We all know about the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution, and the Bill of Rights
Or we street puppies here in homeless nation thought we did, until recently, when we decided, why not secede? That's right, secede from that other nation. Diplomatic relations with the other nation are rapidly souring and have taken on an ugly note of late, so, why not just secede?
Well, it was either that or get a divorce.
And divorces can get darn messy, and real expensive, you know, arguing over alimony, baring the skeletons in the closet, lawyers fees and splitting hairs over the pets and the lawn furniture and the jumbo TV thing that's so big it's got it's own zip code.
See, secession would be better, because we could actually get support from other nations like Cuba and the Antarctic and Alaska.
We can just call up Cuba and the Antarctic and Alaska and say, "Hey, we're seceding," and you betcha , Cuba will send us a bunch of 50 year old jalopys we can sleep in and sugar cane we can sell on the street on Sunday, and the Antarctic can send us Penguins, and Alaska can send us, um...polar bears and snow shoes.
All of Which will be absolutely no good to us at all, except for the 50 year old jalopys to sleep in. But, hold on. Actually, come to think of it,, we can dress up the Penguins and Polar Bears in t-shirts and snow shoes and bandanas so they can look nice while they sell the sugar cane on the streets on Sunday.
Ok, the foreign aid is taken care of. (Ha! wait'll they find out we got nothing to give back!)
But we're getting ahead of ourselves here. First, we have to establish ourselves as an entity. An actual nation. And that's where the Declaration of Independence, the Constitution and the Bill of Rights come in.
We're going to be cherry picking a lot of those important and hallowed documents. You know, just taking the things we really need for the time being. And actually, the other nation was real sweet about this whole thing - probably thinking what a clever way to get rid of us - and they said, hey, take our constitution and bill of rights, we're not using them right now, anyway.
So, ok, we're going to do that, it'll save on copier paper. But we need to make a few changes to some things. Especially that Bill of Rights thing.
It needs some, as Ricky Riccardo would say, some 'splaining'. Cause ya see, when we started looking over those important documents we are borrowing until the other nation sees the sense in using them again, at first, everything seemed to be in order.
Declaration of Independence? Darn tootin', whata way to say to that madcap, King George, "We are outa here."
And the Constitution goes right to the heart of the matter: "We the people of the United States, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and to posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America."
That document is the supreme law of the United States, and is the oldest written constitution still in use by any nation in the world.
The Bill of Rights is attached to the Constitution and to put it simply, is a list of amendments which spell out exactly the rights guaranteed by the Constitution. But, we realized the other nation's Bill of rights doesn't really adequately cover what we really need here in homeless nation.
First Amendment. Freedom of Religion and speech. Absolutely. We got that here. Couldn't survive without all of our wonderful churches and clergy. They give us spiritual backbone, and nice clothes, and good food. And unconditional love. And freedom of speech? well, hey, you wouldn't be reading this or a whole lot of other things without it.
Second Amendment. The Right to Bear Arms. Well, when you consider, in parts of homeless nation, the only moral caliber is a .38, why not.
Third Amendment. Protection from quartering of troops in time of peace. A little hazy, seeing as how 18% of our citizens are vets. But so long as they don't go charging around with RPG's under their arm and lay off on the war stories a little bit... sure.
Fourth Amendment. Protection from unreasonable search and seizure. Okay, here is where the problem starts. In fact, it was an ugly incident a couple of nights ago which sparked this whole secession idea, and laid bare the inadequacies of that particular amendment. Big Time.
Some people got it into their heads that it was ok to go into the sleeping quarters of some street puppies and, well, let's say, shake things up...or down.
And, seemingly, on paper, those people were right. When a puppy is trading up for shelter and food, and stability and security, the puppy has to give up some things. There are curfews, there are rules, there are simple infringements which will supposedly guarantee the safety of all in return for abiding by a few supposedly benign rules.
Benign so long as the people enforcing those rules don't step over the line of decency in enforcing those rules. Benign so long as they don't scare the puppies half to death, and destroy or confiscate property which is important to the survival of the puppy, benign so long as they don't rip at the soul of a puppy so hard with the unspoken message that the puppy is worth nothing and deserves that treatment simply because he or she is homeless. so hard that the puppy weeps and cringes in fear at what is to come from the people who are supposed to be protecting them.
Yeah, that amendment needs to be 'splained'.
And this is how it should be 'splained.' Real simple. And to the point.
Fourth Amendment. Protection from unreasonable search and seizure. Ok, we agree to the search and seizure part, and that is going to guarantee the assurance that nobody is hiding harmful or illegal substances. And if they are, then please, by all means, remove the harmful and or illegal substances, and, if necessary, the people hiding them.... and take the vitamins and the candy bars too. You know how we can get with too much sugar and Vitamin B.
But think again about abusing, with brutality, and heartlessness, the unreasonable part.
Because the next time anybody tries that monkey business of brutalizing the dignity and souls of street puppies and treating us like road kill or retreads, well, The great singer Tom Petty probably said it best in his song "Stand My Ground."
Well we won't back down
You can stand us up at the gates of hell
but we won't back down
Well we know what's right, and we got just one life
in a world that keeps pushin' us around
we will stand our ground
and we won't back down.
Wednesday, October 27, 2010
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
MARINE DEVIL PUPPIES RULE! HOOAH!
Actually, that's Marine Devil Dogs. A term of endearment for all marines since WWI in the Battle of Belleau Wood in 1918, when the U.S. Marines fought with such ferocity against the German forces they were labeled by the frightened Germans as 'Dogs From Hell.'
