The Faces Of Hunger (Take Eight): Return To The Blessings Box

 

<"Mismatched Expectations"/The Reckoner>

<i.>

This week's been a tough one. Thanks to two hefty utility bills that we just had to pay -- $115 for the phone here (Ka-ching!), $225 for the electric there (Ka-ching!), the Squawker and I wound up with barely $65 in our so-called bank account. Subtract $15 for gas (Ka-ching!), and $20 for miscellaneous food items (Ka-ching, ka-ching!), and you're looking at a pretty lean weekend,, till your next pittance arrives on Monday.

Wait, I take that back. I'll need most, if not nearly all of that, for the insurance (Ka-ching!), which now hovers around $145 a month. It's funny, I can remember the days when $95 per month seemed like a lot, about five or so years ago. Guess those were the good old days, even if we didn't realize it at the time.

But this is the marked deck that's been handed to us. Well, not all of us -- one major irritation lately is watching all the over-endowed gatecrashing the dollar stores that Squawker and I often must visit, out of necessity. I can't tell you how often I'm stuck in line behind them, as they painstakingly empty the carts they've stacked to the rafters, peeling off children's clothes, kitschy decorative trinkets (like wind chimes), cleaning supplies, and God knows what else, as they drop $200, $300, even $600 at a time, I kid you not.

Every time I watch this ritual, the same thought runs through my mind: "Just where the f#ck are all these people getting so much money?" Because, clearly, anyone who can drop 200 or 300 bucks at a time on their bargain shopping runs isn't bothered about their electric or phone bill, I'll tell you that much.

So, amid all that pressure, a return to the Blessings Box seemed in order today. For those who aren't regular readers, I'm referring to a box that the local Methodist church has set up, where anyone can donate unwanted or surplus items, which all comers can take, no questions asked. (For further reference, see Take Seven in this series.) 

Last week had been pretty barren, but we were nearing the end of our mindless domestic errands, so it seemed logical to drop by. Guess what? Our gut feelings paid off with a paper towel roll, plus six mini-boxes of Kellogg's cornflakes; a can of soup (bean of bacon, always welcome); a 28-ounce can of tomato paste; and some hand wipes. Not bad, all things considered.

I mean, whatever you don't have to shell out from your own pocket is welcome, right? Reminds me of the Richard Pryor line from Car Wash, when his Daddy Rich character declaims, about ready cash:

"It is better to have it, 

and not need it -- 

than to need it, 

and not have it!"

<"What's In A Word?
More Than You Realize.."
Take I/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Amen, brother, and all that, right? Something like that. Still, today's experience wouldn't have been necessary, it seems to me, if we actually had wages that didn't evaporate as soon as you received them Remember, inflation has actually decreased, from its peak of 9.1% (June 2022), to its current level of 2.5%. OK, so why aren't prices dropping, as well?

Check out the links below, and decide which one suits you best. I personally find TIME's explanation -- basically, it's the standard blather, "logistic disruptions, blah-blah-blah, supply chain problems, blah-blah-blah, Ukraine, blah-blah-blah" -- totally unconvincing. But I'm including their story out of journalistic duty (fairness and balance, and all that), whereas, the Reich links (especially his video) make way more sense.

Why? Because, as Reich notes, corporate power is the elephant in the room, one that both major parties -- by and large, except for progressive voices like AOC, Bernie Sanders, or Ron Wyden -- studiously avoid touching, at any cost. And until we the people force them to do it, things won't get any better, at least in the short run.

One interesting sub-theme in Reich's video (see below) is the use of algorithms to screw us over -- whether it's Agri-Stat, in the case of beef prices, or RealPage, with rents -- so companies can further consolidate their power through predatory pricing, stock buybacks (AKA slush funds for wealthy shareholders), and collusion among themselves, to continue squeezing the consumer.

And this, I'm guessing, is the real reason why we're not seeing any major movement on prices. OK, the fudge Graham crackers I get periodically from Dollar General have gone down a whopping 25 cents, from $2.50 to $2.25 per pack. And sure, gas has dropped from a high of $3.59 to $3.19 per gallon locally, though who knows how long that'll last, since bad actors like bin Salman and Putin can use oil as a lever to restore their preferred patsy (Trump) on his throne? 

So long as this unhealthy and unholy status quo prevails, it's safe to say that Squawker and I won't always be able to dodge a visit to the Blessing Box. Or your friendly neighborhood food pantry. And I doubt that any of us will be able start building the boat of a lifetime, any time soon. --The Reckoner

PS I should have mentioned this earlier, but I forgot -- there's a sign posted inside both sides of the box, which reads, "PLEASE DO NOT DROP OFF ANY DRY BEANS, AS NO ONE IS TAKING THEM. I HAVE TAKEN THE GIFT YOU'VE GIVEN ME, AND DONATED IT ELSEWHERE. THANK YOU!"

