Tuesday, May 28, 2013
I love the NW, and here's a reason why
So I went to shoot some hoops, right. I'm typically the only person out there because I've been lucky enough to find the 20min of sunshine lately.
Today was different. I'm out there doing my thing, and this kid in a sweatsuit rolls up and occupies the hoop directly behind mine. I like to call that the first step in "the dance". Playground etiquette says that by opting for an immediately adjacent court when faced with 3 options, you're issuing an open challenge. I do what any regular guy would do when put in this predicament. I scout the competition.
He’s definitely in better shape than I am, but his shots aren’t falling. He’s about as tall as I am, but as I mentioned before, I have at least 35lbs on him. I continue to shoot free throws while my lunch break ticks by. After shooting approximately 40% from the charity stripe, I start to shoot jumpers. He makes his way over to my side of the court as he removes his ear bud headphones.
“You wanna play a game?” he says.
“Sure, why not.”
“To 15?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of 10. I’m horribly out of shape, and on my lunch break.”
“How bout 11? No one plays to even numbers”
And away we go.
I give him a ton of space at the top of the key. I pretty much conceded to the fact that his first step is 100x quicker than mine, and I don’t want to get beat with my back to the basket. He fires a long 3 and I gobble up the rebound. I dribble to the right, he gives me a 3ft cushion, so I stop and pop 1 from about 16ft out. 1-0 me.
I check the ball at the top of the key, and dribble left. I give a jab step, and he backs up giving me enough space to jack up another jumper. He grabs the board, and quickly clears the ball out and drives to the hoop. I chase, he stops, shoots and scores. 1-1.
I give him space after he checks the ball, and he hits a 3. In my face. 3-1 him. He takes the ball at the top of the key again, and fires away from 3pt range. He misses, I go all Pachulia on the rebound, and I clear the ball out. I dribble left, then turn it across the court to set up a running hook shot. Bottoms. 3-2.
It was all downhill from here on out. 2 more possessions, 2 more rebounds and consecutive missed jumpers from the both of us, and I’m winded. He stalls out at 10-2, I make an errant jumper, and he eventually drains one from long range to end it.
We bullshitted for a minute while I try to catch my breath. I find out that he’s a general contractor who works under the table and has done so for the past 4yrs for a friend of his. Nice. Tax free money is good, but I bet the health insurance blows. He tells me he’s a freshman at Clackamas Community College, and a senior took all the playing time at PG ahead of him last year, but this year, it’s his team. Here’s what we know; either you failed a bunch of classes, and are still technically a freshman this year, or you’re a sophomore. Judging by the way the conversation has gone thus far, I’m going to guess the former is true.
He goads me into playing another game, and instead of backing down from a challenge and preserving my pride, I accept. He literally shoots 5/6 from 3pt range, and makes short work of me in the 2nd game. 11-1, and I’m sucking wind. As I try to catch my breath, he continues the bullshit session where we left it. He might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but he’s a decent conversationalist.
to be continued...
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The journey is half the trip
PDX went smooth as a clean shaven face. I breezed right through security, found a cup of coffee and a seat near a wall plugin in less than 20min. After surveying the seating situation near my gate (E6, which is downstairs, mind you) I opted to sit upstairs as gate E4 was completely empty other than a few old ladies reading their Diane Steele novels. Luckily my travel instincts told me to head on downstairs at around 11:15 as my flight would board at 11:20 since it was scheduled to depart at 11:49 (a 25min delay from my original 11:23am scheduled time). I had tuned into the Jim Rome show, and employed both earbuds to drown out the rest of the airport ambient noise. As I was packing up my personal effects, I heard over the intercom that my flight was boarding. I was the last person to make it onto the flight. Just in time? No...a ninja always takes strategic advantage of perfect timing.
I took my seat in row 13. Foreboding? Only if you've recently watched Final Destination or some other movie where the main character puts too much weight into unlucky numbers. The flight went by with minor turbulence. The choppy weather played a part in my entertainment, however. I decided to take advantage of my 2hr20min flight by watching the last 4 episodes of “The Dead Set”. I was at the climax of the story when the turbulence kicked in.