And, Hooah? Well, that was first used by British forces in the late 1800's while fighting in Afghanistan, and more recently by U.S. forces to mean anything from, ''Heard, Understood, Acknowledged," to "Outstanding," to "You've got to be kidding."
"You've got to be kidding," as in "We're going to do what?!" "Uh, huh, we're going to Boot Camp, for a week. All day, every day....right...where did I leave my bus pass?"
But there was no way out of it. Suddenly, bus passes were being tossed around like they were manhole covers. We were stuck. We had been conscripted. We were going to get the whole treatment. Physical training, new uniforms, hair cuts, forced close order drill. The works.
And we were going to come out of Boot Camp as disciplined, well trained Marine devil puppies and sent to the front lines of the biggest war we got going on right now, the war against unemployment.
Now, this whole thing was thought up by a major officer person at a wonderful place where street puppies stay to try to get their lives back in shape after being street puppies for awhile.
And finding employment is one of the things to do to get the life back into shape. That, and learning how to sleep lying down instead of standing up against a lamp post.
And we were going to do this whole Boot Camp thing to challenge the prevailing wisdom: "Can't get a job, the unemployment rate here is close to 13 percent, may as well go back to sleeping standing up against a lamp post."
Yup, we were going to defy the prevailing wisdom and reality. We were going to take the war to them. Them being the folks who keep saying the unemployment rate is 13 percent and ya can't get a job unless you dance good enough to do the dance with the star show thing, or recently graduated with a degree in how to be a real good second story man.
And, it had been determined, Boot Camp was the way in to the rumored wonderland of trees dripping with jobs, and streets paved with hundred dollar bills and certificates of deposit.
Now, Boot camp in military life is a kind of resocialization whereby the mental, physical and emotional condition is completely torn down by a cranky DI (drill instructor for all of you people born after the draft was thrown out when it was determined it was cruelty to 18-year olds) who basically rips you apart from one end to the other for a couple of months and then puts you back together his way and dresses you in a new olive green get up (or, oh, Lord, I'm going to faint, those beautiful Marine dress Blues) and then sends you home on leave to Mom.
Mom, who doesn't recognize you, and spends a couple of weeks while you are there on leave, wondering who that charming, well mannered young man or woman is who keeps insisting on saying, "Sir," "Maam" and, opening doors, making the bed, and cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.
But the major officer person in charge of the Marine devil street puppie Boot Camp had taken one small mercy on us. We would not be sent back on leave to mom after boot camp.
The first morning of Boot Camp dawned in a misty shroud of doubt and fear. What were we facing? We huddled together under an awning near the jumping off spot, whispering amongst ourselves. What did the officers have in store for us? We had the schedule, but no real description. But one thing on the schedule had snared our attention. "Targeted job search."
That could mean anything from entering an employment office with a bow and arrow, to robbing a bank. We were worried.
We shuffled around, smoked a bit, no...we smoked a lot. Waiting for the day's events to begin. And then we saw it. A little red tricycle being pushed across the asphalt and through the opening of the tent where our first class would be held.
A little red tricycle. Creaking it's way across the asphalt, being steered by a tall person bent over the tricycle, and leering at us, grinning the kind of grin you usually see on that horrific clown who greets you at the entrance to the house of mirrors at the carnival.
Yeah. we had to ride that little red tricycle. One by one, we completed the obstacle course. I won't go into detail about the obstacle course here, but it involved what would happen if you needed to get to a job real fast, and there were, well...obstacles. There was an incentive, a generous gift certificate from a fine store for the winner, meaning, you finished the course with the best time and your sense of humor intact. At the end of the morning's festivities, I discovered that, in fact, I owed the store a gift certificate.
And I had the nagging thought for two days that maybe I had broken my right arm in three places, and sprained my left ankle while riding that little red tricycle. But no time for these trivial concerns. No Marine devil puppy wimps out of Boot Camp unless a stretcher is involved.
In the days to come, we Marine devil puppies made good our commitment to excellence in the face of great odds and nay saying. We networked; we cooked up resumes; we organized and conducted job searches; we rode around in vans dressed in brand new suits and ties and scarves and stuff and probably scared people who interviewed us with our persistence and our tenacity and our survival and battle tactics.
We listened to fine motivational speakers, and other generous people who cheered us on with revelations taken from their deep fonts of wisdom regarding the paucity of jobs versus the absolute need and desire to get one of those jobs, and how we could gain an edge over our competition. We listened, and we learned. We even had make overs. The U.S Marines have their green/brown camouflage face paint...we had Mary Kay.
And every Marine devil puppy made the week. No ringing the bell here.When we gathered for our graduation ceremony, it was a cause for celebration. But no hats were thrown into the air, no weekend passes. we were way too tuckered out to party.
We accepted our graduation certificates and very cool t-shirts proclaiming that we had survived Boot Camp. We ate ice cream and a nifty cake decorated in military camouflage frosting. We were surrounded by our equally tuckered out commanding officer DI , and the other major officer persons of the wonderful establishment that sponsored the whole week. I think they were in awe of we Marine devil puppy recruits. They certainly looked proud.
For we had not only survived Boot Camp. We had prevailed. We are smarter, stronger...and wiser. And ready to take on the biggest challenge facing us. And I'm not talking about that red tricycle thing.
We are now, and truly and always, Marine Devil Puppies. Hooah! Semper Fi!
And, Hooah? Well, that was first used by British forces in the late 1800's while fighting in Afghanistan, and more recently by U.S. forces to mean anything from, ''Heard, Understood, Acknowledged," to "Outstanding," to "You've got to be kidding."
"You've got to be kidding," as in "We're going to do what?!" "Uh, huh, we're going to Boot Camp, for a week. All day, every day....right...where did I leave my bus pass?"
