Ooooh, over the river and through the hoods to somebody's house we go!
Ok, party puppies. THE party down day of the year is nearly here, and if you have been invited to savor a fine meal, companionship, jocularity, and wine and song, we're here to help you make Thanksgiving a very special day.
One you will remember and cherish until next Thanksgiving Day.
If you can remember it at all.
Now, this is only for street puppies who have been invited to dine with civilians. At their abode.
We're not talking about a 'feed' and long lines of puppies, paper plates grasped in cold fingers, smiling faces behind long tables , and strong arms loading your plate with the usual fare, dressed up with,maybe, if you're lucky, real turkey, ham and sweet potatoes and pumpkin pie and at the very end of the table a take away bag with tooth paste, body wash, and socks and other stuff which can only remind you that you are not going away from the table to a sofa and sprawl away the afternoon watching a lot of guys dressed in knee pants and helmets beat up on each other.
No, you, you lucky puppy you, are going to an actual house, condo, co-op, trailer, or even an RV driven all the way down from Flint, Michigan to sit in a park the whole winter, while the driver watches a lot of guys dressed in knee pants and helmets beat up on each other.
Now, we have addressed this issue before - dining with civilians - but a refresher course is good when one considers that wherever you have been invited, you are representing every Street Puppy in homeless nation, and it is important to be on your best behaviour in that house, condo, co-op, trailer or RV.
How you got invited to the civilian abode is not important.
Most likely some kindly person got loaded one night, and talked to you for five hours at a saloon he stumbled into because he forgot where he had parked his car.
And even more likely, woke up the next morning in his abode, checked his voicemail to see if any messages were from the police asking him to come down for a chat about the place where his car had been towed from, and instead, found, to his horror, your message thanking you profusely for inviting him over for Thanksgiving dinner with the folks.
Like we said, doesn't matter. The die is cast. The toothpaste is out of the tube. The genie is out of the bottle.
Anybody who takes back an invitation to a holiday dinner with family is truly a churlish and mean person and he knows that, and right now, all he can think of is how to break the news to his wife that he has invited a homeless guy to Thanksgiving.
If this civilian has extended the invitation to a gal he has met in a saloon, all bets are off. No amount of self loathing over being a churlish and mean man is worse than a divorce over the holiday season.
So. A few quick tips to get through the day. A day, which for you, if you haven't been in a true home in a long time, could be nerve racking.
Not to worry. The guy who invited you is kinda bent out of shape about it too.
Ok. First. Do not bring the back pack. leave it in the bushes outside his house if you have to, but don't even think of bringing that thing into a civilian's home.
Second. Clean up before you present your self at your host's door. And that includes the finger nails.
Even if you have to use TWO Wendy's washrooms to do it. And shave.
Third. Lose the hoody. Get a college sweat shirt from the local thrift shop. Harvard will do, but University of Michigan is better...it screams..."Clean Cut, wholesome... and not smarter than you, the dolt who lost your own car."
Fourth. Take a gift for the hostess. Anything....well, not a hygiene kit, or a blanket you got from the feed at the church, and nothing personal like a cheap bottle of cologne. And don't steal it. Bad karma.
Fifth. Be polite...V E RY polite. No chips on the shoulder, no whining, no staring at the old guy in the corner who is cursing at the cat. he's loaded, and probably doesn't know where he is anyway.
Sixth. No groveling. You've probably been in homeless nation long enough to know there's a lot of social climbing down going on. But, resist the impulse, when the platters are brought to the table, to moan in ecstacy..."My God! A real potato..." And other things which will unsettle anybody else at the table.
Seventh. If you drink at all...and you will notice some hesitancy at offering you a libation...say.."A beer would be fine." Period. And stick to it. Obviously, in some parts of homeless nation, offering a beer to a street puppy is like offering a donkey one oat. And you do your share of drinking, but don't even think about getting as loaded as your host...and the old guy in the corner.
Eighth. Don't scratch your ears out, don't pick the nose, don't eat like an underfed pit bull, and do NOT pick up a morsel of food with your hands.
If you are wondering why all of these pointers are numbered, it's so that you can use make notes of them on the inside of your shirt cuffs.
Ninth...and last...and most important, do not, under any circumstances, embroil yourself in any conversations which bear any resemblance at all to long simmering family feuds and rivalries and carefully nurtured grudges..these things always erupt at Thanksgiving family dinners. They are awkward, and can easily get out of hand, and you do not want to be remembered as the homeless guy who tried to solve a family fight by taking sides with that old guy in the corner.
Relax, have a good time, eat well, and smile a lot.
Then, thank everybody profusely and sincerely, make a fashionably early exit...and head straight for that bar where you met the host.
You've earned it.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Monday, November 14, 2011
SHOW ME THE MONEY!
A guy's gotta eat.
And that's getting downright hard if ya live in one of the hundreds of municipalities in Homeless Nation who are shutting down panhandling as a way to bring in the dough.
Harder, if you don't receive any of those checks.
In these parts of Homeless Nation, those checks are called "Crazy Checks."
"Crazy Checks" because they are mostly Social Security Supplemental checks which are distributed to anybody who can prove to a government clerk and some government doctors that they are bonkers.
