You're going to have to make some basic personality changes if you intend to survive in homeless nation. And don't give me that wounded fawn look. It won't work. Savvy street puppies are immune to wounded fawn looks. They're kinda like giving roses to a goat. He'll probably eat the roses and your watch, and then ignore you for the rest of your life.
Now, you want to give me the thousand yard stare? Ok. Then, maybe you'll have my sympathy. But, being Mr. Nice Girl, or Guy, don't feed the bulldog -or the goat - out here in homeless nation.
' Nice' is when somebody crunches your foot while leaping over you to get a meal ticket at a 'feed,' and you say, breathlessly, "Oh, it's ok, don't worry, I didn't need that shoe today." and then like a pinhead, you say..." Gee, oh, I'm so sorry...did you hurt yourself on my bloody foot?"
See, a proper street puppy would put their nose right in the guy's face and growl, "You do that again, and I'll put yer lights out....now give me that meal ticket."
You've probably been doing it all of your life. Being nice to others so they will love you.
Way back there, when life was, um, normal, you caught "The Disease To Please."
Probably around the age when you noticed you weren't getting anywhere by demanding stuff, and that would be at about the age of whenever it was when the folks started grounding you for doing naughty stuff. And instead of sulking about it because you really wanted to go to the dance on Friday, you....you clever person you....figured it out, and nearly gave them heart attacks by offering to take out the garbage, mow the lawn, and do the dishes every night. And you got to go to the dance.
And you had stumbled onto the age old way of how to get your way. Be submissive; avoid initiating confrontations; put the needs of others first; flattery, flattery, flattery; insincerity 'till it spilled out of your ears; being self-effacing; keeping your opinion to yourself; smiling when you wanted to kill , and one of my favorites disguising your unbridled disgust with your basketball coach for being an idiot, by demonstrating in so many groveling ways that you were a team player.
In short, you became a hypocrite. A manipulative shape-shifter pretending to have beliefs, opinions, virtues, feelings, qualities and standards you do not possess.
Heck, you probably shape-shifted your way into a whole lot of bad situations, including the one that brought you here to homeless nation. Who knows? If you were a real good shape-shiftin' manipulator, There may have been a whole bunch of those situations which finally just blew out and melted down the circuits in your conscious mind.
See, and when the conscious mind is shocked, confused, paralyzed by indecision, and just plain scared to death, ( kind of like what happens when you become homeless) the shadow self emerges from the shadow previously cast by the shape shifter. the shadow self which has carried all that pent up repression built up by all those years of living a kind of lie. And that shadow self is here to party!
And it's perfect timing for the shadow self to emerge. And be who you really are. You're here in homeless nation, you don't need to be Mr. Nice Girl...or Guy anymore. In fact, you're better off letting that shadow self lead the way out here, because being 'nice' will get you nowhere but getting your foot stepped on a whole lot.
And I'm not talking about shape shifting from 'nice' to ' good. ' Can't be done.
Good is what you are deep inside. Good is that part of the soul that wouldn't have anything to do with that shape-shifting goat of a personality you brought in here. I'm talking about not letting people walk all over you for things a lot more important than a meal ticket.
And you start by saying "No." A lot. And, "Why?" And "I don't agree." And ya don't explain it by adding on, "Um, well, what I mean is..."
Just "No", "Why?" and "I don't agree "will be sufficient to let others know that you think for yourself, and you won't be talked into doing something you don't want to do, or giving away something you want or need for yourself, or agreeing with anything that goes against your own standards or better judgment.
A lot of puppies out here won't like it. And they won't like you, because they won't be able to take advantage of you, or step on you at a 'feed' line. But they will respect you.
And I don't mean respect you in the way of "Hey, look, there goes a Nobel Prize winner." They will respect you in the way it really counts. They'll think twice before they try to mess with you.
And that is really what we are talking about here. Getting through all of what comes with this particular territory without getting hurt, or worse. And maintaining your humanity, your sense of humor, and most important, the good that is inside of you. Good beats 'nice' every time.
Okay, now, got it? Stand up for yourself. Start fighting back. Put yourself first.
And for heaven's sake, comb that hair, if Miss Lucinda Bureaugard Puppy sees it....well, no dance on Friday night for you, puppy!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
DO YA WANNA DANCE?
What a great song.
Well, do ya wanna dance under the moonlight,
hold my hand all through the night,
oh, baby, baby, baby do ya wanna dance?
Sounds tame, but when Bette Midler sings it, shivers go right up the spine.
Ok, but this might not be the right time to get those shivers, and tingles and exchanging longing gazes and doing the wee wee dance whenever you're in the presence of that special person.
And homeless nation probably isn't the right place, because here you're not really in the right frame of mind for that kind of monkey business. And in the available lighting out here on the street, yikes! Boris Karloff could look like that special person.
Yeah, 'hooking up' out here could give you a breakdown if you don't watch yourself.
My late friend, Robert had a good take on the whole 'hooking up' deal. He'd sit on a bench watching a couple canoodling over in a corner. Then he'd say "Look at that. Ya got a guy who's down to a zero, a gal who's down to a zero, and they wanna get together....and whaddaya got?
Two zeros. "
He had a point. I mean, what does anybody have to offer each other out here? Another friend here, a lovely woman , put it bluntly. "Why bother? after you do the deed...you'd both be asking the other for a cigarette...or a bus pass!"
It's awkward enough to 'date' in the outside world. You arrange to meet, you change your skirt five times before you decide if you want to go dressed as Peggy the cheerleader or Zelda the hussy. Then you sit down at a dinner table for two hours and tell lies to each other,and then you probably have a hard time deciding if the evening merits a fumbly good night kiss. Or following the date with breakfast. My odds are on the Zelda look for breakfast. If only because the Zelda look probably drinks more martinis than usual.
Mating rituals here in homeless nation are a whole different thing.
If you're here, you're probably available. No sense in being coy about it. A lot of people end up here because something went wrong with the previous romantic situation, which probably started out with one of those date things that then ended in the breakfast thing and then years of the sheer hell thing until one of you bailed and landed here. With nothing. You're now a zero.
And a target. Everybody wants something out here. And 'hooking up' is a good way to get it.
That guy over there, who is slithering closer, is probably trying to figure out if you have any kind of income. Income means sweet talking you into a couple of bus passes. Your food stamps, tons of cigarettes, and a lot of other necessities. Necessities because he doesn't have an income but he's got a very smooth line and he'll tell you a lot about that awful woman who took everything he had, and then disabled him permanently by busting both of his ear drums when he tried to restrain her from robbing an old person.