But there was no way out of it. Suddenly, bus passes were being tossed around like they were manhole covers. We were stuck. We had been conscripted. We were going to get the whole treatment. Physical training, new uniforms, hair cuts, forced close order drill. The works.
And we were going to come out of Boot Camp as disciplined, well trained Marine devil puppies and sent to the front lines of the biggest war we got going on right now, the war against unemployment.
Now, this whole thing was thought up by a major officer person at a wonderful place where street puppies stay to try to get their lives back in shape after being street puppies for awhile.
And finding employment is one of the things to do to get the life back into shape. That, and learning how to sleep lying down instead of standing up against a lamp post.
And we were going to do this whole Boot Camp thing to challenge the prevailing wisdom: "Can't get a job, the unemployment rate here is close to 13 percent, may as well go back to sleeping standing up against a lamp post."
Yup, we were going to defy the prevailing wisdom and reality. We were going to take the war to them. Them being the folks who keep saying the unemployment rate is 13 percent and ya can't get a job unless you dance good enough to do the dance with the star show thing, or recently graduated with a degree in how to be a real good second story man.
And, it had been determined, Boot Camp was the way in to the rumored wonderland of trees dripping with jobs, and streets paved with hundred dollar bills and certificates of deposit.
Now, Boot camp in military life is a kind of resocialization whereby the mental, physical and emotional condition is completely torn down by a cranky DI (drill instructor for all of you people born after the draft was thrown out when it was determined it was cruelty to 18-year olds) who basically rips you apart from one end to the other for a couple of months and then puts you back together his way and dresses you in a new olive green get up (or, oh, Lord, I'm going to faint, those beautiful Marine dress Blues) and then sends you home on leave to Mom.
Mom, who doesn't recognize you, and spends a couple of weeks while you are there on leave, wondering who that charming, well mannered young man or woman is who keeps insisting on saying, "Sir," "Maam" and, opening doors, making the bed, and cleaning up the mess in the kitchen.
But the major officer person in charge of the Marine devil street puppie Boot Camp had taken one small mercy on us. We would not be sent back on leave to mom after boot camp.
The first morning of Boot Camp dawned in a misty shroud of doubt and fear. What were we facing? We huddled together under an awning near the jumping off spot, whispering amongst ourselves. What did the officers have in store for us? We had the schedule, but no real description. But one thing on the schedule had snared our attention. "Targeted job search."
That could mean anything from entering an employment office with a bow and arrow, to robbing a bank. We were worried.
We shuffled around, smoked a bit, no...we smoked a lot. Waiting for the day's events to begin. And then we saw it. A little red tricycle being pushed across the asphalt and through the opening of the tent where our first class would be held.
A little red tricycle. Creaking it's way across the asphalt, being steered by a tall person bent over the tricycle, and leering at us, grinning the kind of grin you usually see on that horrific clown who greets you at the entrance to the house of mirrors at the carnival.
Yeah. we had to ride that little red tricycle. One by one, we completed the obstacle course. I won't go into detail about the obstacle course here, but it involved what would happen if you needed to get to a job real fast, and there were, well...obstacles. There was an incentive, a generous gift certificate from a fine store for the winner, meaning, you finished the course with the best time and your sense of humor intact. At the end of the morning's festivities, I discovered that, in fact, I owed the store a gift certificate.
And I had the nagging thought for two days that maybe I had broken my right arm in three places, and sprained my left ankle while riding that little red tricycle. But no time for these trivial concerns. No Marine devil puppy wimps out of Boot Camp unless a stretcher is involved.
In the days to come, we Marine devil puppies made good our commitment to excellence in the face of great odds and nay saying. We networked; we cooked up resumes; we organized and conducted job searches; we rode around in vans dressed in brand new suits and ties and scarves and stuff and probably scared people who interviewed us with our persistence and our tenacity and our survival and battle tactics.
We listened to fine motivational speakers, and other generous people who cheered us on with revelations taken from their deep fonts of wisdom regarding the paucity of jobs versus the absolute need and desire to get one of those jobs, and how we could gain an edge over our competition. We listened, and we learned. We even had make overs. The U.S Marines have their green/brown camouflage face paint...we had Mary Kay.
And every Marine devil puppy made the week. No ringing the bell here.When we gathered for our graduation ceremony, it was a cause for celebration. But no hats were thrown into the air, no weekend passes. we were way too tuckered out to party.
We accepted our graduation certificates and very cool t-shirts proclaiming that we had survived Boot Camp. We ate ice cream and a nifty cake decorated in military camouflage frosting. We were surrounded by our equally tuckered out commanding officer DI , and the other major officer persons of the wonderful establishment that sponsored the whole week. I think they were in awe of we Marine devil puppy recruits. They certainly looked proud.
For we had not only survived Boot Camp. We had prevailed. We are smarter, stronger...and wiser. And ready to take on the biggest challenge facing us. And I'm not talking about that red tricycle thing.
We are now, and truly and always, Marine Devil Puppies. Hooah! Semper Fi!
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
RX GOMER
You've got a bad headache. You've got a bad headache because somebody beat you up, and took your wallet and your backpack. You can barely see the wet flecks of red something all over your torn jacket because your eyes are so swollen from the beating.
Or you tripped over your boot laces and fell down a couple of days ago, and at first what seemed a minor bump has now swollen your leg to three times it's normal size, and you can barely walk without screaming out in pain.
Or, that cold that started out as a mild cough and stuffed nose has turned into a monster thing crawling around inside your chest and threatening to stop your breathing.
