Tag Archives: rights

buyer beware

I’ve always detested the expression ‘buyer beware’
coz it usually means some poor bastard has signed a contract while simultaneously dropping their drawers and bending over…

plot:

high energy couple walks in to a cellular store in music city, Nashville USA
they tell the personable salesman that they are artists, movie makers & composers
they need a service, MOBILE (to mean they spend a good deal of time on the road…)
that supports their work, their lifestyle…

for once in their lives…money is no object

not a problem Sir…
maximum unlimited everything

- Great.
the couple are so excited…

even the deposit and initial gouging barely unnerve’s our heroes

second billing cycle…

to settle account: $1400…

now money flips from being of no object to a very important one

why? why? why?

frantic call to customer service.

quick…where’s the 35 page, tiny densely printed contract.

data usage = 74Gb

‘customer service’ sounding like dad…

have you two been watching movies?

Err…YES, of course

its kinda what we do

well…we dont recommend that.

but, it says in the small print
on page 26

DATA SERVICES: PERMITTED USES

item #IV:
may use for UPLOADING downloading,

AND (GETTA LOAD OF THIS)

STREAMING of audio, video, games…

excuse me ???

nah, we always warn customers don’t watch movies…NEVER

folks, JUST DON”T DO IT

one flick will use 12Gb

WHAT!!!!

but the lady at american cellular said

you’ll never scratch the 10G allowance each month

warning, you are super dangerously close to the maximum data usage allowed…

we queried our dutiful sales person

she even fixed our phone so the text messages would stop

final scene:

in a flash the couple decides happily,

no, ecstatically

that really one monthly bill is quite frankly one too many anyway

please connect us to financial services

yes, yes, yes…of course we will pay your ‘$289 bill’ on friday

and in december we will pay the remainder in two

payments of $560 each
thanks dude, you’ve been awesome today
that sounds great…

thank you once again

VERIZON

couple kicks back, turns on netflix movies

and lets ‘em stream for four days until there’s no signal available

midnight friday

fade out….


out of sight, out of mind

downtown Presbyterian church

So, in my dreams last night, Vern and I were walking around downtown. We had nowhere to rest our weary heads inspite of trying very very hard to be resourceful, self reliant and motivated humans. In fact, we’ve been pretty darn proud of us.

Vern carried his bulky yet precious guitar in-case and a 40lb backpack. Me, a 30lb art portfolio, a heavy purse and a big smile. It was warm with a breeze blowing in hot sticky and possibly tempestuous skies. We needed the rain. We needed shelter more right now.

My dream meanders here and there. As they do. But we wind up curling up like puppies in a small cardboard box on the toppest most steps of a downtown church. We go to sleep easily, tired from hiking around all day with our entire lives’ possessions and obsessions on our backs. As freeing as it is to have so little, it still weighs 15lbs too heavy…

A ’rap rap rap’ wakes us up…

Maybe it was a “rat rat rat’.

A policeman looms over us…

He states we were criminally trespassing and how on earth could we have missed the sign. We look up and see nothing (not even the church!) but a do not even try to sleep comfortably, safely and together out here sign. It wasn’t there when we arrived. I could have sworn my life on it!

He arrests us but doesn’t take us in. He verifies on his screen that we are very good puppies and that we always show up for animal farm, I mean court every time we’re arrested.

We  packed up and head down the street.

Big fat raindrops finally start to fall.

The cop barked at us.

And rather unpleasantly told us to

 ‘stay out of sight, out of mind’…

heck…they probably do some good, I’ve just never seen them around except on the little white info sheets ‘where to find meals/where to find help’ in Nashville. However, I have a problem with these ‘parking meter style-lets put an end to panhandling’ and feeble, silly attempts to ‘help’. I’ve not seen one coin depositied, emptied, distributed or stolen. 


on being crazy enough

The gangly happy kid loped across the plaza towards me.

“Heyyyyy…”

“How ya doin’?”

“I’m good, almost left for Cali last night but got to Clarksville and decided to come back.”

