Tuesday, December 19, 2006
Cash Crops
What do you think of when you hear cash crops? Tobacco, corn, wheat -- right? They do sell in the billions of dollars. In the US, corn sells appx $23 billion; over $17 billion worth of soybeans each year are sold from US farms. These are dwarfed, now, by .... Marijuana. Yep. The 10,000 tonnes of good ole weed is now worth over $35 billion and has become America's biggest cash crop. And still the government refuses to legalize it, and even make money off it from taxes. Of course, should that happen, it would no longer have the same value it does now. But it would still make a shitload more sense then turning millions of pot smokers into criminals and wasting billions on the never ending 'war on drugs'.
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Monday, December 18, 2006
Custer and Crazy Horse at the Battle of The Little Bigdorm
We lived in Schlicter, one of the far lake-side dorms
reserved for the pimply and egg-headed,
the stoners and sociopathic programmers.
Neither Lord nor Yeoman of the outcast tribe,
I was everyman and nomad, roamed freely,
known by numerous names.
It was my room first. He only moved in after
my first roommate, fearing his life, had fled by night.
Before he would leave, he would stand and fight.
He was regimented and decorated.
Every night he counted his medals,
every morning he rose to train.
I lived like an old Plains Indian.
I hunted in bursts, lived off every scrap.
Everything within reach was as much mine as not.
I fucked when I pleased, publically and unquietly.
Clothing was optional and seldom clean.
My clan was always welcome and often present.
He scheduled regular visits from his girlfriend
to coincide with my absences. He crossed town
every weekend to pal around with his J-Crew.
It was my room first. He only moved in after
the Great Campus Father sent him with treaties
based on premises which I could not conceive.
I did not respect them. Raids were launched,
counterattacks returned, decoys deployed.
All the while he bloomed in anger.
I did not see the point. If I did not approve
of his posters, why should he approve of my hours?
If I couldn't stand his music, why should he stand my light?
We lived in opposition, not that I minded much.
To me, it was just more fun and games.
Counting coup as satisfying as making gains.
Maybe I was the bad roommate.
Maybe his ways were better ways
and my ways just stood in the way
of the University's manifest destiny.
Maybe when my means dried-up I went the way
of the Condor, but I never "came in", and it was my room first...
copyright-John Eward "Crazy Dork" Lovrich
We lived in Schlicter, one of the far lake-side dorms
reserved for the pimply and egg-headed,
the stoners and sociopathic programmers.
Neither Lord nor Yeoman of the outcast tribe,
I was everyman and nomad, roamed freely,
known by numerous names.
It was my room first. He only moved in after
my first roommate, fearing his life, had fled by night.
Before he would leave, he would stand and fight.
He was regimented and decorated.
Every night he counted his medals,
every morning he rose to train.
I lived like an old Plains Indian.
I hunted in bursts, lived off every scrap.
Everything within reach was as much mine as not.
I fucked when I pleased, publically and unquietly.
Clothing was optional and seldom clean.
My clan was always welcome and often present.
He scheduled regular visits from his girlfriend
to coincide with my absences. He crossed town
every weekend to pal around with his J-Crew.
It was my room first. He only moved in after
the Great Campus Father sent him with treaties
based on premises which I could not conceive.
I did not respect them. Raids were launched,
counterattacks returned, decoys deployed.
All the while he bloomed in anger.
I did not see the point. If I did not approve
of his posters, why should he approve of my hours?
If I couldn't stand his music, why should he stand my light?
We lived in opposition, not that I minded much.
To me, it was just more fun and games.
Counting coup as satisfying as making gains.
Maybe I was the bad roommate.
Maybe his ways were better ways
and my ways just stood in the way
of the University's manifest destiny.