Or maybe, you just ate the wrong sandwich at the shelter, the one that was dated 'expired' about fourteen days ago, and you know that if you don't die from the tainted meat in that sandwich, you surely want to.
Wait and see, the usual remedy for all things medical in homeless nation just isn't going to cut it today. You can no longer put it off. Time for the trip all street puppies fear. The trip to the ER.
If you're in homeless nation, it's very likely you have no health insurance. Not even medicaid or county insurance, and forget about a doctor.
Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah in that building on the corner which houses a record store on the ground floor is about as close as you're going to get to a doctor. And he's never inhis office because He owns the record store.
What you do have is EMTALA. That's geek speak for The Emergency Medical Treatment and Active Labor Act. EMTALA was passed as part of the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act of 1986, which is sometimes referred to as "The Cobra Law".
That's the law that states if you see a Cobra just outside the ER, you can pull your gun and shoot it, but if you see it inside the ER, you have to conceal your gun beneath your shirt and shoot it through the button hole.
The COBRA law also states that the ER must treat anybody who is in extremis ( hurt or nearly dead or real sick) if they get within 250 yards of the ER and ask for help. The trick there is getting within that 250 yard limit and hoping the last ten yards isn't over Cobra infested water.
See this whole EMTALA thing also governs when and how a patient may be (1) refused treatment or, (2) transferred from one hospital to another when he is in an unstable medical conditions and also, how far you can be outside the ER room while you're dying or something before they have to legally treat you....or stabilize you and send you to another ER. Where the same thing happens all over again.
So let's say you got into the ER, and only had to shoot two Cobras to do it. And under EMTALA you are entitled to have that head wound fixed up, or the broken leg tended to, or admitted with a serious case of pneumonia, or your stomach pumped and admitted for fourteen days of nothing but fluids through an IV.
Ah ha! But now you run into GOMER.
GOMER isn't that big guy over in the corner with apple juice all over his white coat. Yeah, the one picking his nose with his gloved hand. That's Billy Bob, the on call neurosurgeon. No, GOMER is ER nurses and doctors speak for "GET OUT OF MY EMERGENCY ROOM,"
And GOMER is a whole differnet way to triage in an ER.
Chalk it up to the weariness which plagues all those nurses and doctors and attendants scurrying around the ER in their cute scrubs whose job it is to determine who is about to kick it, and who just needs an aspirin and a pat on the fanny and a cheery "good night, honey, feel better."
Or chalk it up to genuine dislike many of those nurses and doctors and attendants actually have for people who look dirty, smell funny, and are maybe missing a few teeth and are carrying most of their belongings in bulging backpacks...and don't have insurance. My bet is on the latter chalk it upper.
I've seen more than a few upturned noses on the merry band of ER employees during the ER triage interview. You know, where they look you over and ask you a few questions to determine if you're in the may kick it or aspirin mode. It goes like this.
Q. When did it happen? The beating.
A. I don't know I was sleeping. can you clean the blood, please.
Q. Where did the beating take place?
A. Uh, um... behind the billboard over the underpass....uh...the blood...
Q.On a scale of one to ten, what would you say your pain is.
A. Um, the pain, heck, I can hardly see...could ya clean the blood...
Q. SIR, the pain, on a scale of one to ten.
A. Ten.
Q. How about if we give you some vicodin and you can go home to that billboard and sleep for awhile. Will a bottle of 60 do?
A. Sure. Um, could I have a wet washcloth?
There ya go, problem solved. no surture for the cut behind all that blood, no cat scan to see if there is brain damage. Just the bottle of vicodin, and a referral to see Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah above the record store in ten days.
And the guy who tripped over his boot laces, and the one with what is probably pneumonia and the one who ate the nasty sandwich will all get the same treatment. Except the guy with the sandwich thing will get a sample of kaopectate along with the vicodin.
And the ER attendants will have gotten around EMTALA rules because they were able to determine the patient did not have to be transferred to another facility; took care of the Cobras and was within the 250 yard limit when when he asked to be treated, or was stabilized, (meaning he didn't pass out right then and there) and was not refused treatment.
Nice work if you can get it, and the scrubs were'nt even soiled. And just about every ER we street puppies know of do that work every day and night. And who knows, the guy with the head injury might drop dead of a blood clot to the brain in a couple of days; the guy with the leg injury might walk around permanently on a broken limb which never heals right, and be crippled for life; the guy with developing pneumonia will be back probably, in an ambulance and near comatose, and the guy with the nasty sandwich? Well, it won't be the first time somebody starved to death from fear of eating expired food.
The real RX in homeless nation is, don't get sick or hurt. And if you do, tough it out. It's either that or develop a vicodin addiction. Or worse, actually have to get to know Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah!
Or you tripped over your boot laces and fell down a couple of days ago, and at first what seemed a minor bump has now swollen your leg to three times it's normal size, and you can barely walk without screaming out in pain.
Or, that cold that started out as a mild cough and stuffed nose has turned into a monster thing crawling around inside your chest and threatening to stop your breathing.
Or maybe, you just ate the wrong sandwich at the shelter, the one that was dated 'expired' about fourteen days ago, and you know that if you don't die from the tainted meat in that sandwich, you surely want to.
Wait and see, the usual remedy for all things medical in homeless nation just isn't going to cut it today. You can no longer put it off. Time for the trip all street puppies fear. The trip to the ER.
If you're in homeless nation, it's very likely you have no health insurance. Not even medicaid or county insurance, and forget about a doctor.
Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah in that building on the corner which houses a record store on the ground floor is about as close as you're going to get to a doctor. And he's never inhis office because He owns the record store.