*SPOILER ALERT*
Just as the zombies closed in on the main character, the plane started to shake vigorously. The intensity of the turbulence increased as the zombies drew nearer and began pounding on the layer of plexiglass which stood between them and a meal made from human flesh. Very nice. Almost as perfect as back in 2000 when the aftershock from an earthquake was felt in Vancouver, WA. At the time, I was busy playing Diablo 2. I remember it vividly. Just as I had slain one of the 4 bosses, and the ground began to crack open and expose hot magma, my cousin's dog (Tiger) came running up the stairs. She hid under the computer desk, as I'm sure she was taught in grade school to duck and cover underneath your desk in case of earthquake or nuclear attack. I thought I'd definitely slipped into an alternate reality when I looked out the window to see the trees and the poles which held up the laundry line (what do you call a line that you use to sun dry your clothes on?) shaking violently. I readied my battle axe, as I expected the ground to break open, and demons to start spewing out at any moment. Much to my surprise, the shaking stopped, and I snapped back into reality.
“The Dead Set” was quite entertaining. It's no “The Walking Dead”, but it's good nonetheless. I don't know how I feel about zombies being the latest fad. I really enjoyed vampires until they went all sappy the past few years – see the Twilight series for more information. The good thing about zombies is they aren't capable of rational thought, and therefore, aren't capable of anything except death and destruction. No heartfelt love stories, just rending flesh.
I wonder what the people around me were thinking if they caught a glimpse of my screen. The series was graphically grotesque. I kept waiting for someone to make some wise ass comment. I could see the conversation going something like this:
Some Idiot - “What are you watching?”
Me - “The Dead Set. It's a mini-series loosely based on reality TV and the zombie apocalypse.”
SI - “It's really violent, and I don't think you should be watching that. I have kids/elderly/sandy vag with me, and they are offended by all the blood and guts.”
M - “Maybe you should stop looking at my screen then. Would you prefer that I be watching hardcore pornography? Last time I checked, this is my personal netbook, and I'm enjoying this television show. Mind your own bidness, turn around and eat your bigass biscuit.”
As the series came to a close, I realized that the triple-americano and two 6oz cups of water I ingested had combined and processed, and I now had to empty my bladder. As much as I don't like using airplane lavatories, I was prepared to risk depressurizing the cabin in exchange for releasing the pressure in my stomach. As soon as the last episode ended, I took a peek at the back of the plane to make sure there wasn't a line. As I turned forward to remove my seatbelt and make my way back to the vessel, I saw an older gentleman wearing a plaid flannel. He looked a little surly, and I was dreading my visit to the toilet closet since he'd be given the chance to deuce it up before me. I let out a sigh when I imagined the horrible stench he'd leave, and received more bad news. The nazi-stewardess announced that we had began our descent, and we were to remain in our seats for the duration of the flight. Denied again.
The nazi-stewardess earned her name by strictly enforcing the rules to a tee. I knew not to mess with her if I wanted to deboard the plane without having to test my ninja skills against a member of the brownshirt army. I knew by the way she drilled the 4 gentlemen sitting in the exit row that she was not to be tested. My preconceived notions were confirmed during our descent. During her final cabin sweep, she saw that one of the men sitting in front of me had his iPod headphones in. She asked him if his iPod was on, to which he replied, “What?” Her accusation was confirmed, and the following one-sided conversation happened,
Flight Nazi - “Is your iPod on?”
Businessman – removes his earbuds and turns off his iPod
FN - “You must not want to land. I'm going to tell the other 65 people that we can't land because you don't want to land.”
Seriously lady. The iPod isn't going to make the plane crash. Well, maybe if he threw it as hard as he could, shattered the door between the cabin and the cock pit, and shrapnel from his laser-rocket throw impaled the pilot and the blood spatter blinded the co-pilot.