Maybe when my means dried-up I went the way
of the Condor, but I never "came in", and it was my room first...
copyright-John Eward "Crazy Dork" Lovrich
Wednesday, December 13, 2006
Promotion Commotion
Daniel, a four-star French restaurant on the upper-east side, is being sued by 7 Latino and Bangladeshi employees who claim that they have been the victims of racial harassment and discrimination. The harassment end of the lawsuit involves allegations of the management verbally-abusing the employees with racial epithets and stereotypes. Fortunately, I have never seen this sort of abuse in the various restaurants I've worked in. The discrimation half of the charge, however, is based on white workers who win promotions to higher position with less experience, seniority and qualification than the sueing not-white workers. Working as busboys and foodrunners, they claim to have trained newly-hired white-workers for the higher-paying positions that have been denied them. This sort of thing, I hate to say, I have seen in all of the restaurants I've worked in. Sometimes there are questions of the legal status of the employees involved. In other cases, the mostly Latino workers are legal citizens of the United States who are still denied front-end positions because of their skin-tone and accents. It's a shame. Nothing irks me more than seeing a system of social promotion not based on merit but on social standing. Sometimes the discrimination is based not on race but on age, gender, or even education. I don't understand why someone with a college degree should automatically be promoted above and earn more than someone with a high-school degree who shows more aptitude and dedication in the same profession? Then again, maybe that is the definition of the American Dream: Anybody, no matter how incompetent or unqualified, can get promoted based solely on belonging to the wealthy, all-white, boys club. All the way to the office of the President of the United States.
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Tuesday, December 05, 2006
A Day In The Life
Recently, a fellow-waitress (oxymoron?) was telling me about some drunkenly realized theory of a completely new and revolutionary world order that involved people who were like-minded moving into tribal communities established in the types of environments they would like-mindedly prefer. The idea being we would all relocate to areas that consisted solely of people with whom we got along.
Strangely, she used New York (like-minded?) as an example. According to her, people who move to New York enjoy seizing life moment-by-moment, grabbing at as many experiences as possible. Four equal seasons changing from one to the other complements this. There are only so many summer days to revel half-naked, so many autumn days to take walks in the park, so many winter days to do all your holiday shopping, etc.
I have difficulty imagining everyone who has moved to New York as fitting this description. Maybe she's partially correct about people who move to New York and end up working in the restaurants. Thus, we were having this conversation comprised of imaginative logic through our tired eyes. All I know is that I love my days off in this town. In a single evening you can go from a Bikram Yoga class, to a poetry reading at a 3-story bar styled after Post-War USSR, to a smoky late-night after-hours poker game. There are libraries, musuems, parks, stores, bridges, rivers, beaches, theaters, venues, gigs, public rallies, private alleys, galleries, restaurants, bars, sections, neighborhoods, boroughs, and beyond.
Another friend who didn't want to see me do any longer-than-vacation travelling said, My father was right--this is the best city to live in. All I know is, I love a day off in New York City.
I can't wait for tomorrow.
Strangely, she used New York (like-minded?) as an example. According to her, people who move to New York enjoy seizing life moment-by-moment, grabbing at as many experiences as possible. Four equal seasons changing from one to the other complements this. There are only so many summer days to revel half-naked, so many autumn days to take walks in the park, so many winter days to do all your holiday shopping, etc.
I have difficulty imagining everyone who has moved to New York as fitting this description. Maybe she's partially correct about people who move to New York and end up working in the restaurants. Thus, we were having this conversation comprised of imaginative logic through our tired eyes. All I know is that I love my days off in this town. In a single evening you can go from a Bikram Yoga class, to a poetry reading at a 3-story bar styled after Post-War USSR, to a smoky late-night after-hours poker game. There are libraries, musuems, parks, stores, bridges, rivers, beaches, theaters, venues, gigs, public rallies, private alleys, galleries, restaurants, bars, sections, neighborhoods, boroughs, and beyond.
Another friend who didn't want to see me do any longer-than-vacation travelling said, My father was right--this is the best city to live in. All I know is, I love a day off in New York City.
I can't wait for tomorrow.