Tomorrow I leave Montgomery County for at least 5 years. I don't plan on returning.
For those who know me, they know that I've been dyin to hit the road for a long time. The only thing that has stopped me has been money and opportunity. With both now (briefly in terms of money) within my grasp, I was left to face my final challenge: the MD Circuit Court.
The violation wasn't that big of a deal really... I'd blown the emissions test date off and finally got pulled over with suspended registration. The fine is huge though (280 dollars!) so I had to pay, in cash, today. But when I got there, the lady at the counter told me that I had a chance to lower the fine if I talked to a judge. I had NO desire to do so, but it seemed like a good idea to leave with a little money still in my pocket.
I walk into the court room and wait for my case number to be called. Low and behold, when it is my turn I see none other than Judge ABCDE (Name changed to keep my ass out of jail) staring at me. Her eyes were little narrow slits, giving me reason to think that I remained her least favorite person, at least today.
She read over my file, I'm sure letting her eyes drag over the ban from Kohl's Department Stores (lifetime ban, 100 feet from the parking lot at all times) and remembering how she filed that restraining order for them. I'm a troublemaker, apparently.
"Just pay the fine, for chrissakes! Case dismissed."
I smile, walk outside, laugh as the ladies behind the glass stare at me, and pay my ridiculous fine.
Goodbye MC. I hope you chafe.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Wednesday, June 14, 2006
Requests - Part 2 - Number 11 Over John Law's Head
When I saw the sirens and the golden car, I was fairly sure that I was going to be beaten and possibly killed.
The guy that got out of the car was completely supportive of my forseen idea of the future. He was tall and lean, huge watch on his wrist and sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes. His gun, obviously not a departmental issue weapon, was so heavy that his belt showed wear and tear on the side it was carried on.
The gas station were parked in was deserted and in shambles. Most of the broken glass had been swept away, but the frames of the windows were not pulled and replaced. It looked a lot like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film, and it was definitely the kind of movie where the black guy dies early...
"Mr. Chenault, could you step out of the car please?"
He hasn't even seen my license, so his knowledge of my name in advance can't mean good things.
"Is there a problem, officer?" I said as I got out of the rental.
He holds up a finger and gets on his radio. He was asking about the complaint from the house I had just been in. There was quite a bit of chatter, so I guess he decided he'd rather sit than stand. With a long scratch of the hair under his hat, he settled against the hood of his car and began writing down whatever was being said.
After about ten minutes of me standing there scared and him writing and scratching, he stood and turned off his radio.
"You been to Don's house today?"
"Yeah. His wife --"
"Right."
He walked a little closer to me, his mirrored glasses shining in the sun. The dust was starting to really make my nose itch. I scratched with one sweaty hand and used the other to shield my eyes from the sun.
Click
The radio stopped making the hissing sound I'd now grown used to tuning out. I was now terrified. My bladder instantly filled to capacity and forced my knees together. I was certain he was going to shoot me and leave me there.
"... Don's wife is a real bitch, ain't she?"
I was so shocked that I dropped my keys. I laughed sheepishly.. after all, what kind of response can you give to that?
"You just be sure you don't go over there no more. Otherwise I'll have to lock you up. You want that?"
"No sir."
"Right. Have a good day, man."
He left with tires spinning in the sand. I waited till I couldn't read his plates anymore and took a long, exasperated leak. Suddenly scared of the exposure, since I'd chosen to piss behind a dead pump, I tucked in and peeled out.
After that, I secretly carried a knife with me on every call. I got caught with it in the airport and lost it long after I left Mississippi, but I'll always remember buying it and giving the story as my reason. The guy I bought it from, Otis if I remember correctly pulled out a bowie knife from under his jean jacket and set it on the table. He told me I should buy a gun if I wanted to get away. I just laughed and said my chances of getting away were "slim to none" even with a gun, so why not "give them an injury to remind them of me." He laughed and just said:
"Make sure to twist it. Breaks the bone if you've hit a limb or gores and tears when you've hit the torso."
I raised an eyebrow and he just said "same reason you got yours, I got mine."
And that's my best cop story.
The guy that got out of the car was completely supportive of my forseen idea of the future. He was tall and lean, huge watch on his wrist and sunglasses that completely obscured his eyes. His gun, obviously not a departmental issue weapon, was so heavy that his belt showed wear and tear on the side it was carried on.
