OH, WE OF LITTLE FAITH

In homeless nation, as in all other nations, we suppose the universal meaning of the original of that tidy piece of scripture would mean, better to increase one's faith to counter one's fraility.

Fraility in the face of so many dangers real and imagined while living life on the edge of a precipice of unimaginable stress and vulnerability which is one way of saying homeless nation is a bottomless pit of anxiety and fear and the darkness of the unknown.  In other words, yeccch!

If there are no athiests in foxholes, an aphorism generally credited to journalist Ernie Pyle during World War II to argue that in times of extreme stress and/or fear, one will tend to believe in the protection and forthcoming help of a higher power, then it would also seem that there are no athiests in cardboard boxes, or abondoned cars, or under bridges or bushes or ditches or alleys or wherever it is that street puppies put their weary heads to rest night after endless, sleepless and fretful night.

And If a battlefield -and let's not kid ourselves here, homeless nation is a battlefield - is the place for a conversion, then it follows that all street puppies would wholeheartedly embrace the thought of a higher power coming to rescue us all, kind of like Mighty Mouse in a long nightgown swooping down and taking up our back pack, and leading us to the nearest 7-11 for  huge slurpies and microwaved cheese omelettes.

Alas.  The churches in homeless nation are named after various saints and sects and not one of them is named after Mighty Mouse.  And there aren't too many street puppies sitting around in them unless there's something to eat there, or a place in a pew or on the floor to spread a blanket and get some shut eye, or maybe pick up some socks, one of those nifty hygiene kits or an extra shirt from the donation pile.

Most street puppies got here by some route that put them totally off the idea of a higher power except as a demonic force which swept away their whole life, i.e. husband, wife, parent, boss, mortgage broker, boss, drug dealer, etc.  so there's not a lot of faith left in anything that even smacks of sanctity by the time the street puppy rolls through the gate to this place. 

But there are plenty of those churches named after saints and sects and all of their clergy and their volunteers bushtling  around to take up the role of patron saints of hand-outs. 

They feed us, they clothe us, they gently cajole us into getting onto the right path, and teach us the Bible.

And the teaching the Bible part is usually the appetizer and thus, comes first, before the handouts.

No street puppy in his right mind would stick around AFTER a big meal, or the handouts for the Bible study, or the message or the prayer service. 

So they sit, nodding at all the right places, smiling at all the right places, shaking their heads in all the right places of the delivery of the Word.  All the while thinking of the meat patties waiting, or how many socks they need. Or how much the hygiene kit and a couple of shirts would bring in to enable them to buy another bottle to ease the pain of another long night in that cardboard box, or under that bridge, or in that abandoned car, or the bush, the ditch or the alley, night after sleepless, fretful night.

And they're all here, the people who deliver the Word.  The Protestants, the Catholics, The Muslims, The Jews, the New (fill in the blank) Order of Such and Such, even the Temple of The Blue Parrot. 

The only spiritual advisors who ya don't see much around here, unless they're panhandling at the same street corner  are the Hare Krishna, and that's  because they're begging, too, and why complicate things by begging from the people you're preaching to about Hare or whatever his name is.

See, your average streetpuppy knows the deal. 

These  higher power people want something too.  They want the feel good thing of helping people out.  Ok.  That's usually the volunteers.  And some of them, usually the clergy, want to know they are doing their job well.  That's Ok, too.

 And occasionally, people like Charlie who just fill their car up with  food and neat stuff, and hand it out to street puppies, and talks about his love of Jesus, and is absolutely sincere. And he's all about truly loving his fellow man.   And he's one in a million.

And we know all of them are well meaning, and filled with love of their fellow man, especially the hurtin' ones, and Lord knows they are gaining bonus mileage in Heaven, which in this modern era, should probably  have it's own page on Facebook.  Along with a password and PIN to give St. Peter at the Golden Gates.

And then, there are the others.  The demagogues  and water walkin' wannabes who decide  it's time to start their own church.  Hmmmm..need some dough for that.  I know, donations for the poor!!    And I'll meet some good lookin' women, too!  Yippee! Praise the Lord!  Hallelujah!!

So they start their own church, name it after something, usually themself. And they get a lot of those volunteer need to feel good folks who have excellent recipes capable of feeding about a hundred people at a time.  And they're  in business. And they bellow out the Word.  And the money rolls in, and it's all tax free. 

