Helping Out Africa

Finally, the day has come. My adult life will be forever changed as I know it. The subject line in my inbox reads, "African prince seeks trustable American to oversea big monies." It is addressed from an African man by the name of "Desmond Tutu." I stop for a moment feeling I recongnize this name, but then the thought passes. I think these sincere words are written with me in mind.

As I read further the instructions unfold. I find all I need to do is provide the good prince with my bank account and routing numbers. I respond, "Greetings Desmond I received your message, I am a trustworthy American looking to help Africa and her princes."

I cannot pin why this prince has chosen me to be his financial ambassador. I guess it makes sense given the instability in this region of the world. There are probably a lot of poor people in Africa, and they want to take my prince for his monies. However, I am middle class. I reside just between fast food and fine dining, I live more of a Chili's (the restaurant) lifestyle. It is a man like me who would be perfect to "manage" this prince's fortune. A wealthy man would have not the time nor the motivation, but the guy who dines at Applebees's has a little more to desire.

This seems like a move that would be wise for me. I take action, providing him with all my financials. I am suppose to receive the first 20 million of 40 within 2 days of providing my digits. I couldn't believe it, in 2 days I would be Big Pimping like Jay Z in that music video.

As it stands, it has been two weeks and no word. This man "Desmond" has profoundly changed my life. I now live on the street with a man named Charles or Demon depending on which personality is present. I really hate that guy Desmond. This is what I get for helping out Africa I guess.

We All Struggle

I live in a bachelor apartment and sleep on a couch that doubles as a bed. I wash my dishes in the shower and do not have a maid. I would be lying if I did not say that there were things that I want. However, in this economy I feel humbled and all of a sudden a fridge stocked with microwavable meals isn't so much to grumble about.

A lesson can take time to be fully absorbed and Americans could be in the midst of learning a great one. This lesson can't be taught in a classroom and lies deeper than the financial hardships we are facing. We find oursleves thinking, "Who caused all of this mess?" Maybe it doesn't matter who caused it but better yet what we can learn from it.

At our current state it seems the only thing we have learned is how to be experts in the field of criticism. We criticize government, church, friends, and family. We have our point our fingers placing blame on anyone but ourselves. It's inevitable our arms will grow tired. When this happens hopefully we can share a laugh, and in that laugh maybe we can learn to be thankful. Maybe we can be thankful that we are not facing piling obstacles alone. The person previously beyond your outstretched index has been with you in this trouble all along.

It wasn't so very long ago that American's were bound in a similar struggle. We were a generation transitioning from a decade of economic boom into a decade of rampant displacement. American citizens were driven from their homes, faced persistent hunger and slept in make shift camps. They were poor, but they never seemed in need. People all around were muttering "Depression" yet this generation pushed past the hardship to find true value. Fellowships were born and it wasn't uncommon to see one man give his last bit of food so that another man's hungry son could eat.

It is unfortunate that this great generation has passed. However, we can be thankful that we have not lost their stories of persistence in the face of ruin. Hardship led a generation to notice their neighbors around them, to help and join together. I pray our current hardships lead this generation to respond to the broken and the displaced in our today's and tomorrows.

I saw Curtis Blow on the bus!

Yeah so what I ride the bus, doesn't mean I don't have a car. I just hate driving. Most of the people on the bus have cars, they just hate driving. We would rather have someone else do it for us. The bus is the perfect picture of America, why do it when someone else will do it for you.

I get on the bus today and make my way to the verrryyy back and sit in one of the seats next to one of the windows. I am very careful to leave 3 seats between me and the man who is mumbling along to an old Curtis Blow Sprite commercial. Just in case you don't remember the one...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q18TEfOsosg&feature=PlayList&p=3E4911D84D170738&playnext=1&playnext_from=PL&index=11

I am a veteran, I have taken the red line bus for three years and have learned the unspoken rules of ridership. The rules are simple, do not engage and create as much space as possible between you and another rider. I have seen so many people break the rules only to create a painful commute for themselves and every other rider.

