MoJoPokeyBlue's Open Salon Blog

Death & Taxes

Wed, 24 Jun 2009 18:06:46 -0400

“In this world nothing is certain but death and taxes.”

We all know this familiar quotation from Benjamin Franklin, but there’s an underlying message that few people have recognized. The trick in deciphering this message is that you can’t be an American Citizen. No matter how hard you try, if you were born on U.S. soil you’ll probably never figure it out.

I am not an American citizen. I am not a Canadian citizen. I’m a Native Indian of the Iroquois tribe; specifically from the Mohawk Nation. When my ancestors roamed this land, there was no border between Canada and the United States, which is why I consider myself a North American Citizen.

I was raised on the Six Nations Indian Reservation. I went to school there. For the first six years of my education I was even taught to speak the Mohawk language. I consider the Six Nations Indian Reservation a separate nation surrounded by Canada. Being a separate nation means that we can make up our own laws, like having our own police force or allowing casinos to be built, if we so desire.

From a legal standpoint, I carry a Canadian passport and U.S. Green Card. Being a Native Indian, I have the ability to travel and trade freely between Canada and the United States, which is guaranteed by the Jay Treaty that was ratified in 1795.

I came to the U.S. in 1992 and initially settled outside Chicago, Illinois. At that time I was looking for a job, but I didn’t have a Social Security card. I remember going to the Social Security office and showing the nice woman my Native Status card and asking for a Social Security number. She looked a little shocked and merely replied that there was no way I was going to get a number and no way I could legally work in the U.S. I asked to see a supervisor who took a photocopy of my Native Status card and within 10 minutes I was all set. I could now start worrying about identify-theft with the rest of you Yahoos.

Within 12 months of living in the U.S., there were two things that totally surprised, shocked, amazed and frightened me: death and taxes.

Death: When I first came here, driving around was an adventure. I couldn’t believe I was actually seeing giant billboards advertising hospitals, clinics, doctors and medical hotlines like 1-800-call-a-nurse-before-the-bills-really-start-racking-up. The radio spots were even better with their catchy jingles and slogans. “If you’re near death…come to our Hospital! (But only if you have insurance, otherwise we don’t want to see your sorry ass!)”

I was in the U.S. about six months before I had to see a doctor. I remember walking into the Clinic, up to the front desk ready to explain my seemingly never ending cold to some caring, sympathetic person who would write me a prescription.

Surprise, surprise!

No one was interested in what was wrong with me…they didn’t even want to know my name. The first question I was asked was: “How do you intend to pay for this?”

I was shocked. I was speechless. That experience literally took my breath away. No one had ever treated me like that before. Today, more than 15 years later, it frightens me that nothing has really changed and no one seems to care. It’s unfortunate, but I guess everyone has just gotten used to being treated this way.

There should be a difference between health care and a moneymaking business. A big difference. A noticeable difference. But there isn’t. We’re supposed to be the best country in the world, where we can do anything we set our minds to, but I guess it’s not that important to us yet.

Taxes: There’s a black cloud that follows everyone around in this country. This cloud has ultimate power over your life and knows everything about you. If you want to speak openly about this cloud, you have to whisper or else they might hear you. It sounds like the Gestapo police from an old Nazi movie, but it’s really disguised as the IRS.

I don’t get it. In a country that claims to be “the land of the free”…why is everyone so God-awful afraid of the IRS?

Everyone has a story about how “they” came in the middle of the night without just cause, and took some poor bastard to prison for 38 years while torturing the wife and kids. If these stories are to be believed, “they” can do anything they want. “They” don’t answer to anyone.

What I don’t understand and completely fail to comprehend is why are the innocent people afraid? There are people out there literally lying awake at night, shuddering in bed waiting for the dreaded call telling them they’re going to be audited. If you’ve never cheated on your taxes, what the hell are you afraid of? Is there even a shred of truth in these stories? What happened to the idea that the government works for the people? Is all of that bullshit? Do we simply tell this to other countries hoping they’ll be envious of us?

I tell everyone that if you’re going to live with this fear, you may as well cheat on your taxes. At least then you’d be getting something out of it.

Death and taxes…the Ben Franklin riddle. I guess you have to be from another country to get it.

Now…I know that all you insane and unreasonable people out there are going to tell me to leave the country if I don’t like it. Which is why I went to great lengths to explain my lineage. I’m a North American Citizen. I’m from a long line of people who were here first. This is where I’m “from”…I have nowhere to go back “to”.

I get to complain all I want.

