#the lexus and the olive tree

[bigedred]

The Lexus and the Olive Tree [Paperback]

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[miniaussiemollie]

Day 3

It was a cloudy and rather dreary start to my day. Mollie is doing what she does best besides eating and taking naps. She has discovered a new crawly that I think is a stink bug and is trying to herd it across the floor. I hope she doesn’t eat it.

Susie and the kids have gone into town for a bit so that leaves me with my own thoughts and my computer. This would be a great time to enjoy some tea and continue my search for understanding what worldviews might be here. What I originally thought was more religious, more closely resemble an open society.

Australia's values are the values of an open society. It believes that freedom is best advanced when it nurtures an environment where ideas can flourish, where contending philosophies have to make their case in the marketplace of ideas and where those who govern are held accountable to the governed.

Australia's national interests are frequently asserted but rarely defined. At their core, they are timeless: to advance security and prosperity and to contribute to the shaping and running of international institutions which reinforce the rule of law and international norms of behavior.  

Imperial trade and domestic protection gave way to global markets and a more open economy. And around the same time, Australia’s strategic policy also underwent profound changes with a stronger emphasis on defense self-reliance and a greater confidence in our ability to defend Australia but within an alliance framework.

In the worldview of Australia’s religious practices, the percentages of different religions have a lot do have a lot to do with how they relate and interact to each other. Roman Catholic 20%, Protestant 18.1% (Anglican 9.8%, Uniting Church 2.6%, Presbyterian and Reformed 1.6%, Baptist 1.4%, Pentecostal 1%, another Protestant 1.7%), other Christian 3.5%, Muslim 3.2%, Hindu 2.7%, Buddhist 2.4%, Orthodox 2.3% (Eastern Orthodox 2.1%, Oriental Orthodox 0.2%), other 2.1%, none 38.4%, unspecified 7.3% (https://www.discoverwalks.com).(2021 est.)

The textbook shows a variety of religious disciplines, and each corresponds with a country and a way of life.  Some of the listed religions date back from 4000 years to 1400 years, Hinduism, Judaism, Christianity and Islam just to name a few. “Communication between Cultures”, 9th edition.  2019).

Religious traditions provide structure, discipline, and social participation in a community.” Friedman uses the image of an olive tree and its deep stable roots in the title of his book (“The Lexus and the Olive Tree”) to underscore the powerful and enduring quality of religion to a collection of people.   “Religion as a Worldview”. (Communications between Cultures, 9th edition, 2019).

Economic overview seems to be what I thought but had to look it up anyway. Australia’s economy appears to be highly developed, diversified, regionally and globally integrated economy with strong mining, (https://www.discoverwalks.com).

Manufacturing and service sectors; Australia is a net exporter driven by commodities to East Asian trade partners; “Future Made in Australia” program focuses on green energy investments. (https://www.cia.gov).  In all it really is not that much different than in the U.S. or other free countries.

Susie came home from town and Mollie presented the crawly which turns out to be a scarab beetle, non-venomous but would have tasted nasty if she had eaten it.

[gentlemans-code20]

#TurnPage - The lexus and the olive tree (understanding globalisation)

In The Lexus and the Olive Tree, Thomas L. Friedman, the Pulitzer Prize – winning foreign affairs columnist for The New York Times, offers an engrossing look at the new international system that is transforming world affairs today.

[caesarsaladinn]

rip Kazuhira Miller you would have loved The Lexus and the Olive Tree. though it came out in his lifetime so maybe he read it

rip revolver ocelot you would have been all over this Prigozhin shit

[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“How can we best promote world peace? As always, Thomas Friedman has a stunningly original answer: by building more McDonald’s. Here’s Friedman’s “Golden Arches Theory of Conflict Prevention” from his new book The Lexus and the Olive Tree:

…[A]s I Quarter-Poundered my way around the world in recent years, I began to notice something intriguing. I don’t know when the insight struck me. It was a bolt out of the blue…. And it was this:

No two countries that both had McDonald’s had fought a war against each other since each got its McDonald’s.