And then, Lord forbid, sometimes they acquire an old rooming house, and bring street puppies in and take all of the little money they do have and tell them it's being saved  for them.  But first, they need to get a job  to earn that money to be saved, and not drink or do drugs and they will  be given all of their money after six months when they are clean and sober, and have eaten off their own elbows because they can't smoke either.

And of course, the street puppy will opt out of the rooming house and the program long before the six months is done, The church cries "foul,"  and the street puppy has not a dime to show for it.  Or elbows.

And he or she, will be just another athiest in a cardboard box, or the alley, or the ditch, or the bush, you get the picture. 

Yeah, Oh, we of little faith. 

When you think about it.  Maybe some real smart person in homeless nation should start a church named after Mighty Mouse.  They could call it, "Mighty Mouse Temple Of Flying  Caped Rodents In Nightgowns."

The entertainment value alone of a caped rodent clad in a long and flowing nightgown flying around homeless nation, coming to save the day would raise the spirits of every street puppy in homeless nation.

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.

THE LADIES OF CELL BLOCK SALLIE

A lady entering homeless nation for the first time will likely begin the journey as a street puppy at a temporary or emergency shelter. And it is very likely that shelter will bear the name of an international organization known, indeed revered, for the work it does for the poor and homeless and helpless.

For street puppies in the know, the shelters provided by that organization are simply called, "Sallie."

It's probably a concrete block structure set off the street, closed in by high fences, and bars on the windows.  There is usually a guard at the door.  Probably a guy who has just discovered a new purpose in life.  Kicking hungry and tired street puppies around real good so he can feel better about himself.

If it is check-in time,4:30ish, give or take an ish,  there are two lines, men and women,  in various stages of sobriety, carrying everything they own either on their back or in raggedy suitcases and plastic bags.

You want the shorter line, the women's line.  The women you know didn't get past rush week at the sorority.

Once inside the shelter, you will be confronted by a woman at the desk who will demand your ID, and give you your marching orders...in between phone calls to the local pizza delivery place and her boyfriend.

 In this street puppies experience, that woman was short, furious, and frazzled.  Kind of like Tweety Pie on steroids.

Her backup, the muscle for the place if you will, was a taller, moody, menacing, squinty eyed rendition of what one can only describe as Darth Vader in a rumpled pant suit, speaking with the raspy voice of Edward G. Robinson.

Kind of like bad cop, bad cop.  Looking over the evening's selection of whipping girls.

Lock down, that's right, lock down is at 6ish, give or take an ish.  You are officially now in cellblock Sallie.

You are locked down, you make one wrong move, or what is deemed to be a wrong move, you will get the tongue lashing of your life, or the police will be summoned, and you will be either sent to jail or tossed out onto the street.

 Yup, you are now in cellblock Sallie.  And at the mercy of ole' Tweety Pie and Darth.

And Tweety Pie and Darth have frisked everybody for everything from bobby pins to mouth wash to potato chips.  But they haven't checked for alcohol or drugs or weapons.

 All of which abound inside the cellblock Sallie

If there isn't enough alcohol to go around, well one of the male attendants will be happy to supply it, in return for, er, personal favors.  Not enough drugs for ya?  The infamous Mr. Jet waits right outside the gate with enough pills and rock to choke a small goat.  It is worth his wait, he will profit nicely through the night

And you will spend that long night in a back so called dorm room. A bare, cramped, noisy, smelly, bug infested place populated  with what appears to be the entire cast of the "Road Warrior."

A large, bare, cramped room filled with bunk beds from a nearby jail and crawling with every bug that could find it's way from the south of Mexico.  And out in the enclosed smoking area, is "Chubby," the house rat.

Over there, is a woman recently released from prison. She just did nine years for a murder.  She has her eye on the teenager in the corner who is digging into her second huge bag of some kind of taco chip things.

 Next to teen girl is an elderly person, elderly as in about forty, with stringy hair, and bracelets dangling from her skinny arms and wearing a silk butterfly patterned dress one size too large.  She is staring straight ahead at whatever is on her own personal tv screen and cluching her one bag next to her. 

Across the room, a gaggle of fairly large women, huddled around a loud boombox.  That's against the rules, but the attendants won't mess with groups of large women.  That boombox will be playing all night long.