The gas station were parked in was deserted and in shambles. Most of the broken glass had been swept away, but the frames of the windows were not pulled and replaced. It looked a lot like a scene from a post-apocalyptic film, and it was definitely the kind of movie where the black guy dies early...
"Mr. Chenault, could you step out of the car please?"
He hasn't even seen my license, so his knowledge of my name in advance can't mean good things.
"Is there a problem, officer?" I said as I got out of the rental.
He holds up a finger and gets on his radio. He was asking about the complaint from the house I had just been in. There was quite a bit of chatter, so I guess he decided he'd rather sit than stand. With a long scratch of the hair under his hat, he settled against the hood of his car and began writing down whatever was being said.
After about ten minutes of me standing there scared and him writing and scratching, he stood and turned off his radio.
"You been to Don's house today?"
"Yeah. His wife --"
"Right."
He walked a little closer to me, his mirrored glasses shining in the sun. The dust was starting to really make my nose itch. I scratched with one sweaty hand and used the other to shield my eyes from the sun.
Click
The radio stopped making the hissing sound I'd now grown used to tuning out. I was now terrified. My bladder instantly filled to capacity and forced my knees together. I was certain he was going to shoot me and leave me there.
"... Don's wife is a real bitch, ain't she?"
I was so shocked that I dropped my keys. I laughed sheepishly.. after all, what kind of response can you give to that?
"You just be sure you don't go over there no more. Otherwise I'll have to lock you up. You want that?"
"No sir."
"Right. Have a good day, man."
He left with tires spinning in the sand. I waited till I couldn't read his plates anymore and took a long, exasperated leak. Suddenly scared of the exposure, since I'd chosen to piss behind a dead pump, I tucked in and peeled out.
After that, I secretly carried a knife with me on every call. I got caught with it in the airport and lost it long after I left Mississippi, but I'll always remember buying it and giving the story as my reason. The guy I bought it from, Otis if I remember correctly pulled out a bowie knife from under his jean jacket and set it on the table. He told me I should buy a gun if I wanted to get away. I just laughed and said my chances of getting away were "slim to none" even with a gun, so why not "give them an injury to remind them of me." He laughed and just said:
"Make sure to twist it. Breaks the bone if you've hit a limb or gores and tears when you've hit the torso."
I raised an eyebrow and he just said "same reason you got yours, I got mine."
And that's my best cop story.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Requests - Number Eight With Cheese Grits - Part 1
The house was not on my hot list for the day. My targets were at least <<3>>s and this guy was no "fence rider." He and his brother had sat on the "Vote No" committee the last time there was an election, and voting no was usually the last thing on their agenda of ideas to implant in the heads of their fellow workers.
His house visit started with him telling me to get the hell off his lawn. He wasn't mad, he was just sure there wasn't anything that could change his mind. So we just started talking about his job now and how it was different from any other job he'd ever had. How it wasn't worth losing over nothing and how shitty his other jobs were. One job he had was for a shoe factory that was union. The plant closed after a month of fairly bitter infighting. The international signed a sweetheart deal, closed the plant, and raided the pensions. This was before the first real rounds of consolidation, so naturally the union he used to work for no longer exists.
I immediately smelled a rat. We're working too hard on this anti-union angle, and none of it is coming out of the woods clean. I move the conversation in a positive direction, and he brings up his wife. I try to ask him to repeat himself, he talks about his wife. So then I ask about his wife, and he doesn't want to talk about her. "She's not here to say anything, so why should I?" I'm starting to see why this guy was a <<4>>. It was like talking to the birds from Labyrinth...
The door on his porch swings open and out walks his wife, almost on cue. He turns green as a can of Mountain Dew and profusely apologizes. Obscenities fly from her mouth, and then the raving really starts. "All you people want to do is strike! Union sonsabitches! I know what you're trying to do! I've heard all about your nonsense! We're not getting firebombed."
Don (that was his name) was horrified. "I'm sorry, son."
Me: What? Firebomb?
Pissed Lady: Don't try to deny it! You all don't care about us! You're here for the money!
Me: What money?
Pissed Lady: And if you don't get it, you'll burn us out or worse!