That’s what passes for an insight, in what passes for the mind of Thomas Friedman. Please note that this man is the possessor of what he himself calls “the best job in the world”: Foreign Correspondent for the New York Times. He is paid a huge salary to Quarter-Pound his way around the world producing “insights” like this. That’s the most interesting aspect of the whole Friedman phenomenon: not that Friedman is a bear of very little brain (because after all, there are a lot of Poohs in the woods) but that this Pooh is a leading writer for America’s newspaper of record.

Why would a hegemonic world power hire an outright halfwit as spokesman?

The very stupidity of Friedman’s analyses must somehow serve the Empire’s purposes. Once you admit this possibility, you can see that it fits an historical pattern. Again and again, the truly powerful Empires hire mediocrities; it’s the marginal empires which generate the great sloganeers – Mao, for example. Whatever else may be said about him, Mao came up with some great lines, from “paper tiger” to “Let a hundred flowers bloom.” When those five-million-strong crowds chanted in Tienanmen, they were quoting some first-rate poetry. That little red book they waved enclosed some of the best lines of the century.

Friedman, slogan kommissar of a much stronger Empire, couldn’t get drunken Manchester United fans chanting. Consider his use of numbers. This was one of Mao’s favorite mnemonic devices; “Smash the four olds!” “Destroy the Seventh Snake!” All Friedman has to offer is “The Three Democratizations” – but Friedman’s three D’s are so uninspiring that two days after finishing his book, I can only name two of them. If this guy was working for the Chinese Propaganda Ministry, he’d soon find himself collecting glowing camel-dung in the most radioactive districts of Sinkiang.

But the US, like nineteenth-century Britain, is so strong that it doesn’t want talented poets working for it. Think of the intentionally flat slogans of the British Empire:

“England expects every man to do his duty.” “The battle of Waterloo was won on the playing fields of Eton.”

Dull lines – meant to be dull. The British, in their glory days, revelled in their dullness, associating real poetry with women, the French, and other lesser species. There was an element of gloating in the very dullness of their slogans: let the conquered know that they are ruled by mediocrities.

The slogans Friedman develops in this book have the same triumphant dullness. Their purpose is not to inspire Americans, but to convince everyone else that there’s no way to stop “Globalization-Americanization” (his term). Take his favorite oxymoron, “The Golden Straitjacket,” his name for the state-model created by Thatcher and Reagan. It’s “Golden” because if you implement it, your country will supposedly get rich. It’s a “Straitjacket” because, as Friedman says over and over again, it takes away all your freedom. He compares this straitjacket to the Mao suit, evoking those grey-clad crowds in the great Tienanmin Square rallies:

‘The Golden Straitjacket is the defining garment of this globalization era. The Cold War had the Mao suit, the Nehru jacket, the Russian fur [sic]. Globalization has only the Golden Straitjacket. If your country has not been fitted for one, it will be soon.”

Friedman comes up with dozens of glib, sloppy metaphors implying that there is no way out of “globalization-Americanization,” and that anyone who tries to resist will be stampeded. He refers to the wired-up leaders of the movement as “the Electronic herd,” which tramples anything in its way. He takes the cattle-herd metaphor further, dividing the wired American elite into “long-horn” and “short-horn” cattle, and adds that the herd is served by the “bloodhounds” of financial-rating services like Moody’s.

Friedman doesn’t seem to know that cattle herds aren’t usually guided by bloodhounds. But the clumsiness of his metaphors is part of his job. He’s here to threaten those who seem reluctant to join the herd. Who wants subtlety from a leg-breaker? The cruder the metaphor, the more frightening. Good poets don’t make good goons. And Friedman is pure goon, brass-knuckled platitudes all the way. Like a Naked Gun voiceover, he lets his violent metaphors stampede where they will. One of the most ham-handed metaphorical panics is what happens to this “electronic herd.” Within pages of its introduction, the “herd” is transformed from cattle to wildebeest, grazing the Savannah. Ah, but that’s only the beginning. You have to read it to believe it, so take a deep breath and follow Mr. Friedman into the Serengeti of international finance:

