Pinky Midili is a stuffed-animal-collecting, heavy-metal-loving, tutu-wearing, self-proclaimed “biker rock star.”
Born Ronald Albert Midili, Pinky got his nickname from a pink one-piece tutu that he’s often seen wearing around the neighborhood. He spent the last six years living in Arizona and traveling coast-to-coast in a “big” RV. Now, he lives at Jazzie’s Place, a shelter in the Mission District for LGBTQ+ people.
“I like big things. Big RVs, big men, big cakes,” Pinky said on Tuesday morning.
Add to this: Big stuffed animals. As he sat in a wheelchair in the 16th Street BART Plaza, at least eight were visible about his person, several strapped to his lap with a bungee cord. The rest of his collection, he said, he keeps in a storage unit, along with several musical instruments that he knows how to play, including a guitar and piano.
The nearby alleyways and streets around the plaza remained generally clear in the morning. People lounged around the BART entrance on the northeast plaza, while a crowd of around a dozen men smoked at the southwest plaza.
At 6 p.m., the southwest BART Plaza where Pinky had spent his morning was only slightly more crowded than it had been earlier.
The northeast side of Mission Street, meanwhile, was host to dozens of vendors selling various wares on the sidewalk, as loud music blared over a speaker. Street-food vendors had popped up as well, catering to commuters moving through the area.
Pinky, however, was no longer around.
Earlier in the day Pinky had cheerfully introduced his menagerie: His “number one” plush, (a green frog named “Froggy Pooh”). A round purple rabbit, endearingly known as “Boing,” which he said had been gifted to him by a preacher for his birthday.
As two nuns who walked through the BART Plaza stopping to chat with people, Pinky smiled and waved. “These ladies know me,” he said.
“Everybody knows me. Yeah, I’m very famous,” he said.
The 62-year-old’s friendly demeanor and playful appearance hides the fact that Pinky has endured a lot in his personal life. He lost his mom a year ago, but couldn’t see her before she died because he was in the hospital for congestive heart failure, a condition for which there is no cure.
He patted his eyes dry with a crumpled paper napkin every time he mentioned his mother. “Her death was the hardest feeling. And I don’t think about it, because it hurts too much.”
As for his health issues, he acknowledged them with less concern. He takes medication for his heart, which is too weak to get surgery on. He also said he has lung problems.
“I was supposed to die a year and a half ago. I feel fine,” he said with a raspy chuckle. He said he was going to meet with a palliative care team later in the day; they were working on finding him a place to live where he could have his own room.
Vincent, a friend, walked over to Pinky with a large spliff and a pack of cigarettes, taking a puff from the former before handing it off to Pinky, who took a few hits before a coughing fit ensued. The cigarette he saved in his left hand for later.
Sad state of affairs that this is America, yup the land of opportunity that seems to pass on a lot of Americans.
Viva San Francisco. None of us will live forever, news at 11. I wish Pinky the best. One thing we should remember, I think, is that we can be ourselves while we are alive. Eat big cakes and big men while you can. Ride big rvs and big men while you can. Death is coming but so what. Thanks for the story, ML. More love to Pinky.
Is this the character that was on the recent film about the community that pops up on BLM land in Arizona every year? There was a guy in that film that looks like this whose RV broke down.
I tip my hat to the police and DWP for cleaning up the Northeast plaza, which always looks normal now whereas a month ago it looked like LA Skid Row every Saturday morning.
Smoking kills (often). See Surgeon General Report from–1962?