In all fairness, those checks are also distributed to people who have legitimate mental and physical disabilities, but an amazing number of street puppies get those checks because they have been able to prove to those government clerks and government doctors that they are indeed soft in the head, or chemically imbalanced in the head, or just plain ripped all the time on so many pain killers they have a hard time pointing at their own head without sticking their thumb in their eye.
An injury sustained whilst sticking your thumb in your eye does not constitute a physical disability, so don't even think about trying that one at home before you apply for the crazy check.
Those sharp-eyed government clerks and doctors would spot that one the minute you pointed to the eye with your other thumb.
Now, just about anybody can get food stamps.
All you need to get them is proof that you have no money, and you need to get some money in order to buy sandwiches and stuff as you can't buy hot food with food stamps.
But, the vast majority of food stamp recipients sell those things for half the amount on their food stamp card every month, and don't use them to eat anyway.
Then they use that money to pay their cell phone which was turned off due to no funds, or to pay the baby sitter while they are at the local dive filling up on whatever gets them over the funk they get into because they have no money.
Or to pay off the Mr. Jit who supplies them with rock and oxycodone and vicodin and stuff.
Those panhandling ordinances which started this whole conversation, are flying around this country at an amazing rate since people got tired of stepping over hundreds of street puppies all carrying signs telling you way too much information about their personal straits, and that they had left several starving children back in the bushes who were in dire need of cereal, shoes and ski caps.
Some of the street puppies have found ways around those panhandling ordinaces.
Like, selling bottled water, and roses made from palm tree fronds and toothbrushes.
Now, here's an even better idea for panhandlers if they can't get hold of enough bottled water, or are not artistically inclined enough to make those pretty roses, or have no idea what a tooth brush is anymore.
Treasure maps.
Yup. Treasure maps.
Sell treasure maps. Everybody wants something for nothing. And there's something romantic and mystical about a treasure map, which is a huge plus when you are selling to a gullible pedestrian or motorist who wants something for nothing.
Just draw a map of, oh say, the back alley near where you sleep. Make it look like it's really an inlet or a bay, preferably near water, that way, it will make it look like the treasure was buried there by pirates a long time ago.
Now, take that map to a copy place and run off fifty or so. And then weather the maps by stepping all over them. Then sleep on them for a night or so out there in your spot. That should do the trick.
They will be nice and moldy looking and smelly like something would be if it had been in somebody's attic for a hundred years with rats and bugs and stuff going to the bathroom on it.
Dress up in something that suggests a pirate's outfit. Complete with the patch over one eye. Don't carry a huge knife or sword, the popo will grab you up right away.
Then approach your customers, one on one. They need to think they have been singled out for this deal, kind of like those infomercials about the special lotions and face make up which makes everybody look like Angelina Jolie.
And, armed with the proper peddlers license, which you can buy for a few bucks, you should be able to sell enough of those bad boys to tide you over until you can think of a better way to bring in that extra cash.
Just remember, you will have to hit every corner in town over the course of a few weeks or months, depending on how big your town is.
And another thing, don't even think of going near the spot you used as a model for the treasure spot, when your clients find out they bought a bogus map of a back alley, they'll be looking for you, and you'll really end up needing that eye patch.
Which, actually is ok, too. Then you could find yourself the actual, legitimate recipient of the government check for an eye which you can no longer use.
And that's getting downright hard if ya live in one of the hundreds of municipalities in Homeless Nation who are shutting down panhandling as a way to bring in the dough.
Harder, if you don't receive any of those checks.
In these parts of Homeless Nation, those checks are called "Crazy Checks."
"Crazy Checks" because they are mostly Social Security Supplemental checks which are distributed to anybody who can prove to a government clerk and some government doctors that they are bonkers.
In all fairness, those checks are also distributed to people who have legitimate mental and physical disabilities, but an amazing number of street puppies get those checks because they have been able to prove to those government clerks and government doctors that they are indeed soft in the head, or chemically imbalanced in the head, or just plain ripped all the time on so many pain killers they have a hard time pointing at their own head without sticking their thumb in their eye.
An injury sustained whilst sticking your thumb in your eye does not constitute a physical disability, so don't even think about trying that one at home before you apply for the crazy check.
Those sharp-eyed government clerks and doctors would spot that one the minute you pointed to the eye with your other thumb.
Now, just about anybody can get food stamps.
All you need to get them is proof that you have no money, and you need to get some money in order to buy sandwiches and stuff as you can't buy hot food with food stamps.
But, the vast majority of food stamp recipients sell those things for half the amount on their food stamp card every month, and don't use them to eat anyway.
Then they use that money to pay their cell phone which was turned off due to no funds, or to pay the baby sitter while they are at the local dive filling up on whatever gets them over the funk they get into because they have no money.
Or to pay off the Mr. Jit who supplies them with rock and oxycodone and vicodin and stuff.
Those panhandling ordinances which started this whole conversation, are flying around this country at an amazing rate since people got tired of stepping over hundreds of street puppies all carrying signs telling you way too much information about their personal straits, and that they had left several starving children back in the bushes who were in dire need of cereal, shoes and ski caps.
Some of the street puppies have found ways around those panhandling ordinaces.
Like, selling bottled water, and roses made from palm tree fronds and toothbrushes.