20min of descending later, I feel my eyeballs floating in my skull. I chose to hold my urine after I saw that Adolf's wife was seated in front of the lavatory door. After we touch down, I expected about 10min of taxi-ing, and then we'd deboard, I'd make a mad dash for the mens room, and all would be well. Boy was I wrong. After landing, I was informed that we'd be traveling to gate B86 (I looked out the window to see gate B3 passing by slowly) but there was an aircraft in our gate. We'd have to wait on the runway since they were running behind schedule. The pain increased in my bladder and I began to debate whether or not I could talk Mrs. Hitler into letting me relieve myself.
Just as I thought about hitting the call button, a lady 3 rows in front of me took the liberty.
FN - “We aren't allowed to leave our jumper seats, so unless it's a medical emergency, we'll have to wait until after taxi-ing and answer your questions then.”
Translation - “NO SOUP FOR YOU!”
15minutes elapse, and I'm beginning to get upset. I notice that the other passengers are also getting stir crazy.
FN - “Ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave your seatbelts on while we're taxi-ing. Reach down, and buckle you're seatbelts until we've reached the gate. Thank you.”
We were all prisoners in her concentration camp. At least there was no six point star on my jacket. I could rest assured that at least I'd be at the back of the line to the “showers”.
15min later, we make it to gate B86. We “taxi-ed” for 30min, most of which was spent in park on the runway. I made a beeline for the bathroom only to be greeted by a 5 person line, 4 urinals, 3 toilets, and 45sec before my bladder explodes. WTF there's never a line at the men's room. I made it to a urinal just before pissing myself.
Enter the Denver airport. I've heard that the airport is suspiciously shaped like a swastika. That would help explain the nazi I encountered on my flight. I did find it curious that all of the maps only showed the wing you were on, never showing the big picture, thus keeping the dirty secret intact. I made my way towards the opposite end of the B terminal only to watch another episode occur on the escalator. About 3 automatically folding stairs before I reached the top, I notice a commotion. The people in front of me were all picking up their luggage and trying to move out of the way. I halfway expected to see the Flight Nazi beating someone to a bloody pulp for stepping out of line. To my surprise, I see an older lady struggling with her luggage. One of the people in front of me hit the emergency stop button and brought the escalator to a sudden stop. I look up to see Beatrice pull her leg loose and limp towards the Starbucks with an embarrassed look on her face. I probably should've felt bad. She could've injured herself, afterall. I look down to see if I can identify what got caught in the escalator and see a frayed shoelace. So THAT'S why old people prefer velcro shoes! I knew there was a reason other than the difficulty that tying shoelaces presents someone with rheumatoid arthritis.
Next order of bidness, find something to eat. I noticed a sports bar on my way through the terminal, but I decide to carry on instead of going with my first option. There was a large open area ahead, and the moving walkways made it easy to people watch while on the move. Now that my bladder was empty, the only thing I could think of was whether the Raiders put up 54 or 59 points on the Broncos a few weeks ago. I make it to the atrium area, and scout the options. There's a sports bar on the side I'm headed towards, so I decide to go there instead of the first option I saw. I arrive at the location only to find a wall mural which says “Coming Soon: Some bar I'll never get to eat at”. Disappointed, I turn the other way to head back to Lefty's.
On my way back to Lefty's, I see a sports themed store chock full of Tebow jerseys. F'n disgusting. Even the Aryan nation likes Tim Tebow. If it weren't for the joy brought to me by moving walkways, I would've punched the next Bronco fan that crossed my path in the stomach.
I find a table at Lefty's and order the cheapest sandwich on the menu.
$6.75 for a 16oz beer or $8 for a 22. Now that's a suckers bet if I've ever seen one. Today's math lesson brought to you by our sponsor:
$6.75 / 16oz = $.42 per ounce
$8.00 / 22oz = $.36 per ounce
A savings of $.06 per ounce isn't worth springing for the 22oz unless you're planning on pounding it like a frat boy on a Saturday night. If you're a refined southern gentleman, like myself, you prefer to enjoy your Winter Lager in between bites of your pulled pork sammich. The problem with a 22oz beer is the last 3oz or so get warm while you're enjoying your delicious pig sammich. I don't know about you, but if my choices are warm beer or ice water, I'm taking the ice water even if I leave a dollars worth in my glass. $16 later, I leave feeling refreshed and ready for the second leg of my journey.
