Only So Much

Every day, I go to work past the Loaves & Fishes and the Salvation Army—where the homeless can get a meal and maybe even find a job. It’s in a rough warehouse area. Not inviting at all to the city’s residents as a whole. Men in wheelchairs, women on bikes, people walking with their shopping carts or bags full of their life’s belongings form an endless stream of people running from the river banks from one direction to the bushes and alleys downtown from the other, all converging at this point because breakfast is about to be served. There is no progression through Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs here—it’s pure survival, baby.

I take frequent trips around the block at the office, mostly to clear my head, but sometimes just to see what’s going on outside the confines of the space I share with smart, sane, college-educated folks that may worry about where they might find a good happy hour after work but haven’t known a hungry night or the felt the indifference of others. I’ve come to recognize many of the folks on the street and have spoken to more than a few…mostly to tell them I have neither change nor a smoke for them. Some hope for the largesse of the capitol employee-set to put a couple bucks in their pocket, one quarter at a time. Some rage in scary ways if you dare look their way—and have self-medicated that day with drugs or alcohol. Most don’t take their legal medication, if they can get medication at all. But, they’ve created their own community; one in which they are understood and accepted, and where they form friendships based on security and a strength-in-numbers outlook. Many of them will spend tonight in jail or will be rousted from their box by the riverbank, where they share camp with other lost souls.

 

I just keep thinking of the guy who was probably 40, now haggard and hunched over in his wrinkled, dirty fatigue jacket as he stood outside of the store I popped into. I’d seen him before, at the same corner, kickboxing an imaginary opponent. I told him I had no change as I went in but said to him on the way out, “I had no change, but now I do, here.” As he looked into his palm at the 78 cents, he said, “Thanks, have a wonderful day, young lady.” I said, “You, too.” He broke out into a great snaggle-toothed smile, and said, “Thanks, that made my day more than this money.”

These days, I have more questions than answers regarding what I believe are the pressing social issues of my community. Where do we begin to help? Our lack of humanity as a species of thinking humans makes me feel a little helpless sometimes. I could carry on about how Reagan’s policies of the 80s shut off many avenues for long-term assistance for the mentally ill and how general hospitals, nursing homes, and jails and prisons have become the new, but ill-equipped solution, but it really doesn’t matter anymore. We need to rethink this issue now and provide tangible solutions that allow them their personal dignity while providing safety for themselves and for the greater community. Please visit the National Resource Center on Homelessness and Mental Illness to learn more.

Give me your tired, your poor,/ Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,/ The wretched refuse of your teeming shore./ Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,/ I lift my lamp beside the golden door!
~ Emma Lazarus

David Sedaris

What a nut!  David Sedaris graced the stage of The Crest Theatre in Sacramento last night.  Sedaris, author of several New York Times bestsellers and commentator on NPR’s “This American Life,” regaled the audience with his latest oddball stories.

Several years ago, my sister loaned me a book that her good friend, freelance writer Pim Fox had loaned her.  My sis hadn’t gotten into it, but for some reason, she thought I would.  “Here,” she said, “this is way too weird for me, you’ll love it.”  Hmm, I have a feeling I should have been insulted, but instead, I spent the next few hours laughing hysterically through his book, Naked—his piece  “A Plague of Ticks” being the standout. 

I’ve since loaned the various Sedaris books to various folks or given them as gifts, usually on newish acquaintance.  Mostly, I think I do this to determine if they are going to truly be “my kind of people.”  Strangely enough, I have found that those who do love him are more than a little off-kilter.  Hmmm. 

I haven’t got the slightest idea how to change people, but still I keep a long list of prospective candidates just in case I should ever figure it out.
~ David Sedaris

Federal Prisoner #16377-004, Michael G. Santos

I have the pleasurable acquaintance of some kids who are adopted.  Okay, they call me “Mom.”  Fortunately, with the advent of open adoption, all of the kids have contact with one of their birthparents.  It’s a convoluted story, as most such tales are, but this has all worked out well, in its quirky little way. 