Now, here's an even better idea for panhandlers if they can't get hold of enough bottled water, or are not artistically inclined enough to make those pretty roses, or have no idea what a tooth brush is anymore.
Treasure maps.
Yup. Treasure maps.
Sell treasure maps. Everybody wants something for nothing. And there's something romantic and mystical about a treasure map, which is a huge plus when you are selling to a gullible pedestrian or motorist who wants something for nothing.
Just draw a map of, oh say, the back alley near where you sleep. Make it look like it's really an inlet or a bay, preferably near water, that way, it will make it look like the treasure was buried there by pirates a long time ago.
Now, take that map to a copy place and run off fifty or so. And then weather the maps by stepping all over them. Then sleep on them for a night or so out there in your spot. That should do the trick.
They will be nice and moldy looking and smelly like something would be if it had been in somebody's attic for a hundred years with rats and bugs and stuff going to the bathroom on it.
Dress up in something that suggests a pirate's outfit. Complete with the patch over one eye. Don't carry a huge knife or sword, the popo will grab you up right away.
Then approach your customers, one on one. They need to think they have been singled out for this deal, kind of like those infomercials about the special lotions and face make up which makes everybody look like Angelina Jolie.
And, armed with the proper peddlers license, which you can buy for a few bucks, you should be able to sell enough of those bad boys to tide you over until you can think of a better way to bring in that extra cash.
Just remember, you will have to hit every corner in town over the course of a few weeks or months, depending on how big your town is.
And another thing, don't even think of going near the spot you used as a model for the treasure spot, when your clients find out they bought a bogus map of a back alley, they'll be looking for you, and you'll really end up needing that eye patch.
Which, actually is ok, too. Then you could find yourself the actual, legitimate recipient of the government check for an eye which you can no longer use.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
THINKING INSIDE THE BOX
Well, it's time.
Time to move on up.
You've done the one backpack carting around everything you own, then, depending upon how many feeds and church services you attended where you acquired all of those nifty hygiene kits and piles of used clothing and household goods, i.e. can openers, flashlights, etc., made your way up to five backpacks, then, a big ole' tattered piece of rolling luggage, and then....groan...the shopping cart.
Well, the shopping cart is kind of the RV of Homeless Nation, you're not breaking your back anymore, but it's a hassle at street corners and steering it across streets and it clearly marks you as a streetpuppy, because it's mobile, and anybody carting everything they own along with them, be it in backpacks, rolling luggage, or a shopping cart, is clearly homeless.
And shopping carts, like the tattered piece of rolling luggage which preceded it, break down. Usually right in the middle of a busy street while you're trying to make the light before the guy on the motorcycle heading straight for you .
So, yeah, it's time.
Time for the Box.
You, and the missus...or the mister, depending on who in your unit makes these decisions, know it's time to settle down before you maim or kill each other while arguing over who gets to carry the backpacks, or tow the rolling luggage or the shopping cart.
Kind of like the love/hate period an average couple lives through just before they make the unavoidable decision of whether or not to move in together once they realize that half of each others belongings are sitting in the other's apartment.
And if you haven't hooked up yet with the love of your life, well, the thought of a nice bachelor pad, becomes more and more appealing with each day that you long for some normalcy in your life, like just being able to kick your shoes/boots off at night without fear they will be stolen or eaten, and sleeping in the fetal position is for kids and is starting to make your back form a permanent S curve.
So, the hunt for the Box begins.
Kind of like cruising neighborhoods on the outlook for an appealing house.
Except, you're looking behind that house for the container which carried the largest item taken into that house.
Go for the Sleep Number Bed box. Usually found in the alleyways behind condos....condos built on the bay or a river, because the people who shell out the kind of money that enables them to stare at water all day/night and pretend they are in the Caribbean, are the same schmoes who will shell out the dough for a bed which supposedly rises and falls at the touch of a remote control, and thereby solving everyone of your marital problems.
Ok, now drag that bad boy around the building, late at night, preferably, as a streetpuppy dragging a huge cardboard container anywhere is going to draw the attention of the police, and/or anybody who is interested in stealing your boots.
So, and this is assuming you have scouted a proper spot, and acquired a tarp to put on the ground -in suburbs that's called the foundation - just sit the Sleep Number Bed box squarely on that tarp, and pull the leaves of the surrounding foliage around the top, and voila! You've got your starter box!
Ok, it's a fixer-upper. But you, you clever streetpuppy, you, have managed to acquire a box cutter during your time in homeless nation, and that little multi-tasking tool will enable you to design the house of your dreams right there under the tree, or the underpass or by that babbling creek that will be your....dare we say it...HOME!
So, now, instead of sitting around on a bench all day at the bus transit center, you can be doing stuff for your house/box.
Another tarp to cover the top, maybe. How 'bout another piece of cardboard to make a divider inside the box so you can have a place to eat and a place to sleep. Whoa!
And a few bags to hold clothing, and actually be able to keep the clean (whatever) from the dirty items.
Oh, and a mat to sleep on. Heaven, with your feet stretched out. And some blankets, and a pillow from a thrift store that will cost just a buck or two, and maybe a comforter.
Now, don't get too fancy with the outside and start thinkiing of a singing mailbox, or anything. You don't want anybody to really know where your house/box is located.