The Walmart Greeter

Tue, 23 Jun 2009 12:06:46 -0400

Let me admit right up front that I don’t do well with unnecessary interaction. Call it a pet peeve or call me an over-reacting jerk; all I know is that there are certain things in life that bug me. Really, really bug me.

We need to pause here a moment so that you can truly reflect on what I’m talking about. Stop the train; shut off the TV; put down the book; everybody out of the pool.

When I say something ‘…really bugs me’, try to understand that this borders on Obsessive Compulsive Disorder, to the point that I’m physically affected. My breathing becomes labored, my heart rate and blood pressure increases accordingly and I can actually feel my central nervous system slowly constrict my very existence. A dark, thick liquid rises from the pit of my stomach, up my esophagus tube and onto my tongue, where it turns in the most disgustingly tasting bile one could imagine. My brain immediately kicks into overdrive and it feels like I’m somehow traveling near the speed of light as I try to comprehend the sheer stupidity of some people. If you think you can appreciate what I’m trying to describe, multiply this feeling by a factor of 10 and you might be close to catching a glimpse of what I’m actually going through.

Yes people, it’s that bad.

You can all get back into the pool now.

Let me also highlight that my feelings are pointed inward. I’m not the type of person to become so enraged that I completely, (or even remotely), lose my temper, blow my top, or turn into a Tasmanian devil. I’ve seen people react like this and although it’s sometimes mildly amusing, it’s not who I want to be. Instead of losing my temper, I’ve learned to channel this excess energy into something better: sarcasm.

My wife tells me that it’s my biggest fault. Apparently, I’m sarcastic at the most inappropriate times. I asked her if she could describe a situation where sarcasm might be appropriate.

“Good point…and yet another example of your sarcasm.”

“But that was an honest question. It doesn’t count as sarcasm.”

“This just proves how much of a problem you really have. You’re subconsciously sarcastic.”

“Okay. I’ll buy that for a dollar. But what if the sarcasm is funny; does that mean it’s inappropriate?”

“If it’s above a ‘7.839’ on the funny scale, I’ll let it slide.”

“Duly noted.”

So besides the magic potion, what would cause the mild mannered Dr. Jekyll to turn into a sarcastic Mr. Hyde? It’s not easy to re-live these images while trying to write, but for the good of humanity and future generations, I will try my best to describe various situations of unnecessary interaction. Most of these situations come disguised in the form of customer service, with me being the customer. I’ve pondered these situations for endless hours and have exhausted a considerable number of brain cells in at attempt to arrive at a plausible explanation for people’s behavior.

So far I’ve been unsuccessful.

The first example that comes to mind is the Wal-Mart Greeter.

JUST WHAT IN THE NAME OF THE MOST HOLY MOTHER MARY OF JESUS H. CHRIST IS THIS PERON’S JOB ???!!!!!

I don’t know this person and they don’t know me. Why are they trying to interact with me? Wal-mart doesn’t care about me. They only want my money. I know this and they know this, and they know that I know this. There’s no need to pretend that we care about each other.

I’ll be damned in eternal Hell if the CEO of Wal-Mart didn’t established a 50-person task force entitled, How to Annoy the Complete Crap Out of the Customers Every Time They Walk into a Wal-Mart Store.

It’s true. When I walk into a Wal-Mart store, I don’t have to shit for three days. As far as I’m concerned they can close the men’s restroom inside the store and use that space for something useful, like modeling classes for Phyllis Diller, the Hunchback of Notre Dane and the entire monkey population at the Detroit Metropolitan Zoo.

If the Wal-mart executives would pull their heads out of their never-been-wiped-good-enough butts for half a second, they would put an end to this ‘Greeter-gimmick’. Anyone who’s been in retail for more than 5 minutes knows that for a gimmick to work successfully, you have to use the 4 B’s: Beautiful, Blonde, Busty and Barely-clothed.

Noooooooooooooo. We get an old retard with spittle sliding down the side of their face…or at least what looks like spittle on what looks like their face.

I can’t be the only one. Come on…this has to bug a few more people.

As a marketing research project, I propose that we do the following: have two entrances and let the mass population decide what they’d rather do. Door #1 is the sorry-ass Wal-mart Greeter. Door #2 opens to a large swimming pool full of whale shit that you’re forced to jump into and somehow make your way to the other side and into the store. I guar-fuck-an-tee it that Door #2 will be more popular.

I’ve discussed this topic with my friends and the general consensus I get is that I’m over-reacting. (How they get this obviously wrong impression, I don’t know.)

“Dude, lighten up. It’s just an old fart saying ‘Hi’.”

“But it’s not. It’s a conspiracy.”

“Conspiracy? You’ve been reading way too many Babylon 5 books lately.”

“No really, I’ll prove it to you.”