The unfortunate part of this story is that the birthfather of part of this brood is spending time in a Federal Correctional Institute, where he’s been for the last four years and will remain for the next seven, for drug crimes.  Admittedly, I don’t understand one damned thing about life behind bars or the criminal judicial system outside of what I saw on Perry Mason or Matlock.  Somehow, I sensed at a young age that criminal defense attorneys were not so fortunate to always have both an innocent client and to be wily enough to get them off despite the frames, double-dealing by the prosecution, and borderline nefarious nature of the detectives.

So, a couple of years ago, I started reading and searching the Internet to try to understand so I could help explain this to the brood.  In my reading, I ran across Federal Inmate #16377-004, Michael G. Santos.  Michael has been in Federal custody since about 1987, when he was 23.  His downfall was those heady cocaine Wild West days in Florida in the 80s—very Miami Vice, only on the flip side.  His story is interesting, however.  What struck me is that he takes full responsibility and has made definitive steps toward rehabilitation.  In the Federal system, there is no early parole, so he does his minimum time, which will put him out about the same time as birthfather.  This guy has managed the rare feat of moving from maximum security to a minimum security working camp.  He’s published numerous books about life in prison, one of which is a “how to” for people facing prison for the first time.  He makes no money from these publishing enterprises as all the money goes toward paying his astronomical fine. His most recent book, “Inside,” met with critical praise.

While I think that his website operates for the right reasons, there’s always been a bit of skepticism lodged deep in the recesses of my mind.  He’s got a pretty good PR marketing tool in the website (maintained by his second wife and family friend, Carole).  I want to believe everything he says because he states his case compellingly and articulately.  Every quarter, I wait to hear what he’s done next to prepare himself for a life on the outside

–a life he lived only briefly before heading down the path that brought him where he is today.   I do believe that drug crimes often carry a stiffer penalty than is necessary, and so many violently dangerous people who molest or murder have done far less time.  Was it as clear-cut as he states?  If so, then, I think the term he is serving is too lengthy and if his record is as clean as he states, he should be considered for clemency.  I mean, is our goal to rehabilitate or is strictly to punish?  If the answer is rehabilitation, then I think the clemency board would have to take a more than casual look here. 

One of his most recent book reviewers used the word, “dispassionate” and another “stilted” in describing his prose—perhaps that’s what’s been bothering me—he is articulate, but seems to lack the passion in his written word (which is all we, on the outside, see) to come across as completely and totally credible, which in turn, may appear to the folks that hold his fate in their hands as disingenuous or that he’s just another con artist trying to work the system to his advantage. 

As a greater and greater percentage of our population spend time in prison for longer and longer periods, the state of our collective (read: government) “corrections” philosophy and the execution of its policies becomes more and more pressing a concern.  What do you think? I’d like to hear your opinions.

Photo used with permission from Carole Santos at www.michaelsantos.net

This piece is also posted on The Peace Tree.

More Dumb Assity

Seriously.  I’m ill.  Four schools across the country have banned “Tag” as a schoolyard game.  I’m sure by year’s end, that little trend will have swept the nation.  School officials feel that it is detrimental to the psyche of the loser and also puts the school in a potential litigious situation if an injury occurs.  I’d be more worried about kids bringing guns to school as a potentially litigious situation, ya’ know? 

Come on, it’s a playground.  Kids play there.  Games have winners and losers.  In fact, in tag, as I recall, it’s a revolving winner and many losers. Kids fall down, trip, stumble, and skin knees and elbows when they play.  How could that possible damage the psyche of the child?  If I were Johnson & Johnson (makers of the Band Aid™), I’d sue the schools for interfering with business, know what I’m sayin’?  If they aren’t gifted at chasing, reaching out, and tagging someone, perhaps they could jump on the swing set during recess and swing for a while. 