And that's the thing, all this thinking and living inside a box, and worrying about that box, and being territorial about that box...why...you've become....bourgeois.
You even have a garden rake and a hedge trimmer...and a pair of slippers!
Not to worry. In no time at all, somebody will discover your house/box, and you'll come home one late afternoon, all primed for that happy hour cocktail - six pack- while overlooking the babbling brook and pretending you're in the Caribbean, and horrors....you're house/box is in shreds of tattered pieces no bigger than a shoe box.
Everything is gone...even the hedge trimmer. And the slippers.
And you're right back where you started.
Rustling up a backpack and a hygiene kit and a few duds at the local church feed.
Which is actually the best part of thinking inside the box. You can be tossed out or walk away at any time and just pick up and reinvent yourself all over again.
Time to move on up.
You've done the one backpack carting around everything you own, then, depending upon how many feeds and church services you attended where you acquired all of those nifty hygiene kits and piles of used clothing and household goods, i.e. can openers, flashlights, etc., made your way up to five backpacks, then, a big ole' tattered piece of rolling luggage, and then....groan...the shopping cart.
Well, the shopping cart is kind of the RV of Homeless Nation, you're not breaking your back anymore, but it's a hassle at street corners and steering it across streets and it clearly marks you as a streetpuppy, because it's mobile, and anybody carting everything they own along with them, be it in backpacks, rolling luggage, or a shopping cart, is clearly homeless.
And shopping carts, like the tattered piece of rolling luggage which preceded it, break down. Usually right in the middle of a busy street while you're trying to make the light before the guy on the motorcycle heading straight for you .
So, yeah, it's time.
Time for the Box.
You, and the missus...or the mister, depending on who in your unit makes these decisions, know it's time to settle down before you maim or kill each other while arguing over who gets to carry the backpacks, or tow the rolling luggage or the shopping cart.
Kind of like the love/hate period an average couple lives through just before they make the unavoidable decision of whether or not to move in together once they realize that half of each others belongings are sitting in the other's apartment.
And if you haven't hooked up yet with the love of your life, well, the thought of a nice bachelor pad, becomes more and more appealing with each day that you long for some normalcy in your life, like just being able to kick your shoes/boots off at night without fear they will be stolen or eaten, and sleeping in the fetal position is for kids and is starting to make your back form a permanent S curve.
So, the hunt for the Box begins.
Kind of like cruising neighborhoods on the outlook for an appealing house.
Except, you're looking behind that house for the container which carried the largest item taken into that house.
Go for the Sleep Number Bed box. Usually found in the alleyways behind condos....condos built on the bay or a river, because the people who shell out the kind of money that enables them to stare at water all day/night and pretend they are in the Caribbean, are the same schmoes who will shell out the dough for a bed which supposedly rises and falls at the touch of a remote control, and thereby solving everyone of your marital problems.
Ok, now drag that bad boy around the building, late at night, preferably, as a streetpuppy dragging a huge cardboard container anywhere is going to draw the attention of the police, and/or anybody who is interested in stealing your boots.
So, and this is assuming you have scouted a proper spot, and acquired a tarp to put on the ground -in suburbs that's called the foundation - just sit the Sleep Number Bed box squarely on that tarp, and pull the leaves of the surrounding foliage around the top, and voila! You've got your starter box!
Ok, it's a fixer-upper. But you, you clever streetpuppy, you, have managed to acquire a box cutter during your time in homeless nation, and that little multi-tasking tool will enable you to design the house of your dreams right there under the tree, or the underpass or by that babbling creek that will be your....dare we say it...HOME!
So, now, instead of sitting around on a bench all day at the bus transit center, you can be doing stuff for your house/box.
Another tarp to cover the top, maybe. How 'bout another piece of cardboard to make a divider inside the box so you can have a place to eat and a place to sleep. Whoa!
And a few bags to hold clothing, and actually be able to keep the clean (whatever) from the dirty items.
Oh, and a mat to sleep on. Heaven, with your feet stretched out. And some blankets, and a pillow from a thrift store that will cost just a buck or two, and maybe a comforter.
Now, don't get too fancy with the outside and start thinkiing of a singing mailbox, or anything. You don't want anybody to really know where your house/box is located.
And that's the thing, all this thinking and living inside a box, and worrying about that box, and being territorial about that box...why...you've become....bourgeois.
You even have a garden rake and a hedge trimmer...and a pair of slippers!
Not to worry. In no time at all, somebody will discover your house/box, and you'll come home one late afternoon, all primed for that happy hour cocktail - six pack- while overlooking the babbling brook and pretending you're in the Caribbean, and horrors....you're house/box is in shreds of tattered pieces no bigger than a shoe box.
Everything is gone...even the hedge trimmer. And the slippers.
And you're right back where you started.
Rustling up a backpack and a hygiene kit and a few duds at the local church feed.
Which is actually the best part of thinking inside the box. You can be tossed out or walk away at any time and just pick up and reinvent yourself all over again.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
'TIL DEBT DO US PART
Every couple has money problems.
Doesn't matter if you're living in Trump Tower, a condo in West Palm, a double-wide in Georgia, a tenement in Chicago, a farmhouse somewhere out there in Indiana, or a cardboard box in Homeless Nation, at some point, you will argue about money.
