Guest Cartoon: Food Pantry Blues (Take I)

<Courtesy Of...The Highwayman>

Right, then...every once in awhile, something comes over the transom that simply defies description, let alone logic. Such is the case with the above cartoon, which came from a gent who simply calls himself..."The Highwayman." However, given the topic of our last post, I felt obliged to post it....the caption says it all, doesn't it? 

As for The Highwayman, this is what he's got to say for himself, make of it what you like: "Raising hell from the wilds of Glasgow, to the brick barricades of Berlin, and beyond, the Highwayman started life as a lapsed Lutheran...before migrating to post, post-punk, and post-dreams of 'good job, 2.5 kids, the picket fence 'n' the dog, all wrapped up in a nice little barbed wire bow'..nah, I'm well past all that now.

"For my manifesto, such as it is, let this verbiage suffice: 'Join the crusade against the crusade. Support your local loony now. He will never accept any honours from the barbrians. He will never pay any poll tox. He will never appear on 'Shop Of The Pops, 'This weak in parliament,' 'Naybores,' 'family misfortunes,' or the 'South Bwank Show.' He may only be your chance. He will always be - - - ON THE BUS."

Guess what, though? I recognize that passage from the liner notes of Ray Harper's 1988 album, Loony On The Bus, which happens to be in my collection. However, he'd recorded most of the contents in 1977, as Commercial Breaks. However, disputes between Harper and EMI -- over content, funding, running order, all the usual stuff -- scuppered its release, leaving the tracks to gather dust until Loony appeared, followed by the 1994 CD reissue of Commercial Breaks itself. (This ensured a lot of overlap between the Commercial Breaks and Loony CDs, though I suspect dedicated Harper-ites won't mind too much.) 

So, all that aside...keep those images, coming, Highwayman, and if they catch our fancy, we'll post 'em. After all...too many of us have spent more than our share of time "ON THE BUS." In one way or another. --The Reckoner

An Open Letter: Dear Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry Operator...

Dear Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry Operator:

I'm writing this letter to discuss some trends that I've noticed lately, as I line up for the latest prepackaged box, bag or basket I'm counting on to fill up the (ever-increasing) cracks in my food budget.

Don't take whatever I say personally, or as a slight on the church or community group that you represent. Many of you who volunteer at such places are committed to helping out their needy neighbors, when it'd be a lot easier to stay home, or volunteer for a different cause. I've talked with enough of you firsthand to know.

However, like any good citizen I want to raise some issues that I'd to like see corrected. There are always better ways of doing things. Some are more practical than others: that goes without saying. But any organization -- be it a food pantry, football team, or first-class airline -- can learn from what its customers on the ground say. So please take my comments in that spirit, no more, no less:

1. Avoid stacking the deck with carbohydrates and sugar-heavy items. Lately, I've been seeing a preponderance of both categories, to the detriment of others -- like fruits and vegetables. Yes, I know, food's expensive -- that's why I line up for these boxes.

However, filling your shelves with the cheapest, nastiest stuff on sale -- lately, I've seen everything from Pop Tarts, to Oreo cookies, Ramen noodles, and the statutory boxes of macaroni and cheese that, apparently, are included by decree in every pantry kitchen -- isn't nutritionally satisfying.

Believe it or not, not every poor person automatically wants to eat Ramen noodles or Oreo cookies. Some of us care what we put in our colons, stereotypes be damned, and it would be nice to see you recognize this situation.

2. Consider allergies and diet issues.  Yes, I know: you can't cater to every imaginable taste on the planet. I get that. But it's worth remembering that some people have allergies or conditions that make some of your selections questionable, at best.

For example, my partner, The Squawker, has major allergies to fish and potatoes -- so what am I seeing lately? Enough cans of tuna to start a fish ladder, and box upon box of cut-price mashed potatoes to line the walls....which, as we say in England, is "f#ck all useless," and ends up a) tossed out, or b) given to someone who can eat them.

What's more, Squawker also happens to be a type II diabetic, which further narrows our options -- and why point #1 is so important. Controlling blood sugar, which is so vital to a diabetic's healthy existence, is less likely to happen regularly if half your basket includes a preponderance of food items that will jack it up. Just a thought.

3. Do a better quality control job. Be brutally honest about each donated item that comes in: "Would I really eat this myself, if I had no other choice?" The answer might surprise you. Case in point: last month, I reluctantly accepted a bag of potatoes, on the theory that I could either a) make French Fries out of them, instead of buying them, or b) recreate my dad's famed potato pancake recipes.

Guess what? I ended up pitching the bag, because its potatoes were in an advanced state of decay, according to Squawker's oh-so-keen foodie eyes. Poor people feel crappy and miserable enough without being stuck with the additional task of weeding out food items that will never grace anybody else's refrigerator, nor kitchen table.

4. Ensure, as best as you can, that whatever items you've chosen help recipients plan complete meals. This point seems obvious, but you'd be surprised how many food banks and/or pantries that I've visited miss it. How can you tell? The closer you get to the four basic food groups -- bread and cereal, meats, milk, vegetables -- the more likely that you've got the big picture right. In other words, I shouldn't feel that you threw a dart at the grocery shelves, crossed your fingers, and hoped for the best.

5. Give recipients a decent, comfortable area to line up or wait for their items. One local church pantry that I visit semi-regularly stands out as a beacon of what not to do in this department. Their system requires you to sign up at 1 p.m., and line up for the food truck's arrival at 4 p.m.

This activity doesn't occur at the church itself, but its activities center on (you guessed it) Main Street. However, nobody is allowed inside the building for the 1 p.m. signup, which forces recipients to stand outside, no matter how poor the weather. I should know, having waited in 85-plus-degree heat during the summer, and single-digit chills during winter -- while the center's octagonal main room, famously designed by Frank LLoyd Wright, often sits unused and empty.

