Ah, the voyeurism of Facebook. It allows you to befriend acquaintances from high school, friends from former lives and relatives that you haven’t seen in at least 10 years. Maybe it’s about getting the friend numbers up there in order not to look like a loser. Because it’s not like you really talk after the befriending. They’re static pictures with profiles. Once in a while they’ll send an update. After 15 years, you find out that they’re enjoying coffee or their kid is home sick with the swine flu.
But what do you really say after so much time? Hey, I fuck women now. I hate kids. And I don’t believe in the same bullshit that you do. Instead I put a disclaimer on my page, warning of controversial topics. And some of these friends and acquaintances from my former life disappear quietly--perhaps wishing that they hadn’t learned quite so much and desperately trying to remember the way I used to be.
I’ve clicked on these distant friends, looking at their pictures, asking myself if I look that old. I’m obviously in denial. Then I click on their friends and their friend’s friends. And I start to find people that I used to know. People that I left behind for another life. And I realize exactly how much time has passed. Time enough for children to grow into adults, unrecognizable giants compared to their former selves. Time for hairlines to recede beyond denial. Worry lines turn to crinkles and to wrinkles. Salt & pepper hair turns white. People that were old then, ancient now. Some thinner, some fatter and a few unchanged.
The last time I saw you . . .
You were at the garage sale that Jessie threw. She insisted on getting rid of all our junk. You recognized the white dress that I let you borrow for some big event. You had a ring on your finger. Before that, we were raking someone else’s lawn and you told me you were going to date him. I think you might have felt bad about it, but you didn’t know then, that I didn’t really care. He was the least of my worries.
We were in church. And you made sure you looked the other way. Before that we sat together on a park bench in Zeeland by the fountain where I gave you the “let’s be friends” letter. You cried.
I saw you in Ange's back yard. At least 10 years ago-- maybe more. And the time before that was at Vonnie's when Robbie was like 2. Then again in 1989 on our Spring Vacation. We drove all the way to Dunn. You played the Cocktail Soundtrack. You were into Hippy Hippy Shake. The first time, you were a baby in my house. Gram Fran was there. I got a doll that year for Christmas and I named it after you.
We saw you at Family Video store in Holland. You were driving an antique car.
You were working at Wal-Mart.
I tried to avoid you as I walked out the church door. Moments before that you had been behind the pulpit giving your sermon.
You were in the front row at church. You were grade school age. Your nose was always stuffy because of allergies. I think you had a stack of pogs.
Your hair was permed and you were probably playing your trumpet on stage.
We were both shopping at Target. You were visiting from D.C.
You were up from some other state, visiting. We ate at TGI Fridays.
In our 1 bedroom apartment. You told us to try an open relationship.
In a smoke-filled apartment in Okalahoma City, the day after New Years. Someone had made Mexican chicken tortilla soup.
I have a vague recollection of seeing you last at a nursing home. You must have just started working there or something.
You were bringing your son to the Emergency Room. I was on my way into work.
We were passengers in a friend’s car. Your boyfriend wouldn’t stop calling.
I saw you at Wheatland with your husband, but you didn’t hear me when I called your name. I let it go. You disappeared into the crowd.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
The Nishi Monologue
After not having the right word for poop, that fateful day on the bus, I learned to wait and see what words the other kids were using. Vagina was never a word that came up. Nobody talked about their vaginas. Dick was frequently referenced. In the 5th grade, J.S. brought a condom to class and stuck it on the drinking fountain. In middle school, he showed up covered in hickies. I’m sure he knew what a vagina was.
I didn’t know what to call it until after middle school health class. We were bombarded with medical terms: STDs, condoms and VAGINA. But vagina was such an ugly word.
Before then, I knew that spot as a NISHI. Nishi sounds like a sushi roll. Sashimi over rice delicately covered with pickled ginger with a side of wasabe and soy sauce for dipping.
When I googled Nishi, it showed up as a Japanese surname and an Indian 1st name. It’s Sankrit for Night. So I googled Nishi along with Vagina and all I got was a compiled list of words for vagina from the Vagina Monologues. No history. No background. No origins. But some other mom besides my mom used this word. I had figured it was another word Mom had made up or had been passed down from her mother-- like the word she used for the cows in the field—CooBossies.
I expanded my repertoire of words from movies. In Go Fish, they are laying in circle on the floor listing all the names they knew for that dark spot: Honey Pot, Bearded Clam and Love Mound. But it was Boys on the Side that had the word that stuck.