A virgin bus rider does not yet know the rider ratio. The ratio goes as follows: for every 10 normal people on the bus you will have 1 guy who thinks he is Jesus or a time traveler. Your chances are good on a bus with a hundred seats when almost all seats are filled. You can simply glance at the crowded bus and know that the guy opposite the only open seat is full of crazy. When the bus is less full, people will take the open rows and leave a seat next to them. This is Russian roulette because you have a one in ten chance of picking the seat next to Mr. Voices in My Head.

This morning was Russian roulette, the ratio was ignored. A business man enters the bus, I can tell he has never ridden before, he tries to pay with a debit card. I peg this guy a fella who had a lot of lended money, just a month ago he had a Denali and now has a day pass. The guy finally locates his silver money, purchases his day pass, and enters the bus. As he enters I see him attempt to say hi to the twelve or so riders. The passengers simply avoid him or curse at him in Spanish. I really can't tell.

A person obedient to the ratio would have just taken the first row with two empty seats. Instead this amateur makes his way all the way to the back and sits one seat away from the Curtis Blow impostor. We ride for about five minutes not speaking, this is for the best. At this point I keep noticing the business man trying to talk to me. I pretend I am asleep. I think to myself, "I hope he doesn't try to talk to that 1980's beat boxer just one seat over." Just as I am thinking this, rule one is broken, he engages him. I shut my eyes tighter, I know there is no saving him now.

At this point, seeing that he has an audience, Curtis Blow rises from his seat. He stands motionless for 5 minutes waiting for his tape deck to rewind. His head is down and he is preparing for God knows what. I can feel everyone in the front of the bus staring towards the back. The business man pulls his brief case close to his chest, I think to protect himself. The bus driver keeps glancing in the rear view mirror and yells "Sit down." Just as she finishes yelling the tape stops and the 1980's Curtis Blow classic "Basketball" begins to play. In case you don't remember it...
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X0yoPVAOJTk

The impostor begins to reenact the dance from the music video flawlessly, and not dropping one lyric. His only failing, at 275 pounds, was that he was easily winded and horribly off key. The business man grabs my left arm and tries to wake me for help. It is no use... I am dead. I let my tongue fall from my mouth, while slightly peeking with my right eye. Terrified, the business man pulls the chain and darts out of the bus at the very next stop. He is likely miles from his intended stop. The tape finishes. Curtis stares for a minute at the empty seat. He curses at the business man who, by now, is long gone. He sits back down and puts back on the Sprite ad. I really wish I had a car.

I almost got in a fight at KFC!

Rich people are coming downtown to my KFC because the economy sucks. Today I enter my local KFC to snag my daily lunch. I join the line fantasizing as I always do over the Colonel's crispy strips. I order them with honey mustard and ranch because I like dipping sauces like a crack head likes the rock. Usually my KFC run is a simple in and out trip but today is not so.

All is going smoothly, happy customers file behind me and glance toward the billboard making their selections. Today has been good, and it only getting better as I am one spot from the front. I can't resist thinking heck yeah I beat them, I beat the ten to eleven people who make their way to this particular KFC for the 11:50am brunch. I begin to cautiously eye the people in the line letting them know that I have ownage over them and beat them to the brunch line. I don't do this to long because I hate pride and the homeless man with the boot on his hand in the back keeps trying to smile at me.

Refocusing on my chicken strips, I hear the guy in front of me, "This $2.97 combo is supposed to come with a breast and a drum stick." The cashier knows as well as I do that this guy is not from around these parts and is waaayyy out of his tax bracket. I am quietly laughing to myself because I know something this important man does not. It is a meal, not a combo. The cashier recovers from his surprise and reluctantly responds, "Sir, the $2.97 meal has always come with a breast and a wing, not a breast and a drumstick."

At this point the invest man banker, with the gray pinstripe suit he bought from the douche bag room at Brooks Brothers, pulls out his phone. "No, no I can't talk right now I'm in an important meeting... we will meet with this young "Microsoft" after I get done with this young "Goolge." He snaps his phone shut, I think it was an old Motorola Startac. He leans on the counter and stares the cashier right in the eyes. "Don't you lie to me, every KFC sells the $2.97 combo with a breast and drumstick... I want to speak to your manager."

The cashier heads back towards the kitchen. At this point I can sense this very important man, from a big office, is about to turn around to get my take on the situation. He turns around and I pop my head to the ground. Words will not do justice to describe the worth of this man. The last thing I want is him making eye contact, the important types can read your soul. I can sense him planning on how to best the coming opponent. I know he is strategizing because on T.V. business people are good at this.