Again, poor people feel stigmatized and harshly judged as it is, without being forced to tolerate conditions that would sorely test the patience of a saint. Enough said on that one.

6. Strive to include harder to come by foods, like meats, in your baskets and boxes. For a long time, the above-mentioned church pantry provided my sole yardstick in terms of what to expect -- and I've only seen meats passed out there on occasion. Until I began visiting a local food co-op -- and a food pantry run by another, smaller local church -- I had no idea that any different options existed.

Yes, I know, meat is expensive, and not getting any cheaper -- all the more reason, in my humble opinion, to start showing a little creativity to fund it. For example, could you look at sharing costs with another church, or nonprofit agency? Could you plan a benefit gig to offset your expenses? Does your agency run a gofoundme page, where people can just donate directly? Considering how Donald Trump's regime is likely to act towards those on the bottom, a little creativity will surely go an incredibly long way.

7. Tame overzealous volunteers. As I've mentioned earlier, many of you who man the food bank/pantry distribution lines go above or beyond the call of duty -- sometimes, to your everlasting detriment. One example comes to mind from the church pantry cited in #5, which only allows six people at a time to enter its activity center's main room, where the 1 p.m. signup takes place.

Last summer, though, I ran afoul of the volunteer guarding the double dears on the center's street-ward side. Sometimes, he ushered in six people at once, but other times, an extra person or two somehow slipped past his gaze. Not me, though, however much I believed (after a half hour-plus wait) that my turn had finally arrived. When I tried to enter the main room, this guy literally jammed an elbow in front of my stomach to block my way -- and then slammed the door right in my face. Ouch!

While it's easy to blame such incidents on lack of preparation, or the stress that comes from dealing with a large crowd, it's also a cop-out -- because I haven't seen volunteers act this way at the other pantries I visit. Like it or not, perception is everything in today's society, and what does slamming the door in somebody's face naturally connote? "F#ck you, buddy, you're not wanted, really. Beat it."

Spend time training volunteers in the fine art of common courtesy, since they'll probably deal with all walks of life in the food pantry line. Food insecurity plays no favorites: I've met people with college degrees, high school dropouts, and ex-professionals who found the rung yanked out from under them when their high-flying job suddenly disappeared. Believe me, I've seen it all.

Above all else, treat clients like you'd want to be treated, with dignity, grace, and respect -- and I guarantee that most, if not all, the concerns I've outlined above will take care of themselves. Too often in America, the prevailing attitude towards the poor is: "Take what you're given, no matter what." Sadly, this same attitude often invites food bank and pantry operators to cut corners, and skimp on civility, or service, to their everlasting detriment.

Again, don't take these comments personally. I'm just tired of seeing the same stumbling blocks rearing their pointed little heads, again and again. Unlike our political leadership. I happen to believe that we can -- and must -- do better, starting with the proposition that we don't have to keep rehashing the mistakes of the past, such as continuing treat people like statistics.

Those hungry faces shuffling through the door, myself included, expect -- and deserve --- nothing less.

Regards,
The Reckoner


Links To Go (Hurry, Before
Your Food Card Gets Cut Yet Again):

Feeding America:
Hunger America (Poverty Facts And Statistics):
http://www.feedingamerica.org/hunger-in-america/impact-of-hunger/hunger-and-poverty/hunger-and-poverty-fact-sheet.html?referrer=https://www.google.com/

Snap, Crackle, Pop, There Goes Your Food Budget (Again)

Supposing, too much to assume

Saying nothing but speaking volumes

Silence broken with shattering sounds

Books for no one, where are they bound

I can see the blind who are leading the blind

Always somewhere somebody's leaving behind

Tiny traces, evidence for us to find

Just a moment only an outline

No substance, no shred of belief

Sweeping seconds and the smoke from burning leaves

Suddenly they're carried away

Written on, written off and tossed away

I can hear the words that are spoken to me

From a void of invisibility

What they say is all they are trying to mean

What is left is all that remains to be seen

--Grant Hart ("Remains To Be Seen")

<i.>

Last week, I caught a show on PBS that I hadn't seen before: "Art In The Twentieth Century." This episode focused on four artists from Mexico, a country we mainly hear about lately in two big negative contexts....either for a) illegal aliens, or b) cartels cutting peoples' heads off. But these images didn't flicker across my screen. The creativity on display really struck me, as did the social energy surrounding the featured artists' work. People talked to them freely and stopped to check out whatever they were doing, if the act of creation was happening publicly.

One segment showed Pedro Reyes biking around the neighborhood, trying to drum up interest in his hamburgers -- only these came with crickets, not meat, on a bun. The artist's name escapes me right now, but he said that the idea was to challenge our reliance on meat for protein: hence, insects as a substitute. (As for yours truly, this particular Jughead will pass on that offer Rest assured, Pedro, it's nothing personal.) Still, he had no trouble getting people to check out his wares, and buy a burger or two, as well. Ha! I'd love to see one those uptight rich boors here start tucking into one....and see their faces crease in horror, once the realization dawns on them: oh, my God, that crunching sound, it ain't bacon, it's....it's....it's....crickets!

Minerva Cuevas's segment also caught my attention. She enjoys re-purposing corporate ads and logos with a sinister political twist, such as a Del Monte can -- hence, underneath those familiar green leaves, you'll see a slogan like "PURE MURDER," referring to the havoc that she blames them for wreaking on Guatemalan peasants, for example. That work was among the many featured in a recent exhibit, "FEAST/FAMINE", whose title takes aim at unfettered capitalism (a feast for the few, leaving everyone else with....you get the idea). To complete the effect, the middle of the gallery featured a bucket of chocolate rigged to drop on the floor every 3.6 seconds (to remind visitors that's when one person around the world is dying from starvation). 