And he probably likes to drink a lot too, just to prevent the awful flash backs of having his ear drums busted while performing an act of heroism. But, oh yeah, you've fallen in love.
Stepped in it sounds more likely. I mean why else would you give up all of your food stamps, bus passes, cigarettes and cold cash you get from whatever flaky kind of job you might find unless you had found true love?
Because you're temporarily nuts, is why. You're lost all reasoning power. You're homeless and you're in shock. Especially if you're a woman. Suddenly you have no place to sleep. Hardly any food or clothing. And you probably aren't looking real good. No money for good cosmetics, and a lot of bad free haircuts, second hand clothes that come in size 'who knows, just take it, it's free.' And you haven't had your teeth cleaned in months, and the only real showers you get are the ones the cars spray on you while passing through the puddles after a rainstorm.
And it could be Attila the hun whispering in your ear, "Baby...who's your daddy?" and you wouldn't care. It's the call of the wild. The mating ritual of the streets. And no plummage.
This is straight up basic, no frills, generic courtship. And it could cost you more than a little cash , a few cigarettes, and some bus passes.
What little dignity you have left, maybe, when Mr. Wonderful finds another person who can afford more cigarettes, bus passes and walking around money.
But be of good heart. Unlike an attack by the Borg of "Star Trek The Next Generation."
Resistance is not futile.
Do like smart street puppies do. Travel in packs. Share stuff with puppies who care about you because they really like you, or are simply kindly puppies rowing along in the same boat you're in. And save your cigarettes and bus passes and cash for yourself. Who knows, you might save enough to get some proper eyeliner and a good haircut.
Save the canoodling business until you exit homeless nation, stage left or right or wherever you are bound. And don't listen to any torchy songs while you're here, like, "Do ya wanna dance?" You'll leave faster and feel better if ya check the romance at the door when you tumble in.
And if some guy slithers up to you and whispers in your ear, 'Hey, baby...who's your daddy?'
Well, hey. Bust his ear drums. Works for me.
Well, do ya wanna dance under the moonlight,
hold my hand all through the night,
oh, baby, baby, baby do ya wanna dance?
Sounds tame, but when Bette Midler sings it, shivers go right up the spine.
Ok, but this might not be the right time to get those shivers, and tingles and exchanging longing gazes and doing the wee wee dance whenever you're in the presence of that special person.
And homeless nation probably isn't the right place, because here you're not really in the right frame of mind for that kind of monkey business. And in the available lighting out here on the street, yikes! Boris Karloff could look like that special person.
Yeah, 'hooking up' out here could give you a breakdown if you don't watch yourself.
My late friend, Robert had a good take on the whole 'hooking up' deal. He'd sit on a bench watching a couple canoodling over in a corner. Then he'd say "Look at that. Ya got a guy who's down to a zero, a gal who's down to a zero, and they wanna get together....and whaddaya got?
Two zeros. "
He had a point. I mean, what does anybody have to offer each other out here? Another friend here, a lovely woman , put it bluntly. "Why bother? after you do the deed...you'd both be asking the other for a cigarette...or a bus pass!"
It's awkward enough to 'date' in the outside world. You arrange to meet, you change your skirt five times before you decide if you want to go dressed as Peggy the cheerleader or Zelda the hussy. Then you sit down at a dinner table for two hours and tell lies to each other,and then you probably have a hard time deciding if the evening merits a fumbly good night kiss. Or following the date with breakfast. My odds are on the Zelda look for breakfast. If only because the Zelda look probably drinks more martinis than usual.
Mating rituals here in homeless nation are a whole different thing.
If you're here, you're probably available. No sense in being coy about it. A lot of people end up here because something went wrong with the previous romantic situation, which probably started out with one of those date things that then ended in the breakfast thing and then years of the sheer hell thing until one of you bailed and landed here. With nothing. You're now a zero.
And a target. Everybody wants something out here. And 'hooking up' is a good way to get it.
That guy over there, who is slithering closer, is probably trying to figure out if you have any kind of income. Income means sweet talking you into a couple of bus passes. Your food stamps, tons of cigarettes, and a lot of other necessities. Necessities because he doesn't have an income but he's got a very smooth line and he'll tell you a lot about that awful woman who took everything he had, and then disabled him permanently by busting both of his ear drums when he tried to restrain her from robbing an old person.
And he probably likes to drink a lot too, just to prevent the awful flash backs of having his ear drums busted while performing an act of heroism. But, oh yeah, you've fallen in love.
Stepped in it sounds more likely. I mean why else would you give up all of your food stamps, bus passes, cigarettes and cold cash you get from whatever flaky kind of job you might find unless you had found true love?
Because you're temporarily nuts, is why. You're lost all reasoning power. You're homeless and you're in shock. Especially if you're a woman. Suddenly you have no place to sleep. Hardly any food or clothing. And you probably aren't looking real good. No money for good cosmetics, and a lot of bad free haircuts, second hand clothes that come in size 'who knows, just take it, it's free.' And you haven't had your teeth cleaned in months, and the only real showers you get are the ones the cars spray on you while passing through the puddles after a rainstorm.
And it could be Attila the hun whispering in your ear, "Baby...who's your daddy?" and you wouldn't care. It's the call of the wild. The mating ritual of the streets. And no plummage.
This is straight up basic, no frills, generic courtship. And it could cost you more than a little cash , a few cigarettes, and some bus passes.
What little dignity you have left, maybe, when Mr. Wonderful finds another person who can afford more cigarettes, bus passes and walking around money.
But be of good heart. Unlike an attack by the Borg of "Star Trek The Next Generation."
Resistance is not futile.
Do like smart street puppies do. Travel in packs. Share stuff with puppies who care about you because they really like you, or are simply kindly puppies rowing along in the same boat you're in. And save your cigarettes and bus passes and cash for yourself. Who knows, you might save enough to get some proper eyeliner and a good haircut.
Save the canoodling business until you exit homeless nation, stage left or right or wherever you are bound. And don't listen to any torchy songs while you're here, like, "Do ya wanna dance?" You'll leave faster and feel better if ya check the romance at the door when you tumble in.
And if some guy slithers up to you and whispers in your ear, 'Hey, baby...who's your daddy?'
Well, hey. Bust his ear drums. Works for me.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
URBAN LEGENDS AND UNCOMFORTABLE TRUTHS
Urban legends are modern folklore. Powerful narratives of widely dispersed misinformation , containing elements of horror, caution, mystery, and sometimes, humor, and believed by their tellers to be true.