Think of the Electronic Herd as being like a herd of wildebeests grazing over a wide area of Africa. When a wildebeest on the edge of the herd sees something move in the tall, thick brush next to where it’s feeding, that wildebeest doesn’t say to the wildebeest next to it, “Gosh, I wonder if there’s a lion moving around there in the brush.” No way. That wildebeest just starts a stampede, and these wildebeests don’t stampede for a mere hundred yards. They stampede to the next country and crush everything in their path. So how do you protect your country from this? Answer: You cut the grass, and clear away the brush, so that the next time the wildebeest sees something rustle in the grass it thinks, “No problem, I see what it is. It’s just a bunny rabbit.” […] What transparency does is get more information to the wildebeests faster, so whatever they want to do to save their skins they can do in an orderly manner. In the world of finance this can mean the difference between having your market take a little dip and having it nosedive into sustained losses that take months or years to recover from.

Is he TRYING to be ridiculous here? I don’t think so. Friedman is a perfect spokes-beest for the entire herd. His endless Mister-Ed monologues comfort the other ruminants, reminding them of their hegemony.

But that doesn’t make for great Imperial poetry. In fact, by the end of that paragraph, with its African bunny rabbits, transparent wildebeest and brush-clearance program, poor old Mao is banging his head against the coffin-lid. Mao’s corpse is praying to Marx, Stalin, and Kwan-Yin for one day back on Earth, just time enough to liquidate this Friedman, whose hack-work shames ideological poets everywhere. In fact, seismologists detect widespread vibrations as Imperial poets from Virgil to Kipling batter their coffin-lids, screaming in agony, as Friedman drones on.

But there are horses for courses, and this garrulous Mister Ed is perfect as mouthpiece of the gloating, swaggering American Empire in its moment of triumph. Because Friedman’s not just dumb; he’s mean, too. He just loves to tell those about to undergo “Globalization-Americanization” that the process is going to hurt:

Unfortunately, the Golden Straitjacket is pretty much ‘one size fits all.’ So it pinches certain groups, squeezes others….It is not always pretty or gentle or comfortable. But it’s here and it’s the only model on the rack this historical season.

But of course he has to offer something which passes for evidence. So, to fill the time between “insights,” he recounts inspirational anecdotes gleaned from lickspittles and Uncle Toms the world over. Friedman meets the son of a leading PLO general, and is gratified that the boy is now working as a software salesman with no hard feelings over the fact that his father took a hundred bullets from an Israeli hit team. He is told by Anatoly Chubais, that herd bull of the Russian Young Wildebeest herd, that it’s Russia’s own fault entirely that the country is in ruins.

Russia, in fact, is the villain of this book. Friedman hates Russia – truly hates it, with a mealy-mouthed venom which does not make pleasant reading. His book begins with a quote from an American businessman whining that it’s “aggravating” that the Russian crash actually affects his profits. When he needs a bad example, it’s always Russian. He tells the hoary anecdote (an “insight” in this case, naturally) about the Russian elevator with misnumbered floors, and the equally venerable anecdote about the Russian who drives his tank to town because he doesn’t have a car. Oh, those funny, funny Russians, with their aggravating habit of starving to death just when we want to celebrate. Like many of the Empire’s leg-breakers, Friedman hates Russia for all sorts of reasons: as a child of cold-war America; as an Israel-can-do-no-wrong Middle-East correspondent; and above all as a popularizer of the get-with-the-program hegemony of the Golden Straitjacket. Russia doesn’t fit into the Golden Straitjacket very well. In fact, the Straitjacket made Russia so uncomfortable that by 1998, its screams were audible even in the offices of the New York Times. Friedman and his masters will never forgive Russia for ruining the gloat-fest with that discordant scream.”

- John Dolan, “THOMAS FRIEDMAN: THE EMPIRE’S USEFUL IDIOT: AN EXILE CLASSIC.” The eXiled. June 8, 2000. Issue 92.