I enjoyed it....if that's the right word....but she said something else that struck me. According to Cuevas, much of her art is dedicated to exposing what she sees as the "institutionalized violence" that bureaucracies perpetuate against every day men and women.

<ii.>

I'll second that observation. After six months of  stability, our food allowance has -- once again -- been cut to the bare bone, from $108 to a whopping $16 per month. What made this particular instance all the more aggravating is that one of my longtime writing outlets closed up shop last month....which means I either made the same (or less) money than usual.  So I duly called up my caseworker and asked her to explain this apparent disconnect to me.

"Well," she responded, "let's go over your budget..."  With that prompt, she launched into an extended explanation (:"Well, we take a percentage of this, subtract it from that," and so on). Our state, it seems, had once again cut the maximum allowable deductions for housing from $533 to $400-and-something-or-other. Then it dawns on me: all this "Chinee arithmetric," as jazz musicians used to call it, is designed to keep you from much of anything. Or anything at all, once the brass tacks are counted.

That's the game, plain and simple. Nothing to do with any of those nagging "isms" that those CNN talking heads yammer about constantly. There's a bigger truth at work here. Whether it's the overall division of wages in our society, or situations like this one, the plain fact is -- they don't want you to have it (FILL IN: extra food, money, or resource of choice). Period.

I don't fault my caseworker. She's only a cog in a mindless juggernaut, one that she has no say in running. She seems decent enough, and I actually get her on the first call, which is a pleasant departure from her predecessors. But I can't get away from one cold, hard fact. The collateral damage that this mindless juggernaut wreaks has torn a gaping hole in an already tattered budget that much wider. The proof is in the pudding, as they say, and I can smell it burning in my kitchen cupboard. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,Get Your Cricket Burgers Before Sundown):
Minerva Cuevas Website:
http://www.irational.org/minerva/resume.html

New York Post: http://nypost.com/2013/12/05/cricket-burgers-a-surprise-hit-in-nyc/

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Five): A Tale Of Two Dinners

<A Slightly Different Take On Thanksgiving...>
http://www.oilfreefun.com/2012/11/anti-thanksgiving-memes-2012-raising.html

As the above image suggests, not everybody waves their arms in the air and salutes when Turkey Day comes calling. Those who know their history understand the darker reality that's often masked, sidestepped or whitewashed by all those benign depictions of that first Euro-Native American feast...so there's no need to rehash it here.

Suffice to say, the red man soon came down with some serious regrets after the white man crossed his path, as the Gang Of Four summed it up -- so famously, and so eloquently -- on the key graphic that highlights their classic first album, Entertainment (1979): "The Indian smiles, he thinks that the cowboy is his friend. The cowboy smiles, he is glad that the Indian is fooled. Now he can exploit him."

No less distressing, of course, is the orgy of materialism that's become tied up in America's mass gobbling of the turkey...including Black Friday, the by-now obligatory commercialistic blowout that we've (briefly) chronicled on this blog. Squawker and I get a constant, nagging reminder when my brother-in-law calls to brag about whatever he's just purchased with his (presumably) overtaxed, overextended pieces of plastic....he's the only chap I know who actually buys new monitors for his fleet of computers. But I digress.

<i.>

Thanksgiving can feel equally hollow when your cupboard is nearly empty. That's how Squawker and myself wound up at one of our little town's trendier "happening" churches on Tuesday night. lining up for its second-ever free Thanksgiving dinner...you know the drill by now: all comers welcome...everybody's entitled to one fairly hearty plate of turkey (with all the trimmings)...no need to get up, necessarily, because an army of volunteers is ready to serve you...and, by the way, you may want to check out those services some time (just sayin').

Last year's gathering, as the minister noted during his opening comments, drew around 100 people; tonight's affair, on the other hand, verged closer to 300, which required the church to add a heated tent on the left-hand side to accommodate all the extra traffic. Thankfully, Squawker and myself arrived early enough to avoid that particular option. We ended up at the main table near the entrance, sitting practically elbow-to-elbow with our fellow diners in an extreme case of Sensory Overload Theater (as Squawker suggested).

Needless to say, intimacy is hard to come by in such a massive setting, though the minister and his assistant (I presume) did their best to inject the personal touch...but it didn't really work. How could it? At one point, the minister said, "Turn around to the person who's sitting next to you, and say, 'I'm thankful for you.'" The gestured dutifully completed, all concerned turned around to resume chatting with the people they already knew, or those who'd turned up with them...including Squawker and myself, hand on heart.

The phenomenon repeated itself when two women began playing and singing on electric piano and acoustic guitar, respectively. Now, I enjoy live music and events as much as the next person...but not every occasion needs to be truned into a quasi-concert, because such intrusions (real or perceived) tend to make the punters cranky. The women tried their best, but the crowd kept on talking to itself unabated.

We decided not to stick around for the dessert.

<ii.>

On Thanksgiving Day, we drove 10-15 miles in the opposite direction, ready to partake in yet another "come one, come all" community dinner that we needed to stretch what little remained of our food budget. As I've reported here already, things have gotten tighter and tougher since the local welfare authorities whacked our food allowance from the upper $200 range to the princely sum of $16 per month. Put another way, we've had our creativity tested like never before as the end of the month approaches.

This time, however, we found ourselves in the middle of the country...far from the stiff upper lip stodginess, the stolid rigidity, the stultifying snobbishness and stubborn allegiance to old social codes that has left Squawker and myself seeking (if I may quote the Cramps) "some new kind of kick." This particular dinner marked the first of its kind for this local restaurant and winery...we'd only learned about it a week and a half ago on Facebook.

Unlike Tuesday's megachurch-style affair, however, the vibe here felt a whole lot more relaxed. Instead of waiting (and waiting, and waiting a bit longer still) for the same plate that everybody else got, the venue had set out a buffet....where you got in line, and could take what you wanted, as much as you wanted. All comers were welcome, but had to call ahead and RSVP, so the venue would know how many people it planned on serving. Makes sense, doesn't it?