What you do have is EMTALA. That's geek speak for The Emergency Medical Treatment and Active Labor Act. EMTALA was passed as part of the Consolidated Omnibus Budget Reconciliation Act of 1986, which is sometimes referred to as "The Cobra Law".
That's the law that states if you see a Cobra just outside the ER, you can pull your gun and shoot it, but if you see it inside the ER, you have to conceal your gun beneath your shirt and shoot it through the button hole.
The COBRA law also states that the ER must treat anybody who is in extremis ( hurt or nearly dead or real sick) if they get within 250 yards of the ER and ask for help. The trick there is getting within that 250 yard limit and hoping the last ten yards isn't over Cobra infested water.
See this whole EMTALA thing also governs when and how a patient may be (1) refused treatment or, (2) transferred from one hospital to another when he is in an unstable medical conditions and also, how far you can be outside the ER room while you're dying or something before they have to legally treat you....or stabilize you and send you to another ER. Where the same thing happens all over again.
So let's say you got into the ER, and only had to shoot two Cobras to do it. And under EMTALA you are entitled to have that head wound fixed up, or the broken leg tended to, or admitted with a serious case of pneumonia, or your stomach pumped and admitted for fourteen days of nothing but fluids through an IV.
Ah ha! But now you run into GOMER.
GOMER isn't that big guy over in the corner with apple juice all over his white coat. Yeah, the one picking his nose with his gloved hand. That's Billy Bob, the on call neurosurgeon. No, GOMER is ER nurses and doctors speak for "GET OUT OF MY EMERGENCY ROOM,"
And GOMER is a whole differnet way to triage in an ER.
Chalk it up to the weariness which plagues all those nurses and doctors and attendants scurrying around the ER in their cute scrubs whose job it is to determine who is about to kick it, and who just needs an aspirin and a pat on the fanny and a cheery "good night, honey, feel better."
Or chalk it up to genuine dislike many of those nurses and doctors and attendants actually have for people who look dirty, smell funny, and are maybe missing a few teeth and are carrying most of their belongings in bulging backpacks...and don't have insurance. My bet is on the latter chalk it upper.
I've seen more than a few upturned noses on the merry band of ER employees during the ER triage interview. You know, where they look you over and ask you a few questions to determine if you're in the may kick it or aspirin mode. It goes like this.
Q. When did it happen? The beating.
A. I don't know I was sleeping. can you clean the blood, please.
Q. Where did the beating take place?
A. Uh, um... behind the billboard over the underpass....uh...the blood...
Q.On a scale of one to ten, what would you say your pain is.
A. Um, the pain, heck, I can hardly see...could ya clean the blood...
Q. SIR, the pain, on a scale of one to ten.
A. Ten.
Q. How about if we give you some vicodin and you can go home to that billboard and sleep for awhile. Will a bottle of 60 do?
A. Sure. Um, could I have a wet washcloth?
There ya go, problem solved. no surture for the cut behind all that blood, no cat scan to see if there is brain damage. Just the bottle of vicodin, and a referral to see Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah above the record store in ten days.
And the guy who tripped over his boot laces, and the one with what is probably pneumonia and the one who ate the nasty sandwich will all get the same treatment. Except the guy with the sandwich thing will get a sample of kaopectate along with the vicodin.
And the ER attendants will have gotten around EMTALA rules because they were able to determine the patient did not have to be transferred to another facility; took care of the Cobras and was within the 250 yard limit when when he asked to be treated, or was stabilized, (meaning he didn't pass out right then and there) and was not refused treatment.
Nice work if you can get it, and the scrubs were'nt even soiled. And just about every ER we street puppies know of do that work every day and night. And who knows, the guy with the head injury might drop dead of a blood clot to the brain in a couple of days; the guy with the leg injury might walk around permanently on a broken limb which never heals right, and be crippled for life; the guy with developing pneumonia will be back probably, in an ambulance and near comatose, and the guy with the nasty sandwich? Well, it won't be the first time somebody starved to death from fear of eating expired food.
The real RX in homeless nation is, don't get sick or hurt. And if you do, tough it out. It's either that or develop a vicodin addiction. Or worse, actually have to get to know Dr. Vinnie Boom Bah!
Sunday, October 10, 2010
SLEEPING ROUGH IN MERRY OLE' ENGLAND
Oh, there they go again. Always one upping us. Those stodgy cousins of ours who have never gotten over the revolutionary war.
Those wild and crazy Brits have come up with an oh so proper term for homelessness. Sleeping Rough.
You know, the kind of term that fits with that stiff upper lip kind of attitude they take across the pond with everything, like when one of their oh so proper, over-educated lords or ministers ( their version of congressmen and senators) are caught, uh, well, sleeping rough.
But, now, they've taken it too far. And we are not amused.
One of their major domo fashion designers, a real British Dame no less.... Dame, Vivienne Westwood, knighted by the Queen of England herself... well, the Dame recently launched a new fashion line in a major fashion show using models dressed like rough sleepers. A British rendition of 'homeless chic.'
In fact, the whole fashion show, was a 'rough sleeper theme'. And it was a smash hit.
The fashion writers present breathlessly described the audience as breaking into rapturous applause as the flashing cameras captured the models emerging from cardboard boxes , some carrying bedrolls. The catwalk was carpeted with a lot more of those cardboard boxes, and the models hair was all dishelved, and discolored by something silvery, 'so they would like they had been sleeping rough and had got frost in their hair, and caught a cold and they sneezed a lot.'
The models, acting as roving, sneezing vagrants while light tripping down the catwalk were dressed in things like quilted bomber jackets, snug hoodies, and actual battle gear, sequined backpacks of course, and multi-colored neon ski caps. Apparently the only thing missing from these roving sneezing vagrants get ups were gold lame purses dripping with snot.