“Wow, I’m sorry that didn’t work out…”

“Yeah, we left at 10:00 pm and I got back, to the tent and was asleep by 03:30!”

Unsure as to why the times were of importance he readily answered my un-asked question…

“We hiked.”

I met the young man only a couple of days before. We were waiting in line under the Jefferson street bridge, the midday sun already beating down on our heads. It was a long, long line standing in the dust, the Lord’s Chuck wagon fixin’ to pull up any minute.

He was standing with a much older man. A seasoned camper and traveller. He sucked nervously on a cigarette.

I’m not sure what we initially talked about or what it was that struck up our conversation. I have met many from all walks of  life at the homeless feeds around town. Some not wanting to talk. Some rambling incoherently, racked with paranoia and delusional voices chattering constantly in their ears. Some just plain old drunk.

But our dialogue immediately flowed. I found him to be a very old soul in baby pyjamas. Rompers, we call them in England…

He talks a lot with his hands. Some might even say he waves them far too much, totally violating the other’s personal space. 

I found it all terribly endearing. To me, he’s beautifully exuberant about life. Joyously animated with a childlike gleam across his face.

We talked at length. We had plenty of time for we were at the back of the line.

He told me all about where he was from, his family, the adventures he’s had on the road, legal issues and previous relationships. He amazed me so much with his knowledge of the law that I could not help but encourage him to get himself to a community college and study. I wanted him to turn it all around, instead of running from the law, make a living at it!

He tells me and he is, flamboyantly and wonderfully gay. In fact, he refreshingly makes no bones about it…

I immediately worry about his safety in the South. He’s a street kid though and we are all toughened by the harsh realities of an unjust world. We are all itinerant survivors, always have been…always will.

While we talked, he returns again and again to the same subject…

and even though he has called the streets his home for ten or so years,

it became glaringly apparent that he still looked for one…

hell is real!

@ jefferson street bridge with our friends and Pastor Bob ministries. God Bless these awesome people, I cannot say it enough. there’s this guy who goes to the dollar store after work and buys socks for everyone and a hair stylist that donates his sundays to the mission and our bridge bunch.


I’d go home if I had one…II

Phew…yesterday’s blog wore me out.

 its been a stressful week. our funds are severely skinny and tensions are a wee high. we balance with humor and are creating the vernon rust reality.

I host the zaniness on my flickr site.

thegraffithunter.

You will find a mad case of photography and art. It’s all my own.

Just in case you’re reading about us for the first time, I’ll give you a quickie low-down: Vernon and I ran off together last year, fell kinda sorta GOOFY (tsk, tsk) in love, lost everything, gained a whole lot more and strive to bring the best out in everyone….

Oh, and we lived on the streets last summer. To be honest, this summer isn’t looking too grand either, but then as our dear friend Squeaky said last night, ‘why would I worry, God’s got my back’…

With Vernon, I believe that…

here’s a wonderful moment in time when Vernon Rust performed downtown nashville and another cool friend wandered up on us…


I’d go home if I had one…

Everyone appeared nervous this evening. Blue lights strobe irritatingly yet magically to the right of the plaza. One officer stood casually by the patrol car, leaning up against the open door. Whatever took place happened a while back.

“what’s goin’ on?”

“see that there spot o’ blood?” the young multi-colour haired youth pointed to me.

“and those over there.”

“another fight, huh?” “that’s par for the course up here”.

He smirked, a knowing sideways glance that’s all too familiar with those on the street.

It was a monday night and a group of  christian youngsters get together and come to the war memorial plaza armed with wonderful food, donated clothes and smiling, accepting chatter. They have been doing this  every monday for three years.

“there’s a lot o f people here tonight.”

“and a lot of new faces too.”

With the warmer weather temperatures, comes an influx of travellers, wayward kids, hungry, broke, lost folk… 

Road weary. Rail tired. Backpacked. Grimed in dirt on clothes  and skin.

“I just rolled in from Colorado Springs with my three brothers. Took us 19 days to get here.” He was wide-eyed, excitable and ready to tell his story.