About halfway through the proceedings, one of our mates...whom we'd met at the local disability book club group...turned up, to our surprise, and delight, which jump-started a suitably entertaining conversation about the experiences we'd shared since we last met. At various points, a little girl (one of the owners' or staff's daughters, I reckon) asked if we needed anything, or came to take whatever plates we'd just finished. The whole thing had a down home vibe that both Squawker and I have sorely missed...and, to be honest, rarely experience in our own hometown.

I got up to contemplate the possibility of seconds, but...for safety's sake...decided to pop the question first: "Can we go up again? Is that okay?"

The manager looked at me as though I were kidding: "Of course! It's Thanksgiving, man! If you can't do it here...." He flashed one of those shucks, why are you even asking? sorts of smiles. "When can you do it?"

"Agreed," I said. "Great to hear, thanks!"

Both Squawker and I are used to more controlled settings and situations...where the ringmasters pick and choose what you can bring home. and you don't get a vote in the matter (unless you're obviously allergic to something or other). I'm glad that didn't happen here.

To top it all off...due to a lower than anticipated turnout...the management sent us home with takeout boxes...with white meat, stuffing, rolls, corn, and chocolate cheesecake....which helped answer today's question: "What's for lunch? We're not sure how to fill in those blanks yet."

But, honestly, it felt good to experience this kind of a gathering. People actually talked to us, and treated us like human beings...instead of robotic automatons fit solely for the purpose of scrambling up the social ladder.

In short, this occasion definitely combined "thanks" and "giving," with all the positivity that implies. Now, if Squawker and I get to experience that vibe in our hometown, and not just on a one-shot basis...we'll definitely be happier campers. Time will tell. I'll keep you posted. --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Four): This Time We Didn't Wait In Line...

(https://lochgarry.wordpress.com/2011/03/29/hunger-in-america-or-to-be-pc-food-insecurity/)

If you ever make it to Britain, you may hear somebody pooh-pooh or dismiss an idea by exclaiming, "F#ck this for a game of soldiers!" (More polite souls may opt for: "Sod this for a game of soldiers!") In a nation adept at coining colorful phrases, this one probably ranks near the top...but what does it mean, exactly? 

I'll let our friends at the Urban Dictionary provide the honor of an explanation:

<Historically soldiers were notorious for becoming engaged in silly and most times (e.g. the game of the "bisquit") non-sense games to kill the time, practice that over time gave them a poorly credible connotation and stereotype. Hence this old fashioned colloquialism (the original version was Sod this for a game of soldiers) compares the foolishness of a certain action/thing with that of "a game of soldiers".>

That phrase practically rolled off my lips this week, when the Squawker and I decided to pay our Friendly Neighborhood Mobile Food Truck a visit. As usual, I was waiting for somebody-or-other for my latest scrap of contract editorial labor...soooo....in light of that issue...we decided it might be wise to augment our latest dwindling nutritional stockpile.

The truck happens to be the project of a local Lutheran church that also provides a free monthly community dinner to all comers. You just basically sign your name, address and household size, and that's it...you're good to go. It's a pretty straightforward affair, unlike other gatherings of this type that we have attended. I've interviewed the woman who runs these programs, and she seems passionate about what she does. The staff and volunteers are also generally kind and responsive.

So, on this particular Thursday afternoon, I'm not sure what happened...because when Squawker and I pulled near the parking lot, we saw a line that snaked all the way from the church's HQ (which occupies a separate building across the street from the chapel itself), to the edge of the road, and further down the sidewalk. 

We did a quick headcount -- there must have been 100-plus people standing there at 1:30 p.m., waiting for the doors to finally yawn open, so they could sign up, and receive a paper ticket to claim their place in line for the truck. it goes without saying that you want to show up as early as possible, since the people with the lowest numbers (generally, from 0-50) get the best stuff first. If you've got a higher number...you get what's left, but the result isn't pretty.

The Squawker and I glanced at each other uneasily. 

Thursday's temperature allegedly stood at around 30 degrees...but the windchill felt much, much colder. And there was a good chilly breeze knocking about, as well.

"I'm not sure if I can stand here this long..."

I surveyed the line more intently. "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" I wondered. Just how long have these folks been standing out here, anyway? Looks like it's been awhile...

"Yeah, maybe we should go home," Squawker agreed. "Our number will probably be somewhere in the lower 100s...and the good stuff'll be gone by the time they finally get to us."

"You'd think, though, that they wouldn't force people to stand outside for so long, on such a rotten weather day..." I sighed. This is getting complicated, I told myself. I've got conference calls to transcribe in a couple hours...but if we stay here that long, we'll both turn to icicles.

However, when you lack resources, such ritualized waiting games are par for the course. You can hear the unspoken dialogue bouncing around in your head, and the blanks you fill don't feel terribly comforting: Why are you standing here doing this? Because we can make you, that's why...even if we say "ask you," which sounds so much better on the record. The unspoken punchline isn't far from your mind, either: why do you stand here, freezing with your hands crammed in your pockets? Because you must. Otherwise, you don't get the help. Take what we give you, simple as that. 

"Yeah, it's bullshit...what do you wanna do?" Squawker asked.

And that's when the magic phrase spilled out of my lips: 

"Sod...This...
For...
A Game...Of Soldiers!"

<cut 'n' paste for future reference...>

And then, under my breath, I said: "Tell you what...let's spend twenty of thirty bucks on food to get through the weekend. I've got better things to do today, and so do you."

On that note, we left. 

But I'll see what happened, because -- unlike a lot of other churches that Squawker and I have patronized -- you don't get the usual snotty vibe that makes you feel like something that crawled off a bent coat rack ("Oh, you poor thing, it's you again? Let's show our community how wonderful we are for helping you to macaroni 'n' cheese and never-ending cans of tuna...ah, no need to thank us, dear. Pshaw, pshaw, it was nothing, really.")

