It All Started When Grass Started to Grow

Recently, I began working with Grassroots Campaigns, Inc. The office is downtown Manhattan. From 125th street, it takes me about 15 minutes to get to 30th street via Penn Station. It's so convenient, especially with the D Train and A Train running right next to my house. The other day on the train, this old homeless man was sitting at the far end of the subway. I didn't see him at first; all I noticed was the empty car in the middle of rush hour (yes, usually too good to be true). So I board, excited to get a seat and read. It wasn't until I sat that I realized the smell. What the hell was that? But I knew: it was an overwhelming fetor of urine. That's no exaggeration. It burned my nostrils and watered my eyes. My throat pinched and my lips began to curdle. The whole car was cleared out and only one brave soul (besides myself) was sitting, pretending as if one of his senses temporarily failed him. He was the stiff, white-collar type and all he'd do to show his frustration with the stinking man was to flip his newspaper extra hard, too frequently, in a spurious attempt to appear as if he couldn't get his paper to act right. I love NYC.

But back to Grassroots Campaigns, Inc. I've been working with the them for a little over a month. GCI raises money for independent campaigns for certain organizations. For example, they raised money for the Democratic National Convention during President Obama's campaign (GO OBAAAAAMA!) Currently, we're working on a Save The Children campaign where we're raising money for the most efficient relief organization on the planet. There is no other organization like Save The Children. They give .92 cents of every $1 earned to program services like wells for clean drinking water, preschools and education. They are, hence, the SHIT! I've enjoyed working with GCI and even more, participating within a framework of nonprofit and, somewhere in that framework, helping the babies. It's like an extension of my Peace Corps service and I'm proud of it. Although, I think it will be a million years before I live in the RIM again, although I'd be more than happy to visit. This Stella Artois is for you Mauritanie. Je t'adore et j'apprecie toujours. Vous avez aide me mouler!