At the time, if you were smart and got all your work done with time to spare … guess what? You got assigned extra work to do. Reading, book reports, etc etc …

$he learned at an early age what it takes some people a lifetime to figure out: that it doesn’t pay to be smart. It doesn’t pay to be good and follow the rules.

Piece one of the puzzle had fallen into place.

Its administrator, a charismatic young woman whose best friend is Jesus and who believes the Lord helps those in need, leased the building in 2005 and has not paid one penny of rent since then.

The owners finally ran out of patience.

Thirty people will have to find other places to live. They include the shelter’s permanent resident and petty thief, who is allowed to stay past the 45 day time limit applied to everyone else. They include the always-present assortment of alcoholics, drug users, and drifters who know they can come back after wearing out their welcomes at wherever they’ve been living.

The immediate impact will be felt hardest by the corner grocery down the block. With the shelter gone, the sales of 40 ounce beers are expected to drop significantly.

The Lord has twenty-six days to step up to the plate and help those in need.

 I’m not in the kitchen, but I can hear the sound, and know what it means.

Clop clop clopclopclopclop …

Someone is having scrambled eggs for breakfast.

A delicious way to begin the day. Especially if you don’t have to clean up the mess after the meal is finished.

In the shelter, “cleaning up” after scrambled eggs means leaving the skillet and plates in the sink for the person who has noon kitchen duty to deal with. Just leave them. Don’t even prepare them for the dishwasher by soaking them.

Some of the same people have to be reminded to take a shower and wash their clothes.  So I’m not really surprised that they learned nothing from their mommas re how the kitchen works.

Scrambled eggs. Jesus. I can’t even look at them. Chicken abortions.

Seek its help, and one is asked the same questions posed by the Salvation Army: how much income do you have, how much money do you have in the bank. Questions whose answers are meant to give the social engineers a rough idea of whether or not you are worth saving.

The BWCIL is always out of money anyway. Many times, the only help it can offer consists of phone numbers of local homeless shelters. Not exactly something that promotes independent living.

Recently, the BWCIL needed an Associate Director. It posted the following advertisement on the state of Michigan’s job-search web site:

Company name: Blue Water Center For Independent Living

Job Title: Associate Director

Job Type: Full Time

Jobs Available: 1

Job Location: Port Huron, Michigan

Salary: From $32000 to $40000 per year.

Benefits: dental insurance, life insurance, medical insurance, optical insurance, paid sick leave, paid vacation, 401(k).

Wow.

When I worked for the government, I never had paid dental, optical, or life insurance. Nor did I make $32000 in my first year. That took nine years.

If the Associate Director makes 32 to 40K per year, one wonders what the Director makes.

Sacrifices, I was once told by the BWCIL. One has to make sacrifices if one is to keep one’s home.

Looks like someone else - the poverty-crying charity in this case - might benefit from some sacrifices.

I had a friend who drove a Hollywood sightseeing bus, for Starline Tours. (The company’s owners were from Iran. We called it “Shahline.”)

Polyester-clad tourists from the Midwest, with camcorders, and cameras on leather straps around their necks, paid $36 each to peek at the homes of the rich and famous. (Later, they would line up on the sidewalk outside NBC in Burbank, waiting for a seat to that night’s Tonight Show taping.)

This was in the 80s, right after the Thriller album’s release, when you couldn’t turn around without hearing “Beat It” or “Billie Jean” on the radio.

The question most frequently asked by the polyester tourists was:

“Say, man, where do Michael Jack-sone stay?”

Back then: Encino. Out in the Valley, in a house with trees around it, so he wouldn’t have to see geeks gawking at him from the windows of a tour bus.

Now he stay in the ground. Only no one’s sure where. Neverland or Forest Lawn Hollywood Hills.

Maybe he could be cut in half and buried at both.

If he does end up at FL-HH, the hope is that rules can be bent, and that he will be laid to rest in the children’s section.

So I’m going to get a dog and name him Work.  And let him run loose without a leash.

Then, if someone asks the question, I can truthfully say yes, I am indeed very actively seeking Work.

From somewhere, I hear a kid screaming.

All the unoccupied picnic tables are on that side of the park. Over I go. There’s the kid. She’s blonde, about four, pink sweater and blue jeans. Running. Still screaming.

Mommy grabs her, picks her up, and carries her like a watermelon. More screaming. The kid sounds like a smoke alarm.

I stop to watch the spectacle. And I know the God who created screaming kids and bad mommies is watching me from Her heavenly throne.

A second woman - the kid’s aunt, maybe - gets Daddy’s attention and nods in my direction. A confrontation appears on the horizon.

“Something wrong?” Daddy takes a couple steps in my direction.

“No,” I say. “I’m sorry. I thought you were part of the entertainment.”

I sense that this is the time to split. Besides - the drinks are getting warm, the hot dogs are getting cold, and God is watching.

“Yeah, well . . . something something . . . ” (I miss the last part.)

Over by the food tables, I can hear the kid, still screaming. Any other kid would have run out of steam by now and collapsed from exhaustion.

All kids have bad days, but something’s wrong here.

You have to go to school and get a license to cut hair, but Cave Man and Cave Woman can have all the kids they want, no parental skills exam required.

I can walk through town and count on having something shouted at me, by some coward from the safety of a passing car, that questions my sexual identity.

Even $ister has pointed out, from the safety of e-mail, that my feminine side appears greater than that of the average guy. (I guess she should know, being a woman. At least I think she’s a woman. She dresses like one. She wears women’s clothes. After that, I’m not so sure.)

When they stop, I stop.

Oh - and by the way, cowards: If The 2009 Hate Crimes Prevention Act (HR 1913) becomes law, calling someone a faggot will become a federal hate crime. “Language meant to incite” will not be protected by the First Amendment.

The story reveals that banks, in various ways, deliberately make it easier for customers to bounce checks.

“If it weren’t for overdraft fees, 45 % of banks and credit unions wouldn’t have made money in 2008,” said a bank industry insider interviewed for the story.

A Wachovia customer has taken legal action against the bank, claiming that it “purposely structured transactions to make money.”

A BB & T (Branch Banking and Trust) customer has taken legal action against the bank for allegedly “delaying and re-arranging transactions to maximize overdraft fees.”

EASTERN MICHIGAN BANK, when I was a customer, was also good at posting transactions out of sequence.

It was also possible to use Balance Inquiry at an ATM and then call the bank’s customer service number to get a different balance total than the one displayed on the ATM screen.

Both make it a lot easier to bounce checks. You’re never sure how much money you have in the bank.

Banks prey on people who don’t have a lot of money to keep tied up in a checking account, who out of necessity let their balances drop to near zero.

Complain, and guess what EASTERN MICHIGAN BANK does? Closes out your accounts. Tells you to go somewhere else. Sends you certified checks for the total in each account.

The devil really does walk the earth. In many disguises.

A giant hot dog may wave at you.

The young lady with the sign, and the guy inside the hot dog costume, may be shelter people.

They work eight hours a day, rain, cold, or shine, for sixty dollars cash. (Another way to productively spend one’s time.)

The ones in town, I know them all.

I stopped at a red light one day, and stared/ Who WAS that holding the sign? Wasn’t that . . . It was. Hot Mom. And the little guy in the shades, holding up the lamp post? Shelter Pimp? Indeed it was.

He gave her a peck on the cheek. A car horn (not mine) honked.

Aww . . . now that’s romantic.

But something was missing. I listened. Where was Loud Kid?

I knew what to do.

Circle the block and hope I get the red light again, so I could enjoy the silence.