I then go into a detailed explanation about capitalism and corporate greed. Everyone readily agrees that Wal-mart wants to make money. If they thought having or not having the despicable Greeter would make them more money, guess which way they’d go? They’d go with the money of course! At the end of the day the Greeter is NOT there to make you feel welcome; the Greeter is NOT there to point you to the Jeff Gordan bath mats; the Greeter is NOT there to help you save time; the Greeter is there because the gimmick makes money.

Am I the only one that sees the dancing street monkey with a tin cup?

C’mon people, try to keep up:

The dancing street monkey makes money for its owner; the Greeter makes money for Wal-Mart
The monkey has a tin cup; Wal-Mart has cash registers
They’re both forced to wear vests
They both have music playing in the background

I’m all for making money and I think Wal-Mart has done quite nicely at it. However, the Greeter gimmick is unnecessary. If I’ve made it to the front door, you’ve already got me. I’m coming in.

Now get out of my face…

leave me alone…

and stop annoying me.

It Should Have Been Me Too

Mon, 22 Jun 2009 19:06:00 -0400

I’m 11 years old and lying in bed. My eyes are wide open even though it’s completely dark in our room. My little brother is in his own bed next to mine. I want to call out to him to see if he’s awake too; but I’m afraid. I’m afraid because it’s Friday.

Friday is payday.

I hear His car pull in the driveway and I remind myself to shut my eyes.

Things might be different tonight. Maybe He’ll go right to bed.

I start thinking of my plan when I hear Him get out of the car. It sounds like He tripped over something but I can’t be sure. It doesn’t matter if He did or not…He’d think of something to be angry about. I made sure the driveway was clear and all the toys were picked up before we came up to bed, even though I know it’s never good enough.

“God DAMN…these fuckin’ kids!!!”

Here we go.

He’s in the house now. That’s my cue. I open my eyes and get out of bed. I reach under my mattress and get my jeans and a shirt that I had hid earlier. I don’t dare leave any clothes on the floor.

I can hear him coming up the steps. His voice starts off slow and deliberate, and then turns into a raw, burning rage. “How…many…times…do I HAVE TO TELL THEM?!!!!”

I look over at Allan. He’s fast asleep. I think about waking him, but it wouldn’t work. Allan is two years younger than me and I know I’m supposed to look out for him, but I’ve already made up my mind. I open the closet door and hide behind the clothes, making sure to close the door behind me as quietly as I can.

“WHICH ONE OF YOU KIDS WAS RIDING YOUR BIKE ON THE LAWN? I CAN SEE TIRE TRACKS ALL OVER THE GOD DAMN PLACE!!!”

I hear Him reach for his belt and start swinging. He’s so drunk that he doesn’t even notice that I’m not in bed. I hear Allan start to cry; trying his best to say he’s sorry. I pretend that we can talk to each other mentally.

Stay down…whatever you do, don’t lift up your head.

He’s really in a rhythm now. With each swing of His belt I can almost see His jaw clenching to emphasize the important words. “How many TIMES… do I have to TELL… you kids to NOT… ride your BIKES… on the fuckin’ LAWN?”

Allan is howling. I start hugging myself and realize that I’m shaking. Tears start running down my cheeks like you wouldn’t believe, but no matter what…I’m not going to make a sound. I think that if there were a contest for the quietest crier, I’d win it hands down. At least I’d be good at something.

Finally, He drops the belt and slumbers off downstairs. His arm must have gotten tired.

I wait a few more minutes.

I’ve been tricked before.

When I hear the TV come on downstairs, I open the closet door and go to Allan. He still hasn’t found his voice. At this point, he’s crying so hard he can barely breath. I put my arm around him and pull him closer to me. Allan jerks away as if I’m the one that just beat the living crap out of him. I know at this point he’s just scared of everyone…including me.

I’m sorry. I should have stayed and let Him hit me too. Maybe He wouldn’t have hit you so hard if I was here. Maybe if I would have ran downstairs He would have left you alone.

We end up crying each other to sleep. I’m the older one. I’m suppose to know what to do. I wish Mom was still here.

The next morning it’s bright and sunny in our room. I open my eyes expecting to find Allan right next to me, but he’s gone. Already dressed, I walk downstairs. Both He and Allan are in the kitchen. Allan’s laughing and licking on an ice cream cone.

“Look what Daddy got me!” exclaims Allan.

He and I make eye contact. I try my best to stare Him down. He looks away first and then walks into the next room and turns on the TV.

I walk over to Allan and look at him. He doesn’t look too bad this time. Allan thinks I want some of his ice cream cone, so he turns away from me. He starts licking faster; he wants all of it for himself.