Off to the side, her legs dangling from a top bunk, sits a lumpen, long haired woman in soiled clothing. Also recently released from prison.  She has been released on the condition that she become a CI -that's confidential informant for anybody not familiar with jail talk -and she's looking for her next victim.  And it doesn't matter who it is, or what they have or have not done, the whole point is for her to stay out of jail and she will drop a dime on anybody, including the innocent.

Two drug dealers are present.  And they have another mission.  They will keep their eyes open for anything worthy of stealing.  They work for Mr. Jet.

The women fall into their own ethnic groups in the room.  Black, white, latina.  Nobody crosses the line.  Some gang signs are flashed through the night, and loud arguments break out on the hour

The women are  from varied backgrounds. Mostly urban and from all over the country. Aged 18 all the way up to 75.  Many of them seemed to have been headed for this place at some time or other in their lives. There are A lot of bad complexions and missing teeth.  Nutrition has not been a big deal in their lives. Nor has has hygiene. And everybody here got a Bad Man story.

 The few civilian street puppies who have wandered in for a rest from the street, are just plain scared.  Sounds of weeping will sound through the darkness. 

You won't get much sleep here tonight.

Nor should you.  The list of missing pieces of property in the morning will be long and will include everything from cell phones to cash to clothing to jewelry to, well, anything anybody can nick that will bring in a few bucks.

In the morning, you will be awakened, at 6 AM, and told that you must leave, with all of your belongings no later than 7 AM. 

If you are staying for another night, be back on line outside, promptly at 4pm.  Or else.  Tweety Pie and Darth.

After a breakfast of coffee and whatever chocolate cake or leftover ham sandwich somebody has donated four days ago, you are out the door, toting all of your belongings and searching for someplace to sit for the rest of the day without drawing the attention of the police.

Now, you will probably put up with all of this for a few days.  But you'll get your bearings, and if you're real lucky, hook up with some street puppies who know how to make it out on the street.

You should take the street option. 

You have a better chance of maintaining your health and sanity outside than  inside at Cellblock Sallie.

Your health, your sanity, your possessions, your positive outlook. Your humanity.

Maybe your very life.

CALL OF THE WILD

"Call Of The Wild," author Jack London's masterpiece published in 1903, takes place during the Klondike Gold Rush, when  the protoganist, Buck, a Saint Bernard shepherd dog is kidnapped and sold to sled owners.  Gold being what it is, sled owners needed a lot of dog power to pull sleds full of the stuff.

The story unfolds as the handsome Buck lives the travails of a sled dog, through several masters who alternately beat, or coddle or simply neglect him, and then is rescued by a kindly man who treats him with love and care which brings Buck back to a state of mind whereby he can begin to throw off the pain he has endured through his capitivity, and then, darn, yaheet Indians kill his master, and then Buck has to kill the yaheets and then Buck realizes the only person who ever cared for him and rubbed his ears real nice isn't coming back and says, "What the heck, may as well go back to the wild."  Or something like a dog would say which would sound like,"Awwww  wooof  wooof wee woof  darn."

Anyway, Buck hooks up with a stray wolf he happens to meet at a feed for stray and abandoned streetpuppies, they are both caught trying to steal the last of the food from the other streetpuppies and banned from the feed, so naturally, they bond quickly, and at the urging of the stray wolf, they go off together to probably wreak havoc for the rest of what would likely be a rather short life span when you're in the wild and either chasing or being chased by the yaheets.

Ok.  We're getting to what this has to do with streetpuppies and homeless nation.

In homeless nation, which is pretty much like being in the wild, there are a lot of abandoned and stray streetpuppies.  And a lot of stray wolves, In homeless nation we call  them Road Dawgs.

Road Dawgs have been out in the wild for a long time.  They know every con, every shortcut, every trick to keep the clock ticking forward.  There's no way back for Road Dawgs. And most of them are here in homeless nation on purpose, hiding from something deep and dark outside.

Streetpuppies like Buck, come to homeless nation for reasons other than getting lost while heading down to the neighborhood store for a pack of cigarettes.  They come here because something awful happened in their lives, like when Buck was kidnapped.  Only, when you come to homeless nation it usually means like, your house was kidnapped or your job was kidnapped or your wife was kidnapped by your best friend and took all the furniture with her  or something.  You get the picture.  your life went off the rails.

Sometimes, the Bucks will hook up with street puppies in homeless nation who can help them get back on their feet, and nurture them with love and care and rubbing their ears real nice and giving them stuff.

And sometimes not.