The Dame had the well known British common sense to launch this new fashion trend in Italy. Probably because those wild and crazy Italians will let anybody over their borders, even rough sleepin' , sneezing, roving vagrant look alikes, while the Brits won't even let a sniffling cocker spaniel through their international customs terminal.
One of the visiting fashionistas, you know, the kind of high maintenance celubutart who actually buys clothes at these high toned fashion shows then wears them home and frightens the children, said, while swooning over the show, "It is a little close to the bone, the nearest I have come to homelessness is going home and finding I don't have my door key, I mean what a disaster that is, dying to get into your house and you can't...and heavens, what if it isn't there anymore?" Poor Baby.
They have their nerve, don't they? I mean, making fun of , and taking advantage of their own homeless people by putting white silvery stuff into a model's hair to make it look like they'd been sleeping in the snow and stuff and then having the gall to charge mucho shillings for what passes for fashion. 'Homeless chic', indeed. Well, what do ya expect from a nation of folks who invented sensible shoes.....and Burberry.
And even the Queen, herself, that dear national treasure, got into the act of taking advantage of rough sleepers a couple years back when she got caught trying to sneak her house, Buckingham Palace onto the poverty list so she would be eligible for enough free fuel to heat all of those empty drafty rooms where they keep the good silver and pictures of the Queens twenty or so corgis. Ha! She got some heat all right, from the citizens of her own country when they found out she was trying to sneak about a million pounds out of their national treasury that had been designated for anti-poverty funds. What cheek!!
Then, of course, you know how the Royals are, tidying up after each other Last winter, there was himself, the heart throb of the family, the hunky Prince William sleeping rough in an alley behind some dumpsters so that he could "get a feeling for what they are up against.'"Ahem.
He was also in the company of five or so well armed guys fitted out with eyes in the backs of their heads. And, true to the royal code of dressing down, was clad in blue jeans, a hoody and a ski cap and tennis shoes. No sequined back pack for him. Or that white stuff in his hair.
Those wild and crazy Brits have come up with an oh so proper term for homelessness. Sleeping Rough.
You know, the kind of term that fits with that stiff upper lip kind of attitude they take across the pond with everything, like when one of their oh so proper, over-educated lords or ministers ( their version of congressmen and senators) are caught, uh, well, sleeping rough.
But, now, they've taken it too far. And we are not amused.
One of their major domo fashion designers, a real British Dame no less.... Dame, Vivienne Westwood, knighted by the Queen of England herself... well, the Dame recently launched a new fashion line in a major fashion show using models dressed like rough sleepers. A British rendition of 'homeless chic.'
In fact, the whole fashion show, was a 'rough sleeper theme'. And it was a smash hit.
The fashion writers present breathlessly described the audience as breaking into rapturous applause as the flashing cameras captured the models emerging from cardboard boxes , some carrying bedrolls. The catwalk was carpeted with a lot more of those cardboard boxes, and the models hair was all dishelved, and discolored by something silvery, 'so they would like they had been sleeping rough and had got frost in their hair, and caught a cold and they sneezed a lot.'
The models, acting as roving, sneezing vagrants while light tripping down the catwalk were dressed in things like quilted bomber jackets, snug hoodies, and actual battle gear, sequined backpacks of course, and multi-colored neon ski caps. Apparently the only thing missing from these roving sneezing vagrants get ups were gold lame purses dripping with snot.
The Dame had the well known British common sense to launch this new fashion trend in Italy. Probably because those wild and crazy Italians will let anybody over their borders, even rough sleepin' , sneezing, roving vagrant look alikes, while the Brits won't even let a sniffling cocker spaniel through their international customs terminal.
One of the visiting fashionistas, you know, the kind of high maintenance celubutart who actually buys clothes at these high toned fashion shows then wears them home and frightens the children, said, while swooning over the show, "It is a little close to the bone, the nearest I have come to homelessness is going home and finding I don't have my door key, I mean what a disaster that is, dying to get into your house and you can't...and heavens, what if it isn't there anymore?" Poor Baby.
They have their nerve, don't they? I mean, making fun of , and taking advantage of their own homeless people by putting white silvery stuff into a model's hair to make it look like they'd been sleeping in the snow and stuff and then having the gall to charge mucho shillings for what passes for fashion. 'Homeless chic', indeed. Well, what do ya expect from a nation of folks who invented sensible shoes.....and Burberry.
And even the Queen, herself, that dear national treasure, got into the act of taking advantage of rough sleepers a couple years back when she got caught trying to sneak her house, Buckingham Palace onto the poverty list so she would be eligible for enough free fuel to heat all of those empty drafty rooms where they keep the good silver and pictures of the Queens twenty or so corgis. Ha! She got some heat all right, from the citizens of her own country when they found out she was trying to sneak about a million pounds out of their national treasury that had been designated for anti-poverty funds. What cheek!!
Then, of course, you know how the Royals are, tidying up after each other Last winter, there was himself, the heart throb of the family, the hunky Prince William sleeping rough in an alley behind some dumpsters so that he could "get a feeling for what they are up against.'"Ahem.
He was also in the company of five or so well armed guys fitted out with eyes in the backs of their heads. And, true to the royal code of dressing down, was clad in blue jeans, a hoody and a ski cap and tennis shoes. No sequined back pack for him. Or that white stuff in his hair.
Ok, we in homeless nation are not amused, but we're not going to fret over it too much, and seeing as how young William was willing to take one in the chin for his grandmum, we won't whine too much about this matter of the 'homeless chic' thing. And Hey, they still export some great stuff to us, like Monty Python and Eddie Izzard
.