Jane: [Elaine is crying at Robin's bedside, the nurse thinks her sniffles are relative to a cold, and tells her she could aggravate her daughter's condition] It's not a goddamn cold! Don't be such a hoo-hoo. Nurse: [apathetic] And what's a hoo-hoo? Elaine: [kindly] It's a cunt, dear. [nurse gasps] Elaine: Now why don't you leave us alone?
Hoo-hoo is he word that stuck. Only I like to spell it whowho. Maybe it should be a whatwhat.
I didn’t know what to call it until after middle school health class. We were bombarded with medical terms: STDs, condoms and VAGINA. But vagina was such an ugly word.
Before then, I knew that spot as a NISHI. Nishi sounds like a sushi roll. Sashimi over rice delicately covered with pickled ginger with a side of wasabe and soy sauce for dipping.
When I googled Nishi, it showed up as a Japanese surname and an Indian 1st name. It’s Sankrit for Night. So I googled Nishi along with Vagina and all I got was a compiled list of words for vagina from the Vagina Monologues. No history. No background. No origins. But some other mom besides my mom used this word. I had figured it was another word Mom had made up or had been passed down from her mother-- like the word she used for the cows in the field—CooBossies.
I expanded my repertoire of words from movies. In Go Fish, they are laying in circle on the floor listing all the names they knew for that dark spot: Honey Pot, Bearded Clam and Love Mound. But it was Boys on the Side that had the word that stuck.
Jane: [Elaine is crying at Robin's bedside, the nurse thinks her sniffles are relative to a cold, and tells her she could aggravate her daughter's condition] It's not a goddamn cold! Don't be such a hoo-hoo. Nurse: [apathetic] And what's a hoo-hoo? Elaine: [kindly] It's a cunt, dear. [nurse gasps] Elaine: Now why don't you leave us alone?
Hoo-hoo is he word that stuck. Only I like to spell it whowho. Maybe it should be a whatwhat.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Picking up Women at the Gas Station
People freak out about meeting other people on the internet. They could be serial rapists or serial killers. I would have to say you have the same chance of meeting them on the internet as you do in real life.
Jessie was driving her shitty little Saturn. I was sitting in the back seat. A big red truck drove along side of us and honked. They were honking because they approved of our rainbow sticker. We pulled into a gas station and the truck pulled into the gas station across the street. Before we left, the red truck drove over to our side. A short little Mexican woman jumped out. Somehow Jessie arranged a date between me and this woman, Esme.
It was almost a blind date. I didn’t know her. We danced at Diversions, and I brought her home. And then she didn’t leave for 2 months. Esme lived on 16th street in an olive green house with her mother and the 8 year-old son she had when she was only 13. The kitchen walls and ceiling were brown with grease. There had been a fire. Tester noodles were crusted on the backsplash.
Her mother wore oxygen and was too fat to tie her own shoes. She couldn’t move very fast, but her voice carried and she scared me a little. I met many of her friends and family that commented on my light eyes. I only ever caught half the conversation, because it was always in Spanish. Esme drove a gold Camero with naked women silhouettes. It didn’t run very well and spent most of the time parked in her backyard. I didn’t really think anything about her not working, because I was a college student. A lot of us didn’t work or didn’t work that often. But I think she was dealing. And that was why she was on probation. Only I didn’t understand this until later.
I was 21. I believed what people told me. It only lasted 2 months, and I would have ended it sooner, but I was scared how she would react. I caught her in lies. Was it an overdose or a brain tumor or multiple personality disorder? Esme wasn’t educated enough to keep the lies believable. Instead of picking one lie, she would combine and overlap them where they didn’t make sense. I wasn’t stupid, only new to liars and manipulators.
She stole my chocolate one day. I think it was intended to be funny. But I’m serious about my chocolate. I tried to get it back, and she was rather rough about it. I realized while we wrestled on the floor that she could hurt me and wouldn’t care if she did.
There was something mean about her. She had this kitten for a while, but as soon as she saw another kitten that she liked better she threw the old kitten out. She said it was ugly.
Esme had been looking forward to going to the graduation dance with me. She had just bought a new outfit. A couple of days before the dance, I broke up with her via letter. Jessie delivered it. The next day there was a box of things on the porch, pictures of us together with her face cut out and everything I ever gave her. She requested I return everything that she ever gave to me. I didn’t. I still have my broken hematite ring, the glass fang with a bubble of mercury and some pesos from Mexico. I don’t have a single picture of her though.