The cashier arrives back at the register with manager in tow. He doesn't waste one moment, "The $2.97 meal comes with...a breast... and a wing." Oh my God, no he just did not! This guy is far more relevant than anything in this restaurant. I know he is about to pull out the phrase I only hear in movies, "Do you know who I am chicken man?" I can't help but thinking who is this "manager" that he would be so bold to go toe to toe with the class system. It is there for a reason and he would challenge it? I am idolizing the manager on the inside and amazed that the invest man banker hasn't taken his soul. The invest man banker responds, "Well I came here for a $2.97 breast and a drumstick combo and I intend to have a $2.97 breast and drumstick combo."

I am still standing in the line glancing from the floor to my watch. I am running out of time for my 8 minute lunch break. Should I say something to him, yes I will I attempt to speak to him. I take a step closer to let him to let him have a piece of my mind. I whisper, "I am in a hurry." The invest man banker turns to me and screams in my face "WHAT?!" I am so angry at this point that I muster up all the fire in me and mouth the word "... nothing" Whew that was close.

At this point the manager, fed up, leans in and in a crude politeness says slowly, "You'll take the dam $2.97 breast and wing meal and like it." At the managers threat the invest man banker backs up three steps. We are all clapping for the courageous keeper of the chicken. It takes me a moment to sober up from the excitement and I slowly realize we are not all clapping. Everyone is starring at me, I am the only one clapping. The important man burns me with the devil's eye as I try to transition from clapping my hands into clapping flies out of the air. He steps in my bubble and says, "You want to head outside fa!%ot!" I, in fact, decide I do not want to head outside. I dash out of line and into women's restroom. I slump down against the wall, crying, and think to myself I hate May 4th 2009, and I hate this economy.

The secret danger of Swine Flu

Their was a time when it was all mere entertainment. Families popped horror flicks in their DVD players and sat in safe suspense over a bag of buttery corn. The diseased monsters in the movies seemed so far away from reality, but the truth is they are among the living.

This "swine flu" is the end of the world as you and I know it. The situation is far worse than the conservatively liberal media would have you believe. Sure from the corner of every office building you are hearing pandemic this and pandemic that, but what about flesh eating corpses. Yes that is right, I am talking about zombies.

It is a shame no one is taking the time to educate people about the oncoming betrayal. The betrayal of friends and family as a result of the zombie infection known as "swine flu." I bet that as you are reading this sweet old granny is preparing to spring from her hover round to take a bite out of your delicious skull. The pig germ has clouded her judgment and all she can think is "yum brain." She now looks on you as nothing more than a brain meal. It is time to take action and grow a backbone. You will do things you never have done to survive this apocalypse.

This zombie invasion will not be for the weak of heart. Learn to remember your loved ones in happier times, in the pictures of old. Remember the smile of satisfaction on grannies face as she removed warm cookies from the oven, then let this memory pass quickly. Johnny get your gun and put the rabid sack of liver spots down. It was you or her, she has lived a long and prosperous life, you made the right choice.

As I write this I am hiding under my futon bed, I wear a mask and have stocked my 10' by 10' bachelor apartment with ready to eat meals. If you are a woman and reading this your time is short, please comment back. PLEASE NOTE: If you are a woman I will reply back and we can find a way to meet up. Stay away from the metro lines and main through streets, this is where the infected are most likely to gather. Also, most of all zombies are male and can appear completely normal and sometimes speak perfectly good English.

Remember, the soft will perish in zombie hell. It is the strong who will live to fight the walking swine corpses another day. I am in hiding and I await your response.

Sick day's with the swine flu

In a perfect world, all offices would be empty. All across America employees would spontaneously be stricken with sickness. These tell tell signs would only mean one thing... people don't like work. You can't blame them in this skiddish, paranoid economy.

The majority of people eke it out in 5x5 cubicles where, to God, we must look like that old elephant at the zoo. You know the one, he doesn't come near the fence and tends a broken tusk. We are paranoid that at any moment the zookeeper will round the cubicle and give us a thorough pink slipping, right on on our leathery elephant kneecaps. We need a day off.