There's a mouth breathing, old man sitting across from me intently watching as I write this blog. I locked eyes with him, and he's now staring down at his Dell laptop. I guess my eyes are stinkier than his.
That's it for now, ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned for more tales of a traveling man. Timothy and I always seem to run into a character or two when our powers combine.
I took my seat in row 13. Foreboding? Only if you've recently watched Final Destination or some other movie where the main character puts too much weight into unlucky numbers. The flight went by with minor turbulence. The choppy weather played a part in my entertainment, however. I decided to take advantage of my 2hr20min flight by watching the last 4 episodes of “The Dead Set”. I was at the climax of the story when the turbulence kicked in.
*SPOILER ALERT*
Just as the zombies closed in on the main character, the plane started to shake vigorously. The intensity of the turbulence increased as the zombies drew nearer and began pounding on the layer of plexiglass which stood between them and a meal made from human flesh. Very nice. Almost as perfect as back in 2000 when the aftershock from an earthquake was felt in Vancouver, WA. At the time, I was busy playing Diablo 2. I remember it vividly. Just as I had slain one of the 4 bosses, and the ground began to crack open and expose hot magma, my cousin's dog (Tiger) came running up the stairs. She hid under the computer desk, as I'm sure she was taught in grade school to duck and cover underneath your desk in case of earthquake or nuclear attack. I thought I'd definitely slipped into an alternate reality when I looked out the window to see the trees and the poles which held up the laundry line (what do you call a line that you use to sun dry your clothes on?) shaking violently. I readied my battle axe, as I expected the ground to break open, and demons to start spewing out at any moment. Much to my surprise, the shaking stopped, and I snapped back into reality.
“The Dead Set” was quite entertaining. It's no “The Walking Dead”, but it's good nonetheless. I don't know how I feel about zombies being the latest fad. I really enjoyed vampires until they went all sappy the past few years – see the Twilight series for more information. The good thing about zombies is they aren't capable of rational thought, and therefore, aren't capable of anything except death and destruction. No heartfelt love stories, just rending flesh.
I wonder what the people around me were thinking if they caught a glimpse of my screen. The series was graphically grotesque. I kept waiting for someone to make some wise ass comment. I could see the conversation going something like this:
Some Idiot - “What are you watching?”
Me - “The Dead Set. It's a mini-series loosely based on reality TV and the zombie apocalypse.”
SI - “It's really violent, and I don't think you should be watching that. I have kids/elderly/sandy vag with me, and they are offended by all the blood and guts.”
M - “Maybe you should stop looking at my screen then. Would you prefer that I be watching hardcore pornography? Last time I checked, this is my personal netbook, and I'm enjoying this television show. Mind your own bidness, turn around and eat your bigass biscuit.”
As the series came to a close, I realized that the triple-americano and two 6oz cups of water I ingested had combined and processed, and I now had to empty my bladder. As much as I don't like using airplane lavatories, I was prepared to risk depressurizing the cabin in exchange for releasing the pressure in my stomach. As soon as the last episode ended, I took a peek at the back of the plane to make sure there wasn't a line. As I turned forward to remove my seatbelt and make my way back to the vessel, I saw an older gentleman wearing a plaid flannel. He looked a little surly, and I was dreading my visit to the toilet closet since he'd be given the chance to deuce it up before me. I let out a sigh when I imagined the horrible stench he'd leave, and received more bad news. The nazi-stewardess announced that we had began our descent, and we were to remain in our seats for the duration of the flight. Denied again.
The nazi-stewardess earned her name by strictly enforcing the rules to a tee. I knew not to mess with her if I wanted to deboard the plane without having to test my ninja skills against a member of the brownshirt army. I knew by the way she drilled the 4 gentlemen sitting in the exit row that she was not to be tested. My preconceived notions were confirmed during our descent. During her final cabin sweep, she saw that one of the men sitting in front of me had his iPod headphones in. She asked him if his iPod was on, to which he replied, “What?” Her accusation was confirmed, and the following one-sided conversation happened,
Flight Nazi - “Is your iPod on?”