Jessie said she saw her drive by the house a few times in her red truck (really her fiancés red truck, the fiancé she had the entire time) But we moved. I didn’t see her again until Tulip Time. She acted like we were real close, called me some endearing term. I kept on walking.
I heard about her later through the lesbian grapevine. Sylvia shook her head in amazement, “You dated Horse Hair?” “Why do you call her that?” I asked. “Because she had a fucking mullet.” Sylvia said that Horse Hair had dated her girlfriend Erica. At one point she came to D&W with a loaded gun and waved it around. And another friend of mine had dated her sometime later and got a disease. She might have had bad hair, but she got around.
Jessie was driving her shitty little Saturn. I was sitting in the back seat. A big red truck drove along side of us and honked. They were honking because they approved of our rainbow sticker. We pulled into a gas station and the truck pulled into the gas station across the street. Before we left, the red truck drove over to our side. A short little Mexican woman jumped out. Somehow Jessie arranged a date between me and this woman, Esme.
It was almost a blind date. I didn’t know her. We danced at Diversions, and I brought her home. And then she didn’t leave for 2 months. Esme lived on 16th street in an olive green house with her mother and the 8 year-old son she had when she was only 13. The kitchen walls and ceiling were brown with grease. There had been a fire. Tester noodles were crusted on the backsplash.
Her mother wore oxygen and was too fat to tie her own shoes. She couldn’t move very fast, but her voice carried and she scared me a little. I met many of her friends and family that commented on my light eyes. I only ever caught half the conversation, because it was always in Spanish. Esme drove a gold Camero with naked women silhouettes. It didn’t run very well and spent most of the time parked in her backyard. I didn’t really think anything about her not working, because I was a college student. A lot of us didn’t work or didn’t work that often. But I think she was dealing. And that was why she was on probation. Only I didn’t understand this until later.
I was 21. I believed what people told me. It only lasted 2 months, and I would have ended it sooner, but I was scared how she would react. I caught her in lies. Was it an overdose or a brain tumor or multiple personality disorder? Esme wasn’t educated enough to keep the lies believable. Instead of picking one lie, she would combine and overlap them where they didn’t make sense. I wasn’t stupid, only new to liars and manipulators.
She stole my chocolate one day. I think it was intended to be funny. But I’m serious about my chocolate. I tried to get it back, and she was rather rough about it. I realized while we wrestled on the floor that she could hurt me and wouldn’t care if she did.
There was something mean about her. She had this kitten for a while, but as soon as she saw another kitten that she liked better she threw the old kitten out. She said it was ugly.
Esme had been looking forward to going to the graduation dance with me. She had just bought a new outfit. A couple of days before the dance, I broke up with her via letter. Jessie delivered it. The next day there was a box of things on the porch, pictures of us together with her face cut out and everything I ever gave her. She requested I return everything that she ever gave to me. I didn’t. I still have my broken hematite ring, the glass fang with a bubble of mercury and some pesos from Mexico. I don’t have a single picture of her though.
Jessie said she saw her drive by the house a few times in her red truck (really her fiancés red truck, the fiancé she had the entire time) But we moved. I didn’t see her again until Tulip Time. She acted like we were real close, called me some endearing term. I kept on walking.
I heard about her later through the lesbian grapevine. Sylvia shook her head in amazement, “You dated Horse Hair?” “Why do you call her that?” I asked. “Because she had a fucking mullet.” Sylvia said that Horse Hair had dated her girlfriend Erica. At one point she came to D&W with a loaded gun and waved it around. And another friend of mine had dated her sometime later and got a disease. She might have had bad hair, but she got around.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Memories of a Cougar
The last time I saw Beatriz must have been over 5 years ago. When my couple of dates with her daughter, Carmen were not so remote. When I looked more like myself then with the blonde spiky hair. Beatriz asked me if I had a girlfriend or something. She remembered that I had dated Carmen. But I can’t remember how the conversation started. Or maybe Carmen had asked Beatriz to ask me. That’s when Bea’s cheeks were fuller. Before the dentures. Before her skin turned from olive to pasty grey.