At the close of every week you can find people at bars and hangouts setting plans for the following weekend on the current weekend. The worker bees choose to live from weekend to weekend forgetting that they have sick days to burn. Friend, will you trust that their is no better time than now to burn these sick days. It's simple, just tell your boss you have the swine flu. This will be sure to land you a few days off. After all, no one wants you in the office spreading your filthy, imaginary, pig germs.

I am sure someone out their is saying, "I simply can't take a day, I have a kid and he's always getting sick, I'll need those days to tend to him." Well that's just wonderful, you use your sick days when you aren't even sick just to get sick and use more sick days. You disgust me, be strong teach little Johnnie about responsibility. You warned him to wash his nasty little hands. It's obvious his two ears do not work, they are simply there to make his head look smaller. Drop him off at school anyways. Be sure to tell him you love him, as children are fragile, and add that he has the swine flu.

After all that emotion your really going to want to take a sick day. Keep in mind it won't be too much longer before they find a cure for this bug. If you don't act on your instinct now there may not be another chance. You don't have to go to work, you don't have to keep forcing yourself into this hell, especially when a one to two week vacation is right on the doorstep. However, if you do end up in that dungeon and find your boss is down your throat. Let him know that it could be starting to make you sick...cough, cough.

You don't have to be old elephant in cramped cage. You can be a spring swine that is off the clock at nine and drinking wine. Enjoy your time off!

SPAM JAM-Hawaii

You wouldn't have known it, but more Spam is consumed per person in Hawaii than any other state in the United States. In many places this treat is taken for granted, but in this tiny off shoot of the U.S. it has its own festival. It's true every year the denizens of this cinder block chain gather to pay homage to the first meat shipped to the island.

It wasn't so long ago that the day to day sustenance of islanders consisted of nothing more than coconut milk and monkey tail jerky. That was until 1947 when the Red Cross began serving the treat to soldiers rehabbing from injuries sustained in the second great war. It was quickly found that the meat vastly improved the morale of the men which, in turn, led to a speedier recovery. With it's mood improving properties and delectable taste Spam was fast on its way to becoming the go to replacement for monkey tail.

The popularity of the glazed gourmet ham only skyrocketed following the war. The inhabitants of the ashen earth had never tasted such a convenient meat. Local grocers simply could not keep shelves stocked and the high demand and limited availability led to black market sales. Father turned against son, mother against daughter, and neighbor only visited neighbor to raid the cupboard (whats really changed). However, could it be that in what seemed the worst of times a great story was being woven...yes. Take for instance John Kimble, 78 years old and former owner of Kimble's Pantry, his story perfectly captures the esprit de corps.

"I remember coming back to the diner late one night because I thought I had left the walk in open (this is what old people call freezers). You see at that time we didn't know that you didn't have to frigerate the ham to keep it from spoilin. Well when I opened the door I found some hobo on floor covered under empty cans. He was wearing nothing but a sleepy smile and a pair of dingy under bottoms. The odd thing was I recognized him, it turned out that it was my brother. I hadn't seen him since I kicked him out of my home on account of him nippin my hooch. After I shook him to we talked in the corner booth over coffee of course this was after I made him cover hisself with an apron. He told me he had been 6 months off the bottle. This still didn't explain his partial nudity and why he was bathed in meat glaze in my walk-in. He told me he hadn't eaten for days and he found me in the phone book but couldn't bring hisself to ask for no handout.

The way he tells it, he waited til I left and snuck in an open window. It's a trustin island and a few SPAM thefts weren't going to make me shut up my windows. Well he said to me he made his way to the walk in and cracked open one of those cans. As soon as the glaze dripped from the can and hit his tongue he went into a fit. So much of a fit that he stripped down to his skivvies to prevent from spilling on his clothes. He laughs, "Well all I know is it was good to have him back."

It's these simple jems among the many mines of good will that lead these islanders to worship the meat. John, in brotherly goodwill, gave his brother a job working at the diner. This tender act led the diner to financial ruin as he was unable to curb his brothers potted meat pangs.

It is cliche to say that time goes on, but today the former site of "Kimble's Diner" is the meeting place for "Spam Jam." A celebration for Spam, a meat that most perfectly represents all that is Hawaiian. Courage, Community, and the pursuit of Contiguity.