Businessman – removes his earbuds and turns off his iPod
FN - “You must not want to land. I'm going to tell the other 65 people that we can't land because you don't want to land.”
Seriously lady. The iPod isn't going to make the plane crash. Well, maybe if he threw it as hard as he could, shattered the door between the cabin and the cock pit, and shrapnel from his laser-rocket throw impaled the pilot and the blood spatter blinded the co-pilot.
20min of descending later, I feel my eyeballs floating in my skull. I chose to hold my urine after I saw that Adolf's wife was seated in front of the lavatory door. After we touch down, I expected about 10min of taxi-ing, and then we'd deboard, I'd make a mad dash for the mens room, and all would be well. Boy was I wrong. After landing, I was informed that we'd be traveling to gate B86 (I looked out the window to see gate B3 passing by slowly) but there was an aircraft in our gate. We'd have to wait on the runway since they were running behind schedule. The pain increased in my bladder and I began to debate whether or not I could talk Mrs. Hitler into letting me relieve myself.
Just as I thought about hitting the call button, a lady 3 rows in front of me took the liberty.
FN - “We aren't allowed to leave our jumper seats, so unless it's a medical emergency, we'll have to wait until after taxi-ing and answer your questions then.”
Translation - “NO SOUP FOR YOU!”
15minutes elapse, and I'm beginning to get upset. I notice that the other passengers are also getting stir crazy.
FN - “Ladies and gentlemen, you have to leave your seatbelts on while we're taxi-ing. Reach down, and buckle you're seatbelts until we've reached the gate. Thank you.”
We were all prisoners in her concentration camp. At least there was no six point star on my jacket. I could rest assured that at least I'd be at the back of the line to the “showers”.
15min later, we make it to gate B86. We “taxi-ed” for 30min, most of which was spent in park on the runway. I made a beeline for the bathroom only to be greeted by a 5 person line, 4 urinals, 3 toilets, and 45sec before my bladder explodes. WTF there's never a line at the men's room. I made it to a urinal just before pissing myself.
Enter the Denver airport. I've heard that the airport is suspiciously shaped like a swastika. That would help explain the nazi I encountered on my flight. I did find it curious that all of the maps only showed the wing you were on, never showing the big picture, thus keeping the dirty secret intact. I made my way towards the opposite end of the B terminal only to watch another episode occur on the escalator. About 3 automatically folding stairs before I reached the top, I notice a commotion. The people in front of me were all picking up their luggage and trying to move out of the way. I halfway expected to see the Flight Nazi beating someone to a bloody pulp for stepping out of line. To my surprise, I see an older lady struggling with her luggage. One of the people in front of me hit the emergency stop button and brought the escalator to a sudden stop. I look up to see Beatrice pull her leg loose and limp towards the Starbucks with an embarrassed look on her face. I probably should've felt bad. She could've injured herself, afterall. I look down to see if I can identify what got caught in the escalator and see a frayed shoelace. So THAT'S why old people prefer velcro shoes! I knew there was a reason other than the difficulty that tying shoelaces presents someone with rheumatoid arthritis.
Next order of bidness, find something to eat. I noticed a sports bar on my way through the terminal, but I decide to carry on instead of going with my first option. There was a large open area ahead, and the moving walkways made it easy to people watch while on the move. Now that my bladder was empty, the only thing I could think of was whether the Raiders put up 54 or 59 points on the Broncos a few weeks ago. I make it to the atrium area, and scout the options. There's a sports bar on the side I'm headed towards, so I decide to go there instead of the first option I saw. I arrive at the location only to find a wall mural which says “Coming Soon: Some bar I'll never get to eat at”. Disappointed, I turn the other way to head back to Lefty's.
On my way back to Lefty's, I see a sports themed store chock full of Tebow jerseys. F'n disgusting. Even the Aryan nation likes Tim Tebow. If it weren't for the joy brought to me by moving walkways, I would've punched the next Bronco fan that crossed my path in the stomach.
I find a table at Lefty's and order the cheapest sandwich on the menu.