Where it comes from, where it's going, where it went so fast, why there isn't enough, and who gets to decide all of the above.
Big or small, two people can chisel each other down to rubbles of seething, sneering, snarling mutated replicants of the same two people who once said, in all sincerety..."For richer, for poorer," and the part we like best, "and to you, all my worldly goods I do you endow."
Whether you went through the formal procedures of the frilly dress and wedding cake, or a quick flight to Vegas, or just promised to share the dough you got from selling your food stamps here in Homeless Nation when you hooked up at the feed at the parking lot outside the Greyhound bus station, it's all the same, you're a couple, only difference is, if you're in Homeless Nation you won't have to go through the fearsome...sometimes awesome cost and trauma of a divorce when you or the significant other decides to throw in the towel, or whatever it is that will get you the domestic violence beef, the restraining order and ultimately the decree that says..."faggadaboudit!"
Now, if you're living large in Trump Tower, you're probably arguing about the yacht, or buying the two thousand dollar Prada hand bag rather than the ratty thousand dollar one, and in West Palm, pretty much, expect you can exchange Prada for Versace; the folks in the double-wide in Georgia are fussin' about the cost of replacing the tatty roof one of you bought from some grifter...who then didn't bother to nail it down; the couple in the tenement in Chicago are close to a meltdown bickering over who it was who sold the coffee table to finance a night on the town (neighborhood dive) ; and the nice people in that farmhouse are struggling to figure out what the guy at the bank meant when he said all of those things about refinancing the mortgage and then handed you papers it will take the Rosetta Stone to figure out.
Now, all of these stressed out couples can use some fiscal therapy, but the people we are concerned with here are the streetpuppies in that cardboard box - or under somebody's porch, or an overpass somewhere here in Homeless Nation, who have no idea who is Prada or Versace, have not had a roof in sometime and would probably burn it for firewood if they did, same deal with a coffee table, and to whom the concept of refinancing went out the broken window the day they were locked out of their own place, and today, and in the recent (anywhere from three days to years) past couldn't put two quarters together if their life depended upon it.
Now, that's stress.
And let's get back to the basics here as mentioned above.
First, where the moolah is coming from.
Well, it isn't. And if there's no substantive government help, it won't. And the finger pointing starts here. Who's not working, why they're not working, whose turn is it to 'fly the sign' with some ridiculous legend on a piece of cardboard claiming they have to support 12 children and could somebody passing them by on the median they are standing on, please slow down long enough to throw a buck or two their way.
Then we have the Where's it going? Ok, one of you might need some new socks, the others just up and walked away after wearing them for thirty days in a row, but one of you needs some dental floss, why in heaven we do not know because both of you are down to just a couple of teeth after a long time without dental care. Or it could be one of you flew the sign and then stopped on your way back to the cardboard box or the underpass to buy an 18-pack of the cheap beer and enjoy the rest of the day by deluding yourself into thinking that buzz will last forever. Not good. And don't even think about lying about it, the smell of 18 beers ingested over the period of three hours will linger.
For the questions, where it went so fast, and why there isn't enough....see "Where's it going?"
Who gets to decide all of the above is where it gets tricky.
Neither of you is in a position here to hold the high ground when it comes to deciding who is the most fiscally efficient, and or morally and ethically responsible enough to take charge of the family checkbook -if you were, you wouldn't be here -or in this case left pocket down of the backpack one of you pinched from another sreetpuppy while they were sleeping.
Yeah, it gets that bad. Some of the streetpuppies stoop to just plain meanness when it gets desperate.
And it's pretty desperate when one of you is about to be stranded at the bus station because you have no bus pass for one of you, and you need two people to lug that huge cooler which contains all of the bottled water you nicked so that you can sell it to happy travelers passing by the median you are headed to.
See, and this is where the 'til debt do us part' comes in.
This seemingly minor altercation is going to explode into an all out battle for your lives...until the po po comes and takes you off to the clink...and now you have more stuff on your sheet, and when you get out, you both have restraining orders so you can't go near each other to finish the decision making process over who gets to lug the cooler.
So, another marriage/hookup goes South.
Money doesn't really make the world go round, but here in Homeless Nation, it is the deciding factor in the longevity -or lack thereof - of every marriage, hookup, one night stand.
And before you think of sharing a troth, a vow or endowing anything, or just sharing the same piece of cardboard as a mattress...you might wanna remember this little ditty streetpuppy once heard at a wedding celebration. A toast given to the newly minted bride and groom by a guest who had been overserved.
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
a medley of extemporanea,
and love is a thing that can never go wrong,
and I...am the Queen of Rumania.
Doesn't matter if you're living in Trump Tower, a condo in West Palm, a double-wide in Georgia, a tenement in Chicago, a farmhouse somewhere out there in Indiana, or a cardboard box in Homeless Nation, at some point, you will argue about money.
Where it comes from, where it's going, where it went so fast, why there isn't enough, and who gets to decide all of the above.
Big or small, two people can chisel each other down to rubbles of seething, sneering, snarling mutated replicants of the same two people who once said, in all sincerety..."For richer, for poorer," and the part we like best, "and to you, all my worldly goods I do you endow."
