Sharon Osbourne don’t need no ding dong Diet Coke, baby. The disheveled man mumbles hoarsely into a dingy pay phone receiver, speaking in frenzied gulps of conversation about some plasticine celebrity in his mind, impervious to the what-the-hell gawking of passers-by. Around St. Johns he’s known by a few different names. Telephone Man. Trash Shirt (for the way he sometimes stuffs his clothes full of discarded papers). Transistor. And per his usual M...