Merely that they are in circulation, exhibit variation over time, and carry some significance, or in fact, contain a grain of truth, motivates a community to preserve and propogate them.
We've all heard tons of urban legends about the alligators in the sewers (egads, sometimes even coming into your own bathroom); organ trafficking; weed in the Halloween brownies; the vanishing hitch-hiker; the baby in the microwave; the babysitter and the man upstairs; Walt Disney's body is cryogenically frozen, or Paul is dead.
You remember, Paul...the Beatle..and if you say 'who is Walt Disney' or 'what is a Beatle'...you need to stop reading right here and go back to watching "American Idol."
And there are tons of urban legends in circulation about Homeless Nation and though they, like other urban legends, have exhibited variation over time, and carry some significance, and in fact contain a grain of truth - they sometimes contain buckets of grains of uncomfortable truths - which motivates the surrounding communities to preserve and propogate them.
Some Homeless Nation urban legends are are easily dismissed. Whoever heard of a street puppy really swimming into your bathroom through the sewer system? He'd have to fall off your porch straight into a manhole to do that. And if you have manholes under your porch, you're living way too close to the street.
And weed in the Halloween brownies? Please. A whole town full of stoned out trick-or-treating eight year old street puppies dressed up as everything from ballerinas to Miss Piggy to Sponge Bob would have made national headlines.
No, we're talking about the grains of uncomfortable truth contained in homeless nation urban legends here, so let's not puppyfoot around it.
Urban legend number one. Street puppies are all drug addicts and/or alcoholics and why help them anyway, they're just going to spend the money to give to some drug dealer or liquor store.
Zing! Whew. that one hurts. There's a grain, Oh, I'll give you ten to fifteen grains of truth for that. but before you get any ideas about every day in homeless nation being St. Patrick's Day, or drug dealers on parade, we're talking about a small percentage of street puppies.
Compared to the number of puppies who got here because of of good odds instead of bad luck, I'd say the overwhelming number of street puppies arrived here because of situations way beyond their control and are going to spend every penny or service they receive to rectify the current situation and take care of the amenities before buying even one cold beer.
And if their drug of choice is well, drugs, homeless nation has plenty of help for those puppies too. And we don't judge them, we just help them, and only if they ask for it, and we give them lots of love. Unless they steal our watch or somethin' to pay their dealer. Then we get out the piano wire.
Urban Legend number two. It's just a scam. I've seen them drive away from their panhandling spots in....um, uh....an Escalade. Yeah, an escalade. And they all have 9 foot TV's with built in microwaves and showers.
Ok, I once saw a street puppy take off his panhandling vest thingy, and go straight to the Mercedes dealership right down the street and pay cash for a big ole' Mercedes. And then he changed into his Batman suit, hopped into the 'Benz' and went roaring through the streets with the top down, yelling "EEEEEE....haaaaaaaaaaaa."
Now that's some kind of urban legend there .
It's also my way of saying no grains of truth and if you believe that particular urban legend or anything like it, you've been listening to too many of those late night talk show hosts who are still trying to prove that Christopher Columbus was actually born in Latvia and was a Hindu.
Urban legend number three. They're taking all of my hard earned taxes and getting food stamps and selling them to terrorists and people like that. It's Un American!!
Ok. Twenty grains of truth for that one. But they're not selling them to terrorists. They're probably selling them to your neighbor. The one who eats all the cookie dough. And five pounds of pasta at a time. And gumbees. And he's getting all that stuff for half price which is what he's paying, fifty cents on the buck.
And the puppy is probably buying things with that fifty cents on the buck that he can't buy with food stamps like vitamins and pampers and soap and toothpaste and some hot food, because believe it or not, you can't buy vitamins or hot food with food stamps and most of us don't have the kind of money it takes to buy good vitamins, or access to a cooking stove.
And, yes. Some people who sell their food stamps use it to buy drugs and alcohol. What a surprise. We are shocked. Shocked!
But before they were selling food stamps to buy drugs and alcohol, they were probably selling other things to buy drugs and alcohol. However, the vast majority of people using food stamps, use them for food. And the next time you stick up your nose at me at the check out counter when I use my food stamps to pay for yogurt and a peach, and a bagel, I'll stick a drinking straw up it.
Ok, we've explained away three of the biggest homeless nation urban legends. At least now you know the vast majority of street puppies aren't all whacked out drug addicted, drunken, mercedes drivin' yodeling food stamp sellers with ties to terrorist cells.
Uh, oh. Look! Quick! Across the street....there goes Osama Bin Laden!
Merely that they are in circulation, exhibit variation over time, and carry some significance, or in fact, contain a grain of truth, motivates a community to preserve and propogate them.
We've all heard tons of urban legends about the alligators in the sewers (egads, sometimes even coming into your own bathroom); organ trafficking; weed in the Halloween brownies; the vanishing hitch-hiker; the baby in the microwave; the babysitter and the man upstairs; Walt Disney's body is cryogenically frozen, or Paul is dead.
You remember, Paul...the Beatle..and if you say 'who is Walt Disney' or 'what is a Beatle'...you need to stop reading right here and go back to watching "American Idol."
And there are tons of urban legends in circulation about Homeless Nation and though they, like other urban legends, have exhibited variation over time, and carry some significance, and in fact contain a grain of truth - they sometimes contain buckets of grains of uncomfortable truths - which motivates the surrounding communities to preserve and propogate them.
Some Homeless Nation urban legends are are easily dismissed. Whoever heard of a street puppy really swimming into your bathroom through the sewer system? He'd have to fall off your porch straight into a manhole to do that. And if you have manholes under your porch, you're living way too close to the street.
And weed in the Halloween brownies? Please. A whole town full of stoned out trick-or-treating eight year old street puppies dressed up as everything from ballerinas to Miss Piggy to Sponge Bob would have made national headlines.
No, we're talking about the grains of uncomfortable truth contained in homeless nation urban legends here, so let's not puppyfoot around it.
Urban legend number one. Street puppies are all drug addicts and/or alcoholics and why help them anyway, they're just going to spend the money to give to some drug dealer or liquor store.
Zing! Whew. that one hurts. There's a grain, Oh, I'll give you ten to fifteen grains of truth for that. but before you get any ideas about every day in homeless nation being St. Patrick's Day, or drug dealers on parade, we're talking about a small percentage of street puppies.
Compared to the number of puppies who got here because of of good odds instead of bad luck, I'd say the overwhelming number of street puppies arrived here because of situations way beyond their control and are going to spend every penny or service they receive to rectify the current situation and take care of the amenities before buying even one cold beer.