Whether you went through the formal procedures of the frilly dress and wedding cake, or a quick flight to Vegas, or just promised to share the dough you got from selling your food stamps here in Homeless Nation when you hooked up at the feed at the parking lot outside the Greyhound bus station, it's all the same, you're a couple, only difference is, if you're in Homeless Nation you won't have to go through the fearsome...sometimes awesome cost and trauma of a divorce when you or the significant other decides to throw in the towel, or whatever it is that will get you the domestic violence beef, the restraining order and ultimately the decree that says..."faggadaboudit!"
Now, if you're living large in Trump Tower, you're probably arguing about the yacht, or buying the two thousand dollar Prada hand bag rather than the ratty thousand dollar one, and in West Palm, pretty much, expect you can exchange Prada for Versace; the folks in the double-wide in Georgia are fussin' about the cost of replacing the tatty roof one of you bought from some grifter...who then didn't bother to nail it down; the couple in the tenement in Chicago are close to a meltdown bickering over who it was who sold the coffee table to finance a night on the town (neighborhood dive) ; and the nice people in that farmhouse are struggling to figure out what the guy at the bank meant when he said all of those things about refinancing the mortgage and then handed you papers it will take the Rosetta Stone to figure out.
Now, all of these stressed out couples can use some fiscal therapy, but the people we are concerned with here are the streetpuppies in that cardboard box - or under somebody's porch, or an overpass somewhere here in Homeless Nation, who have no idea who is Prada or Versace, have not had a roof in sometime and would probably burn it for firewood if they did, same deal with a coffee table, and to whom the concept of refinancing went out the broken window the day they were locked out of their own place, and today, and in the recent (anywhere from three days to years) past couldn't put two quarters together if their life depended upon it.
Now, that's stress.
And let's get back to the basics here as mentioned above.
First, where the moolah is coming from.
Well, it isn't. And if there's no substantive government help, it won't. And the finger pointing starts here. Who's not working, why they're not working, whose turn is it to 'fly the sign' with some ridiculous legend on a piece of cardboard claiming they have to support 12 children and could somebody passing them by on the median they are standing on, please slow down long enough to throw a buck or two their way.
Then we have the Where's it going? Ok, one of you might need some new socks, the others just up and walked away after wearing them for thirty days in a row, but one of you needs some dental floss, why in heaven we do not know because both of you are down to just a couple of teeth after a long time without dental care. Or it could be one of you flew the sign and then stopped on your way back to the cardboard box or the underpass to buy an 18-pack of the cheap beer and enjoy the rest of the day by deluding yourself into thinking that buzz will last forever. Not good. And don't even think about lying about it, the smell of 18 beers ingested over the period of three hours will linger.
For the questions, where it went so fast, and why there isn't enough....see "Where's it going?"
Who gets to decide all of the above is where it gets tricky.
Neither of you is in a position here to hold the high ground when it comes to deciding who is the most fiscally efficient, and or morally and ethically responsible enough to take charge of the family checkbook -if you were, you wouldn't be here -or in this case left pocket down of the backpack one of you pinched from another sreetpuppy while they were sleeping.
Yeah, it gets that bad. Some of the streetpuppies stoop to just plain meanness when it gets desperate.
And it's pretty desperate when one of you is about to be stranded at the bus station because you have no bus pass for one of you, and you need two people to lug that huge cooler which contains all of the bottled water you nicked so that you can sell it to happy travelers passing by the median you are headed to.
See, and this is where the 'til debt do us part' comes in.
This seemingly minor altercation is going to explode into an all out battle for your lives...until the po po comes and takes you off to the clink...and now you have more stuff on your sheet, and when you get out, you both have restraining orders so you can't go near each other to finish the decision making process over who gets to lug the cooler.
So, another marriage/hookup goes South.
Money doesn't really make the world go round, but here in Homeless Nation, it is the deciding factor in the longevity -or lack thereof - of every marriage, hookup, one night stand.
And before you think of sharing a troth, a vow or endowing anything, or just sharing the same piece of cardboard as a mattress...you might wanna remember this little ditty streetpuppy once heard at a wedding celebration. A toast given to the newly minted bride and groom by a guest who had been overserved.
Oh, life is a glorious cycle of song,
a medley of extemporanea,
and love is a thing that can never go wrong,
and I...am the Queen of Rumania.
Friday, May 27, 2011
THE WAR ON DRUGS FOR DUMMIES AND STREET PUPPIES
Out there, somewhere in that other nation, why, there is rumor of a whole army committed to eradicating weed, pills, rock, ice, uppers, downers, you name it, anything that puffs, fumes, tastes good, tastes bad, bangs you in the head, or goes up your nose or in your arm and takes you to the moon, or to your inner child, or to the corner one more time, or to the last battering ram in hell.
Anyway, that's what we in homeless nation hear.
A whole war devoted to eradicating and interdicting, and snuffing out all that stuff that makes you happy, sad, crazy, unconscious, confused, deluded.....in trouble with that guy in the uniform who just slapped the cuffs on you. In more trouble with the significant other who had no idea what life with an addict is really like.