What's scarier? That somebody out there still thinks that poor people can't wait to eat dry beans, which end up like pebbles, if you don't know the magic trick to cook them properly? Or that folks have endless cans of them to give away? Either they haven't figured out the magic trick, or don't want to eat something like that, either. You decide.

Links To Go (AKA: It's Flag Day In Thailand

...We Have To Raise Prices...Yet Again...Today):

Robert Reich: Here's Why Food Prices Are Rising Even More:
https://robertreich.org/post/692311230329880576

Robert Reich (Video): Here's Why Prices Are Still High:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4L6bjQNOZ0E

TIME: Yes, Inflation Is Going Down.
But Here's Why Prices Aren't:
https://time.com/7005553/inflation-grocery-prices-rates/

<"What's In A Word?

More Than You Realize.."

Take II/The Reckoner>

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Seven): The Blessings Box Lives Up To Its Name

<"Timely Reminder"/Take I:
The Reckoner>

 

Life rarely follows a straight line. There's always room for ambiguity, in good times and in bad, as The Squawker and myself found out a couple weeks ago, when we stopped off at the Blessings Box. It's a project that one of our local Methodist churches started doing a couple years ago, or so.

Like all the best ideas, it's breathtakingly simple. Take some food, leave some food, whatever you need, no questions asked. You can't bring any perishable items, since the church has no place to store them. But otherwise, anything goes. 

It reminds me of what a local hunger expert once said, when I covered a presentation about food insecurity: "I don't understand people who demand proof that you're hungry. If they come through the door, that should be proof enough."

That someone in any social service capacity should feel the need to say such things speaks volumes, I suppose, of how much suspicion the poor are often held. In any event, no cross-examination awaits you at the Blessings Box offers no judgments, and makes no promises.

Whenever our food budget bends to the breaking point, we stop by the Blessing Box, looking for items to help stretch it out: a box of macaroni here, a can of green beans there, and that's just a start. People often leave surprisingly high quality items there -- like bags of quinoa, for instance -- which makes the trip worthwhile. 

This particular Sunday came with a twist, however. Just as I was hauling some items to the van, a sixtysomething woman glides her SUV to a stop. She reaches into her pocket, and hands me a $20 bill.

Before I can say anything, she smiles, and tells me, "I haven't donated yet this week. But I see people getting what you're getting, and I figure... Somebody else can use this." 

"Thanks a lot," I say.

"Happy Easter," she smiles, and with that, she drives off.

I slide into the van, and show Squawker the twenty. "Well, guess what? Your efforts got a slight boost this week."

"Sure looks like it. Well, every little bit helps, as they say."

I put the van in gear, and head out. Faith in  humanity, however transitory it feels, however temporarily it's restored, is a beautiful thing. At some point, once those moments wash over you, they fade away, leaving some more ambiguous or disagreeable to take their place.

But until that happens, you're bound and determined to wring every drop of meaning out of that particular moment. That's how I'm feeling this Easter weekend, anyway. I hope you've gotten the same chance to experience it lately. The way are things going, we all can use a break now and then. --The Reckoner

<"Timely Reminder," Take II:
The Reckoner>

The Faces Of Hunger (Take Six): I Just Went Out Grocery Shopping (And Boy, Is My Wallet Aching)

 

<I shot this photo in 2013, and all the others

on this page -- and all I got

was this lousy grocery bill

that eats my bank account!
Photos: The Reckoner/The Squawker>

<i.>

Real life lately feels like one endless royal scam, and there sure as hell aren't any lack of them. One sign hit me watching TV late at night, as I always do, while I'm putting in that intellectual sweatshop labor to, well, mimic some semblance of paying the bills, right?

Anyway, some company or other is hard pitching four or five products, such as a pair of shades that sharply reduces the glare, while you're driving in bad weather conditions. Sounds like a winner, right? Every home should have one, and all that. 

But each commercial ends with the same tagline: "Due to supply chain shortages and logistics issues, this will be your last chance to get Sharpie Shades at Price X. And remember, we have a strict limit of one per household." But you know what'll really happen, right? They'll roll out a brand new ad ("Back from Supply Chain Siberia!"), only you'll end up forking over 20-30% more than you did last time.

Why? Because that's what all these bastards are doing. Nearly two years after the sticker shock first rattled our wallets, the rampant greedflation that's causing so many of us to feel like there's a giant screw sticking through our spines shows little sign of letting up.

Sure, a few commodities have finally fallen back down to Earth, notably eggs -- which soared from $2.69 per carton here at Matthew's, to a whopping $5.99, even $6.99 -- and green onions, which peaked around $1.99 per two-item bundle, to a mere $1.49.

Yeah, I know, you don't have to tell me. With price dops this piddling, start building the yacht, right? And if you believe that, I've got some prime Florida swampland that you can help me drain.

And we all know something funny's going on, when the traditional workarounds you relied on to beat those high prices don't work anymore. Take cooking oil, one of many examples I could quote. At Matthew's, a 12-ounce bottle of the standard artery-clogging Wesson costs almost as much ($3.99) as the "good stuff," the olive oil that we like to use ($5.99). 