[oneinchbarrier]

[dcbbw]

American Thanksgiving

This original story is my submission (if it isn’t too late) for a writing challenge that has now closed. (Gonna post it anyway)  I decided to go with a holiday (Thanksgiving) theme, and I am really, truly crossing fingers hoping it all makes sense.

THANK YOU to those who read this over and assured me it wasn’t boring and for giving me the idea that maybe I can follow-up on these characters for Christmas. A huge THANK YOU to all who will read this.

Please, please, please forgive any typos, missing/extraneous words, and/or grammatical errors. While MS Editor rates this as 99% error free, it’s me and I am tired and it’s getting really close to my bedtime.

All characters belong to me

Word Count: 4,775

Song Inspiration: Wash., Bon Iver

No triggers or warnings that I can think of, but there are mature themes in this story. If you find any part of the content disturbing, please let me know so I can tag appropriately.

PS--For anyone curious why Scott Peterson is an unfortunate name choice, here’s your answer. 

Atlanta, GA

“You look pretty, Linda,” Yoyo grudgingly complimented me as I slip my feet inside of brown pumps that are barely on the right side of being termed worse for wear.

It’s Thanksgiving Day, one of the few days of the year the shelter allows us to stay in all day; even better, we’re allowed to stay in bed all day with the exception of meals. For those of us fortunate enough to have somewhere to go, curfew is extended until 8pm.

This year, I’m among the fortunate. My sister Lisa is having dinner at her house: it will be a small affair with Lisa’s husband and daughter, our sister Lucy and her family, and my son Famir. I haven’t seen my only child in over a decade because of my drug addiction; I last saw him when he was 13.

It was for the best.

I’ve lived a life of street corners and jail cells.

Lisa raised him right, keeping my son off the streets, and involved in studies and sports. And now my baby is 28 years old, headed to Dubai to work for an international finance company. I have no idea when I’ll see him again after today.

I rise from the side of the twin bed, tossing Yoyo a quick glance. “Thank you. I’m sorry you won’t be with your family today.”

I am rummaging in my locker for my only pair of earrings; my eyes fall upon my 30-day chip.

Thirty days clean.

It’s a milestone for me, one that I’m proud of and am eager to share with my son. Finally, after decades given to the streets, I’m ready to rejoin society and be the mother he deserves. I quickly attach the jewelry to my earlobes, swipe on some lipstick, and tug the slightly too-small sweater dress down around my knees; I am just pulling on a shabby wool coat, turquoise in color with a faux-fur collar, when my name is called over the loudspeaker.

I shut the locker door, and again catch sight of Yoyo; she has her bedcovers pulled up to her chin. Her face is in profile, and I see tears shine her ebony-colored cheeks as she stares at the bare branches of the tree outside the window.

“I’ll bring you back some pie,” I promise as I hurry out the door.

Lucy is waiting for me at the shelter’s entrance. She looks … expensive. Her coat is a simple, yet stylish, ankle-length gray wool. Underneath is a black jumpsuit, complemented with a heavy turquoise pendant. Her hair is perfectly styled, her olive complexion smooth. When we hug, I smell her fragrance; it’s a woodsy floral. Her red lipstick imprints itself on my cheek when she kisses me.

My sister chats excitedly about how happy everyone is I’m coming to dinner as we walk to her Lexus SUV; I’m fastening my seatbelt when she presses money into my hand. I glance down and back at her, pleasantly puzzled. I didn’t agree to come to dinner for a financial reason.

“You’re doing good, Linda. I don’t know if you’re still using or not, but you’ve been in one place for almost two months. It’s … progress, and progress should be rewarded.”

“Thank you,” I say quietly. I stare out the passenger window, looking at dilapidated houses and cracked sidewalks pass by before peppering my sister with questions.

“How’s Famir? Is he good? Does he know I’m coming?”

I feel the shift in Lucy’s demeanor as the car gently brakes at a stoplight., and my shoulders tense ever so slightly.

We’re at the infamous intersection known to us locals as the War Zone; it’s a red-light district where prostitutes, drug dealers, and gang bangers converge. A few homeless folks, too old or too riddled with illness to support their habits, huddle inside of bus shelters, their outstretched hands silently begging for money from the few passersby.