And according to the U.S. government which is funding this War on Drugs, we have at one time or another in the course of this war the government has declared - declared in an abstraction of words so imprecise, we cannot tell if the phrase means that there is a war someplace that is high on drugs, or that we are fighting drugs....turned the corner.
In fact, we've turned the corner in the war on drugs so many times, we can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel that leads to the next corner to be turned in the war on drugs leading to the end of the tunnel.
That would be the tunnel dug all the way from Juarez, Mexico to just under the White House, and right under the noses of the Secret Service, the Pentagon, the FBI and the DEA.
DEA means Drug Enforcement Administration. And it is the agency that President Richard Nixon thunk up to confuse and tee off all of the people in the FBI who thought that interdicting and eradicating and snuffing out was their job.
In fact, President Nixon started this whole thing when he invented the Drug Enforcement Administration in 1973 because his statement in June of 1971 when he first uttered those fateful words, "War on Drugs." in a speech explaining that we had to do something about the use and abuse of illegal drugs which practice had become "Public Enemy Number One." went right over our heads.
The President didn't know at the time, that soon, he would be glorified as Public Enemy Number One, but well, he had to do something. Even Elvis was nagging him about the use and abuse of drugs. Ahem.
Anyway, here in homeless nation we hear all about this war, and then we look around and say, what war? Where? How many soldiers? Think they got some extra food stamps?? Or a bus pass??!!
See, here in homeless nation, drugs are alive and well, and living it up, and kicking the butts of about eighty percent of the street puppies.
That's right. eighty percent.
Now, this is not one of those scientific polls. You know, the ones where some person making seven bucks an hour plus commission for every call, phones you up at dinner time and says, "So...are you homeless and do you snort coke? uh, huh...what about rock? Meth? Oh, and pills...
No. See...the likelihood of any street puppy answering any question on the phone -when they can get one...or worse talking to a guy on the street with a clipboard, a sheet of paper filled with questions and a pen is slim to none. Not even when the guy with the clipboard tosses the street puppie a few pair of socks, and or a couple bottles of water.
No, this is not one of those scientific polls. This poll is not about statistics, or facts. This poll is about the realpolitik of the situation regarding the use and abuse of drugs - all drugs - by street puppies.
This is a poll that has been taken in a survey of street puppies who actually live on the street. or any street puppy who meets the criteria for being homeless which, according to the federal government, is anybody who did not have a fixed address to sleep at last night.
A survey in which you count the dead, the near dead, the could have died last night, the lost the third job in a month, the can't or won't feed the family because the rock comes first, the I meant to pay you back but I ran into my crack dealer on the corner, the I just got out of jail and I need to borrow a few bucks for another hit, or a 4pack... or Vicodin or Oxy...the I just can't get it together to get something to eat because I have to stop the shakes first, the I made fifty bucks in two hours panhandling at the corner and I spent it all on crack within about ten minutes, The my boyfriend beat the crap out of me because he was high and I wouldn't give him my food stamp money for another hit. The I'm so sorry I stole your stuff and sold it but I needed to get high survey.
Yeah, that survey.
The survey that tells you everything you did not want to know about how rampant the use and abuse of drugs really is in homeless nation. And how it kicks the butts of eighty percent of the street puppies on any given day.
And to anybody who insists the figure is more like, oh, 17 percent.
We say, you must have your head in that tunnel dug from Juarez, Mexico to just under the White House.
Anyway, that's what we in homeless nation hear.
A whole war devoted to eradicating and interdicting, and snuffing out all that stuff that makes you happy, sad, crazy, unconscious, confused, deluded.....in trouble with that guy in the uniform who just slapped the cuffs on you. In more trouble with the significant other who had no idea what life with an addict is really like.
And according to the U.S. government which is funding this War on Drugs, we have at one time or another in the course of this war the government has declared - declared in an abstraction of words so imprecise, we cannot tell if the phrase means that there is a war someplace that is high on drugs, or that we are fighting drugs....turned the corner.
In fact, we've turned the corner in the war on drugs so many times, we can almost see the light at the end of the tunnel that leads to the next corner to be turned in the war on drugs leading to the end of the tunnel.
That would be the tunnel dug all the way from Juarez, Mexico to just under the White House, and right under the noses of the Secret Service, the Pentagon, the FBI and the DEA.
DEA means Drug Enforcement Administration. And it is the agency that President Richard Nixon thunk up to confuse and tee off all of the people in the FBI who thought that interdicting and eradicating and snuffing out was their job.
In fact, President Nixon started this whole thing when he invented the Drug Enforcement Administration in 1973 because his statement in June of 1971 when he first uttered those fateful words, "War on Drugs." in a speech explaining that we had to do something about the use and abuse of illegal drugs which practice had become "Public Enemy Number One." went right over our heads.
The President didn't know at the time, that soon, he would be glorified as Public Enemy Number One, but well, he had to do something. Even Elvis was nagging him about the use and abuse of drugs. Ahem.
Anyway, here in homeless nation we hear all about this war, and then we look around and say, what war? Where? How many soldiers? Think they got some extra food stamps?? Or a bus pass??!!
See, here in homeless nation, drugs are alive and well, and living it up, and kicking the butts of about eighty percent of the street puppies.
That's right. eighty percent.