I pay enough taxes to support a family of four in most third world countries for over a year and have three kids to worry about myself—let me worry about their psyche and let the schools work harder to control the classrooms so some actual teaching can be done.  I should sue those schools, because my psyche is seriously damaged by this dumb assity.

Which brings me to teachers shifting from correcting with red pens to more pleasing colors such as purple.  How ridiculous.  If the paper is wrong, they should use red pen—it’s attention-getting.  If the kid doesn’t like a paper marked up with red, perhaps they will make sure it doesn’t happen again by studying, spelling correctly, and looking up the right answer.  By default, they may actually learn something.  If a parent is worried about little Johnny getting his feelings hurt because he had to look at the big, bad, scary red ink–how about you help him with his homework instead of staying glued to the little stylus on your PDA?  That will help both of your poor psyches.  

How will we create the tough-as-nails young men and women we’ll need in the next few years to fight in the ongoing debacle in Iraq if they are all namby-pamby on the playground and can’t deal with a little red ink?  How will they deal with getting blown out of ill-equipped convoys and finding themselves leaking red blood, instead of looking at red ink?   

This rant brought to you by a parent who is just so sick of playing by their rules.

Annoyances

I attend two kinds of conference calls on a monthly basis.  One is a human resources meeting and the other is an accounting & finance (A&F) meeting.  They are both scheduled for the same amount of time.  The HR meeting goes on for-ev-er (meaning they always start late and end even later than scheduled) and it’s blah, blah, blah, blah and when they ask, “What does everyone think?” people actually answer—all of them, and at length in an excessive and highly irritating touchy-feely way.  The numb spot in my forehead grows exponentially as the minutes tick away.  I never feel a sense of definitive closure in an HR meeting—generally, I’m more confused than when I started.  The A&F meeting starts, information is imparted, questions are answered, and the meeting is always over in half the time scheduled  The A&F meeting leaves me feeling sunny, bright, and gay (oh, wait, I was that way before the meeting).   What does this all mean?  Besides the fact that some people annoy the hell out of me.

Time to check my hormone levels, I have a feeling something’s amiss.

A grouch escapes so many little annoyances that it almost pays to be one.
~ Kin Hibbard

Heaven Is A Place Called Walmart

Walmart, heaven on Earth.  I’d met the clerk in question before, in that “Did you find everything okay,” kind of way and dreaded ever hitting her line again.  I was third in the “express” line.  I looked up to see the one I shall call “The Old Clerk.”  Both people in front of me had six items.  Fully 15 minutes later, my turn finally arrived.  This will make no sense to many younger than me, but the thing that was flashing through my mind was “The Old Man” character Tim Conway did on The Carol Burnett Show.  “The Old Man” was sure to make Harvey Korman break character and was sure to cause me excruciating pain and frustration as the character went through his molasses-slow schtick.  

 

Scan item, fail, pick it up, turn it over several times, try to scan again….slowly and painfully look up at me with a confused, yet dull look, put it back down again, twist it a couple more times until…success!  Then, open the bag, do a slow motion stretch to drop it in the bag, and bam…ready for the next item.  Rinse and repeat through all seven items.  I know, I just know, that they put her in the express line just to have fun with those of us in a hurry.  I did find the humor, and now I actually like finding her, just to see everyone’s reactions behind me–that alone is worth the trip. 

 

I got a comment today from a woman who has a website for Sacramento Foodies.  Please check it out if you are in the Sacramento area and love good food the way I do.  Perhaps a Port group will break off of this group, if I’m lucky.

 

Also, take a gander at Cori Crooks’ A Gag Reflex.  It’s an absolutely mesmerizing chaptered story about her search for her biological father.  Part fact, part the fiction she thought was truth, it is truly worth reading.  She is working with a publisher now and once published, I am definitely going to pick it up.

 

Oh, and everything turned out okay on yesterday’s stress-inducer.