Before the date with Carmen. I worked with Bea on 2nd shift at the Nursing Home—washing up residents after they dug themselves out and finger painted with their own shit. Ah, those were the days. Bea had perfectly curled hair and dark lipstick with liner. There was something elegant about her. She was only in her 50’s then. Now she’s a great-grandma. So I can only assume that one of Carmen’s kids is the parent.
Seems like I met Carmen on Yahoo personals. At the time, I was living with Jessie and Mel. It was during my serial monogamous rebound relationships--after Joe, after my 2 day stay in Pumpkin Town. It was after Horse Hair. January, February, March 1999? No it had to be March, because I was already hired in at the hospital. Our first date was at Ponderosa. I had never eaten at Ponderosa. It was before I knew what good food was. She brought her children. They had bright green or blue eyes. And I had to touch them otherwise give them Ojo. That’s when I learned about the Evil Eye. If you look at a child and want to hold them and then don’t, they get sick with the Evil Eye.
Our second date was at—fuck I can’t remember the name. Now Rumor’s bar, but it was a lesbian bar then. She wanted to smoke her cigarette outside. Carmen said they wouldn’t let her smoke her “special” cigarettes inside, because they stunk too much. So we stood outside in the parking lot or maybe we were sitting in her car. It didn’t smell like a cigarette. Her “special” cigarette was of the MaryJane brand, but I didn’t really know about that then.
I think she kissed me on the cheek before she let me out of the car. Maybe I let myself out of the car. And I never saw her again until the other day. Goddamn, I would not have recognized her. Except Bea was there, and I recognized Bea. And she introduced Carmen. She had been a hot 40 year-old Latina with her mother’s hot lips. Now she was a rough 50 year old with pockmarked skin and pajamas. I don’t think she recognized me by face or name. I was some stranger amidst an information exchange. But what are 2 dates that I can’t clearly remember? 2 dates and a few e-mails 10 years ago doesn’t lend itself very well to tangible memory. It’s so distant and fuzzy, it might not have ever happened.
Not long after our last date, Jessie and Mel saw Carmen making out with some man in a truck. Carmen saw them see her and she ducked away. Looking back I think the whole date thing with Carmen was a set-up. I suspect she was friends with Horse Hair. They lived on the same street. Things with Horse Hair didn’t end well and there was stalking involved. Stalking that might have continued, had I not moved. Maybe Carmen had been sent as a spy. But it never amounted to anything. Maybe Horse Hair was trying to find out if I still talked about her. Which I didn’t. So there was nothing to find out.
But 10 years later I have these faint memories, and I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers or am I only confabulating. Memories fail. I see that now. Do I remember how it really happened or how I think it happened?
Before the date with Carmen. I worked with Bea on 2nd shift at the Nursing Home—washing up residents after they dug themselves out and finger painted with their own shit. Ah, those were the days. Bea had perfectly curled hair and dark lipstick with liner. There was something elegant about her. She was only in her 50’s then. Now she’s a great-grandma. So I can only assume that one of Carmen’s kids is the parent.
Seems like I met Carmen on Yahoo personals. At the time, I was living with Jessie and Mel. It was during my serial monogamous rebound relationships--after Joe, after my 2 day stay in Pumpkin Town. It was after Horse Hair. January, February, March 1999? No it had to be March, because I was already hired in at the hospital. Our first date was at Ponderosa. I had never eaten at Ponderosa. It was before I knew what good food was. She brought her children. They had bright green or blue eyes. And I had to touch them otherwise give them Ojo. That’s when I learned about the Evil Eye. If you look at a child and want to hold them and then don’t, they get sick with the Evil Eye.
Our second date was at—fuck I can’t remember the name. Now Rumor’s bar, but it was a lesbian bar then. She wanted to smoke her cigarette outside. Carmen said they wouldn’t let her smoke her “special” cigarettes inside, because they stunk too much. So we stood outside in the parking lot or maybe we were sitting in her car. It didn’t smell like a cigarette. Her “special” cigarette was of the MaryJane brand, but I didn’t really know about that then.
I think she kissed me on the cheek before she let me out of the car. Maybe I let myself out of the car. And I never saw her again until the other day. Goddamn, I would not have recognized her. Except Bea was there, and I recognized Bea. And she introduced Carmen. She had been a hot 40 year-old Latina with her mother’s hot lips. Now she was a rough 50 year old with pockmarked skin and pajamas. I don’t think she recognized me by face or name. I was some stranger amidst an information exchange. But what are 2 dates that I can’t clearly remember? 2 dates and a few e-mails 10 years ago doesn’t lend itself very well to tangible memory. It’s so distant and fuzzy, it might not have ever happened.