Women with skinny bodies and dead eyes sit on the stoops of vacant houses that are boarded over and splashed with graffiti, watchful for both potential johns and the police. There are no holidays here, no 30-day chips, no hope.

“He’s not coming,” my sister says softly. “He’s attending a Friendsgiving or something.”

The hurt I feel at hearing her words is physical; my gut aches, as if I’ve been sucker-punched. My baby, my reason for getting clean, the only person I want to see today … is abandoning me when I need him most.

Tit for tat.

I already know the answer, but I ask the question anyway. “It’s because of me, isn’t it?”

I feel my sister’s hand grip my wrist. Her voice has tears in it when she replies. “Famir just needs time to process things. It’s a lot of pain and broken bridges between you two. He needs to see that you’re changing for the better, for real this time.”

Except he can’t see if he isn’t showing up.

I am quiet as tears burn the corners of my eyes; my heart sinks as I realize that I’ll never get a chance to show him that I do love him, have always loved him. That my decisions, which appear selfish on the surface, were actually borne of wanting the best for him. I couldn’t be his mother and pimped by drugs at the same time.

I feel Lucy’s eyes on me. “Lin, don’t cry! He can still swing by after his dinner for dessert. You may still be able to see him!”

But I no longer want to go. I can’t deal with facing my son’s condemnation and judgement. In my mind for the past two weeks, I had visions of a picture-perfect reunion: forgiveness, healing, my son and I beaming and basking in the pride of my triumphant return to life and his understanding of my choices.

My thirty days of sobriety has given me just enough clarity to realize the problem is I can only see it from my perspective:  I didn’t abandon him; I gave him to his aunt who was better equipped to raise him. Unsure if I cannot or merely refuse to see the situation through Famir’s eyes.

I may be ready to function in society, but I am unprepared to deal with reality.

“Let me out,” I say.

“What? No!”

“STOP THE FUCKING CAR!” I yell forcefully, emotions tearing me apart.

Lucy stops the car in front of a rundown strip mall; only the McDonald’s and 7-11 are open. Panhandlers loiter around both doorways. I recognize three of the folks: Two are well-known drug dealers, conversing in front of the liquor store; Doobie and Minnesota Fats. The third is my former street-running partner, Pinky; she’s eating fries while squatting in front of the beauty supply store.

Lucy is openly crying, her hands gripping the steering wheel. “LINDA! Don’t let this be a setback! Famir may not be ready, but your sisters, your niece, your nephews ARE! What am I supposed to tell everyone?”

There is a soft thump as her forehead hits the colorful fabric encircling the wheel.

I shove the wad of cash into my coat pocket while unlocking the passenger door.

“You can tell them I had 30 days sober.”

I exit the vehicle, walking briskly to meet up with my past. My present. My future.

Wilson, NC

The two women at across from each other at the dining room table; their dinner plates were before them: Cornish hen, mashed potatoes drenched in giblet gravy, dressing, and buttered green peas. Two dessert plates in the middle of the table held slices of pumpkin pie topped with whipped cream.

Ella Fitzgerald sang softly from a vintage phonograph player.

A beautiful cherrywood Dutch cabinet with paned windows lined one wall of the room; inside was fine china and glassware on the lower shelves. The top two ledges held photographs: wedding photos; baby pictures; group photos of military units; people long dead, their faces forever captured in laughter and smiles at parties and picnics.

Alice Cooper was saying the prayer, her lips moving slowly against the sides of her hands which were pressed close to her mouth. Her thin blonde hair lay in limp curls against her wrinkled cheeks.

“Dear Lord, thank You for another day filled with small mercies and bigger blessings. Amen.”

She opened her pale blue eyes, clouded over with cataracts, to see her oldest, and best friend Anna Horowitz slicing into her hen. Anna was short to Alice’s tall, and stout to her friend’s skinny. Anna’s hair was steel gray and pulled back in a severe bun. Her still-dark eyebrows were furrowed in concentration as she cut.