Now, this is not one of those scientific polls. You know, the ones where some person making seven bucks an hour plus commission for every call, phones you up at dinner time and says, "So...are you homeless and do you snort coke? uh, huh...what about rock? Meth? Oh, and pills...
No. See...the likelihood of any street puppy answering any question on the phone -when they can get one...or worse talking to a guy on the street with a clipboard, a sheet of paper filled with questions and a pen is slim to none. Not even when the guy with the clipboard tosses the street puppie a few pair of socks, and or a couple bottles of water.
No, this is not one of those scientific polls. This poll is not about statistics, or facts. This poll is about the realpolitik of the situation regarding the use and abuse of drugs - all drugs - by street puppies.
This is a poll that has been taken in a survey of street puppies who actually live on the street. or any street puppy who meets the criteria for being homeless which, according to the federal government, is anybody who did not have a fixed address to sleep at last night.
A survey in which you count the dead, the near dead, the could have died last night, the lost the third job in a month, the can't or won't feed the family because the rock comes first, the I meant to pay you back but I ran into my crack dealer on the corner, the I just got out of jail and I need to borrow a few bucks for another hit, or a 4pack... or Vicodin or Oxy...the I just can't get it together to get something to eat because I have to stop the shakes first, the I made fifty bucks in two hours panhandling at the corner and I spent it all on crack within about ten minutes, The my boyfriend beat the crap out of me because he was high and I wouldn't give him my food stamp money for another hit. The I'm so sorry I stole your stuff and sold it but I needed to get high survey.
Yeah, that survey.
The survey that tells you everything you did not want to know about how rampant the use and abuse of drugs really is in homeless nation. And how it kicks the butts of eighty percent of the street puppies on any given day.
And to anybody who insists the figure is more like, oh, 17 percent.
We say, you must have your head in that tunnel dug from Juarez, Mexico to just under the White House.
Monday, May 23, 2011
TOP TEN REASONS TO REALLY HATE THAT YOU ARE HOMELESS
You don't have a TV anymore
Because you don't have a TV anymore you don't know who got kicked off the island in "Survivor."
Dinner is for the birds. Literally. Last night you ate popcorn, raisins and nasty zucchini chips.
You miss having a car. And a house. And you regret that you ever griped about either one.
You miss listening to the songs of the seventies (or eighties or nineties) and singing along while you're folding laundry.
You don't have laundry to fold because you don't have clothes anymore that are worth cleaning.
No matter how many 'feeds' you go to you just can't bring yourself to eat whatever that mystery dish is.
You miss the monthly trip to Saks for the facial and massage and waxing and dishing with the masseuse.
You miss the neighbor's cat. The fat one who you fed every day because her owner was stingy with food.
And the number one reason you hate that you are homeless: You hate that you seem to have become downright cynical about the nature of some street puppies and the next time one of them asks you for a cigarette or a quarter, you're going to go bananas.
And you never knew that you could think that way.
Because you don't have a TV anymore you don't know who got kicked off the island in "Survivor."
Dinner is for the birds. Literally. Last night you ate popcorn, raisins and nasty zucchini chips.
You miss having a car. And a house. And you regret that you ever griped about either one.
You miss listening to the songs of the seventies (or eighties or nineties) and singing along while you're folding laundry.
You don't have laundry to fold because you don't have clothes anymore that are worth cleaning.
No matter how many 'feeds' you go to you just can't bring yourself to eat whatever that mystery dish is.
You miss the monthly trip to Saks for the facial and massage and waxing and dishing with the masseuse.
You miss the neighbor's cat. The fat one who you fed every day because her owner was stingy with food.
And the number one reason you hate that you are homeless: You hate that you seem to have become downright cynical about the nature of some street puppies and the next time one of them asks you for a cigarette or a quarter, you're going to go bananas.
And you never knew that you could think that way.
Sunday, May 22, 2011
TOP TEN REASONS TO BE GLAD YOU ARE HOMELESS
You won't have to worry if you left the TV on when you left home...or, lord forbid...the iron!
You won't have to watch any more episodes of "Survivor." -heck, you're LIVING Survivor.
You won't have to figure out where you put your car keys again. That goes for house keys, too.
You can serve popcorn, raisins and zucchini chips for dinner, and nobody will complain.
No more folding laundry!!
No more laundry! (just toss the dirty stuff and get a voucher for new stuff)
Nor more counting calories! (You're officially on the eat it where you can, even if you hate it diet.)
No more bikini waxes!
You don't have to be nice to the neighbor you hate anymore....you don't have a neighbor.
And the number one reason to be glad you are homeless: You will learn what you are really made of.
And you can't buy that kind of action anywhere.
You won't have to watch any more episodes of "Survivor." -heck, you're LIVING Survivor.
You won't have to figure out where you put your car keys again. That goes for house keys, too.
You can serve popcorn, raisins and zucchini chips for dinner, and nobody will complain.
No more folding laundry!!
No more laundry! (just toss the dirty stuff and get a voucher for new stuff)
Nor more counting calories! (You're officially on the eat it where you can, even if you hate it diet.)
No more bikini waxes!
You don't have to be nice to the neighbor you hate anymore....you don't have a neighbor.
And the number one reason to be glad you are homeless: You will learn what you are really made of.
And you can't buy that kind of action anywhere.
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