Not long after our last date, Jessie and Mel saw Carmen making out with some man in a truck. Carmen saw them see her and she ducked away. Looking back I think the whole date thing with Carmen was a set-up. I suspect she was friends with Horse Hair. They lived on the same street. Things with Horse Hair didn’t end well and there was stalking involved. Stalking that might have continued, had I not moved. Maybe Carmen had been sent as a spy. But it never amounted to anything. Maybe Horse Hair was trying to find out if I still talked about her. Which I didn’t. So there was nothing to find out.
But 10 years later I have these faint memories, and I wonder if I’m the only one who remembers or am I only confabulating. Memories fail. I see that now. Do I remember how it really happened or how I think it happened?
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Slavery Ads on C-List
Ads copied, pasted & altered (except for original spelling errors) from C-list (green font denotes name change to protect the allegedly guilty):
In Need of Line Cooks (Lizard Room/The PapSmear HouseLounge)
Located downtown on the corner of Slavery & Indentured Servitude. Must be open to work 3pm-11:30pm Monday-Saturday.Must being willing to learn to roll sushi.Must be able to handle the stress of two restuarants from one kitchen. Will get a set schedule. Please don't call or stop in! Email resumes to fuckmeintheasslounge@slavery.com
Location: Lizard Room/The Papsmear House Lounge
Compensation: 7.40
This is a part-time job.
***
Family Style Restaurant:
Entry Level Management (30-40 hours/wk). Starting Position - Lead Night Cook. Full Time. Paid Vacation. Demostrates Leadership Skills. Great Work Ethic - Role Model Conscientious. Works well within a team environment. Great at cost control Great at food quality. Career minded in the food industry. Compensation: $8.50-$8.75/hr.
The Lizard Room wants a line cook to handle the stress of making food for 2 restaurants, roll sushi, and maintain a flexible schedule (be available 6 days a week, but not necessarily work or get paid) for $7.40 with no benefits. Notice they can’t even spell restaurant correctly in their ad. $7.40 is minimum wage. The dishwasher is making the same amount by spraying dirty dishes and running them through a machine. I’m not suggesting that the dishwasher get paid less, but should the line cook only be getting the same for work that is more difficult? You could probably make just as much or more working at McDonald’s or holding one of those cardboard signs that advertise Eat at Joes or Going out of Business.
It wasn’t that long ago that I saw a dishwasher position posted on C-List for minimum wage. They wanted them to be able to pass a drug test. WTF? If I was working in a hot, stinky dish room, getting paid $7.40 an hour, I would have to take drugs just so I wouldn’t kill myself.
The Lizard room menu features sushi rolls ranging from $6-8 per roll with the most expensive rolls being $16-18. The poor little line cook in the back has to work almost 3 hours to pay for one of those top dollar rolls that s/he made. You will also find on the menu Asian fusion cuisine and signature martinis for $12. They have a fancy website featuring a half naked chick, and advertise being the premier college bar. I always thought that independent businesses treated their employees better than the corporate conglomerations.
In the second C-List add you can manage a Family Restaurant for $1 more/hr—that is if you meet their high quality standards.
There are other independent restaurants that pay a little more. Take SuckMyDick Restaurant for instance—an upscale establishment that makes all their food from scratch. For $9/hr you can have keys to the restaurant, open the restaurant, prep, clean, maintenance equipment, be on-call without pay, create your own recipes for daily features, cook food for catering or in house parties while simultaneously getting slammed by the lunch/dinner rushes, and fix the toilet. Benefits? Zero. You can smoke pot and expand your culinary skills, but other than that . . . No paid vacation. If you take any time off, you just don’t get paid. If you’re sick, you have to bring in a doctor’s note even though they don’t offer health insurance. It doesn’t matter that you work full-time. Oh and that day that you requested off a month ago—well, you have to work. Sorry. But you say that you have formal chef training and a Culinary Arts degree. That’s nice. You still only get $9/hr.
This isn’t the glamorous life of the iron chefs on food network with their pretentious dishes. This is real life. Artists don’t get paid.