If I get a straight answer, I'll let you know. I hesitate to pass judgment on people whom I know fairly well -- maybe it comes down to some overly officious volunteer who hadn't seen the weather forecast (ergo, keep the door locked until somebody says otherwise).

But there's an easy way to remedy the situation...if you're not ready to take people's info, that's fine. However, at least find another entrance door that you can open in the building, and give people a chance to get warm (however briefly). That's called Common Sense 101, which can go out the window on these occasions.

Then again, it could be worse...at least I had $30-odd to drop on food this weekend. We'll see what Monday brings. --The Reckoner

Snap. Crackle, Pop...There Goes Your Food Budget

Once again, this Evil Science Experiment called "Life" rears its ugly head. Our food stamp allowance has been cut by two-thirds, from roughly $357 to $80, due to a household expense deduction that was erroneously given...whoops, we made a mistake, now it's you who's gotta pay! Heads, you lose, tails you lose.

Of course, considering the opaque language that often characterizes these notices, it's hard to decipher the rationale, so -- like any good citizen -- you contact the agency, and hope that someone can explain it in English. So I guess I should reserve judgment until I hear it. That's the rational response, right?

The other side is a lot tougher to negotiate, obviously, because it means scrambling to fill the gap. On one hand, it's not the end of the world yet, since I can pick up an extra gig or two to paper over the cracks. On the other hand, though...it's hardly a welcome development, since Squawker and I experienced a couple years -- relatively speaking -- of stability on that front.

For awhile, we could (wonder of wonders) actually plan out a good portion of the month. As any nutritionist knows, you'll eat healthier if you're not always fending off hunger, since you can get the appropriate ingredients, and work out meals around them. That's less likely to happen, however, if slim resources get pushed -- then snapped -- past the breaking point.

I only have to look at our grocery store for further reference: I can count the number of sales on the "better/premium" lunch meat, versus the high-fat, high-salt, high-risk-of-clogged-artery varieties...on which you always see deals, rain or shine. What's my conclusion? Only yuppie careerists, apparently, are entitled to good nutrition. Sound extreme?  Now you know what kind of day I've had.

What's especially galling about this particular shoe drop, of course, is that it comes with little or no warning. The same thing happened last fall, when our apartment complex's management suddenly informed us that we were going to pay a monthly water, sewer and trash bill. At this writing, that means seeing roughly $240 fly out the window every year that we could certainly better spend at the dinner table.

Such arrangements are part and parcel of the way America operates, however. As the above examples illustrate, the relationship is an Occupier-Occupant one. As the Occupant, you're summoned for whatever nonsense that the Occupier -- be it your boss, caseworker, landlord, or political hack -- can't wait to cram down your throat.

Naturally, you have no voice in the matter, although the decision will cause varying degrees of chaos and disruption. Your interests be damned: The Occupier's needs always come first, and that's that. No further discussion required. I got the same vibe this week in reading Days Of Rage, a fascinating look at America's largely forgotten history of violent '60s, '70s and '80s-era radicalism. 

I don't want to write a review -- that's better left for another post -- but you can draw striking parallels between today's society and the early '70s turf that much of this book inhabits. Then and now, you had a stagnant economy; a growing underclass cast permanently adrift (don't forget that Orwellian term, "benign neglect," coined during this era); electronic snooping that went unacknowledged, until a public outcry forced the issue; and an arrogant, unresponsive government that worked hard to stifle dissent wherever it could.

On a surface level, at least, it looks (and smells) like "deja vu all over again," though I won't have a lot of time to ponder the implications, personally...after all, I've got a crack to paper over. So it goes: wash, rinse, repeat. --The Reckoner

Your Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry (Nutrition Through Attrition)

(I haven't seen a food bank or pantry yet that doesn't have this 

particular item...presumably, the low price point
has something to do with that phenomenon.)

<Diminishing Returns, Take I>

The end of January rolled around.
Our bank account ran dry as our food stocks began running like sands through the proverbial hourglass. Our refrigerator hadn't looked this bare in this long.  The odd stream of income continued to trickle in, but the returns were no match for the bills constantly barreling into our mailbox.

My turn in the eBay corral hadn't met expectations, either. Last week, I sold three CDs for $38, but coughed up $5.35 in fees -- hey, no wonder people are jumping ship to Craigslist, right?

The Squawker's blinks telegraphed the anxiety long before the inevitable question arrived: "We don't have a lot left this weekend...should we hit the food bank?  I found one that's open from ten to noon on Saturday."

"Well, usually, these things turn sour, because..."  Now it was my turn to exhale.  "It's mostly cheese, tuna, and junk food...and there's usually never any meat at these things."

"Actually, this church is one of the better food banks around here..."

"What the hell," I shrugged.  "I don't mind being wrong if it helps the cause...get me up when it's time."

(The stuff of nightmares...when your pockets and your stomach are empty...)

<Diminishing Returns, Take II>

The initial signs looked promising (at first).

We didn't have to stand in line; we could walk right in. We didn't have to fill out a lot of paperwork, listen to a sermon, or keep our best poker face while somebody picked out a bunch of dented canned goods and called it even.  We just could pick up a brown grocery bag full of whatever they'd set aside, and go home.

The people running the food bank seemed nice enough. In all fairness, though, the situation didn't leave a lot of room for extensive conversation.

The Squawker and I headed back out to the car. As I heaved the bag into the hatchback, my heart sank. Two boxes of macaroni and cheese? Check.  One can of tuna? Check. One giant box of Fruit Loops? Double-check.

Unfortunately, Squaker's fish and potato allergies -- and Type 2 diabetes -- make such items a no-go zone, although the remaining ones that I could make out (a few cans of corn and green beans there, an Ekrich franks there) redeemed the situation somewhat.