Me: Maam, firebombings haven't occured in relation to a union action in 80 years.
Pissed Lady: You're gonna lie, regardless!
[slams the door and goes back into the house]
He tells me I should probably leave before she comes back. I tell him that although she's truly a bear, I'm not exactly talking about Amway here. He understands, but his marriage is more important to him than his job. I acknowledge this and return to my car. She apparently wasn't satisfied with my departure time and decided to expedite it with weapons and words... in short, a butcher knife in one hand and a baby in the other, she came out screaming.
I slide over the hood of my car like Bo Duke, starting the car before I close my door. Her other children apologize profusely using only lips, trying to restrain the mother before she slices my right front tire. I leave pretty fast, trying not to scream as Mom rushes my car, breaking free of her children's grip. The last I see of her is a shoe unsuccessfully tossed at my back window that lands in the middle of the gravel road.
My sweat stains the seat of the car, making my ride to the highway uncomfortable... but not as uncomfortable as I will be in the next five minutes as the sirens wail behind me. She didn't just call the police, but she called the sheriff. The deputy was right on time, catching me in front of an abandoned gas station.
The exciting conclusion in Part 2.
His house visit started with him telling me to get the hell off his lawn. He wasn't mad, he was just sure there wasn't anything that could change his mind. So we just started talking about his job now and how it was different from any other job he'd ever had. How it wasn't worth losing over nothing and how shitty his other jobs were. One job he had was for a shoe factory that was union. The plant closed after a month of fairly bitter infighting. The international signed a sweetheart deal, closed the plant, and raided the pensions. This was before the first real rounds of consolidation, so naturally the union he used to work for no longer exists.
I immediately smelled a rat. We're working too hard on this anti-union angle, and none of it is coming out of the woods clean. I move the conversation in a positive direction, and he brings up his wife. I try to ask him to repeat himself, he talks about his wife. So then I ask about his wife, and he doesn't want to talk about her. "She's not here to say anything, so why should I?" I'm starting to see why this guy was a <<4>>. It was like talking to the birds from Labyrinth...
The door on his porch swings open and out walks his wife, almost on cue. He turns green as a can of Mountain Dew and profusely apologizes. Obscenities fly from her mouth, and then the raving really starts. "All you people want to do is strike! Union sonsabitches! I know what you're trying to do! I've heard all about your nonsense! We're not getting firebombed."
Don (that was his name) was horrified. "I'm sorry, son."
Me: What? Firebomb?
Pissed Lady: Don't try to deny it! You all don't care about us! You're here for the money!
Me: What money?
Pissed Lady: And if you don't get it, you'll burn us out or worse!
Me: Maam, firebombings haven't occured in relation to a union action in 80 years.
Pissed Lady: You're gonna lie, regardless!
[slams the door and goes back into the house]
He tells me I should probably leave before she comes back. I tell him that although she's truly a bear, I'm not exactly talking about Amway here. He understands, but his marriage is more important to him than his job. I acknowledge this and return to my car. She apparently wasn't satisfied with my departure time and decided to expedite it with weapons and words... in short, a butcher knife in one hand and a baby in the other, she came out screaming.
I slide over the hood of my car like Bo Duke, starting the car before I close my door. Her other children apologize profusely using only lips, trying to restrain the mother before she slices my right front tire. I leave pretty fast, trying not to scream as Mom rushes my car, breaking free of her children's grip. The last I see of her is a shoe unsuccessfully tossed at my back window that lands in the middle of the gravel road.
My sweat stains the seat of the car, making my ride to the highway uncomfortable... but not as uncomfortable as I will be in the next five minutes as the sirens wail behind me. She didn't just call the police, but she called the sheriff. The deputy was right on time, catching me in front of an abandoned gas station.
The exciting conclusion in Part 2.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Requests: Number Five With A Bullet
Nine rolled around right as I hit my cell phone asterisk.
Nine usually means the weird people will begin to appear, and not because they meet in our shady backroom where all the nasty pornos are stored.
Seems to me that an hour before closing is exactly when those of us in society who wish to remain an interesting character in a story come out of our caves, seeking interaction. I used to do shit like that too... show up somewhere just to fuck with people because it was late and I had a hard day. But the combination of that kind of person and pornography morphs into something... outrageous.