And if their drug of choice is well, drugs, homeless nation has plenty of help for those puppies too. And we don't judge them, we just help them, and only if they ask for it, and we give them lots of love. Unless they steal our watch or somethin' to pay their dealer. Then we get out the piano wire.
Urban Legend number two. It's just a scam. I've seen them drive away from their panhandling spots in....um, uh....an Escalade. Yeah, an escalade. And they all have 9 foot TV's with built in microwaves and showers.
Ok, I once saw a street puppy take off his panhandling vest thingy, and go straight to the Mercedes dealership right down the street and pay cash for a big ole' Mercedes. And then he changed into his Batman suit, hopped into the 'Benz' and went roaring through the streets with the top down, yelling "EEEEEE....haaaaaaaaaaaa."
Now that's some kind of urban legend there .
It's also my way of saying no grains of truth and if you believe that particular urban legend or anything like it, you've been listening to too many of those late night talk show hosts who are still trying to prove that Christopher Columbus was actually born in Latvia and was a Hindu.
Urban legend number three. They're taking all of my hard earned taxes and getting food stamps and selling them to terrorists and people like that. It's Un American!!
Ok. Twenty grains of truth for that one. But they're not selling them to terrorists. They're probably selling them to your neighbor. The one who eats all the cookie dough. And five pounds of pasta at a time. And gumbees. And he's getting all that stuff for half price which is what he's paying, fifty cents on the buck.
And the puppy is probably buying things with that fifty cents on the buck that he can't buy with food stamps like vitamins and pampers and soap and toothpaste and some hot food, because believe it or not, you can't buy vitamins or hot food with food stamps and most of us don't have the kind of money it takes to buy good vitamins, or access to a cooking stove.
And, yes. Some people who sell their food stamps use it to buy drugs and alcohol. What a surprise. We are shocked. Shocked!
But before they were selling food stamps to buy drugs and alcohol, they were probably selling other things to buy drugs and alcohol. However, the vast majority of people using food stamps, use them for food. And the next time you stick up your nose at me at the check out counter when I use my food stamps to pay for yogurt and a peach, and a bagel, I'll stick a drinking straw up it.
Ok, we've explained away three of the biggest homeless nation urban legends. At least now you know the vast majority of street puppies aren't all whacked out drug addicted, drunken, mercedes drivin' yodeling food stamp sellers with ties to terrorist cells.
Uh, oh. Look! Quick! Across the street....there goes Osama Bin Laden!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
FAUX PAWS
Faux Paws is streetpuppy speak for "faux pas, " a french phrase for "false step," a kind of social blunder; an awkward or tactless act, or a total violation of accepted social norms.
In homeless nation, if you make too many of those faux paws, by displaying a lack of knowledge of proper etiquette - which kind of rhymes with 'tourniquet' - you may end up wearing one of those tourniquets on your paw.
Miss Emily Post popularized the whole notion of proper etiquette by writing a whole lot of books about acceptable behaviour and habits for all classes of people. Etiquette for weddings, funerals, dinners, golf, calculating a waiter's tip, choosing a gift, even how to use mobile technology and what to do when your kid sticks a drinking straw up his nose while you're calculating the waiter's tip. Now that's a total violation of social norms - unless the kid sticks the straw up the waiter's nose, in which case you won't be invited back there anymore anyway, so forget about violating any social norms....and the tip.
In homeless nation, we have our own etiquette advisor, Miss Lucinda Beauregard Puppy. Miss Lucinda has been around homeless nation for awhile, and she is certainly familiar with the most important etiquette here, street etiquette.
And Miss Lucinda has graciously agreed to advise us streetpuppies on street etiquette, which covers a whole different set of social blunders, awkward and tactless acts, and violations of social norms. None of which deal with golf.....or drinking straws up the nose.
Let's start with the easy stuff.
No scratching. That is no scratching yourself in public. I'm not talking about my elbow itches so I think I'll give it a little scratch. I'm talking about, My back itches so I'm just going to back up to this here wall and slide up and down a lot thereby looking like a mean old groaning grizzley bear. Now that is a totally tactless act. You'll scare people off, and you have just compounded the tactless act by adding on a charge of social blunder for anybody who is thinking about asking those people for spare change.
Ladies should avoid walking rapidly on the street. You're going to knock somebody down with that fifty or so pound bag you're dragging along with you because the shelter you're staying at won't let you leave it there for the day. Besides, if you walk too fast, you won't be able to look at the ground for quarters and cigarettes and stuff other people walking fast have dropped. So, everybody....S L O W down!
Don't talk loudly on your cell phone. Not only another tactless act, but you really don't want anybody to know you have one of those things. Every streetpuppy in earshot will want to use it to call their dying cat or sick mother. Or somebody will just steal it while you're bending down to pick up a quarter on the street. And for heaven's sake, turn off that country and western, or hip hop or soft rock ring tone. It's just plain annoying...yet another violation of social norm.
Don't exhibit Cave man like behaviour. You know what I'm talking about. A cute girl walks by, and you guys go all, "Baby I'm the man for you." Real loud. It embarasses the girl, and what do you really think the chances are that she's going to give a tumble to a guy who's wearing last year's gucci sequin vest from the thrift store and matching 'found them in the dumpster' one size too large cuffed striped pants?
Don't overstay your welcome. Anywhere. Sleeping, eating, walking, window shopping, riding a bus or scratching. You do not want to attract the attention of the authorities. Any authorities. I don't care if it's the rent-a-creepy guy at the local 7-11. Just keep moving. You don't...and you'll have more to worry about than smoothing over an awkward or tactless act against the social norm blunder.
Don't talk with your mouth full. The other puppies will know you have food. You don't want that to happen. Not if you value all of your paws.
We will continue the etiquette lessons at a near future date. Right now, Miss Lucinda is having a swooning spell. All this hot sun and somebody with no manners knicked her lace parasol.
In homeless nation, if you make too many of those faux paws, by displaying a lack of knowledge of proper etiquette - which kind of rhymes with 'tourniquet' - you may end up wearing one of those tourniquets on your paw.
Miss Emily Post popularized the whole notion of proper etiquette by writing a whole lot of books about acceptable behaviour and habits for all classes of people. Etiquette for weddings, funerals, dinners, golf, calculating a waiter's tip, choosing a gift, even how to use mobile technology and what to do when your kid sticks a drinking straw up his nose while you're calculating the waiter's tip. Now that's a total violation of social norms - unless the kid sticks the straw up the waiter's nose, in which case you won't be invited back there anymore anyway, so forget about violating any social norms....and the tip.