” we broke records getting to Nashville.”

“we walked…”

We spotted a familiar face from last summer, hiding around a corner. Carl looked furtively at the cop car and the gathered needy group like they were ready to wrestle him to the ground and haul him off to a forgotten cell somewhere in his mind.

He’s an amiable man with an interesting story. But tonight he looks like he just woke up in a ditch. His leather jacket and old jeans coated in dust and dirt. He’s eyes are wild and his beard unmanageably grown in.

We ask him if he’s okay. That we are worried about him. We tell him that we care.

He flashes an old smile, a mere hint of sanity passes before our very eyes and he acknowledges our concern.

“you care about me?”

“oh…I’m fine.”

He wanders off in a ramble of $10 Yamaha guitars found at garage sales and drum beats to the dance of a crazy soul…

I glanced slowly around at the gathered crowd.

We are all here for a variety of reasons.

Some are on their way back up. Some are desperately trying to get a foot hold, to stop themselves from sliding down the slippery slope any further.

Sadly, there are those that remain, content or none the wiser,  barely existing in the human shells of their former selves…


what no royalties?

‘By joining ASCAP you can begin to register your songs, collect performance royalties….’

‘That’s funny, Vern, ‘Didn’t they tell you that YOU needed to get a performance set list from Keith’s people’.

‘Why, yes…’

‘But Vernon, they state categorically in their rules, regulations and governing documents that they collect performance royalties for the writer’.

I quote from their website:

“For live concerts, ASCAP uses set lists provided to us by concert promoters, the performing artists and our own members.”

Hmmmmm… 

‘Well..honey (he doesn’t really call me that, it just sounded good…I haven’t received anything in the thirteen or so years that Keith has been performing those songs in concert’.

And let me tell you, the evidence is out there. 

Log on to you tube.

It’s all there, beautifully documented by the fans cameras’, iPhones’, etc.

The artist is there on stage singing your song and it’s quite possible there’s a kid from the audience on stage, too. Sweet…

That’s a lot of foot work for a person to do.

That’s a tedious task for any individual.

Do you have any idea how many people, emails, phone calls it takes to get that information…for one concert year, let alone years of performances?

But what really bites, and bites really hard is being told by the organization that you are a member of that its your job to do.

EXCUSE ME for being a member!

Unhappily, but sorely in need of these severely back dated funds we contact Keith Urban’s folk.

‘That comes from ASCAP, Vernon. We don’t give out set lists.’

Next follows a barrage of expletives which I choose not to repeat, but as you can imagine and will understand this is extremely frustrating!

I wonder how many writers have missed out on their ‘God given right to their royalties from performances over the years.

It was probably too much trouble getting the concert set list themselves.

Perhaps, even a little bit of ‘well, maybe its just not worth my trouble, it’s too small’.

No earnings are too small and its organizations like ASCAP that bank on, and I mean BANK on the little (but with HUGE talents) guys not going to the trouble and just letting it slide. That’s a very large annual revenue for ASCAP, let alone the interest.

So we go back to ASCAP…but hang on they’re out of the office ’til Tuesday.

http://www.ascap.com/

“ASCAP receives payment for public performances of songs and compositions by negotiating license fees with the users of music (radio, TV, cable, bars, clubs, restaurants, shopping malls, concert halls and promoters, web sites, airlines, orchestras, etc.) and distributing these monies to members whose works were performed.”

“There are billions of performances licensed by ASCAP each year. ASCAP is committed to paying our members for these performances fairly, accurately and efficiently. ASCAP collects and distributes more money in performance royalty income than any other organization and our payment system is by far the fairest and most objective in the U.S.”

Not so…

check this out, a hugely funny and timely interview with Vernon Rust that we recorded a while ago…

http://www.flickr.com/photos/freebird66/6918342023/


Cura te ipsum

Anyone who knows or has spent anytime around me is all too familiar with my passionate revolutionary spirit and love of debate.

Having spent 25 years in the profession of nursing, I have basically seen it all and a lot you wouldn’t want to.