$6.75 for a 16oz beer or $8 for a 22. Now that's a suckers bet if I've ever seen one. Today's math lesson brought to you by our sponsor:
$6.75 / 16oz = $.42 per ounce
$8.00 / 22oz = $.36 per ounce
A savings of $.06 per ounce isn't worth springing for the 22oz unless you're planning on pounding it like a frat boy on a Saturday night. If you're a refined southern gentleman, like myself, you prefer to enjoy your Winter Lager in between bites of your pulled pork sammich. The problem with a 22oz beer is the last 3oz or so get warm while you're enjoying your delicious pig sammich. I don't know about you, but if my choices are warm beer or ice water, I'm taking the ice water even if I leave a dollars worth in my glass. $16 later, I leave feeling refreshed and ready for the second leg of my journey.
There's a mouth breathing, old man sitting across from me intently watching as I write this blog. I locked eyes with him, and he's now staring down at his Dell laptop. I guess my eyes are stinkier than his.
That's it for now, ladies and gentlemen. Stay tuned for more tales of a traveling man. Timothy and I always seem to run into a character or two when our powers combine.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
last round of poverty journals
07/14/10 Why do we actively avoid people who we think are homeless?
I have been conditioned to believe in the boogeyman from a young age. The boogeyman is a symbol for all things scary. I suspect that I am not the only person who has been brought up on this principle. The logic begins to skew when adults use the boogeyman to represent all things bad. The new spin is created when adults inject their own beliefs into the equation. The boogeyman then begins to represent the opposition of the social norm. This discriminatory method can be used to slander any outcast of any denomination. Any person who doesn’t adhere to the social norm is by way of logic, a scourge of society. The scourges do things that are bad like committing petty crimes while under the influence of malt liquor and illicit drugs. They are the visible stereotype of a person experiencing homelessness.
I’ve come to the conclusion that not all people experiencing homelessness are necessarily boogeymen (or boogeywomen, boogeykiddos, werewolves, etc). The hidden homeless are a perfect example of people who may in fact be trying their hardest to make ends meet, but just can’t catch a break. The individualist in me suggests that breaks are a natural occurrence just like unfortunate events happen to everyone. The trick is to be in position to take full advantage of the breaks when they come, and prepared to recover resiliently when the shit inevitably hits the fan. Some people don’t get the luxury of opportunity. It’s an unfortunate, but true statement. My vision is a result of being blessed with more opportunities than 60% of people. I’m glad that my parents worked for their wealth and have instilled a set of values in me. Their hard work has given me ample opportunities to succeed. Intergenerational opportunity exists, and my education thus far is a product of it.
When looking through my third eye, the boogeyman I see is a man in a suit. I imagine agent Smith from the Matrix movies. His freshly pressed black suit is complemented by his starch stiff white shirt, his face, expressionless. This boogeyman represents corporate America and sits at the end of the spectrum opposite that of a man experiencing poverty and food insecurity. There's something to be said about the enlightenment found in a minimalistic lifestyle. I bet buddhist monks and ascetics live much happier, fruitful lives than all of us caught in the rat race. Maybe all the boogeymen have it figured out, and it's the agent Smiths who have the formula wrong.
07/19/10 My feelings on TANF post 1996
I am completely supportive of TANF post 1996. Putting limitations on assistance is the first step in removing the allure of remaining on assistance perpetually. The emphasis on preparing the worthy poor to enter the workforce is the best solution. Doling out money without requiring any output from the party receiving the funds is like giving a man a fish. Giving the worthy poor the skills they need to find a job is like teaching a man to fish. By cultivating a work first, assistance secondary mentality, we are feeding the worthy poor for life. Forcing people who are in need of assistance to participate in work related activities is a system of checks and balances that insures that people who are given assistance are doing whatever is in their power to help themselves.
I believe that 24 months is plenty of time for anyone to receive technical training which would enable them to join the workforce as a trained, able bodied, asset. Even a stay at home mother of 3 has time to take online classes. These classes should be designed to give the student a marketable skill set. In the case of a needy head of household, vocational training is more important that higher education. Anyone in need of assistance should first be concerned with gaining skills which will allow them to find a job. The assistance should be used as supplemental income to help the needy families, not the primary source of income.