In homeless nation, we have our own etiquette advisor, Miss Lucinda Beauregard Puppy. Miss Lucinda has been around homeless nation for awhile, and she is certainly familiar with the most important etiquette here, street etiquette.
And Miss Lucinda has graciously agreed to advise us streetpuppies on street etiquette, which covers a whole different set of social blunders, awkward and tactless acts, and violations of social norms. None of which deal with golf.....or drinking straws up the nose.
Let's start with the easy stuff.
No scratching. That is no scratching yourself in public. I'm not talking about my elbow itches so I think I'll give it a little scratch. I'm talking about, My back itches so I'm just going to back up to this here wall and slide up and down a lot thereby looking like a mean old groaning grizzley bear. Now that is a totally tactless act. You'll scare people off, and you have just compounded the tactless act by adding on a charge of social blunder for anybody who is thinking about asking those people for spare change.
Ladies should avoid walking rapidly on the street. You're going to knock somebody down with that fifty or so pound bag you're dragging along with you because the shelter you're staying at won't let you leave it there for the day. Besides, if you walk too fast, you won't be able to look at the ground for quarters and cigarettes and stuff other people walking fast have dropped. So, everybody....S L O W down!
Don't talk loudly on your cell phone. Not only another tactless act, but you really don't want anybody to know you have one of those things. Every streetpuppy in earshot will want to use it to call their dying cat or sick mother. Or somebody will just steal it while you're bending down to pick up a quarter on the street. And for heaven's sake, turn off that country and western, or hip hop or soft rock ring tone. It's just plain annoying...yet another violation of social norm.
Don't exhibit Cave man like behaviour. You know what I'm talking about. A cute girl walks by, and you guys go all, "Baby I'm the man for you." Real loud. It embarasses the girl, and what do you really think the chances are that she's going to give a tumble to a guy who's wearing last year's gucci sequin vest from the thrift store and matching 'found them in the dumpster' one size too large cuffed striped pants?
Don't overstay your welcome. Anywhere. Sleeping, eating, walking, window shopping, riding a bus or scratching. You do not want to attract the attention of the authorities. Any authorities. I don't care if it's the rent-a-creepy guy at the local 7-11. Just keep moving. You don't...and you'll have more to worry about than smoothing over an awkward or tactless act against the social norm blunder.
Don't talk with your mouth full. The other puppies will know you have food. You don't want that to happen. Not if you value all of your paws.
We will continue the etiquette lessons at a near future date. Right now, Miss Lucinda is having a swooning spell. All this hot sun and somebody with no manners knicked her lace parasol.
Thursday, September 16, 2010
REQUIEM FOR ROBERT
The news hit like a lightning bolt straight to the heart. Robert was dead. Or maybe he wasn't, somebody had seen him early that morning, somebody else saw him last night. Or, he's just up at the corner, saw him a while ago. Nah, he can't be dead. Not Robert.
Rumors leap about like raptors through homeless nation. And they're usually that, just a rumor. Somebody heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody who thought he saw something. Or somebody got the name wrong.
Easy to do in homeless nation. Nobody knows anybody's name. Anyway, not their real name. It's either, "Red, " "Tiny," "Slinger," "Pigpen," "Cowboy," "Cough-drop." - Hardly anything at all like a real name. In fact, there's some kind of status attached to a moniker. Zero status attached to a real first name. And, hey, if anybody at all knows your last name, you're either lying about it...or you're some kind of poobah in the pecking order.
And that was the problem with finding out if the rumor was true about Robert. He was just Robert. No idea about his last name except that it was maybe Italian. And that could have been wrong. But he was Italian all right. In fact, he was Sicilian...and THAT'S Italian.
I knew that because, well Robert looked Sicilian. And before all of you Sicilians get your noses out of joint and going all "Godfather" about it, I say that as a compliment.
He was of Sicilian heritage, and he was from New York City. Kinda short and wiry, coal black hair tied in a neat little pony tail, and big black eyes. And walked with that kind of street swagger that says, "I'm from New York, and you're not." And he talked in that great New York
accent that only another New Yorker can really fathom. And he had the widest, most genuine smile I have seen in all of homeless nation. And possibly the best sense of humor. And he was extremely kind, and caring about other people.
And yeah, he was dead. That rumor was sort of confirmed when police visited the bus station place and started picking up people to take them in for questioning. Robert was dead all right. Somebody murdered him. They beat him to death. Beat. Him. To. Death.
One of the awful things about homeless nation is the way some people check out of it. Nobody talks about it too much. It's kind of a bad omen to even bring it up.
Robert didn't deserve to check out that way. Nobody does. But Robert was all heart, and fun and smart and had those big black eyes that sparkled....and could see right through the BS anybody put out. And he was an excellent friend.
Robert had a wife and daughter up there in the East. He had lost his job, and traveled here with the promise of work...which did not materialize. So he worked hard at odd jobs, and sold papers and worked with a crew tearing down trees, and panhandled. And every penny he made went back to his wife and child. Except for what he kept to eat something and a few beers here and there.
And he was saving money to go back home. He had just about enough money for the ticket. Just a week or so more, and he would be on his way. He died a few days before he could swing the ticket. And I'm sure, that along with his friends in homeless nation, somebody up there in the East feels just as bad about losing him.
I'd like to remember Robert here in a special way for him. Part of his favorite song, the theme song from the movie, "ET" (Yeah, yeah, strange for a New York guy, but....whatevah!)
So here we go
Come back again
I want you to stay next time
'cause sometimes the world ain't kind
when people get lost like you and me.
I just made a friend
A friend is someone you need
But now that he had to go away
I still feel the words that he might say.
Turn on your heartlight
Let it shine wherever you go
Lit it make a happy glow
for all the world to see
Don't wake me up too soon
Gonna take a ride across the moon
You and me
Turn on your heartlight now.
Requiescat in Pace, my good and dear friend. And so long, Robert.
Rumors leap about like raptors through homeless nation. And they're usually that, just a rumor. Somebody heard something from somebody who heard something from somebody who thought he saw something. Or somebody got the name wrong.
Easy to do in homeless nation. Nobody knows anybody's name. Anyway, not their real name. It's either, "Red, " "Tiny," "Slinger," "Pigpen," "Cowboy," "Cough-drop." - Hardly anything at all like a real name. In fact, there's some kind of status attached to a moniker. Zero status attached to a real first name. And, hey, if anybody at all knows your last name, you're either lying about it...or you're some kind of poobah in the pecking order.