 

Slow down and everything you are chasing will come around and catch you. ~ Unknown

Frustration

For my employer, it was a good day.  For me, it was stressful and chaotic and I’m crossing everything, including my ovaries, that it all worked out.  Will know tomorrow.  I’ve spent most of the last seven months stress-free, so I guess I was due.  If I smoked pot, this would be one of those times it might come in handy.  I have heard, however, that a “nickel bag” is no longer $5.  I could use a case of the munchies too—five bags of Tostitos and some cheese dip sounds mighty cathartic.

 

Stress: The confusion created when one’s mind overrides the body’s basic desire to choke the living daylights out of some jerk who desperately deserves it. ~ Unknown

House Calls

Some people know how much I like looking at other people’s houses—it’s a sickness.  I looked at a house today.  It’s kind of like going to “look” at puppies.  Then, the puppy looks up at you devotedly with those big, deep, brown eyes, as its slobbery tongues slathers you from the top of your head down to your shirt and all points in between, leaving a blank, very wet spot where your makeup once was, and you know you must make it your own.

J-Man and I had continued our little retail adventure, buying more items for the much-anticipated Halloween party, that will not involve a game of “Spin the Bottle,” and were headed home.  I said casually, “Oh, look, an open house, let’s go.” 

The place was stunning—updated, great landscaping, large yard, a Koi pond, hot tub, and good layout.  It was located on a quiet street in a good location.  It had it all.  And, J-Man declared it “awesome.”  So, I ran home and did a little figuring.  I ran out of fingers and toes, so since it involves the California housing market, I resorted to quantum algebra to calculate the complex solution.  Then, I did a little analysis on the neighborhood comps.  Sadly, despite the fact interest rates are stable and prices and plummeting, it’s still too expensive.  So, to assuage myself, I went out and bought a cheap curtain and a 40% off frame and poster for my rental bathroom.  In the words of the immortal Red Hog, I guess I’ve got that going for me.

 

We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.

~ Martin Luther King, Jr.

Bad Restaurants

I finished off the tiling of the bathroom today.   Sometimes I marvel at the level of excitement and adventure in my life.  Plus, I figured out how to cut trim to go around the bathroom on top of the tile because I didn’t want to take all the trim off to tile.  Being lazy one end makes as much work on the other end. 

Halloween party planning is in full swing.  J-Man has planned the entire thing, including making a list of everything we needed.  I was then instructed where we needed to go to get those things now.  So, we had a little retail adventure this afternoon.  Then I was starved, so we had dinner at a place without a line, which translates to:  “So-So Restaurant.”  Never order wine in a restaurant like this.  The choices were $4.50 glasses of wine you can buy a bottle of at the Safeway for $3.00.  But, I raised my brow in anticipation when I saw they touted domestic and imported beers:  Bud, Bud Light, and Sam Adams.  Not sure if Boston or St. Louis is considered “foreign.”  I ordered the steak and lobster.  The lobster tail was the size of my thumb and the lobster meat was all of three small, yet mmm-mmmm-sinewy bites.  I explained to the kids I wasn’t disappointed, because I really don’t expect much of a place like that.  The company was stellar.

The minimum time spent in any one restaurant should be a year, no matter what. ~ Mario Battali

(No, problem Mario)

The Mystery Of Frank

 

“Frank” as you may remember, had his wiper arms ripped out and lovely, vaguely sinister verbage scrawled across the side of his car last week. Frank’s car has had the wipers replaced, but Frank is nowhere to be found. His car has been parked in the same spot (with a handicapped tag) for over 48 hours on a downtown street, and has not been moved, according to spies who were in the area at night. Has Frank met with foul play? Has the Federated Restaurant Workers of America decided to make an example of him? What do you think?

 

The kids, it seems, want to have a Halloween party next week. I suck at this stuff. I wasn’t given the party organizing gene. One of the kids devised the invitation. I did advise that child it’s best not to include “Spin the Bottle” as a Halloween activity alongside “Bobbing for Apples.”

In publishing news, this month has been a good one. My National Coming Out Day Letter to the Editor made it into 365gay.com, a leading LGBT news and information website this past week.

Kids these days. ~ My Dad