And they ain't got nothin on us in the fashion department. Any day, down at the bus station we got all kinds of roving sneezing rough sleepin' street puppies strutting their own 'homeless chic'. I've seen more Gucci, Chanel, Ralph Lauren, Calvin Klein, Adolfo, Givenchy, Versace et al gear here in homeless nation than on the whole of Fifth Avenue and Rodeo Drive combined.
Granted, it's not mixed or matched up too well, seeing as all of it comes from the closets of snappy dressing real rich people by way of thrift stores and free vouchers, but it warms the heart to see that even in desperate circumstances, a lot of our street puppies have the fashion sense to at least wear the labels on the outside. Shows we know class when we see it.
You go, street puppies, You keep on struttin' those designer labels. I especially like the older guy reeking of Versace cologne, sporting the Gucci loafers with the Calvin Klein suit bottoms, the Adolfo flared sleeve shirt over the t-shirt that blares "Kiss Me I'm Irish", topped off with a sassyTommy Hilfiger suede jacket.
Like I said, those wild and crazy Brits got nothin' on us.
Monday, October 4, 2010
I'M FROM THE GOVERNMENT AND I'M HERE TO HELP.
Our late President, Ronald Reagan said those were the nine most terrifying words in the English language.
He said those words were right up there with some other great fabrications like, "I gave at the office," and "The check is in the mail."
At the time, he was speaking to a bunch of farmers who were looking for help from him, seeing as how he looked like he knew something about the government.
And, no, silly, they didn't want him to pick corn or milk the cows or chase the geese around the farm. They wanted cold hard cash they needed to afford all that corn and milk and cheese and a decent goose and stuff like that for themselves, because everything they produced was going to the government anyway, so why not get some dough for it so they can buy their own corn, milk and a decent goose.
Makes too much sense is why. When you're dealing with the government and money, try not to make too much sense. You'll both go nuts and the government guy will be comfortable with that.
Here in homeless nation, we're surrounded by government agencies who are here to help us.
And as we know in homeless nation, when you're surrounded, there's no way out.
And you might call the whole exercise of trying to extract moneyfrom any government agency who is here to help you, Gag Me With a Voucher.
Let's say, you are homeless because you have fallen on hard times, and need help with, oh, let's say, shoes. Ok, you go to the government person who represents the agency who can help you get some shoes, because it's winter, and your feet are so cold you cannot feel them. Not good for getting on the bus, you'll stumble and fall onto the driver, and he'll call the po po and have you arrested for indecent exposure of the white toes sticking up through the tattered shoes.
Ok, so time to get some shoes. Only one thing. After you wait for five hours to see the shoe guy in the government office you went to because their name was on the back of a match book from the Red Lantern Gentleman's Club that you found on the floor of the men's room at the bus station, he looks up from cleaning his dentures and yells, "Hey, git outa here, you ain't got no shoes on!" And sure enough, you look down, and the tattered shoes have fallen totally off your frozen tootsies.
So, you git. All the way to the back of the line and wait another two hours. Then you see the receptionist again, and explain the situation, and that you really do have to see the shoe guy. She looks at you with great pity in her eyes, shakes her head, says, 'tsk tsk, honey, you need to see you the shoe guy for that."
And you say, "I know that, I was just there, and he told me to leave because I didn't have any shoes on." She looks down at your really ugly feet, and recoils in disgust and says, "Well, we're going to have to get you some shoes, then, honey. Here, take this voucher.
You grasp the voucher in your hand, and sure enough, it says, "Voucher." Doesn't say voucher for what, but you're still taking their word for it because they're from the government. So you say meekly, "Ok, but where do I take it?" And she says "Go outside, take a right, walk ten blocks and you'll see a little pink building with iron bars on all the windows, a squad car and two armed policemen out front. thats the the 'here take this voucher' building. And then she gives you one of those, sick smiles you usually see on the face of your cat when he's toying with his catch of the day. And then and there, you know where you have seen her before.
Somewhere, someplace.. on a wanted poster. You wonder if you're on the right track here. Or maybe you've wandered into the Twilight Zone.
But, you go outside and take a right and trudge down the street and sure enough. There is the 'here, take this voucher' building. And the armed policemen and the squad car. You pull your pant legs way down so they cover your white frozen toes, and you can avoid arrest.
Inside the 'here take this voucher' building, you peek through the dim light and see...another line. Ok, but you need the shoes, you'll have to stick it out until they can see you, and hope you won't be too late for curfew at your shelter. They will beat you with shiny black whips if you are, and your frozen white toes might crack off under the pressure if you don't get the shoes.
Finally, finally, you get to the front of the line. Success, and you have a whole ten minutes to get to your shelter, before the shiny black whips are pulled out.
You hand the voucher to the clerk. He stares at it and says."What's this?"
You say, "Um, it's a voucher." And he gives you the same sickly smile you got from miss wanted poster back in the other building, and says, "I really can't help you." And you say, "WHY NOT???" and he says, ""Sir, I cannot take this voucher, unless you have a referral for the voucher."
And you say, "A referral?" And he says, "Yes, sir, a referral."
Suddenly you remember the armed policemen outside the door, and you let go of the thing in your pocket you want to stick down this turkey's throat, and say, "ok, where do I get a referral?"
And he says. "Well, that would be the referral for a voucher building." And you say, "Where's zat?" And he says it's straight down the street to the bus stop, take the number 2 bus five miles up and get off at the little brown building right next to the city zoo."
And you think, ok I may as well, I need the darn shoes and I'll at least miss the beating at the shelter. Oh, and I'll miss that mixed rotgut stew they serve after prayers, too.