There are always exceptions to the rules, and I'm sure that some people need more than 5 years to get back on their feet. Those that need more than 5 years should be observed more closely to make sure they are still on the path to independence.
07/21/10 Reflections and a proposed solution
This class has definitely opened my eyes a little more to the problems associated with poverty in the US. An article published in the NYTimes back in 2007 says, “Children who grow up poor in the United States cost the economy $500 billion a year because they are less productive, earn less money, commit more crimes and have more health-related expenses.” (Eckholm). I believe the solution to poverty is in helping those in need, with an emphasis on children. In order to break the cycle, the culture of poverty needs to be broken. I believe change starts by giving those experiencing poverty the opportunity to succeed. On the first day of class, it was said that one way individualists would suggest to help people is to give them human capital. If communities were to work together to address the problem instead of sweeping it under the rug, perhaps more would get accomplished. I suppose by assisting parents, we are essentially assisting the children.
One day, I hope to own and operate a non-profit organization that takes the Sisters of the Road concept a step further. I envision a café with the same business model (hot meals for $1.25 or a negotiated amount of labor) as SotR, but with the addition of a bank of computers with free internet access. The bank would be comprised of recycled technology available at low cost via companies like Garten Services, Inc. (www.garten.org). I would use open source software on all the machines in order to save on licensing cost. These computers would be used to assist in job searching as well as cultivating job skills. Volunteers could teach classes on everything from basic computing tasks (ie: this is how you check your email) to administering a wireless network using a Linux server and client machines. I would approach Google with a proposal to use GoogleVoice to create a community voice mail service. A corporation like Google whose slogan is “do no evil” should be eager to showcase their product while helping a non-profit accomplish a noble task. To go along with a free voice mail box, I would dedicate a portion of the cafe to a P.O. Box system where I could give access to 100 or so individual mail boxes. The café would basically be a cross between the Worksource office in Vancouver and the Sisters of the Road café in Portland. By giving people the opportunity to cultivate job related skills, I would be teaching them to fish.
I could continue to speculate, but for the sake of brevity, I will conclude with a link to a song from the latest album from The Roots. I purchased, yes, I still purchase CDs, this album right around the time I started reading There Are No Children Here. Every time I listen to this song, I think about the Rivers (Walden?) family. I've enjoyed the perspective this class has given me.
If you're frightened of clicking a link forwarded by a student, I'm sure you can find a link to the song on YouTube.
The Roots, “How I Got Over”
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/114875/06%20How%20I%20Got%20Over.mp3
I have been conditioned to believe in the boogeyman from a young age. The boogeyman is a symbol for all things scary. I suspect that I am not the only person who has been brought up on this principle. The logic begins to skew when adults use the boogeyman to represent all things bad. The new spin is created when adults inject their own beliefs into the equation. The boogeyman then begins to represent the opposition of the social norm. This discriminatory method can be used to slander any outcast of any denomination. Any person who doesn’t adhere to the social norm is by way of logic, a scourge of society. The scourges do things that are bad like committing petty crimes while under the influence of malt liquor and illicit drugs. They are the visible stereotype of a person experiencing homelessness.
I’ve come to the conclusion that not all people experiencing homelessness are necessarily boogeymen (or boogeywomen, boogeykiddos, werewolves, etc). The hidden homeless are a perfect example of people who may in fact be trying their hardest to make ends meet, but just can’t catch a break. The individualist in me suggests that breaks are a natural occurrence just like unfortunate events happen to everyone. The trick is to be in position to take full advantage of the breaks when they come, and prepared to recover resiliently when the shit inevitably hits the fan. Some people don’t get the luxury of opportunity. It’s an unfortunate, but true statement. My vision is a result of being blessed with more opportunities than 60% of people. I’m glad that my parents worked for their wealth and have instilled a set of values in me. Their hard work has given me ample opportunities to succeed. Intergenerational opportunity exists, and my education thus far is a product of it.