The Road Dawgs are on the lookout for streetpuppies like the handsome and charming Buck. 

They need them.  They use them as bait to reel in street puppies they can rob, and cheat and extort and bully and even kill if necessary in order to achieve what they want. 

Which is usually enough money to buy the next rock (that's crack for all of you straight people) or pills or booze.  Whatever keeps them high enough to keep on livin' the life of the wild. The only life they know. They will never know another life.  They have been out in the wild too long.  They cannot be domesticated.

No responsibilities, no conscience, no mercy for street puppies.

What a street puppy has worked for to get out of homeless nation, the Road Dawg will take, and he will use Buck as the bait to do it. Even if it means that Buck will have to hurt other people.

Even if it means that Buck will eventually die in capitivity, And will probably die of a condition brought on by a broken heart due to the lack of love and care he was once used to.

Fortunately, there are more street puppies than road dawgs in homeless nation.

They will keep on keeping on, and work hard to return to a life outside this place.

And if they manage to stay out of the way of the road dawgs, they will make it.

 Unfortunately, in homeless nation, the Bucks will continue to be kidnapped  by the road dawgs and used to extort and steal and cheat in order to obtain enough money, and rock and pills and booze to keep the road dawgs livin' the wild life.

No responsibilities.  No conscience.  No mercy for street puppies.

If you're in homeless nation.  Avoid the packs of road dawgs at all costs. They will block your way out.

Stick with the street puppies.

We may not seem to have as much fun as the road dawgs,  but at least we're on our way out of homeless nation, we'll make it out alive and well, and we don't stink up the place while we're here.

HALLMARK MOMENTS FOR STREET PUPPIES

When you're a Street puppy, you have to live without lots of things.

Matching socks. And shoes. Even shoelaces. Ties. Black leather gloves. Crisp, white shirts.

But one of the things you miss the most is greeting cards.

They're corny, and usually cloying and insincere, they clutter up the living room coffee table, and the door of the 'fridge, and the hallway table, and they're a mess to clean up after the holiday.

And it's not just the logistics which present a problem to anybody who wants to reach out and touch you - or maybe keep you at arms length - during those sensitive times of the year.

Sensitive as in, It's Christmas, and you got nowhere to live, so forget about a tree and the thousands of lights blinking all over your house and garage.

Or it's Easter. The time to rejoice!! And you just can't fork over the dough to get that big hat with the posies all over it.

Or hey, it's the party holiday, Thanksgiving, and you really want to go to that big holiday dinner with all of the relatives, the party you used to hate, but some of those relatives could well be the reason you're on the street in the first place, what the heck.

So, you're not going to get cards from those people who used to jam your mailbox with cards containing pictures of every thing from jingle bells to pumpkins and easter eggs , mostly because you really don't want them to have to go through the embarrassment when their postman sees they are sending a card to "Maynard, behind the bus station, at the cemetery, in the cardboard box right next to the Smith family."

Yeah, you don't want that.

After all, you do still have some sense of a need for discretion regarding your living arrangements. And it's not going to do anybody who used to know you any good to
know you're living in a box....right next to the Smith family.

Or is it?

Maybe street puppies need to put it right out there.

"Hey, I'm homeless, Sparky. Send me a card sometime, maybe put a few bucks inside."

Now, that takes sand. Yeah, put it right out there. Some real Hallmark moments.

Reverse holiday cards. See, here's how it works. First get a lot of paper from the box beside the xerox machine at the food stamp office.

For Thanksgiving, draw a whole bunch of turkey feathers flying through the air. And a puff of smoke. And at the bottom write. "Whew, that was close. It's wild living in the woods."

For Christmas, Sprinkle some of that star dust stuff on the paper, and maybe some magic marker in red. Draw a cute picture of a reindeer standing over you, trying to eat your ears. And at the bottom, write: "Having a wonderful time. Wish you were here. Instead of me."

And at Easter, hah! The piece de resistance. Draw a big fat bunny, with a cigar in it's mouth.
and carrying a cute puppy in a basket. And a big grin on the Bunny's face. And write:
"We have your puppy. Bring the money to the cemetery and put it into the cardboard box, right next to the Smith family."

You might not want to send the Bunny card through the U.S. Mail.

CAREER, INTERRUPTED

Sometimes, life just isn't fair.

You did everything right.