The owner of the store refused to believe me, especially when I noted that the phenomenon always seems to be a combination of late-night-creep and desperation tactic.
The off chance that he would show up at 9:07 seemed unusual... he probably was investigating the phenomenon.
At 9:08 he got his wish.
In walks Kina (name changed of course) and her girlfriend Denise, dragging Delaney behind them, his hair in braids. All three are gay, living together (sorta) and dayplaying with a community group. Kina hasn't been to the store in months and is obviously trying to get out of her late fees... and in fact calls to me, trying to get me to change them. Denise looks for a movie, a little depressed and ready to go home. Delaney immediately starts up.
Me: What's up?
Kina: My fees! Gotta get rid of em for me...
Me: Uhhhhh...
Kina: Please?
Me: Meet the store owner.
(Boss waves her over)
Kina: How much do we owe?
Me: I dunno.
Boss: 34 dollars? And you haven't returned them!
Me: So that's why you've been gone.
Denise: So we can't get a movie? That's disappointing...
Delaney: I want a membership!
Me: Okay. I need your DLicense and Credit Card.
Delaney: I left my license at home.
Boss to Kina: I'll halve them... 16.
Kina: I don't have 16 bucks!
Boss: How much do you have?
Kina: Two dollars... and some change.
(Long Sigh)
Delaney: I want a membership!
Me: No license, no membership! Do you even have a credit card?
Delaney: Well... no. But you know me!
Me: True, but you still need ID.
Boss: Okay... how about 8 bucks?
Kina: I only have 2 dollars!
Boss: How were you going to pay for your movie? The one you picked was 3 dollars.
Kina: Please!?!
Denise: It's okay.. we'll just have to come back later.
Kina: I want my movie now though!
Delaney: I'll get a membership and then we can get a free one...
Me; That offer's been over for months.
Delaney: But you know me.! You guys are evil!
Me: Oh Lord...
And so it continued. Finally, convinced that we weren't budging, they left.
Boss: What the fuck?
Me: I know.
Boss: Is it always..?
Me: Yeah.
Boss: With them or in...?
Me: Yeah. Most of the 9PM customers are just like that.
Boss:...
He pays me a dollar more an hour now.
Nine usually means the weird people will begin to appear, and not because they meet in our shady backroom where all the nasty pornos are stored.
Seems to me that an hour before closing is exactly when those of us in society who wish to remain an interesting character in a story come out of our caves, seeking interaction. I used to do shit like that too... show up somewhere just to fuck with people because it was late and I had a hard day. But the combination of that kind of person and pornography morphs into something... outrageous.
The owner of the store refused to believe me, especially when I noted that the phenomenon always seems to be a combination of late-night-creep and desperation tactic.
The off chance that he would show up at 9:07 seemed unusual... he probably was investigating the phenomenon.
At 9:08 he got his wish.
In walks Kina (name changed of course) and her girlfriend Denise, dragging Delaney behind them, his hair in braids. All three are gay, living together (sorta) and dayplaying with a community group. Kina hasn't been to the store in months and is obviously trying to get out of her late fees... and in fact calls to me, trying to get me to change them. Denise looks for a movie, a little depressed and ready to go home. Delaney immediately starts up.
Me: What's up?
Kina: My fees! Gotta get rid of em for me...
Me: Uhhhhh...
Kina: Please?
Me: Meet the store owner.
(Boss waves her over)
Kina: How much do we owe?
Me: I dunno.
Boss: 34 dollars? And you haven't returned them!
Me: So that's why you've been gone.
Denise: So we can't get a movie? That's disappointing...
Delaney: I want a membership!
Me: Okay. I need your DLicense and Credit Card.
Delaney: I left my license at home.
Boss to Kina: I'll halve them... 16.
Kina: I don't have 16 bucks!
Boss: How much do you have?
Kina: Two dollars... and some change.
(Long Sigh)
Delaney: I want a membership!
Me: No license, no membership! Do you even have a credit card?
Delaney: Well... no. But you know me!
Me: True, but you still need ID.
Boss: Okay... how about 8 bucks?
Kina: I only have 2 dollars!
Boss: How were you going to pay for your movie? The one you picked was 3 dollars.
Kina: Please!?!
Denise: It's okay.. we'll just have to come back later.
