Back when I used to work in Santa Monica

not the guy, but this came up in a google search for "giant dreadlock guy"

In the early 2000's I used to work in Santa Monica.  Right now I work about 500 feet from Santa Monica. These are different times, but only slightly. 

Back then, there was this guy who used to sit on a bench outside the 7-11, the one on the corner of Colorado and 7th. He was homeless, battered by the only element LA knows - the sun.  This leathery man, who never removed his coat, even on the hottest of days, had allowed his hair to form into a dreadlock.  One gigantic dreadlock, cultivated over many years, growing down his back intertwined with the realities of rough living.  His point of view never changed.  He just sat there on the bench, staring.  He was there the days I'd buy my lotto tickets and the days I'd buy slushies and the days I'd buy flaming hot cheetos.  He was even there the day I bought sushi and Billie Jean King, of lady tennis fame, was standing in line behind me.  He was always there.  Walking by him, I never lingered looking, but I would always steal a glance at that rope hanging off his head.  It looked caked in tar.  My own hair, invariably clean from morning showers, blew gently on ocean winds. His dreadlock just laid there, and seemed alive and dead at the same time.  Maybe I was projecting because in that time and place I too felt alive and dead, at once. 

What I really mean to say is - street corners are a good place to see shit that can't live indoors but are not exactly wild either.

That is all.