When looking through my third eye, the boogeyman I see is a man in a suit. I imagine agent Smith from the Matrix movies. His freshly pressed black suit is complemented by his starch stiff white shirt, his face, expressionless. This boogeyman represents corporate America and sits at the end of the spectrum opposite that of a man experiencing poverty and food insecurity. There's something to be said about the enlightenment found in a minimalistic lifestyle. I bet buddhist monks and ascetics live much happier, fruitful lives than all of us caught in the rat race. Maybe all the boogeymen have it figured out, and it's the agent Smiths who have the formula wrong.
07/19/10 My feelings on TANF post 1996
I am completely supportive of TANF post 1996. Putting limitations on assistance is the first step in removing the allure of remaining on assistance perpetually. The emphasis on preparing the worthy poor to enter the workforce is the best solution. Doling out money without requiring any output from the party receiving the funds is like giving a man a fish. Giving the worthy poor the skills they need to find a job is like teaching a man to fish. By cultivating a work first, assistance secondary mentality, we are feeding the worthy poor for life. Forcing people who are in need of assistance to participate in work related activities is a system of checks and balances that insures that people who are given assistance are doing whatever is in their power to help themselves.
I believe that 24 months is plenty of time for anyone to receive technical training which would enable them to join the workforce as a trained, able bodied, asset. Even a stay at home mother of 3 has time to take online classes. These classes should be designed to give the student a marketable skill set. In the case of a needy head of household, vocational training is more important that higher education. Anyone in need of assistance should first be concerned with gaining skills which will allow them to find a job. The assistance should be used as supplemental income to help the needy families, not the primary source of income.
There are always exceptions to the rules, and I'm sure that some people need more than 5 years to get back on their feet. Those that need more than 5 years should be observed more closely to make sure they are still on the path to independence.
07/21/10 Reflections and a proposed solution
This class has definitely opened my eyes a little more to the problems associated with poverty in the US. An article published in the NYTimes back in 2007 says, “Children who grow up poor in the United States cost the economy $500 billion a year because they are less productive, earn less money, commit more crimes and have more health-related expenses.” (Eckholm). I believe the solution to poverty is in helping those in need, with an emphasis on children. In order to break the cycle, the culture of poverty needs to be broken. I believe change starts by giving those experiencing poverty the opportunity to succeed. On the first day of class, it was said that one way individualists would suggest to help people is to give them human capital. If communities were to work together to address the problem instead of sweeping it under the rug, perhaps more would get accomplished. I suppose by assisting parents, we are essentially assisting the children.
One day, I hope to own and operate a non-profit organization that takes the Sisters of the Road concept a step further. I envision a café with the same business model (hot meals for $1.25 or a negotiated amount of labor) as SotR, but with the addition of a bank of computers with free internet access. The bank would be comprised of recycled technology available at low cost via companies like Garten Services, Inc. (www.garten.org). I would use open source software on all the machines in order to save on licensing cost. These computers would be used to assist in job searching as well as cultivating job skills. Volunteers could teach classes on everything from basic computing tasks (ie: this is how you check your email) to administering a wireless network using a Linux server and client machines. I would approach Google with a proposal to use GoogleVoice to create a community voice mail service. A corporation like Google whose slogan is “do no evil” should be eager to showcase their product while helping a non-profit accomplish a noble task. To go along with a free voice mail box, I would dedicate a portion of the cafe to a P.O. Box system where I could give access to 100 or so individual mail boxes. The café would basically be a cross between the Worksource office in Vancouver and the Sisters of the Road café in Portland. By giving people the opportunity to cultivate job related skills, I would be teaching them to fish.
I could continue to speculate, but for the sake of brevity, I will conclude with a link to a song from the latest album from The Roots. I purchased, yes, I still purchase CDs, this album right around the time I started reading There Are No Children Here. Every time I listen to this song, I think about the Rivers (Walden?) family. I've enjoyed the perspective this class has given me.
If you're frightened of clicking a link forwarded by a student, I'm sure you can find a link to the song on YouTube.
The Roots, “How I Got Over”
http://dl.dropbox.com/u/114875/06%20How%20I%20Got%20Over.mp3
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)