Alice’s gaze went from Anna to her own dinner plate, then to the slices of pie. “I think I want pie first.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alice! Eat your supper, then you can have dessert.”

“Land’s sake, Anna! It’s Thanksgiving! It’s all about the pie!”

“Turkey,” Anna corrected as she dragged her fork through the potatoes.

“Does it look like we’re eating turkey?”

“The Macy’s parade was lovely, don’t you think?” Anna changed the subject, covertly watching Alice finally begin eating her dinner.

“It used to be so much better, it’s way too modern now but the singing tree was nice.”

The two women had been friends for over 70 years, having first met in the Women’s Army Auxiliary Corps in 1954. Despite their advanced age of 93, the two women were still extremely active: working two days a week at the Wilson County American Legion office, gardening, participating in a senior exercise class at the local YMCA, church, and meandering around the local flea markets and thrift shops.

They had been roommates for the past 15 years, when Anna’s husband died. To avoid infighting amongst her children, who Anna freely admitted were hooligans, she sold her brick ranch house and divided the proceeds equally between her and her offspring; what furniture no one wanted was donated. Anna then moved into the four bedroom, 3 bath Victorian with bay windows and wraparound porch with Alice and changed her phone number.

Alice had no children; she had been widowed at the age of 40. She never remarried, choosing to stay in the house she and her husband had purchased with dreams of raising a family and throwing dinner parties in mind.

Until the Vietnam War.

Until high-ranking Army officials knocked on her door, their expressions grim.

“This hen is tasty,” Anna complimented.

“I was worried because I didn’t have enough rosemary.”

“It’s perfect!” Anna reassured as she took another bite. “We need to start planning what we’re going to do for our 100th birthday.”

Alice placed her fork carefully on her plate. “You’ve lost mind! That’s still a long ways out.”

“Seven years! We can do seven years, Alice We’ve done the hard part making it to 93! Hell, if we make it to 95, we can round up!”

Alice stared at the tablecloth for a few moments, her expression pensive. “I don’t know, Anna. It’s been a good life, a full life, but ever since Don was killed … it’s been a lonely one.”

Anna reached for her glass of sweet tea. “I know,” she commiserated.

She did know. Ever since her George had succumbed to cancer, life felt … incomplete. But the good Lord above kept waking her up every morning to fulfill a purpose she still didn’t know about.

Anna reached over, placing her palm atop the back of Alice’s hand; the women sat in a comfortable silence for a minute, tears rolling down their cheeks.

“Don’t forget I have the eye appointment on Monday,” Alice sobbed as they both dried their eyes.

“Me? Don’t YOU forget! They’re removing the cataracts from both eyes, right?”

Alice nodded as she ate peas. “When my eyes heal over, can we go to the beach? I’d like to sit on the sand and watch the ocean. Don loved the water so.”

Anna nodded gently, her expression soft. “That’d be nice.”

“Thank you.” Alice pushed her dinner away, reaching for dessert. “You know we have egg nog to go with the pie.”

“You didn’t eat all your dinner!” Anna chided.

“Sue me,” Alice retorted as she pulled a plate of pie towards her.

“Hold on, let me the get the nog!”

“Anna, are we lesbians?” Alice asked curiously when her friend bustled back into the dining room with a carton of egg nog and two fresh glasses.

Anna looked utterly confused. “What? NO!”

Alice poured a half-glass of the holiday dairy, mindful of her gastric issues.

“Oh. That’s too bad.”

Chicago, IL

Thanksgiving Eve slipped quietly, effortlessly into Thanksgiving Day as Evan Bacino led his guest down the darkened hallway towards the front door. He didn’t remember their name, there was no need to. His thick brown hair with red and blonde highlights bounced against the nape of his neck with every step he took.

He unlocked the only ingress/egress into his apartment and opened the door slightly; the blonde man stepped around him, his blue eyes searching Evan’s face briefly before extending his hand. The hand that not an hour before had been fisted around Evan’s cock before gripping wrinkled bedsheets in a room filled with moans and permeated with the fragrance of sex.

“Happy Thanksgiving,” the guest murmured as the two shook hands.