"Want me to swap the cereal?" I asked.

The Squawker nodded. "Yeah, why don't you?  I can't eat that stuff..."

I tucked the Fruit Loops box under my arm, and dashed back inside.  I gestured at the large, bright orange cornflake boxes that occupied every other bag, or so. Apparently, the luck of the draw had worked against us there. 

"Hey, I live with a diabetic, so would you mind if I could swap this box for..."

I walked back outside with the cornflakes. Nobody made an issue of the request. Like I said, the people seemed nice enough...but how do the contents of those grocery bags get picked out?

Does somebody flip a coin, check the I Ching, or throw a dart?

And does somebody eat this stuff at home regularly?  I won't ponder that issue for too long, either. Call it the New American Way: Nutrition Through Attrition.  (What, you expect meat at these affairs?  Look how much weight you'll lose...the pressures of life are funny like that.)

(Believe it or not, we got this, too...stale panini loaf, anyone?)

(We've got a winner here...note the non-GMO, non-artificial content
labeling: about the only entry in this particular grocery bag that qualified
with this particular designation)

<Diminishing Returns, Take III>

We put away our grocery stuff and headed to a different church community dinner at noon.

We got pasta with ham slices plus a side of corn, a roll, a salad and a small chocolate cupcake...so on this occasion, at least, you had the four basic food groups represented.

You could also take home seconds in a styrofoam box, but had to wait until one o'clock for them (house rules, and so on).

We used fifteen of our last twenty bucks to get through the weekend. By Tuesday, we'd run through what little remained from our last grocery trip. I threw up my hands and made a couple phone calls.

The first went to an editor of mine for an advance on future earnings; the second went to a longtime friend for a small loan...call it insurance, I guess, to make it through the week.

Next month will come around, I'll get paid for a few more projects. Hopefully, the returns get better...I won't need to work off anymore loans for awhile...and I won't have to practice nutrition through attrition so soon. Time will tell, I suppose. --The Reckoner

Merry Anti-Christmas, Everyone (Or Is That Merry Crassmas?)

Fittingly, this entry will hit the virtual presses as soon as the holiday has almost wound down -- wouldn't be an anti-Christmas if it ran on time, right?  Well, our West Coast and Australian/New Zealand readers still have few hours of celebration left, I imagine...like its namesake holiday, one suspects that an anti-Christmas is in the eye of the beholder, which suits The Squawker and myself perfectly.

Today's lead image from Crass's infamous Merry Crassmas EP (1981) sums up our long-running ambivalence about the whole Yule business. As releases go, it's surely among the strangest ever put on vinyl. Each side featured a medley of Crass favorites, played instrumentally on a rinky-dink-sounding organ, after which Santa himself re-entered the proceedings to wish us some holiday cheer -- but not the sort that turkey lovers might have expected!

If you figured out all the relevant song titles, you could win a) bath salts, b) one Exploited single or c) two Exploited singles from the band (if memory serves me correctly). Amazingly, the whole business proved enticing enough to earn a #2 UK indie chart placing at the time.

On one hand, you're constantly reminded to feel cheery and merry, even if those sentiments aren't reflected in your take-home pay, work schedule or personal situation.  If you're among the 7.7 million Americans forced by circumstances to work part-time -- according the latest figures released on December 6, by the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics (BLS) -- you might not be blamed for feeling a bit less merry than your brethren.

The airwaves get equally cloying, as the FM arteries clog with the same perennial 45 rpm showcases spun into the ground for the umpteenth time -- "Happy Xmas (War Is Over)," anyone? -- and the boob tube offers the same lack of respite. The Squawker and myself opted for the Sundance Channel's Mel Brooks marathon. As I write this entry, I'm watching "The Producers," and feeling thankful for the option.

Honestly, who wants to eyeball "A Christmas Story," "A Christmas Carol" (in all its infinite guises) or "It's A Wonderful Life" for the millionth-bloody-umpteenth holiday cycle? As good as all those films are, they've run so often that you feel like you're counting sheep...thus, robbing the stories of their emotional impact.

And that's before we get the adverts -- if I have to see those bland yuppie drones blathering one more time about how the Trojan Vibrating Twister has inspired them to bonk like rabbits when they're home from work ("We...kick off our shoes...and go straight to bed...y'know. Same thing."), I think I'm going to reach for my hatchet...or my sick bag...or my gas mask...or some combination of the above.

Even the mundane side of the Yuletide tradition is no less perplexing and confusing. Last night, I had to rush around -- like all the other faces in the crowd -- to grab some last-minute items for the hearth (specifically, our turkey dinner). At 7:40 p.m.-ish (or so), I dashed through the entrance of the last store in town still greedy enough to stay open on Christmas Eve. It was the third one I'd visited.

As the greeter helpfully reminded me, "We're closing in 15 minutes," I slipped and fell on my left knee. I scraped myself off the floor, grabbed a cart and joined the same undignified scramble as my fellow shoppers, amid announcements that broke my concentration every five minutes to tell us exactly when the store was shutting down ("At this time, shoppers, I need you to make your way to the registers...they're going down at eight o'clock...and if you're late...you won't be able to complete your shopping").


Against all odds, I managed to find myself in a never-ending line by 7:55 p.m. -- no mean feat, since the physical layout of most American groceries puts them on a par with walking across the U.S.S. Saratoga, or an equally imposing aircraft carrier -- and took a moment to glance around, trying to read the glances around me, wondering if they felt reminded of family members that they didn't want to see, the office parties they were trying to forget, the accumulated mountain of debt they'd be staring down in the new year.

I wondered if the BLS still considered these folks unemployed, or bumped them down into the categories of discouraged worker (762,000), or marginally attached to the labor force (2.1 million -- who don't figure in the jobless count, because they hadn't looked for work in the four week run-up to the latest survey). Perhaps you're among the roughly 1.3 million Americans losing extended jobless benefits this month, because the political classes want you to party like it's 1893...the only problem is, it's 2013, although I often have a hard time convincing myself of that fact.