Maybe starting off with being born into a family who had the means and the dough to put out for an ivy league diploma, and the connections to help groom you for your future role as a player in whatever high stakes profession would be au courant after 'B' school.

Either that, or you looked around at a very young age, and decided you were not going to play for the team that headed straight to the minimum wage line, and an early marriage to an ardent beau who turned out to be the world's champion beer chugger, so you got a grip on your life and soldiered your way through a state school while working seven part time jobs.

Whichever path you traveled, you made it all the way to just under the fabled glass ceiling.

You know. That place near the top, within panting distance from the CEO, or COO or CFO perch you had been salivating about since you elbowed your way past the first casualty on your carefully thought out corporate ladder hit list.

And, darn. Here you are, on the way to being a high stakes corporate player, a real master of the universe in a pant suit, a pedigreed spear carrier.....and you've just been canned.

Somebody hit the 'delete' button on your path to the other side of that glass ceiling

Not only that, you're no, er, spring chicken anymore.

You are "A woman of a certain age," who hit the snooze button on your biological clock a decade ago when you started looking around for cougar bait, instead of somebody your own age at the speed dating events.

And despite the trim body and flawless complexion and rigid diet,your health might not be so good anymore, due to the overuse of prescription drugs you had to use to calm those twitches, and/or the alcohol or drug habit you may have developed to cope while blazing that career path.

Which is a real drag because you lost your insurance benefits along with the job.

And you spent so much time and cash on projecting the right image to your networking buddies and your slave masters you forgot to save any real money.

Then the disastrous economic slapstick hijinks a few years ago -oops there went the 401k, and your stock options....or whatever other high falutin' crap shoot savings schemes you were smooth talked into, and you, silly thing....you forgot to get a contract with a 'golden parachute'.

And the Blackberry, or whatever techno gizmo you used to stay in touch with and on top of your world? The one filled with the names and numbers of all of those other 'golden' people?

Fagaddaboudit. You are the last person they want to hear from these days.

Oh, yeah. You've come a long way, baby.

All the way to Homeless Nation.

Welcome to the world of ratty hair cuts, cheap hair dye jobs, cheaper shoes, ill fitting clothing and taco bell for lunch.

It's still hard to believe it really happened. But it did.

And that's the point. It happened.

Whether it was an abrupt departure from your illusion of a secure and upwardly mobile life by overextending yourself to the point where you really didn't have enough cash around to last more than two pay checks....or a slow, steady descent, into the indignity of selling everything you owned right down to the last pumice stone. It happened.

And you need to get over it.

Because you're not going to get anywhere in Homeless Nation...or, find the way out, unless you grasp the concept: You're homeless.

You're homeless, and you have no money, and no status.

People look at you, well....like you maybe used to look at people who weren't dressed quite right, and lacked the polish and finesse of the well turned out career woman.

You need to get with the program.

There are plenty of those around in Homeless Nation.

And they all involve a women's shelter. Living in one, not visiting each Christmas with a few of your used Chanel sweaters for the donation bin.

Yeah, it's a whole new world.

Noisy, and badly ventilated, chilly in winter, hot in the summer. Locked down at six pm. Food you know is nutritious, but, Lord, didn't these people ever hear of Bernaise sauce?

And then there are the "Others." This is not a shelter in St. Barts, Madame. This is a shelter, most likely in a part of town where you are situated away from people who don't like to look you in the eye, or who just don't want you around.

And there's a reason for that. Some of the roomies you are going to be living with, are not exactly flavor of the month, and you will have to learn a whole new set of coping skills to interact with people you used to look down on, or actually sneer at.

And then, there's the job hunt.

You will be out there, trying to talk somebody into hiring you for a minimum wage position who is looking at your resume and wondering how you could possibly fit into a job answering calls all day from irate customers. In short, your experience, and education and life in general have made you overqualified.

Yeah, you're in for the ride of your life.

It will take every bit of smart and cunning and resilience and spirit you have to get through this one.

And take heart, there are more and more of you drifting into Homeless Nation. Soon, you will have lots of company, and then you will be the wise and experienced and savvy street puppy giving the what for and where's it at to the newbies.

And in the meantime, if any of those people on your Blackberry, the one somebody stole from you the first night in the women's shelter, anyway, if any of those people ever run into you out there in the other nation, and ask what you've been doing....just tell them you've been in the Mistress Protection Program.