Quite frankly, my crash and burn from arguably the noblest of devotions to duty and my God-given calling on this planet was because of precisely that. I really did…’I cared, too much’ and its an impossible way for one of God’s humble servants to live… 

I was a terrified teenager when the docs in England finally decided to remove my tonsils. I suffered countless days sick from school, extremely happy to be on the settee at home, reading fiction, comic books and the works of Hardy, Orwell, Longfellow and Laura Ingalls Wilder…

Already my curiosity and love for American history , life and culture was very evident for I found myself engrossed more and more in American literature…Faulkner, Hemingway and Fitzgerald…

So the night before surgery, a dedicated caring, forever youthful third year student nurse took me under her wing and kept me busy helping make tea, talk to other patients and distracting my neurotic countenance from having a downright meltdown there on the ENT ward…

I do not remember her name, but at the age of 18, I proudly announced to my Mum that I wanted to go in to nursing.

After, she spluttered tea and a horrified ‘what?’ at me, I kinda saw her point. She had to spend countless hours calming me down, talking me out of a panic attack, a child riddled with good old garden variety agoraphobia (of which my grandmother suffered) and specifically emetophobia (a dark secret I have kept to myself and one that really cramps your party going style!).

But, ”Helen” she said “you’re so squeamish, how will you cope as a nurse?”

I never could answer that but confronting my fear, irrational or completely rational (you be the judge!) certainly helped and I thrived on helping and caring for others for many years.

My nursing experience and knowledge made it possible to travel to America and I worked at Florida Hospital in Orlando for many years.

I specialized in pediatric oncology nursing and developed a thirst for continued learning and research about better, safer treatments, symptom control and cures.

It wasn’t long after entering the US to nurse that I started to witness a trend towards the over prescription of medication, tests and procedures by doctors…

The world of pediatric oncology proved to be the only exception with the documented improvement in cure rates and survivorship programs. So, naturally it was a field where I felt I could honestly and with a clear conscious, care for my patients and their families.

Otherwise, we’re out there, legions of nurses, techs, aides…chasing our tails; drawing blood, over medicating, over testing and preparing elderly people (or any age for that matter) for crazy procedures and surgeries…

It’s exhausting…try a 12 hour shift on a saturday night. Anywhere…the pediatric unit, the emergency room, psychiatry, geriatrics…

You would not believe the psychological impact on a 50-60 hour a week, night nurse from a little town outside of London! Folks, it wore me OUT…

So when Vernon returned to the car this morning, smiling broadly about the headlines of the Tennessean today : ‘patients need less testing, treatment doctors say…’ www.tennessean.com

…it was in beautiful acknowledgement of my rant earlier on this week about countless painful and costly procedures and surgeries and the fact that many have suffered because of the greed of the medical establishment.

Oh! and I know, I have heard it umpteen times from the doctors…’well, we have to cover every angle’, ‘what if the patient sues?’ ‘we have to rule that out’ and ‘what about missing something, how about mal practice?’…

and believe me, even though they look like they know what they are doing, act like it, seem to give-a-damn,

Don’t be fooled…

Hmmmm….do you really want me to start talking about the medical mistakes I’ve seen? Probably not and I choose not to dwell on the innumerable, avoidable, unavoidable and downright tragic…

Instead when I think about my nursing years, I try to concentrate and reflect on the joy of caring for children, working side by side with outstanding pediatric oncology practitioners, seeing the positive results of my work and dedication …

But tucked right behind all those warm and fulfilling memories is the fact that healthcare reform in America is a VERY long time coming…

H. Bird

(ex-RN and former IV drug user) now spends her time livin’ laughin’ and lovin’ the arts, namely writing, drawing and photography…

addendum:

I wanted to share with you my favourite of all poetry by Longfellow ‘A Psalm of Life’

 What the Heart of the Young Man Said to the Psalmist

Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
 "Life is but an empty dream!"
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
"Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
" Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
 But to act, that each to-morrow
 Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
 And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums,
are beating Funeral marches to the grave.