What's more, a lot of the mid-sized bottles, containers, and packages have either disappeared, or gotten scaled back. You're stuck buying the smaller version of a product -- which you'll be replacing, before long -- or the mammoth version that will lay waste to your budget. 

You either buy the 30-ounce mayo jar for $5.99, or its pint-sized counterpart for $4.19. Heads you lose, tails you lose. With prices like these, you can't fully stock a fridge anymore. It's reached the point where The Squawker and I are eating out more -- twice a week, sometimes three -- because it costs less than all those greedflated ingredients you'd have to buy, to make those dishes at home. How screwed up is that? 

<Take II, As Above: No other comments necessary.>

<ii>

Not surprisingly, trips to the grocery store feel like going to the dentist. Or the tax preparer. Or the doctor, who hands you those cloudy-looking X-rays, and then drops the estimate of how long you have to live. It's a traumatic trip out, however you care to slice it.

Every list that you cobble together makes your gut knot with tension. Every weekly ad you browse feels like some kind of crazy Cold War exercise, of matching wits with an unblinking, unsmiling, trench-coated adversary. Every item that you can't afford, or end up putting back, is another reminder of, "This is not the place for you." 

Except last week, that is, when Squawker and I trekked out to Murrow's Frugal Acres, where the prices are slightly lower, and the portions come slightly bigger. I even dropped an extra 30 bucks into the bank account, so we'd have slightly more room to maneuver.

But guess what? As smart and smooth as that moved seemed, it felt like tossing pebbles at a tank. We were hoping to hold the line at $80, but sure enough, the cash register ticked mercilessly northwards -- $100, $110, $120, $130. "Here we go again," I muttered, under my breath. "Time for that same old sideways ballet." 

I started handing the bags to The Squawker, as we began trying to figure what we could live without. Ka-ching! Out goes the bag of chicken patties. Ka-ching! Out goes that $6.50 block of cheese. Ka-ching! Forget about most of the vegetables, too.

Or so it seems, until a graying, towering, heavyset man in the next aisle -- who's watching us closely -- hands the cashier a $20 bill, saying, "Here. I'll cover it for them, if it's not too much trouble."

The cashier jerks a thumb towards the goodies piled up near her register -- the chicken patties, block of cheese, and all. "Do you still want this stuff, or are we putting it back?"

Before any of us can answer, the stranger peels off another $20 bill. "I'll cover the difference, too, if it comes down to that." 

The cashier takes the bill, and now, we begin scooping all the rejected food items back into the bags. His good deed done, the stranger shuffles off, just as The Squawker and I get through our thank yous. He's probably tired, I figure, or he has some other stop to make. Who knows?

On one hand, it feels great that somebody you've never met is willing to stand up, and do something like that. Not everybody is stuck in the same selfish grind of mindless materialism, which is easy enough to assume, on good days, and bad.

On the other hand, this episode serves up yet another reminder of how out of whack our society has spun. Because there are only so many good-natured strangers, and so many twenties to peel off into needy fingers, which is why it doesn't happen so often.

This is the myth that the Great Depression soundly busted, that if enough folks looked after their neighbor, all that pesky economic deprivation would simply take the appropriate hint, and disappear. But guess what? The big, bad world can always dish out far more suffering than any charitable act, or enterprise, can ever hope to absorb, especially when the same bad actors remain in charge of it. 

Of course, this isn't the first time we've found ourselves here -- as Bruce Springsteen suggested in his 1980 classic, "Held Up Without A Gun." The song touches on high gas prices, the major worry of the time ("Looked at my tank it was reading low"), music biz shenanigans ("Man with a cigar says, 'Sign here, son'"), and the jaw-dropping indifference of a society that unleashes them:

Now it's a sin and it oughta be a crime

You know it happens, buddy, all the time

Trying to make a living, trying to have a little fun

Look out

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Held up without a gun

Clocking in at a mere 66 seconds (!), it's not hard to see why Boss diehards consider this song -- which he tucked away on the B-side of his smash hit, "Hungry Heart" -- Bruce's attempt at channeling the Ramones, or something like it. Either way, it works for me, and what's more, he still plays it live, now and again.

Like so many underground classics, those lyrics feel as relevant today, as they did at the time -- maybe even more. Which is probably why they say, "History doesn't repeat itself, it also rhymes."

On that cheery note, I'll see you at the dollar bin. And oh, yeah, one more thing. Happy hunting. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry,

Before The Dollar Bin Becomes The Fiver Bin):

Bruce Springsteen: Held Up Without A Gun:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gxBhIeTARBE

Robert Reich: The Hidden Link Between Corporate Greed And Inflation:
https://www.facebook.com/RBReich/videos/the-hidden-link-between-corporate-greed-and-inflation/757841191863574/

The Guardian: This Isn't Wage-Price Inflation, It's Greedflation:
https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2023/apr/19/wage-price-inflation-greedflation-pay-cost-of-living

<"Timely Reminder"/The Reckoner>

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