So when you go out to eat and order your pita bread with hummus and your grass fed filet mignon, remember the one who cooked it to order and arranged it nicely on your plate. Your expensive little dinner is probably more than what they make in a day. And when looking at the unemployment rate in Michigan also consider those people who are working, but getting paid minimum wage without benefits. Go to school, get an education! Some of these people have gone to school and do have an education. And even if they don’t have a degree, doesn’t everyone deserve to get paid what they are worth? If someone wants to work and pay their bills, they should have the opportunity to do so. $7.40/hr does not equal life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It equals slave labor. You could make more prostituting yourself out on C-List—only the authorities have been cracking down on that sort of thing.
In Need of Line Cooks (Lizard Room/The PapSmear HouseLounge)
Located downtown on the corner of Slavery & Indentured Servitude. Must be open to work 3pm-11:30pm Monday-Saturday.Must being willing to learn to roll sushi.Must be able to handle the stress of two restuarants from one kitchen. Will get a set schedule. Please don't call or stop in! Email resumes to fuckmeintheasslounge@slavery.com
Location: Lizard Room/The Papsmear House Lounge
Compensation: 7.40
This is a part-time job.
***
Family Style Restaurant:
Entry Level Management (30-40 hours/wk). Starting Position - Lead Night Cook. Full Time. Paid Vacation. Demostrates Leadership Skills. Great Work Ethic - Role Model Conscientious. Works well within a team environment. Great at cost control Great at food quality. Career minded in the food industry. Compensation: $8.50-$8.75/hr.
The Lizard Room wants a line cook to handle the stress of making food for 2 restaurants, roll sushi, and maintain a flexible schedule (be available 6 days a week, but not necessarily work or get paid) for $7.40 with no benefits. Notice they can’t even spell restaurant correctly in their ad. $7.40 is minimum wage. The dishwasher is making the same amount by spraying dirty dishes and running them through a machine. I’m not suggesting that the dishwasher get paid less, but should the line cook only be getting the same for work that is more difficult? You could probably make just as much or more working at McDonald’s or holding one of those cardboard signs that advertise Eat at Joes or Going out of Business.
It wasn’t that long ago that I saw a dishwasher position posted on C-List for minimum wage. They wanted them to be able to pass a drug test. WTF? If I was working in a hot, stinky dish room, getting paid $7.40 an hour, I would have to take drugs just so I wouldn’t kill myself.
The Lizard room menu features sushi rolls ranging from $6-8 per roll with the most expensive rolls being $16-18. The poor little line cook in the back has to work almost 3 hours to pay for one of those top dollar rolls that s/he made. You will also find on the menu Asian fusion cuisine and signature martinis for $12. They have a fancy website featuring a half naked chick, and advertise being the premier college bar. I always thought that independent businesses treated their employees better than the corporate conglomerations.
In the second C-List add you can manage a Family Restaurant for $1 more/hr—that is if you meet their high quality standards.
There are other independent restaurants that pay a little more. Take SuckMyDick Restaurant for instance—an upscale establishment that makes all their food from scratch. For $9/hr you can have keys to the restaurant, open the restaurant, prep, clean, maintenance equipment, be on-call without pay, create your own recipes for daily features, cook food for catering or in house parties while simultaneously getting slammed by the lunch/dinner rushes, and fix the toilet. Benefits? Zero. You can smoke pot and expand your culinary skills, but other than that . . . No paid vacation. If you take any time off, you just don’t get paid. If you’re sick, you have to bring in a doctor’s note even though they don’t offer health insurance. It doesn’t matter that you work full-time. Oh and that day that you requested off a month ago—well, you have to work. Sorry. But you say that you have formal chef training and a Culinary Arts degree. That’s nice. You still only get $9/hr.
This isn’t the glamorous life of the iron chefs on food network with their pretentious dishes. This is real life. Artists don’t get paid.
So when you go out to eat and order your pita bread with hummus and your grass fed filet mignon, remember the one who cooked it to order and arranged it nicely on your plate. Your expensive little dinner is probably more than what they make in a day. And when looking at the unemployment rate in Michigan also consider those people who are working, but getting paid minimum wage without benefits. Go to school, get an education! Some of these people have gone to school and do have an education. And even if they don’t have a degree, doesn’t everyone deserve to get paid what they are worth? If someone wants to work and pay their bills, they should have the opportunity to do so. $7.40/hr does not equal life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It equals slave labor. You could make more prostituting yourself out on C-List—only the authorities have been cracking down on that sort of thing.
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