And that was the problem with finding out if the rumor was true about Robert. He was just Robert. No idea about his last name except that it was maybe Italian. And that could have been wrong. But he was Italian all right. In fact, he was Sicilian...and THAT'S Italian.
I knew that because, well Robert looked Sicilian. And before all of you Sicilians get your noses out of joint and going all "Godfather" about it, I say that as a compliment.
He was of Sicilian heritage, and he was from New York City. Kinda short and wiry, coal black hair tied in a neat little pony tail, and big black eyes. And walked with that kind of street swagger that says, "I'm from New York, and you're not." And he talked in that great New York
accent that only another New Yorker can really fathom. And he had the widest, most genuine smile I have seen in all of homeless nation. And possibly the best sense of humor. And he was extremely kind, and caring about other people.
And yeah, he was dead. That rumor was sort of confirmed when police visited the bus station place and started picking up people to take them in for questioning. Robert was dead all right. Somebody murdered him. They beat him to death. Beat. Him. To. Death.
One of the awful things about homeless nation is the way some people check out of it. Nobody talks about it too much. It's kind of a bad omen to even bring it up.
Robert didn't deserve to check out that way. Nobody does. But Robert was all heart, and fun and smart and had those big black eyes that sparkled....and could see right through the BS anybody put out. And he was an excellent friend.
Robert had a wife and daughter up there in the East. He had lost his job, and traveled here with the promise of work...which did not materialize. So he worked hard at odd jobs, and sold papers and worked with a crew tearing down trees, and panhandled. And every penny he made went back to his wife and child. Except for what he kept to eat something and a few beers here and there.
And he was saving money to go back home. He had just about enough money for the ticket. Just a week or so more, and he would be on his way. He died a few days before he could swing the ticket. And I'm sure, that along with his friends in homeless nation, somebody up there in the East feels just as bad about losing him.
I'd like to remember Robert here in a special way for him. Part of his favorite song, the theme song from the movie, "ET" (Yeah, yeah, strange for a New York guy, but....whatevah!)
So here we go
Come back again
I want you to stay next time
'cause sometimes the world ain't kind
when people get lost like you and me.
I just made a friend
A friend is someone you need
But now that he had to go away
I still feel the words that he might say.
Turn on your heartlight
Let it shine wherever you go
Lit it make a happy glow
for all the world to see
Don't wake me up too soon
Gonna take a ride across the moon
You and me
Turn on your heartlight now.
Requiescat in Pace, my good and dear friend. And so long, Robert.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
FIRST TIME AT THE RODEO
There's no wiggle room here. If you're a Streetpuppy....you're going to live on the street. Well at least sleep there. And No, smartypants, not there, right there in the middle of the pavement on the yellow stripe, but you know, in an alley, under a box, on top of a box, on a porch or a bench, in a doorway, a ravine, behind some bushes.
Somewhere where you are exposed to the elements, and a whole lot of other things that will take on a whole new meaning for "Things that go bump in the night."
I hadn't done it before. At least not since camping trips (Ha! Usually the back yard under the watchful eye of ole' dad), or safely embedded in the company of trigger happy , well trained combatants, armed to the teeth....so I was just a little nervous when I left the so called 'shelter,' read that one crazy butt nightmare hell hole I was lucky to escape alive.
And no doubt about it. Then and there, I was officially a Streetpuppy.
And I was not not prepared.
I'm scared of the dark. The bottoms of my feet are very tender. I love HBO. I'm a 24 hour news junkie, I'm terrified of spiders, snakes and bugs. I am a clean freak , and I did not own a sleeping bag. I knew more about how to navigate a sailboat to Easter Island then I knew about street life.
And that very first night of what would be a long and harrowing journey on the streets ...that first time at the rodeo...was a lesson in how not to hit the street
I started out at the airport bar with a vodka martini. OK, Two martinis. Wishful thinking on my part. I had a couple hundred thousand miles racked up in my mileage plus account. But where was I going to go in the shape I was in? Paris, to shop for my winter wardrobe? My shoes didn't even match for heavens sake. And an extended vacation to the Caribbean Island of St. Barts was out of the question. My bikini and sun block were somewhere stuffed in the back of a locker.
I hopped a bus back to the local hub, the bus station. It was fashionably late. The witching hour, the time when street puppies drift off to their sleeping 'spots'. Early enough to get some shut-eye, and late enough to hopefully move about undetected.
I ran into another street puppy newbie, newly minted, like me. I'll call her oh, I'll call her Terri. Terri was an evacuee from the same hellhole shelter I had fled from earlier that day. She had fled two days ahead of me, thus she was two days wiser. Surely she knew the ropes. She had even acquired a snazzy hoody. I decided it was best to stick with a pro.
Terri nodded solemnly when I told her how greatful I was to have run into her. It was clear she was taking me on as her new sidekick, and I was, indeed greatful...and relieved. I did not want to spend the night in a big city, all alone on the street. All night long.
She squinted her eyes, looked around to make sure nobody was watching then beckoned silently for me to follow her. I did and we trotted down the street in the general direction of some hotels. Some minutes later, we were in the back court yard of a fine hotel. We settled across from each other on some hard concrete stair steps. The steps were not wide enough, or very high, but she assured me if one did not fall totally asleep....no problem.
It was impossible to sleep, I was wearing only levis, two sweatshirts a baseball cap, the mismatched shoes...and no socks. I wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm. I was shaking so hard from the cold I felt like I was dancing. Finally, I shook/danced right off the step and onto the concrete ground . Uumph.
The sound echoed through the courtyard. And sure enough, an alert security guard sauntered over to us from HIS sleeping spot. He told us to git. So we gitted.
But crafty Terri had a back up plan. She led me to a street filled with many benches. Benches here, benches there, and all under covered shelters open to the air. Perfect. Just one thing, she mentioned as we settled onto opposite benches. We were on the property of the municipal bus transportation authority. In fact every bench in the city was municipal bus transportation authority as people waited for the bus there. So we were officially trespassing. No problem. There was only one security guard for this whole area and he sleeps all night.
She forgot to mention the security guard had a car. He patrolled that five block area in a little white car. And he wasn't sleeping well that night. He was in that little white car, and he caught us sleeping on his benches. Three times.
The first time. He stopped the car, got out. walked over to us and said in a kindly but firm voice. "You gals cannot sleep here. If you do you will be arrested.". So we gitted again.