Kina: I want my movie now though!
Delaney: I'll get a membership and then we can get a free one...
Me; That offer's been over for months.
Delaney: But you know me.! You guys are evil!
Me: Oh Lord...
And so it continued. Finally, convinced that we weren't budging, they left.
Boss: What the fuck?
Me: I know.
Boss: Is it always..?
Me: Yeah.
Boss: With them or in...?
Me: Yeah. Most of the 9PM customers are just like that.
Boss:...
He pays me a dollar more an hour now.
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
Shine
I sliced my hand open with a box cutter on Friday, so I spent a great deal of the afternoon and evening seeking medical care. It was fucked up overall, and everyone knows why when I only use two words: free clinic.
My debt is eating me alive.
I gotta do some organizing sooner rather than later.
My debt is eating me alive.
I gotta do some organizing sooner rather than later.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
Dreams are made to be eaten
It was like a metaphysical hot carl, leaving not only a big steaming pile of Irony on my chest but burning off my chest hairs and giving me the stench of disenchantment.
My legal saga continued today, complete with judgement in favor of the plaintiff.
Don't let a union put you in the sleeper hold.
Your ass will hurt for days afterwards.
My legal saga continued today, complete with judgement in favor of the plaintiff.
Don't let a union put you in the sleeper hold.
Your ass will hurt for days afterwards.
Monday, February 27, 2006
Googleymoogley
Nine times nine ago I got some time away from work and spent some time in Vancouver. I really like Canada, specifically BC, just because its so beautiful in the summer.
It was really getting on to fall, but I had designs on it being summer for a few more days. Vancouver agreed, so I drove around the lakes and rivers' mouths. The water was navy blue, and I hadn't seen much like it since Nova Scotia weeks before. But my most amazing sights came completely on accident.
I was five for five that day. I'd gotten about half of what I'd positive projected and came to a sensible end (10 completed HCs, 3 1s, 2 2s, the rest 3s) at that point. About ten miles out of the way, since organizers spend most of their street time hopelessly lost, I came to the end of a culdesac and ended up at the bottom of a hill. And that's when I saw, for the first time in my life, the Pacific Ocean in all of its glory. As if that wasn't plenty, I even got the aurora flash, and a wave of emerald green swept over my car, leaving me seeing seafoam for five seconds. Truly magnificent end to a day, I thought, and I went to my hotel sleepy and happy to be alive.
It was really getting on to fall, but I had designs on it being summer for a few more days. Vancouver agreed, so I drove around the lakes and rivers' mouths. The water was navy blue, and I hadn't seen much like it since Nova Scotia weeks before. But my most amazing sights came completely on accident.
I was five for five that day. I'd gotten about half of what I'd positive projected and came to a sensible end (10 completed HCs, 3 1s, 2 2s, the rest 3s) at that point. About ten miles out of the way, since organizers spend most of their street time hopelessly lost, I came to the end of a culdesac and ended up at the bottom of a hill. And that's when I saw, for the first time in my life, the Pacific Ocean in all of its glory. As if that wasn't plenty, I even got the aurora flash, and a wave of emerald green swept over my car, leaving me seeing seafoam for five seconds. Truly magnificent end to a day, I thought, and I went to my hotel sleepy and happy to be alive.
Sunday, February 26, 2006
Today was the last day I saw him.
Dakarai, a great student activist and friend, is probably my best explanation of why I am now pursuing a career in social justice. He grew up in inner Baltimore, on the West side. The time he spent there made him deftly aware of the inequalities of educational opportunities for those that “don’t matter.” School, he said, was a battleground and even getting there was like an obstacle course, so most of the time kids he knew never made it there (Baltimore currently only graduates 58 percent of its high school seniors, and 75 percent of all black male high schoolers in the city never finish high school, according to the Maryland Board of Education.) He was determined to make it, even though he had a learning disability, even though he had to “do a little dirt” to get money for books during the summer. And through all of this, he marched in protests against the war, educated his boys on the block about social issues, and spent time mentoring troubled youth so they didn’t make the same mistakes that he sometimes did. He did it, he said, because “Not knowing is what’s killing us in the first place.” Sadly, he was murdered in an alley behind his father’s apartment as he was packing his things to go back to Virginia State University for his last semester. But even in death he finished college, as VSU gave his parents his diploma posthumously. Dakarai, or “D” as we called him, was my friend and my guide through the real issues of the streets, and I’ll always thank him for that.