STUFF

A house is just a place to keep your stuff
while you go out and get more stuff.
If you didn't have so much stuff,
you wouldn't need a house.
you could just walk around all the time.

George Carlin

Remember when you had stuff?

You probably had so much stuff, your stuff had stuff.

Your laptop had it's own leather carrying case. The leather boots had that snazzy silk lined crinkle drawrstring pouch . The pocket size spray cologne was snuggled in a discreet little silver tube. Even your bag had a a bag to disguise the fact that you carried a bag.

Oh, yeah, and if you owned a car. Boy, that car needed a lot of stuff.

And all of that exercise gear. And the shoes to go with that gear. And the bag to carry all of the shoes and gear.

And then, the Pet. Whether it was Fido the dog, or Crystal, the cat, when they had to go to the pet shelter when your life tanked, you had to cart all of their stuff right along with them.

And then the techno bling stuff. Whew. Hard to tell which beep was going off from which piece of all of that techno bling stuff you had to carry around to stay connected with all of the other techno bling stuff droids.

And now that you're a street puppy, you still have stuff. Different stuff.

Toothbrushes, razors, washclothes, t-shirts, baby wipes, six or so cigarette lighters, dirty socks, clean socks, ponchos, hoodies and ski caps and raggedy levis. And candy bars, and old bus tickets, and canteens and chewing gum, and 3 month old packs of peanuts

And you have to carry most of it around with you.

Now, how much stuff you carry around depends on if you have a Place....or a Spot.

A Place is where, maybe you will be staying for awhile. Inside.

It could be an abandoned house. A friend's sofa. A car or (yippee!) a whole van.

Or, oh gawd, one of those temporary, emergency shelters.

The point of a Place is that it is inside, and thus meets the criteria for sleeping inside. Except for the temporary, emergency shelters.

They meet the criteria of please help me before I eat my shoes and set myself on fire.

A Spot is where you will be staying outside, maybe just the night, or until the police find you.

It could be a viaduct, a cozy hedgerow, an underpass, or (yippee!) a porch.

The point of a Spot is that it is outside, and thus meets the criteria for sleeping outside .

Now, the thing with your stuff is deciding when and if you can leave it in the Place where it would be inside....or the Spot, where it would be outside.

You don't have to decide if you can leave it in the temporary, emergency shelter, because if you do, the androids who work there will eat your shoes and set the rest of your stuff on fire.

It's a tough decision. And it depends upon how many days you really want to go without being able to brush your teeth or change your clothes, or barefoot, if your stuff is discovered, and the person who discovers it decides they need your stuff so they carry it to their own Place or Spot.

If you have a Place, you could possibly put your stuff into a closet, next to the friend's sofa, or on the seat of the car or the van before you lock it. If the lock is broken you can stuff one of your dirty socks into the broken window to make it look like it is locked.

If you have a Spot,unless you can find a tree whose branches are sturdy enough and high enough to conceal stuff without busting your arms getting it up or down from there, or a bush so thick with growth only you can possibly know it's there, it's better to carry your stuff around with you.

And remember, you can't have too much stuff with you, because you have to travel light.

Because you never know when you're going to have to run real fast, and also because if you carry too much stuff...you're going to experience a phenomenon ER doctors describe as "Your legs have swollen to three times their normal size because you're carrying too much stuff."

Now, see, as strange as it may seem. that's because you've been accumulating more stuff.

Go figure. Here you are, you just lost all your real good stuff. Then you got the rather shoddy stuff. And now, it seems you have more shoddy stuff than you had when you had real good stuff.

It's Alfred E. Newton's Law of The Diminishing Value of Stuff.

Which reads: When the total value of your accumulation of stuff does not total the value of your first contribution from the Tooth Fairy, you don't have enough stuff.

The whole point here, is to get rid of all the stuff that is weighing you down, and preventing you from running faster, and causing your legs to swell, or, making you worry all day if the sock stuffed into the unlocked door of the van is going to fool anybody who wants to steal your stuff.

Or worry if, the bough in the tree, where you hid all your stuff is going to break, or a nosy road dawg is going to sniff out your stuff behind that leafy bush.

Here you are, in homeless nation, and you're still worrying about stuff.

And it is time for ole' Alfred E. Newton's Law of Accelerating Stuff.

Which reads: When the mass of your accumulated stuff exceeds the length of any bough on a tree which is low enough for you to reach without busting your arms, throw all of the stuff into the river.