We watched until he was out of sight. Probably going to take a nap. We moved to another bench a couple blocks down.
He hadn't gone to take a nap. Clever guy. He had circled the block, and then sat there, in the dark, watching, waiting for us to make our move. Then he made his. He snuck right up on us. Didn't bother to get out of the car. Why bother, he already knew we were under his spell.
He simply smiled grimly, pointed at his watch and shook his head no.
We smiled back. And watched him leave. We waited a few minutes. Then simply crossed the street and settled on the benches there. He'd never come back a third time.
The third time. He was just simply there. Like a ghost in a white car. He just appeared.
He rolled down the window, looked straight ahead, his mouth making little sucking sounds.
We were blocks away, and panting from running so fast, when Terri stopped me and gasping for air, great big gulps of air...she told me her plan C..it was a long shot, but it was a shot, and we needed a shot, we were tired and wet from a light rain that had begun to fall.
She led me to the center for the performing arts. One of the most conspicuous buildings in the city, and one of the very best lit. But the building had a large back stairway.
We spent the rest of the night...a whole two hours sprawled out on that stairway. Early, early AM, another security guard. An elderly gentleman, probably close enough to retirement not to want to fuss with two scared, tired puppies.
He gently tapped the bottom of our shoes with a night stick and said. "Time to move on."
We did, out into the dawn, and back to the bus station. Some hot coffee with other sleepy-eyed puppies and serious talk about operations strategies for street living.
We were new. We knew nothing about this way of life. We had a lot to learn. And we had learned lesson one in street living. Keep Moving.
Somewhere where you are exposed to the elements, and a whole lot of other things that will take on a whole new meaning for "Things that go bump in the night."
I hadn't done it before. At least not since camping trips (Ha! Usually the back yard under the watchful eye of ole' dad), or safely embedded in the company of trigger happy , well trained combatants, armed to the teeth....so I was just a little nervous when I left the so called 'shelter,' read that one crazy butt nightmare hell hole I was lucky to escape alive.
And no doubt about it. Then and there, I was officially a Streetpuppy.
And I was not not prepared.
I'm scared of the dark. The bottoms of my feet are very tender. I love HBO. I'm a 24 hour news junkie, I'm terrified of spiders, snakes and bugs. I am a clean freak , and I did not own a sleeping bag. I knew more about how to navigate a sailboat to Easter Island then I knew about street life.
And that very first night of what would be a long and harrowing journey on the streets ...that first time at the rodeo...was a lesson in how not to hit the street
I started out at the airport bar with a vodka martini. OK, Two martinis. Wishful thinking on my part. I had a couple hundred thousand miles racked up in my mileage plus account. But where was I going to go in the shape I was in? Paris, to shop for my winter wardrobe? My shoes didn't even match for heavens sake. And an extended vacation to the Caribbean Island of St. Barts was out of the question. My bikini and sun block were somewhere stuffed in the back of a locker.
I hopped a bus back to the local hub, the bus station. It was fashionably late. The witching hour, the time when street puppies drift off to their sleeping 'spots'. Early enough to get some shut-eye, and late enough to hopefully move about undetected.
I ran into another street puppy newbie, newly minted, like me. I'll call her oh, I'll call her Terri. Terri was an evacuee from the same hellhole shelter I had fled from earlier that day. She had fled two days ahead of me, thus she was two days wiser. Surely she knew the ropes. She had even acquired a snazzy hoody. I decided it was best to stick with a pro.
Terri nodded solemnly when I told her how greatful I was to have run into her. It was clear she was taking me on as her new sidekick, and I was, indeed greatful...and relieved. I did not want to spend the night in a big city, all alone on the street. All night long.
She squinted her eyes, looked around to make sure nobody was watching then beckoned silently for me to follow her. I did and we trotted down the street in the general direction of some hotels. Some minutes later, we were in the back court yard of a fine hotel. We settled across from each other on some hard concrete stair steps. The steps were not wide enough, or very high, but she assured me if one did not fall totally asleep....no problem.
It was impossible to sleep, I was wearing only levis, two sweatshirts a baseball cap, the mismatched shoes...and no socks. I wrapped my arms around myself to keep warm. I was shaking so hard from the cold I felt like I was dancing. Finally, I shook/danced right off the step and onto the concrete ground . Uumph.
The sound echoed through the courtyard. And sure enough, an alert security guard sauntered over to us from HIS sleeping spot. He told us to git. So we gitted.
But crafty Terri had a back up plan. She led me to a street filled with many benches. Benches here, benches there, and all under covered shelters open to the air. Perfect. Just one thing, she mentioned as we settled onto opposite benches. We were on the property of the municipal bus transportation authority. In fact every bench in the city was municipal bus transportation authority as people waited for the bus there. So we were officially trespassing. No problem. There was only one security guard for this whole area and he sleeps all night.
She forgot to mention the security guard had a car. He patrolled that five block area in a little white car. And he wasn't sleeping well that night. He was in that little white car, and he caught us sleeping on his benches. Three times.
The first time. He stopped the car, got out. walked over to us and said in a kindly but firm voice. "You gals cannot sleep here. If you do you will be arrested.". So we gitted again.
We watched until he was out of sight. Probably going to take a nap. We moved to another bench a couple blocks down.
He hadn't gone to take a nap. Clever guy. He had circled the block, and then sat there, in the dark, watching, waiting for us to make our move. Then he made his. He snuck right up on us. Didn't bother to get out of the car. Why bother, he already knew we were under his spell.
He simply smiled grimly, pointed at his watch and shook his head no.
We smiled back. And watched him leave. We waited a few minutes. Then simply crossed the street and settled on the benches there. He'd never come back a third time.
The third time. He was just simply there. Like a ghost in a white car. He just appeared.
He rolled down the window, looked straight ahead, his mouth making little sucking sounds.
We were blocks away, and panting from running so fast, when Terri stopped me and gasping for air, great big gulps of air...she told me her plan C..it was a long shot, but it was a shot, and we needed a shot, we were tired and wet from a light rain that had begun to fall.
She led me to the center for the performing arts. One of the most conspicuous buildings in the city, and one of the very best lit. But the building had a large back stairway.
We spent the rest of the night...a whole two hours sprawled out on that stairway. Early, early AM, another security guard. An elderly gentleman, probably close enough to retirement not to want to fuss with two scared, tired puppies.
He gently tapped the bottom of our shoes with a night stick and said. "Time to move on."
We did, out into the dawn, and back to the bus station. Some hot coffee with other sleepy-eyed puppies and serious talk about operations strategies for street living.
