#47percent

The jig is up. I’m actually 228 years old. #47percent #googleportrait

Love my customers.... #imported #47percent #omg #bombaysapphire (at THE DENIM DOCTOR - BRINGING OLD DENIM BACK TO LIFE)

I got a new pair of socks today. I guess there is a story behind how I got them. I am a member of a Clubhouse, and I was there for lunch as I frequently am. It was a quiet day, not more than a dozen lunches were served, and some of the more energetic members were not there. Not Ralph (I'm using fictitious names) our obese member who is always very loud and calling attention to himself, frequently trying to make jokes—note that I said trying. Nor Maureen or Kathy who are always calling out people's names when ever they come in. No, "Hi, Gregg!"'s yelled from across the room today. Or the dark and moody Wendell who is always complaining—usually with profanity—about the food. No, today was pretty quiet. Harry was there, an old, gruff, sailor-looking guy with a full white beard and who looks and walks like a tramp right out of the movies. He's got that weather beaten, rough exterior of a well traveled man who must have dozens of stories to tell. Only he doesn't talk much. And if so it's with a stutter. I saw him tear up once over just being misunderstood. And Joseph, who likes to be on the phone. He always picks up the phone that's on the wall whenever he wanders by it. He'll look up and down it before picking it up. "Hi, how are?" he'll say into it. "I'm fine. Thank you. Bye." Usually something along those lines. He likes opening the refrigerator too, although he doesn't talk into it. He doesn't talk much to people either. Jerry is a quiet guy too, he carries a box of Crayons with him and is always drawing. Triangles. Always drawing just triangles. Pages of different color triangles. There is a woman whose name I don't know as she never speaks. She'll get her lunch, pick at it for awhile, usually making a mess, before throwing it away and leaving. There's a man whose name I don't know either has he can't speak. He only makes an odd "ohing, ahing" sound that's hard to describe. He has a phone number written on his palm that he'll show you if you try to talk to him. Long conversions are actually not heard very often at the Clubhouse. Most members are quiet loners. Some hang out in pairs. Jim and John are always together, one looks after the other, with John doing most of the talking. He was saying the other day, after calling a taxi, how he's always late and you never know when he would be ready—and then I realized he was talking about Jim and not the taxi. Lisa talks quite a bit, kind of looking out after people, always asking people how they are, frequently offering to share her lunch with someone. I like Robert, but he's hard to talk to, well, more hard to listen to as he has a physical impairment making it difficult for him to talk and I don't like asking him to repeat himself. But I mostly understand him. But it was a quiet day. Oh, about the socks. Someone came by asking if anyone wanted a pair. She had a bag full and would toss them to those who said yes. Since the pair I was wearing had holes in them, and since the only place for me to buy socks near where I live is an upscale, eleven-dollar a pair kind of place, I quietly nodded and took a pair. Underwear, razors and deodorant were also passed out. Although "take the deodorant only if you can't afford it," she said, as she only had six. Four were taken. That's what it's like at the Clubhouse where I frequently have lunch. Lunch is only a dollar-fifty and sometimes it's actually good. "There's no bumming," can sometimes be heard as some people sometimes try. Another guy whose name I forget but see often outside is the guy who is always smoking and bumming for cigarettes at the same time. "This one's a snipe," he told me once. We are an odd lot. I say we because I am one of them. One of the quiet loners. All of us are on some kind of public assistance. We are those "living off the government" as Mr. Mitt Romney once said. However, unknown to him and his followers, there's no "having a good time" here. There's no celebrating that we don't have to work. We are all just barely getting by. And all of us need help of some kind. Some of us need help doing what most people don't think twice about doing, like buying socks. If we can't hold a job, it's not because we do not want to work, it's because we do not have the physical or mental capacity to hold a job. So, yeah, most of us don't work. We don't pay income taxes. Well, neither does Mitt Romney, as he doesn't work either. He doesn't have a job. He earns interest and pays capital gains taxes, on money his long ago company "earned" by buying, gutting and selling businesses. That's not work. That's not creating jobs. That's preying. And nearly half of this country wanted him as their president. Yes, we are people getting money from the government, either by social security, disability, food stamps, rental assistance or all of it. And we are barely subsisting. But there are little moments of comfort, like when someone helps you get a new pair of socks.

Poetic justice.

THIS IS A GRAT PART OF OUR AFRICAN AMERICAN HISTORY.

#meme #2012 #barackobama #2012election #mittromney #presidentialdebates #presidentialdebate #bindersfullofwomen #47percent #tigerwoods