(Sherman Oaks) A short Jewish enabler was found wandering up and down Ventura Boulevard early this morning, mumbling to herself about the unfairness of the San Francisco rental market. "Why won't they rent to my boy?" she asked the parking meter outside of Art's Deli. "He's not asking for much. A closet, maybe. A kitchen. A place to rest his head, his bed and the sectional we bought him for the last apartment. Why are they torturing him like this? There's only so much rental rejection he can take. It's not safe for his tender psyche. Don't these people know he's good for the rent? What's a little unemployment got to do, got to do with it?" The parking meter had nothing to say on the matter, so the short Jewish worrier moved on to someone more responsive. "Maybe I should fly up there and help him," she said to the homeless man on the bus bench. "What do you think?" "Go," he said. "Go right now. Jump on the next plane. Hide in baggage if you have to. I hear you've got plenty of it. You'll fit right in. If my mother had taken this much obsessive interest in me, God only knows where I'd be today." "Thank you. You're a mensch. Here's a gift certificate to Starbucks." "I prefer cash." "I'll hit the ATM across the street. Stay put." "Like I have anywhere to go."
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