In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
 Be a hero in the strife!

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
 Act,--act in the living Present! 
Heart within, and God o'erhead!

Lives of great men all remind us
 We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;

Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.

Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing
 Learn to labor and to wait.

Nashville Wild Child Blog III

During this period of Thanksgiving, family get together’s and comfortable times, Vernon and I never forgot how precariously we had spent the summer months on the streets of Nashville.

We are constantly thankful for the help, support and creativity of a friend in John Perkins.

For Vernon’s younger brother Ken and his beautiful family, who took us in over the holiday of gratitude…made us feel most welcome, wanted…loved.

Not once have we forgotten our friends less fortunate, who still face the struggle of day-to-day survival in a homeless world.

We think of them more so now than we ever have, now that winter brings colder weather.

Now that the holidays are here and families are united, share food, enjoy gifts and comfort…

So many have no family. Or they have long been estranged.

There are few friends on the street. It’s very hard to trust anyone or let your guard down.

Sub consciously you find yourself putting up a wall. An imaginary wall of protection from the elements, from figures of authority or others trying desperately to survive, just like you.

They spend Thanksgiving and Christmas alone or perhaps with a church group willing to sacrifice their own time for those in need or without.

Forever more, Vernon and I are particularly thankful because we have been there. We have experienced homelessness.

We both have encountered a rocky road in life. Poor choices, bad decisions…untimely or inopportune. Call it what you will.

Vernon enjoyed success. He met and mingled with the famous and talented. He was given opportunities…

Some may say he blew it all, that he lost everything because of his own excesses.

That he, quite possibly is his own worst enemy.

I, too followed a similar path.

Struggling so much with myself. Fighting the flow of life…

Maybe we are all guilty of doing just that, at some point or another in our lives?

There is, all of a sudden time to indulge ourselves.

The rewards of hard work, talent and success, uplift and ply our ego’s.

We finally see a fruition to all our hard labours, to all the hours we have struggled with the coming to reality of our art and ideas.

We squander the chance to enjoy a time rich with comforts. We experience a momentary lapse of responsibility.

Success…

It’s a very hard time for some to handle. Everything happens so quickly.

Friends that you thought were friends really never were.

We become self-absorbed…

Without thinking, we choose a path of self-destruction.

And then something happens to turn it all around.

A soul search.

A casual conversation with someone who cares.

We both have many to thank for our renaissance.

To come out of such a wilderness, relatively unscathed…

and to be given a second chance.

What a unique and special blessing!

One that we both cherish everyday.

The gift of having survived.

The opportunity to now make the right decisions.

And to do good with all that comes our way.

For that we are truly thankful.

“It’s not what you have, but who do you love?”

From the song, Rich Kids (written by Vernon Rust)

Please visit Kickstarter and support our documentary.

Nashville Wild Child documentary (Kickstarter project)


On photographing Spiderman

Or further reflections on homelessness – time out for silliness and having that luxury!

Gosh…it is great to be in a situation where it’s OK to be a little crazy and have the time to. This past year has been very stressful, dealing with homelessness and health issues but more importantly, I have learned to value and appreciate so much in life. It’s not as though I didn’t before. I came from that kind of family and up bringing. My grandparents lived in London during two world wars. My parents through the Blitz. They knew what rations were. They learned the hard way. They instilled in me an invaluable core of values and respect for life. And freedom…

But its one thing to learn about a situation. It’s a whole other story to down right experience it. I coined this recently ‘I had to lose it all to realize I had everything’. It has not been easy. But because of the hardship, because of the amazing people I have met a long the way, the resourcefulness I had to summon up and the strength I found I had, I can safely say that I truly understand. I can say ‘I know what its like’ and really mean it. Now I can apply my experience and the invaluable lessons I have learned, to do some good, to express and convey to the world what it feels like to hit rock bottom, to try to pull yourself up….