Sunday, January 29, 2006
Black Water
Sorry about not talking to you for so long.
My grandmother, also known as Gram, passed away after a righteously fought battle with cancer. It's been a rough couple of weeks, so I've just kinda let my wounds heal up ragged and broken...
And yet things are going well all over the rest of me... working a job that requires none of my mind and preparing for one that will definitely use all of it (we'll discuss that one in detail when we're sure things are five by five..)
My grandmother, also known as Gram, passed away after a righteously fought battle with cancer. It's been a rough couple of weeks, so I've just kinda let my wounds heal up ragged and broken...
And yet things are going well all over the rest of me... working a job that requires none of my mind and preparing for one that will definitely use all of it (we'll discuss that one in detail when we're sure things are five by five..)
Monday, January 16, 2006
The Difference Between Cabbage and Lettuce: First Lettuce
You can spend all day on one thing or one day on everything. Either way something is going to be fucked up at the end of the proverbial date.
My grandmother is really ill, and lately I've felt horrible about it. The temptation in this post is to analyze it and try and make a coherent storyline post about it but I just can't.
I've spent so much time during the years after school trying to make some headway in my fight against whatever beast I'm currently absorbed with. But nothing has made a dent. Mostly I'm left with the bitter ashes of regret and a sense that the harder I fight the worse my personal life will get.
I talked to my man, 100 grand, about it and he reminded me of an earlier experience... see? Retreated right back into my typical mode. But I'm not ducking, so I'll go ahead and tell the story.
Bob Moses, legend of the civil rights movement, came to our university. He was, in no small way, like a tiny beacon of light for me and others. I was really excited to hear him talk. Through a series of accidents and miscommunications, my man 100 grand and I ended up driving him to the airport. Needless to say, it was an honor.
On the way back I asked him how he accomplished balancing his personal life (i.e. actually having one) and his organizing life (SNCC, Freedom Summer, etc.) and his response was that basically he didn't know how to do that. It seemed, according to Bob, that he was just one of many on the board with SNCC. Sure, he was a powerful guy and people listened to him... but at home he's loved and missed. His relationships suffered because of his organizing, and in the end he's been through a divorce.
Looking back, I realize that what he was REALLY telling me was that if I wanted something other than a gang of angry relatives, I needed to work at it. I have to find a way for everyone, as impossible as it seems.
My grandmother is really ill, and lately I've felt horrible about it. The temptation in this post is to analyze it and try and make a coherent storyline post about it but I just can't.
I've spent so much time during the years after school trying to make some headway in my fight against whatever beast I'm currently absorbed with. But nothing has made a dent. Mostly I'm left with the bitter ashes of regret and a sense that the harder I fight the worse my personal life will get.
I talked to my man, 100 grand, about it and he reminded me of an earlier experience... see? Retreated right back into my typical mode. But I'm not ducking, so I'll go ahead and tell the story.
Bob Moses, legend of the civil rights movement, came to our university. He was, in no small way, like a tiny beacon of light for me and others. I was really excited to hear him talk. Through a series of accidents and miscommunications, my man 100 grand and I ended up driving him to the airport. Needless to say, it was an honor.
On the way back I asked him how he accomplished balancing his personal life (i.e. actually having one) and his organizing life (SNCC, Freedom Summer, etc.) and his response was that basically he didn't know how to do that. It seemed, according to Bob, that he was just one of many on the board with SNCC. Sure, he was a powerful guy and people listened to him... but at home he's loved and missed. His relationships suffered because of his organizing, and in the end he's been through a divorce.
Looking back, I realize that what he was REALLY telling me was that if I wanted something other than a gang of angry relatives, I needed to work at it. I have to find a way for everyone, as impossible as it seems.
Friday, January 13, 2006
On Poverty Pt. 1, or, "Who Wants A Piece of the Dark Fantastic?"
Transnational corporations have taken control of much of the production and trade in developing countries: For example, 40 percent of the world's coffee is traded by just four companies; the top 30 supermarket chains control almost one-third of worldwide grocery sales.