We were new. We knew nothing about this way of life. We had a lot to learn. And we had learned lesson one in street living. Keep Moving.
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
POMP AND CIRCUMSTANCES
"Pomp and Circumstance" is a catchy tune which is played at the processional of all graduations. Mostly. It was written by an English guy named Sir Edward Elgar for the coronation of King Edward VII back in 1901, and then the King got sick and couldn't get crowned right away so "Pomp and Circumstance" was first performed in public in 1902 by An English gal named Madame Clara Butt. (And I did not make that up.)
The first time "Pomp and Circumstance" was played in the United States, was at the procession into the Yale graduation ceremony in June of 1905. . Then of course Princeton decided what was good enough for Yale was good enough for Princeton, and played it at their graduation, and so did Columbia University and The University of Chicago and so on.
Soon, that catchy tune was being played at every procession into every college, high-school, middle school, grade school and probably pre-school graduation in the land and still is today. Except at Yale, where they decided they were not amused by all this copy catting and so today they only play it at the graduation recessional. Hummmmph.
There was a graduation ceremony a couple of nights ago here in Homeless Nation where that tune , "Pomp and Circumstance" was not played. But every graduate -all thirty of them - were brought together in a unique and moving ceremony. A rite of passage which each graduate had truly earned by enduring,, and then conquering, circumstances.
You name it, these graduates had so many circumstances ...well, their circumstances had circumstances! There were mitigating circumstances; aggravating circumstances; exigent circumstances; extenuating circumstances.......and victims of circumstances. The only circumstance missing was "The dog ate my homework circumstance!"
These graduates had either currently or recently in the past year, completed a time of residence and study and community living and real hard work and sometimes recovery in a place which had welcomed them into safety, and sanity and hope after they had endured catastrophic...well, circumstances in their lives which left them homeless...and helpless..and very sad.
And they had healed and been fortified and loved and cared for in this place and found a direction for their life and moved on...and that's what graduation is all about. You move on. And in this graduation ceremony a lot of greatful people were moving on, through their rite of passage into a good life again.
As in all graduation ceremonies, the graduates were presented with their certificates (not tied up diplomas, they couldn't find enough ribbon ) and there was a key note speaker. She was quite a gal. Went from being a janitor and other jobs up the ladder to a senior vice-president at a famous bank. Now, that's moving on!
She used a lot of motivating words in her speech...the best one was excellence. And she gave a lot of good advice, like "don't be afraid to move out of your comfort zone." Well, ok, except that these graduates had already been moved out of their comfort zone at some time when they least expected it, so maybe there was another way to say, uh...don't be afraid to try another path.
After the speech, came the party and the "Pomp." And I tell ya...street puppies know how to "Pomp." In addition to all the graduates who are now retired street puppies "pomping," were supporters and friends and staff of the residential community, and many other street puppies who are now residing in that community and now live and study and work real hard and are healing and being fortified for their journey into a better life.
And everybody looked real sharp. Anyone who wanted a haircut, got one that day and a makeover from volunteers who wanted to make the gradiuation special. And if a lady needed a dress to wear, well, somebody came up with something nice. Like I said, everybody looked real sharp. Especially the pretty lady in that pink satin number.
I've never seen so many grins in one place, grins that lit up that room. And heard so much laughter and seen so many slaps on the back and hugs and stuff. And I don't think anybody who ever graduated from Yale, or Princeton or Colombia could have been prouder of themselves than these, now former, streetpuppies.
Yup, it was some kind of magic night. Congrats to all of you. You made my heart smile.
The first time "Pomp and Circumstance" was played in the United States, was at the procession into the Yale graduation ceremony in June of 1905. . Then of course Princeton decided what was good enough for Yale was good enough for Princeton, and played it at their graduation, and so did Columbia University and The University of Chicago and so on.
Soon, that catchy tune was being played at every procession into every college, high-school, middle school, grade school and probably pre-school graduation in the land and still is today. Except at Yale, where they decided they were not amused by all this copy catting and so today they only play it at the graduation recessional. Hummmmph.
There was a graduation ceremony a couple of nights ago here in Homeless Nation where that tune , "Pomp and Circumstance" was not played. But every graduate -all thirty of them - were brought together in a unique and moving ceremony. A rite of passage which each graduate had truly earned by enduring,, and then conquering, circumstances.
You name it, these graduates had so many circumstances ...well, their circumstances had circumstances! There were mitigating circumstances; aggravating circumstances; exigent circumstances; extenuating circumstances.......and victims of circumstances. The only circumstance missing was "The dog ate my homework circumstance!"
These graduates had either currently or recently in the past year, completed a time of residence and study and community living and real hard work and sometimes recovery in a place which had welcomed them into safety, and sanity and hope after they had endured catastrophic...well, circumstances in their lives which left them homeless...and helpless..and very sad.
And they had healed and been fortified and loved and cared for in this place and found a direction for their life and moved on...and that's what graduation is all about. You move on. And in this graduation ceremony a lot of greatful people were moving on, through their rite of passage into a good life again.
As in all graduation ceremonies, the graduates were presented with their certificates (not tied up diplomas, they couldn't find enough ribbon ) and there was a key note speaker. She was quite a gal. Went from being a janitor and other jobs up the ladder to a senior vice-president at a famous bank. Now, that's moving on!
She used a lot of motivating words in her speech...the best one was excellence. And she gave a lot of good advice, like "don't be afraid to move out of your comfort zone." Well, ok, except that these graduates had already been moved out of their comfort zone at some time when they least expected it, so maybe there was another way to say, uh...don't be afraid to try another path.
After the speech, came the party and the "Pomp." And I tell ya...street puppies know how to "Pomp." In addition to all the graduates who are now retired street puppies "pomping," were supporters and friends and staff of the residential community, and many other street puppies who are now residing in that community and now live and study and work real hard and are healing and being fortified for their journey into a better life.
And everybody looked real sharp. Anyone who wanted a haircut, got one that day and a makeover from volunteers who wanted to make the gradiuation special. And if a lady needed a dress to wear, well, somebody came up with something nice. Like I said, everybody looked real sharp. Especially the pretty lady in that pink satin number.
I've never seen so many grins in one place, grins that lit up that room. And heard so much laughter and seen so many slaps on the back and hugs and stuff. And I don't think anybody who ever graduated from Yale, or Princeton or Colombia could have been prouder of themselves than these, now former, streetpuppies.
Yup, it was some kind of magic night. Congrats to all of you. You made my heart smile.
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