Oh, wait a minute -- you don't fancy yourself a vegetarian? Well, if you're among the 2.8 million who'll be booted out of the SNAP (Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program) next year, you'll get a chance to emulate the meatless anarchistic lifestyle a bit sooner than you think. Or maybe you're among the 140,000 estimated low-income families losing rental assistance vouchers -- a move that Congress's accounting masterminds anticipate will save $2 billion (the same ones, presumably, who low-balled the Iraqi and Afghan conflicts, right?) .

Are you a low-income senior? Don't worry, you haven't been left out of the budget meat cleaver that's whistling everybody's way. Meals on Wheels program cuts will mean roughly four to 18 million less meals for shiftless scroungers like yourself next year, of what seems likely to signal a new round of federal bloodletting. Given all those challenges that many of us face next year, it's tempting to see why "Bah, humbug!" might be a more sane and rational political response than the perennial Pollyanas might have you believe.

In that spirit, visit the link to Merry Crassmas below, find a can of Foster's lager (or two), and crank it up accordingly...oh, and while we're at it...have an anti-Christmas, and an anti-New Year. Or a merry Crassmas, perhaps. Really, it's on us... --The Reckoner

Merry Crassmas EP On Soundclound:
https://soundcloud.com/southern/merry-crassmas

U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics:
Employment Report For November 2013:
http://www.bls.gov/news.release/pdf/empsit.pdf

The Week
How To Stick It The Poor: A Congressional Strategy
http://theweek.com/article/index/253820/how-to-stick-it-to-the-poor-a-congressional-strategy

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Three): The Mobile Food Pantry Line

The end of the month lay a good 10 days ahead. Our proverbial cupboard yawned empty yet again, however, as I regrettably informed The Squawker: "Shall do we it, then?"

"Afraid so," The Squawker sighed.  "We're out of everything, and we won't have anymore money coming in till Monday."

I slid on my warmup jacket and glanced once more inside the refrigerator, whose remaining contents -- a half-empty bottle of mayonnaise here, a barely-full bag of carrots there -- made its yawning emptiness all the more apparent.  "Right, you've got a point...let's go, then, eh?"

Today marked the mobile food pantry's inaugural visit. The project was the brainchild of our local Lutheran church, whose management regime had already been hosting free dinners on Saturdays (see "The Faces Of Hunger [Scenes From A Church Dinner]" for further details).

For The Squawker and I, this noble experiment seemed like a significant upgrade on that particular idea, but we didn't entertain any great expectations.  At last count, the community dinners were drawing 100-150 people, but nothing could have prepared us for the scene that we encountered, once we pulled up.

The line stretched as far the eye cared to roam, for roughly six blocks -- starting at the alley, past the local museum and further ahead into the church parking lot. We'd anticipated a fair crowd, so we made a point of getting there by 3:30 p.m., a full hour before the event itself.

From the looks of things, we'd underestimated the demand. I pulled into a distant corner, and reached to grab our trusty plastic storage tub off the back seat.

I'd have to carry the flag -- or, in this case, the tub -- since the Squawker's breathing difficulties make lengthy walks, or more than a couple minutes of standing still, a problematic proposition.

"How many people do you think are here?" the Squawker asked.

I turned around again, to have a look.  "Hmmm...off the top of my head, I'd say, between 200 and 300.  It's been awhile since I've counted a crowd," I yawned.  "Wish me luck, then..."

I'd hardly taken my place in line, when a couple of older black women noticed the storage tub.  They asked if the house rules specified bringing your own container, because nobody had told them, apparently.

I looked around. Almost everybody seemed to be clutching something, whether it was a plastic grocery bag, cardboard box or shoulder bag.

"You know what? I've got cardboard boxes," I told the women.  "I always use carry a few, when I'm shipping records..."  The anxiety vanished from their faces.  "You can use some of mine."

A thirtyish black man standing next to me perked up.  "You ship records?  I love vinyl, man, I'm an old school guy, myself..."  He also stood empty-handed.

"Nothing wrong with that," I smiled.  "You can have a couple boxes, too."

I went back to the van, as the women followed behind me, and opened the hatchback.  I handed them a couple folded cardboard boxes apiece, and gave a couple more to my fellow vinyl enthusiast, who'd saved my place in line.

"Thanks, man."

"Don't mention it," I said, squinting into the sun.

Young moms with toddlers lined up with middle-aged, middle-class refugees like myself...young men no longer on the make...grandmothers who sported a lifetime of varicose veins on their legs...and older gents in their fifties and sixties, who'd spent their lives toiling away...until the system discarded them, without a blink, or a second thought.

The sight seemed oddly breathtaking. In another life, another time, we could have been stands-ins from a grainy Norman Rockwell painting, united by a common purpose...which, on those occasion, happened to be feeding ourselves. The faces of hunger were back in town.

I signed the paperwork, on behalf of The Squawker and myself, and set the storage tub on the ground. In the middle of the lot stood the mammoth white Spartan Foods van, with its innards opened up on both sides, from which the volunteers unloaded cardboard containers and bags, setting them down on the tables in front of us.

The line inched forward, and within 10 minutes, I collected a hefty bag of potatoes. I hesitated, at first (The Squawker's allergic, but maybe I can make potato pancakes -- yeah, that's it, like Dad used to make), but I threw them into the tub, anyway.

Gradually, the line snaked around the Spartan Food truck cab.  I scooped a couple of club soda bottles into the tub, plus a couple of Diet Pepsi and Sierra Mist 2-liter bottles (God, I hate Sierra Mist, it's not something I'd buy in the store.  Still, beggars can't be...y'know...).

Soon, we made our way to the other side, where a flurry of chicken and ham packages disappeared in front of me.