I don’t want any of your ice cream. You can have it all.

I’m sorry.

It should have been me too.

Best Buy or Best Lie?

Sun, 21 Jun 2009 01:06:26 -0400

When entering a Best Buy store, I’m now ‘greeted’ by a guy in a blue shirt. (Lately they’ve been changing their shirt color to a Best-Buy yellow, but that doesn’t matter.) In addition to loudly bellowing out “HELLO!!!” he also mumbles “…howyadoing?”

I’ve never met this guy before in my life and he knows absolutely nothing about me. I find it strange and somewhat intrusive that he is suddenly concerned about my well-being.

Well…almost concerned.

About 90% of the time, the official Greeter is in the middle of a conversation with a fellow Blue-shirter. (Sometimes yellow…but it still doesn’t matter.) Immediately after he asks how I’m doing, he turns away from me and continues his conversation, which I know must be about National Security or something equally important for him to so quickly ignore me, while trying his best to show an interest in my personal life.

So exactly how am I doing? Let’s see; I’ve just been asked a question and then promptly ignored. I guess I feel like the victim of a cheap marketing gimmick.

Nevertheless, I continue my journey into the store. This particular day I was searching for a personal MP3 player. Once I found where the MP3 players were located, I immediately went into “shopping” mode. I examined several units, carefully reading the technical specs, warranty information, price, and mentally evaluating each device for overall good looks. When I made my decision, I phased out of “shopping” mode and went into “end-of-transaction” mode. Because most humans can’t read minds, I signified my transition by going to the front of the store and standing in line for the next available Cashier. No one, in his or her right mind would think that I was still “shopping”.

As the Cashier was scanning my item however, she obviously didn’t understand that I was out of “shopping” mode, because she proceeded to sell me an extended warranty for my MP3 player. After politely saying “No thanks…” a few times, another Blue-shirter (sometimes yellow) casually strolls up to the register and jumps into a story of how her boyfriend bought the exact same item…broke it…and then saved a ton of money because he was smart enough to buy the extended warranty.

I quickly sense that she’s lying. There is no boyfriend…there is no MP3 player…nothing was broken…nothing was promptly replaced…nobody lived happily ever after. (Side note: nobody ever does, but that’s another topic for another day.) It’s all a lie to sell me the extended warranty. Upon quick reflection, I realize that it’s her job to hang around the registers with this ‘story’, patiently waiting for unsuspecting victims.

Now if there’s one thing I know, it’s bullshit. This was bullshit. Not the ‘pure and simple’ bullshit, but the really smelly kind because it involved money…my money. I didn’t walk into Best Buy…I walked into Best Lie.

“What would happen if I don’t get the extended warranty, went home and found out that the device didn’t work?” I asked. “Are you saying you guys wouldn’t replace it, or give me my money back?”

Both Cashier and Liar quickly looked at each other and mentioned something about a hassle-free, no-questions-asked return.

“I have to pay you money so you won’t hassle me if I return a defective item?”

Liar begins to slowly retreat back to her assigned post while Cashier explains that all products come with a “limited” warranty and the “extended” warranty would continue to take care of me.

I pick up the MP3 player. “Do you know how long the warranty is on this product?”

“No.”

“Well then how do you know the extended warranty lasts longer?”

She doesn’t. But she’s absolutely positive that I need it.

Once she realizes that I’m not going to bite, she further complicates things by trying to get me interested in a magazine subscription. Here I am trying to give them money and Best Lie is doing a great job of making things difficult. I want to say, ‘How about I pay you extra money for a hassle-free checkout?’ but my wife has been on my case lately about my supposedly sarcastic comments. (I could hardly wait to get home and explain how I’ve changed.)

After declining the warranty for a third time and the magazine subscription twice, Cashier raises her eyebrows, slowly shakes her head and with a resigning, somewhat overly dramatic sigh she says, “Well…okay.”

Cool.

After the Gestapo-like interrogation, I felt like I had just been handed back my passport, having barely made it through another checkpoint. I still had to get past the Greeter, but at least I was on my way. A future memory quietly slips into my mind: I’m sitting around a warm fireplace, finishing up this story to my grandchildren. “…THANK GOD Cashier decided that it was ‘…okay.’ ” I would exclaim, denoting the end of this twisted tale that I had undoubtedly told too many times in the past. To add a higher level of emphasis, I would search out the youngest child and give him or her a deliberate nod. There would be no need to explain what might have happened that day, had fate lead me down a different path.

As I was leaving the store, the Greeter mumbles, “Byehaveaniceday.”

As when I entered the store, I ignored him.