A trade surplus of $1 billion for developing countries in the 1970s turned into an $11 billion deficit by 2001.
The income ratio of the one-fifth of the world's population in the wealthiest countries to the one-fifth in the poorest went from 30 to 1 in 1960 to 74 to 1 in 1995.
Of the 100 largest economies in the world, 51 are corporations; of those, 47 are U.S.-based.
The overall share of federal taxes paid by U.S. corporations is now less than 10 percent, down from 21 percent in 2001 and over 50 percent during World War II; one-third of America's largest and most profitable corporations paid zero taxes -- or actually received credits -- in at least one of the last three years (according to Forbes magazine).
Back in 1980 the average American chief executive earned 40 times as much as the average manufacturing employee. For the top tier of American CEOs, the ratio is now 475:1 and would be vastly greater if assets, in addition to income, were taken into account. By way of comparison, the ratio in Britain is 24:1, in France 15:1, in Sweden 13:1.
Pre-Civil War slaves received room and board; wages paid by the sweatshops that today serve many U.S. industries will not cover the most basic needs.
Smoke clears my sinuses, but not in the same way that hot tea does. I love the way a good bottle of green tea feels early in the morning, especially on overcast days like today.
But I don't like the fact that in order for me to drink my favorite kind of tea, people get paid thirty cents a day to roll the leaves and put them into boxes. So I stopped going to Starbucks for a long time, knowing that I was denying myself of one of the few drinks that I have during the day that is worth any minor nutritional value. Add to that the more pertinent idea that something I enjoyed was causing someone anguish, and its no surprise that I'm branching out in my attempts to locate free trade food and drink for regular consumption.
My boy here at the Activist Haven had a job with a grocery store (a UNION grocery store no less) making good dough. But it was killing him. We could all see it in his face and how it was fucking with his brain. We all urged him to quit and he knew it was time. So he quit, like a champion. It's hitting him in the pockets something awful, and he's financially hurting for about five minutes, but he'll soon find something better (and may already have.)
Combined we make about as much as my mom. Twenty five years ago. After taxes for her, before taxes for us.
I don't feel poor, but I imagine I am.
More later. This is a developing idea.
A trade surplus of $1 billion for developing countries in the 1970s turned into an $11 billion deficit by 2001.
The income ratio of the one-fifth of the world's population in the wealthiest countries to the one-fifth in the poorest went from 30 to 1 in 1960 to 74 to 1 in 1995.
Of the 100 largest economies in the world, 51 are corporations; of those, 47 are U.S.-based.
The overall share of federal taxes paid by U.S. corporations is now less than 10 percent, down from 21 percent in 2001 and over 50 percent during World War II; one-third of America's largest and most profitable corporations paid zero taxes -- or actually received credits -- in at least one of the last three years (according to Forbes magazine).
Back in 1980 the average American chief executive earned 40 times as much as the average manufacturing employee. For the top tier of American CEOs, the ratio is now 475:1 and would be vastly greater if assets, in addition to income, were taken into account. By way of comparison, the ratio in Britain is 24:1, in France 15:1, in Sweden 13:1.
Pre-Civil War slaves received room and board; wages paid by the sweatshops that today serve many U.S. industries will not cover the most basic needs.
Smoke clears my sinuses, but not in the same way that hot tea does. I love the way a good bottle of green tea feels early in the morning, especially on overcast days like today.
But I don't like the fact that in order for me to drink my favorite kind of tea, people get paid thirty cents a day to roll the leaves and put them into boxes. So I stopped going to Starbucks for a long time, knowing that I was denying myself of one of the few drinks that I have during the day that is worth any minor nutritional value. Add to that the more pertinent idea that something I enjoyed was causing someone anguish, and its no surprise that I'm branching out in my attempts to locate free trade food and drink for regular consumption.
My boy here at the Activist Haven had a job with a grocery store (a UNION grocery store no less) making good dough. But it was killing him. We could all see it in his face and how it was fucking with his brain. We all urged him to quit and he knew it was time. So he quit, like a champion. It's hitting him in the pockets something awful, and he's financially hurting for about five minutes, but he'll soon find something better (and may already have.)
Combined we make about as much as my mom. Twenty five years ago. After taxes for her, before taxes for us.
I don't feel poor, but I imagine I am.