The difficulties sharpened into focus. They'd run out of meat, knocking a hole in our plans to bridge the gap for the weekend, until our next short-term burst of cash arrived.   Slowly, inevitably, the line began to wind down.

In quick succession, I collected a loaf of sourdough bread (cool, nice to score a Squawker perennial for the kitchen), a cardboard box of yogurt (God, I hate this stuff, I don't care if you two-bit f#ckers in Eastern Europe feast on this stuff, still, beggars can't be...y'know), and..last, but not least...a box of leftover birthday cake (Not sure what we'll do with this, but still...beggars can't be...y'know...).

Other than a fistful of small bananas, I didn't see a fruit -- or vegetable -- in sight.

I pushed the tub across the ground with my foot, ever so slowly, until I made it back to the van.  The Squawker watched closely as I opened the side door, and heaved the whole lot inside.  "Did you get any meat?"

"Afraid not, dear Squawker...they ran out before they got to me."

"Ah, man...we'll come a little earlier next time."

"I suppose."

As we pulled out of the parking lot, I wondered what someone with food allergies might do in this situation...or someone diabetic, like the Squawker, for instance...or, for that matter, anyone requiring a diet that didn't depend on heavily processed food.

I pushed all those thoughts of my mind, in short order.  After all, we hadn't gotten any meat...so we'd have to figure something out for the weekend.

CODA
The next day, I called a friend, and had him to wire a loan, so we could get through the weekend.  We ended up giving him the yogurt on his next social visit. I've paid him back about a quarter of the loan, so far.

We gave the potatoes away to a different friend.  The birthday cake turned out to be stale, and -- since it was taking up a good deal of the upper shelf -- little more than a space waster, so it went in the bin.  This is what happens when the faces of hunger come to town.  --The Reckoner

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Two): Your Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantry & Another Church Dinner

On any given month, the last week becomes something of a scramble for The Squawker and yours truly, The Reckoner.

There's no precious little reason to the proceedings; often, it's simply down to the calendar's infernal rhythms. Stretching resources over a five-week month, versus a four-week one, becomes ever more challenging -- so when you run out, you run out, simple as that.

As the Squawker and myself have seen, food is typically the first resource to go. Last month (July 24), we visited one of our Friendly Neighborhood Food Pantries...I had a freelancing check coming, but it was three or four days off, which feels like a lifetime in this situation.

Mumbling, "Beggars can't be choosers," or some such nostrum, the Squawker and myself tropped off to the pantry...and we could only tell ourselves, "What a difference a year makes!"

Previously, you could count on some type of meat item – be it chicken, or canned somthing-or-other – but, alas, not on this occasion. We were Ninth and Tenth in a line of ten, so by the time we were called, they'd run out of chicken...all the operators could provide in this area were packages of some off-brand lunch meat. They apologized profusely; we shrugged it off, responding, "Beggars can't be choosers."

Or perhaps they should get a bit more choosy: when the Squawker and I unpacked our solitary cardboard box's contents at home, we found that both lunch meat packets were, shall we say, a good seven or eight months past their expiration date.

So we pitched them into the wastebin; no sense in playing "Territory" with our stomachs, we thought.

Admittedly, we haven't visited as many pantries this summer, as we were forced to do last fall, and winter...but, when we have made the pilgrimage, we're noticing expiration dates of six months to a year old on certain things,...particularly on canned goods, and packaged items, such as the odd box of crackers (which make a good ingredient for ground meat dishes).

Are we simply seeing more stock from the bottom of the barrel, or shelf (so to speak), as more people turn to food pantries? That's one piece of speculation that the Squawker and I have bandied about, but without outside confirmation, we can't say for sure.

Suffice to say, when my check did arrive, we were never so glad to see $100 in our lives.

Four days later (July 28), the Squawker and I experienced a totally different scene: another free community dinner put on by one of the local Lutheran churches, at its nearby recreation center -- as always, open to all comers...first come, first served, and all that.

Of course, a "dinner" that starts at 11:30 a.m. is closer to a community lunch...we need not beat the neo-Orwellian implications to death.

The Squawker and I periodically attend these dinners to stretch our food budget -- particularly at the end of the month, when money's a bit tighter. This time, we knew something was up as we rolled into the parking lot, and saw the line snaking right up near the entrance doors.

I volunteered to get out, and hold a place for both of us. After a roughly 10-minute wait, I beckoned the Squawker to join me, and once we made our way inside, we encountered an extraordinary scene. Last time, I think we didn't see more than three dozen people. This time, though, my quick count showed roughly 100 people filling the room, with hardly an empty chair or table place in sight.

Even so, we wanted some peace and quiet, so once we'd filled our plates with chicken -- augmented with cole slaw and mashed potatoes for me, and a timely substitution of rolls for the Squawker, who's allergic to foods of the mashed variety -- we made a beeline for the great outdoors.

We sat on the concrete ledge outside, watching people as they came and went, or braved another wait in line for seconds. Now and again, one of the church servers made noises about us being required to eat inside. I solved that problem by telling them, "We're just catching some fresh air, we'll be back in a minute."

A different worker came out every time, so we got away with this exercise in dramatic license.

Looking around, it was easy to feel trapped in some '90s-era comedy skit, an impression underscored by one hulking person's Homey The Clown T-shirt, and the various pixie or fringed haircuts that many of the women still sported, in defiance of all subsequent fashion norms.

Even so, at least I recognized a handful of people from last time, but could only wonder: how far and wide has the word spread? Where'd all these new people come from, and are they here for the same reason?

And, lastly, what does this explosion of numbers say about where we're headed?

We didn't stick around to ponder the implications. Having cleared our plates...and weary of a Saturday afternoon that threatened to soar past the mid-80-degree mark...we got back in the car and headed home, to reclaim what remained of our peace and quiet. --The Reckoner