Now that the weather is turning cooler and we prepare for the winter months, I think more and more about my fellow urban campers out there. On the front line. Facing the elements. Being on the streets during the summer certainly had its issues but quite frankly I couldn’t imagine trying to keep warm, sleep and maintain a watch during those long endless nights out there. It is a battlefield. You  never know where your next meal is coming from or when and where you are going to be able to sleep that night.

I almost feel as though everyone at some point or another, during their lifetime should have to face a challenge such as no regular home….no car….no regular income….no one to call on for help. It’s a terribly humbling experience. One that toughens you up. I began to feel like a street warrior!  No matter what difficulty was thrown at me, no matter how hard it seemed like the day was going to be….I reached inside myself and pulled it out of a hat. I became so fit, able to carry a 20+ lb hold all all day long and clock all kinds of mileage over the city.

One Sunday, I looked around the church hall. They were preparing to feed the homeless supper. I found myself impressed with the human strength that had congregated together that evening. And not only in the physical sense, more so in a spiritual way. A collective gratitude for the simplest of things in life. A glass of cold water, a hot cup of coffee.

And the giving of thanks for yet another day of survival on the streets.

Matthew 5:5 ‘Blessed are the meek: for they shall inherit the earth.’

tgh


On photographing graffiti artists

Graffiti artists generally don’t want to be photographed or in fact noticed in person. They just want their art to be seen. Even then much of it is hidden, tucked away in abandoned places. Only the dedicated of graffiti hunters will find it, or other artists.

They are a nocturnal breed that goes about their business disguised and blending in with their surroundings. They tend to work in teams having crew members, friends, fellow artists look out for them while they paint.

I have been extremely lucky on my travels to catch some pretty awesome artists doing what they love the most. Out in plain sight, for all to see. As you can imagine, it’s a rare event and one that is only sanctioned by the powers-that-be or city officials.

It was while on a quick trip down to Los Angeles that I happened upon a very cool area on Venice Beach. There are community walls on one area of the beach where artists are allowed to do their thing. I sincerely hope it is still the case because I am aware of some crazy new ordinances put forth by the city.

There is a case recently discussed online (ref: American Bar Association journal) regarding one of Los Angeles most prolific graffiti artists. His name is Cristian Gheorghiu and over the years he has been fined $28000. He is an extremely talented artist and has made his way in to the world of fine art, gallery shows, etc. Apparently the city attorneys aren’t overly fond of his talents and have filed to prevent him from using his tag on canvas. Thank heavens for the ACLU, who is defending the artists constitutional right of free expression.

Hence the basic need for a darn good cover when you’re out brightening up the planet!

Anyway, I met this awesome artist who allowed me to photograph him extensively while he painted. I was using my first digital camera, an Olympus and I, also had close at hand my 35mm manual Olympus which unfortunately malfunctioned on me but not before I snagged some pretty cool photo’s.

We stayed in touch for a bit and he kept me updated with all the new pieces that he was working on. I had inspired him to get a decent camera and to photograph his work. 

He told me, unhappily that his parents were pushing him towards a more business oriented career path. They complained that there is no future in his art.

I could not have disagreed more. I urged him to follow his heart, to do what he loved to do…

My only hope from our brief time together on that beautiful and creative afternoon is that he would.

He had inspired me in so many ways. I hope I had made a similar impression on him.

Not only did I start painting a heck of a lot more since that day on super cool and zany Venice beach but I believe I began to really understand graffiti, its form, expression, the technique, the freedom surrounding its beauty and also how to apply it to my photography.

It’s as though everything came together during that trip.

News Update:

This week in print, Tony Cella and Simone Wilson look at L.A. City Attorney Carmen Trutanich’s war on public murals and the moratorium that has left many artists seeing their sanctioned work get buffed almost before the paint has even had time to dry.

Two such artists are Sand One and Vyal One, who recently painted a mural on a downtown restaurant with the owner’s permission. It lasted less than a week. Good thing Nanette Gonzales was there there to document their beautiful creation.

cut and paste link – http://blogs.laweekly.com/stylecouncil/2011/10/sand_vyal_mural.php

Keith Plocek LA Weekly 10/18/11


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