More later. This is a developing idea.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
The Makings of
So I lied a little when I said tomorrow.
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When asked if medicine held the answers to acheiving goals of reform in Cuba, Che's original response was that the revolution could be done through his career path, but it couldn't be done in the suburbs. You can't practice medicine in the rich part of town and go down to the slums once a month. That just doesn't work, according to Guevara. It has to be a lifetime commitment.
I'm about to turn down yet another position because I can't get out of Gaithersburg alive. Between my family and my need to eat food and drink water, I'll be unable to move from here for a significant amount of time. My debt is now bordering on the criminal, my work has completely crossed over that line, and now I'm going to have to start doing things that I really don't like to get back into just to survive.
And I'm not alone in this.
There's a whole sector of society that is now populated with us, the victorious college educated underclass. We're all saddled with enormous debt, intelligent through independant and collegiate knowledge, and underemployed through no fault of our own. I may be an exception as an expelled undergrad, but I know I'm not the only person on Blogger who isn't currently serving the corporate master because they could either do that and eat healthy food or eat fast food and live in a box.
I'm not going to be the dude who cries out "Let's change this" and goes back to slanging rock, but I will be the dude who says that making a difference shouldn't cost you your ability to shit in a comfortable place. It shouldn't mean that your relatives can take turns beating the piss out of you with their patented "We're From The Golden Age of Protest" stick and at the same time quietly profess that the way that they got their job had a little something to do with the way that they looked or the fact that someone they knew from waybackwhen had a job there and they got in on the sly.... And it DEFINITELY shouldn't mean that you aren't successful in the eyes of society.
I'll probably touch more upon this later when I talk about poverty later on ( this time I won't promise tomorrow...)
------
When asked if medicine held the answers to acheiving goals of reform in Cuba, Che's original response was that the revolution could be done through his career path, but it couldn't be done in the suburbs. You can't practice medicine in the rich part of town and go down to the slums once a month. That just doesn't work, according to Guevara. It has to be a lifetime commitment.
I'm about to turn down yet another position because I can't get out of Gaithersburg alive. Between my family and my need to eat food and drink water, I'll be unable to move from here for a significant amount of time. My debt is now bordering on the criminal, my work has completely crossed over that line, and now I'm going to have to start doing things that I really don't like to get back into just to survive.
And I'm not alone in this.
There's a whole sector of society that is now populated with us, the victorious college educated underclass. We're all saddled with enormous debt, intelligent through independant and collegiate knowledge, and underemployed through no fault of our own. I may be an exception as an expelled undergrad, but I know I'm not the only person on Blogger who isn't currently serving the corporate master because they could either do that and eat healthy food or eat fast food and live in a box.
I'm not going to be the dude who cries out "Let's change this" and goes back to slanging rock, but I will be the dude who says that making a difference shouldn't cost you your ability to shit in a comfortable place. It shouldn't mean that your relatives can take turns beating the piss out of you with their patented "We're From The Golden Age of Protest" stick and at the same time quietly profess that the way that they got their job had a little something to do with the way that they looked or the fact that someone they knew from waybackwhen had a job there and they got in on the sly.... And it DEFINITELY shouldn't mean that you aren't successful in the eyes of society.
I'll probably touch more upon this later when I talk about poverty later on ( this time I won't promise tomorrow...)
Monday, January 02, 2006
Hi! My Name Is Reece...
And I once again deal in material suitable for a perk and jerk.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: dealing porn is truly where it's at.
My parents call me a deadbeat.
My friends call me a champion.
Women vomit.
Men mail me money (no shit.)
I am The God of Porn.
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My new job doesn't take much of my time during the morning hours, so I'll post then.
Keep an eye out for my series of writings about bellringing as well.
Sorry for the infrequent updates and Happy New Year.
More tomorrow, this I promise.
For now, sleep.
I've said it before and I'll say it again: dealing porn is truly where it's at.
My parents call me a deadbeat.
My friends call me a champion.
Women vomit.
Men mail me money (no shit.)
I am The God of Porn.
-------
My new job doesn't take much of my time during the morning hours, so I'll post then.
Keep an eye out for my series of writings about bellringing as well.
Sorry for the infrequent updates and Happy New Year.
More tomorrow, this I promise.
For now, sleep.
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