So you say, "Fine, sir, but I will need a bus pass to do that, my feet are too frozen to walk."
And he says, "No, no can't do that.....unless you have a form from your shelter requesting a voucher."
You stare at him like Babe the Blue Ox. Words tumble through your head like they can't quite shake hands in order to form a sentence. Voucher, referral, form....no, referral, form voucher...um, nope, oh, got it, form, voucher, referral. You're ready to eat your own eyebrows.
Wait, he's saying something to you. He's saying, "Sorry, sir, you'll have to come back tomorrow, we're closed for the day. And, sir, we'll let it go this time, but please, when you come back, wear some shoes, regulations you know."
He said those words were right up there with some other great fabrications like, "I gave at the office," and "The check is in the mail."
At the time, he was speaking to a bunch of farmers who were looking for help from him, seeing as how he looked like he knew something about the government.
And, no, silly, they didn't want him to pick corn or milk the cows or chase the geese around the farm. They wanted cold hard cash they needed to afford all that corn and milk and cheese and a decent goose and stuff like that for themselves, because everything they produced was going to the government anyway, so why not get some dough for it so they can buy their own corn, milk and a decent goose.
Makes too much sense is why. When you're dealing with the government and money, try not to make too much sense. You'll both go nuts and the government guy will be comfortable with that.
Here in homeless nation, we're surrounded by government agencies who are here to help us.
And as we know in homeless nation, when you're surrounded, there's no way out.
And you might call the whole exercise of trying to extract moneyfrom any government agency who is here to help you, Gag Me With a Voucher.
Let's say, you are homeless because you have fallen on hard times, and need help with, oh, let's say, shoes. Ok, you go to the government person who represents the agency who can help you get some shoes, because it's winter, and your feet are so cold you cannot feel them. Not good for getting on the bus, you'll stumble and fall onto the driver, and he'll call the po po and have you arrested for indecent exposure of the white toes sticking up through the tattered shoes.
Ok, so time to get some shoes. Only one thing. After you wait for five hours to see the shoe guy in the government office you went to because their name was on the back of a match book from the Red Lantern Gentleman's Club that you found on the floor of the men's room at the bus station, he looks up from cleaning his dentures and yells, "Hey, git outa here, you ain't got no shoes on!" And sure enough, you look down, and the tattered shoes have fallen totally off your frozen tootsies.
So, you git. All the way to the back of the line and wait another two hours. Then you see the receptionist again, and explain the situation, and that you really do have to see the shoe guy. She looks at you with great pity in her eyes, shakes her head, says, 'tsk tsk, honey, you need to see you the shoe guy for that."
And you say, "I know that, I was just there, and he told me to leave because I didn't have any shoes on." She looks down at your really ugly feet, and recoils in disgust and says, "Well, we're going to have to get you some shoes, then, honey. Here, take this voucher.
You grasp the voucher in your hand, and sure enough, it says, "Voucher." Doesn't say voucher for what, but you're still taking their word for it because they're from the government. So you say meekly, "Ok, but where do I take it?" And she says "Go outside, take a right, walk ten blocks and you'll see a little pink building with iron bars on all the windows, a squad car and two armed policemen out front. thats the the 'here take this voucher' building. And then she gives you one of those, sick smiles you usually see on the face of your cat when he's toying with his catch of the day. And then and there, you know where you have seen her before.
Somewhere, someplace.. on a wanted poster. You wonder if you're on the right track here. Or maybe you've wandered into the Twilight Zone.
But, you go outside and take a right and trudge down the street and sure enough. There is the 'here, take this voucher' building. And the armed policemen and the squad car. You pull your pant legs way down so they cover your white frozen toes, and you can avoid arrest.
Inside the 'here take this voucher' building, you peek through the dim light and see...another line. Ok, but you need the shoes, you'll have to stick it out until they can see you, and hope you won't be too late for curfew at your shelter. They will beat you with shiny black whips if you are, and your frozen white toes might crack off under the pressure if you don't get the shoes.
Finally, finally, you get to the front of the line. Success, and you have a whole ten minutes to get to your shelter, before the shiny black whips are pulled out.
You hand the voucher to the clerk. He stares at it and says."What's this?"
You say, "Um, it's a voucher." And he gives you the same sickly smile you got from miss wanted poster back in the other building, and says, "I really can't help you." And you say, "WHY NOT???" and he says, ""Sir, I cannot take this voucher, unless you have a referral for the voucher."
And you say, "A referral?" And he says, "Yes, sir, a referral."
Suddenly you remember the armed policemen outside the door, and you let go of the thing in your pocket you want to stick down this turkey's throat, and say, "ok, where do I get a referral?"
And he says. "Well, that would be the referral for a voucher building." And you say, "Where's zat?" And he says it's straight down the street to the bus stop, take the number 2 bus five miles up and get off at the little brown building right next to the city zoo."
And you think, ok I may as well, I need the darn shoes and I'll at least miss the beating at the shelter. Oh, and I'll miss that mixed rotgut stew they serve after prayers, too.
So you say, "Fine, sir, but I will need a bus pass to do that, my feet are too frozen to walk."
And he says, "No, no can't do that.....unless you have a form from your shelter requesting a voucher."
You stare at him like Babe the Blue Ox. Words tumble through your head like they can't quite shake hands in order to form a sentence. Voucher, referral, form....no, referral, form voucher...um, nope, oh, got it, form, voucher, referral. You're ready to eat your own eyebrows.
Wait, he's saying something to you. He's saying, "Sorry, sir, you'll have to come back tomorrow, we're closed for the day. And, sir, we'll let it go this time, but please, when you come back, wear some shoes, regulations you know."
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