BREAD AND CIRCUSES

In homeless nation, we have a similar situation to Panem et circenses, (Latin for 'bread and games) which is used by many historians to describe the social band aid applied by the ruling class of a rapidly degrading Roman Empire  to the erosion or ignorance of the poorer populace as a superficial means of appeasement.

In short, give them wheat and games and and other cheap forms of entertainment in order to patronize them as a way to gain political power.

Some of the people in power in Rome went so far as to shower loaves down upon the crowds in the coliseum just as the gladiators entered the arena. Kind of the ancient version of a commercial break.

Well, ya don't see much of that here in homeless nation.  Most of the street puppies don't vote, and we don't have gladiators.  Thus we have no way to help politicians to gain power, unless they can think up a way to make us disappear.  Or morph into street cleaning equipment.

But we do need to be appeased.  It's probably the only way to keep us out of the middle of the street, and off corners when we panhandle.  At least for a couple of hours during the commuter rush.

And, darn, bread and circuses are a sure good way to do it.

Only here, we call them "Feeds."  Feeds, as in, "You going to the feed at the park tonight?"  Or, "What time does the feed at the bus station start?"  Or, "Did you see the hot chick at the United Episcopal feed last nite?"

There's more bread than circuses at a feed.  Though, there's always enough drama around to fill in for the circus part. 

For instance, if the hot chick at the United Episcopal feed last nite was the girl friend of the guy who panhandles on Front Street for enough dough to buy his daily ration of Scope mouthwash...It's cheaper than Budweiser, has a higher alcohol proof and smells good even when it comes back up on ya....well, there's going to be some drama if he has enough of that Scope and shows up at the next feed with his hot chick and you even look at her.

Anyway, feeds are everywhere, and at all times of day and night in homeless nation.  And it is the way most of us are able to ingest enough calories to supply the energy to lift and pull our bags around with us all the rest of the day and night, and run speedily away when the police intrude upon our sleeping spot.

And most of the feeds are decent.  And they are prepared and served up by decent and generous people who actually care that we eat enough. And they certainly display a wide variety of ingredients and cuisines.

Imagine a very long table, and on that table, mounds of paper plates, paper napkins, plastic knives, forks and spoons and some paper cups.

 And then, stretching into the distance, large aluminum pans filled with Mexican food casseroles, and Italian food casseroles, and then some Chinese food casseroles, and then some maybe  Irish soup or chili mac, and then mounds of cut bread, and then some cup cakes and then some peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and candy bars and then   a small  and very snotty child, forced into servitude by an irate parent who will hand you a hygiene kit and some socks and glare at you like you just stold his mongoose bike.

Now, imagine that in line at all are those tables grabbing at all that food are people who have never learned to properly do what the British call "queue." 

"Queue," as get in line, one by one you will step up, grasp the eating utensils wrapped in a napkin, then the paper plate, upon which the wonderful people on the other side of the table will scoop, ladle or toss onto your plate, aluminum pan after aluminum pan until your plate looks like you have just been served dinner from the international pavilion at Epcot Center near Disneyland.

Well, kind of.  To be fair, there's more meat and vegetables than macaroni and noodles in the international food pavilions at Epcot Center. 

And probably far less sodium and carbohydrate and processed sugar and chemicals.

But anyway, back to the 'queue' thing. 

Some street puppies just don't get it.  You stay in line, you approach the end of the table.  You move down the table and receive the bountiful and tasty food heaped upon your plate.  You reach the end of the the line and the snotty kid whose Mongoose bike you probably just stold tosses the hygiene kit and the socks at you.

Then you settle onto the ground, or maybe a  lawn chair, and eat your tasty and filling and aromatic meal in peace and quiet.  All is well, and after finishing your meal, you will lean back, light up a cigarette and relax.

Nope. If you get to the end of the table at any feed without having some part of your face rearranged or a part of your clothing missing, or no scraps of food all over your clothing, you must be eating at the Outback Steakhouse, and not on the back lawn of the United Episcopal Church.

Feeds are kind of  like  "You You Eat What You Kill" territory. 

And at every one of the feeds there are a few jokers who believe that if they don't hustle their way to the front of the line and break at least one bone belonging to somebody else doing it, they are not a man and should not be out hunting for food.

And they believe that if they are fourth or fifth, or horrors, twelfth in line, there will be nothing left to eat but the scraps left over from the Chinese casserole.  And no socks left, either. Or hygiene kits.

These  kind of street puppies  are probably actually the road dawgs and were were obviously suckled by jackals, and would probably be displaying this great lack of manners even if they had not gambled away all of their property, beaten up on their wife, sold all the work tools and run away to homeless nation and pretended to be war vets who never came back from the PTSD they suffered while rescuing five buddies underfire in Vietnam or Gulf War or whatever fantasy they used to reinvent themselves and get over on the  street puppies while they're hiding out here. 

So we would like to take this opportunity to  apologize for the rude manners of the road dawgs who manage to turn every event into a free for all, and to thank all of those wonderful  and decent people who prepare and serve all of those bountiful and nutrituous and tasty meals at our feeds, and give away all of the hygiene kits and socks.

Except for the snotty kid at the end of the table at the feed at United Episcopal the other night.   The one with the attitude like we stold his Mongoose bike.  The one whose irate parent put him there  to punish him for breaking his ipod, and taking the family car for a joy ride at 2 AM sans driving license or a permit.

He put laxatives into all of the hygiene kits.  Dropped them right into the little bottles of Scope.

Now, that's not right, but somehow, the prospect of the discomfort of the road dawgs who ingested that stuff  is nearly as satisfying as the memory of the  supreme chocolate chip brownies served  on Sunday mornings at the feed at the bus station.