a
condition as a religion, a movement as politically charged as a
commitment to buy all-organic. The homeless are reflections of a tear
in time or a glitch in social sentiment that was never quite fixed.
Like more visible agents in society, they too have their intentions,
their motivations, their ways of stirring the waters of provocation.
The Berkeley homeless are notorious for their colourful
personalities and curious wares. Teenage kids create street art out of
the coins they've gathered. Older staples, like the hat lady with the
painted face, are known for the strange stories they tell. I've
actually seen Park Avenue couples put shopping bags down and sit on the
curb, listening to the hat lady with rapt attention.
Jokemon, a nearby cohort and another of the aforementioned Berkeley
staples, appears to have mastered media manipulation and marketing
well. Jokemon, who gives away free jokes (generally rehashing the same
one throughout the day), is known for his three-card monty personality,
corny punchlines and friendly banter with passers-by. He never begs for
money, preferring instead to provide a product or service in exchange
for alms rendered. I've seen him at the same street corner on Telegraph
throughout the duration of my time in college. If he hasn't got
something to say, he's got something to put into your hand. And
whatever it is, it tends to be self-promoting.
"Igotoneforyou igotoneforyou. What does a gay horse say?" he asks
me for perhaps the umpteenth time. I'm sucked in on each occasion.
"You told me this one already," I say with a smile, and he waves my
protests off with a sly grin, repeating, "What does a gay horse say?"
"What?"
He juts out his hip, flips out a hand and replies, "Ha-aaay."
I laugh, less because he's funny and more because of his engaging
smile and the way his eyes hold mine, as though we're sharing a joke
between the lines.
But jokes are hardly Jokemon's sole product. One afternoon he takes
my arm and says, "I'm in the paper! Here. Take a copy." Beside him lie
a stack of newspapers, neatly folded, with a photo of him sitting at
his usual perch, a wooden crate. I can see "Jokemon" written in print
somewhere in the headline. I take a copy. Most people do, regardless of
whether they actually read them.
In another instance, he hands me a pair of photocopies, also neatly
folded beside him, awaiting distribution in a stack. The photocopies
came in two iterations. One is a close shot of his face, eyes drifting
off to the side. Behind him is a filthy wall with graffiti across it.
But it's the other photo that sticks out in my mind: Jokemon lying
across the pavement, his hands across his chest like an ancient mummy,
making a face at the camera as though he's having a seizure. Meanwhile
two cops examine the vivid scrawl across the brick wall behind him: THE
REVOLUTION WILL NOT BE TELEVISED. One cop looks down at Jokemon in a
reproachful way.
I still have the photocopies, autographed in his confident scrawl in the lower right-hand corner.
Recently Jokemon had shirts, upon which were printed the same image
in the series of photocopies that stirred me so. THE REVOLUTION WILL
NOT BE TELEVISED rose stirringly from the starchy white cotton he
gripped in his smooth brown hands.
"Come on," Jokemon coaxed. He grinned at me, as always with a
familiar intimacy, but that could just be his hustle. "$10 for a shirt.
They're fresh made."
"I haven't got $10," I said.
He made a face like I was twisting his arm and conceded: "All right. For you, $7. What's your size?"
"Small," I replied.
"I'll put one on layaway for you." He winked at me and walked off, toting his shirts before the next prospective customer.
If he hasn't already (and I wouldn't put it past him), Jokemon's
one of those eclectic cats who'll land an HBO special one day. He can't
not. Who knows how many of us have received the pages of self-promoting
propaganda and bad jokes he unfailingly disseminated through the years?
Who knows how many of us stood and laughed with him on that street
corner, knowing full well that he'd be one of the defining memories of
Berkeley we'd hold near and pass on?
Jokemon is both medium and message, product and purveyor. Cheers to a media master in his own right.
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