“Ditto,” Evan replied in a neutral tone. He didn’t want to give whoever this person was any ideas that he was interested in continuing even a conversation.

Despite his eagerness to be alone, Evan loitered in the open doorway after his visitor stepped into the hall, listening to footsteps move further and further away before closing the door and entering the living room. He turned on a standing lamp, watching as light spilt over furniture and flooring, illuminating an overflowing ashtray on the coffee table and the day’s clothing littering the carpet.

Evan ignored the mess, instead walking over to the floor-to-ceiling window that afforded him an envious view of the Chicago skyline and Lake Michigan. He pressed his palms against the glass, his eyes watching the rain fall steadily from sky to ground. The weatherman said there was a chance the rain would turn to snow overnight; Evan didn’t doubt it.

He wondered if his visitor had an umbrella.

It was Thanksgiving Day and he had absolutely no plans, other than to stay indoors, off social media, and get mildly drunk. His parents had invited him to join them in Aspen for a weekend filled with catered food and winter sports, but he had begged off. The last thing he needed right now was his mother’s vapid and vacuous gossip about people neither of them knew, and watching his father ogle every woman under the age of 60.

His friends had asked Evan to join them for a Friendsgiving brunch. There were promises of eggnog pancakes, turkey sausage, and beef short ribs but Evan’s circle of friends was also Eduardo’s circle of friends. He wasn’t ready to see or talk about Eduardo just yet.

Three months was not enough time to heal from a five-year relationship.

Evan worked a half-day Wednesday, then ran errands: Liquor store for two bottles of chocolate cherry wine; bakery for two pies; KFC for a bucket of extra crispy chicken and two large mashed potatoes and gravy: community market for a box of Stove Top, cigarettes, and a 12-pack of Heineken. After arriving home and putting away his purchases, Evan fell across his bed and into a deep sleep.

Upon awakening, he was hungry for Chinese food, and had DoorDash deliver from his favorite place, Hunan House. He then decided he wanted a real drink, and after freshening up, Evan meandered down to the neighborhood bar, The Watering Hole. That’s where he met his hookup. He hadn’t left his house planning to bring someone home, but the drinks had been potent and the lure of the unknown enticing.

The sex hadn’t been satisfactory, due mostly to Evan’s emotional turmoil. He felt guilt, shame, and as if he were cheating on Eduardo. The man who had left him three months earlier to “explore and experience.” Eduardo never said what or with who.

Evan never asked; what was the point?

Before turning away from the window, Evan studied his nude reflection in the glass: tall, toned body with some muscle definition; skin that was more tanned than pale thanks to his mother’s Greek Cypriot heritage; thick, voluminous hair that was longish, but not overly so; his facial features were attractively arranged but Evan wouldn’t call himself handsome.

He frowned; his goatee needed trimming.

Later. He needed a shower.

He faced the room, hands on hips as he surveyed the disarray. The entire apartment needed cleaning; heartbreak was not conducive to domesticity.

Later. He needed sleep.

Evan awakened shortly after 9am, and by noon the apartment was tidy: ashtrays emptied, trash taken out, laundry done and fresh sheets on the bed, bathroom cleaned, dishes washed, and rooms vacuumed.

Afterwards, he showered; at 1pm, Evan was settled on his couch with a large plate of kung pao shrimp with fried rice and a cold bottle of brew.

Outside, thick flakes of snow swirled and fell from dark gray skies, coating the city’s surfaces with a thin blanket of white; inside, heat and computer-generated flames emanated from the wall-mounted electric fireplace.

It should have been normal: food, football, and beer on Thanksgiving Day. A cozy fire on a cold, messy afternoon. But it wasn’t. Evan was plagued with feelings of incompleteness and inadequacy; he was playing a role to an audience of none, and not very well.

Fucking Eduardo. Fucking love.                                                                                    

Evan channel surfed as he ate, settling on college football. When the station went to commercial break at the end of the first quarter, he headed to the kitchen for a more Chinese food, a piece of chicken, and another beer; the knock on his front door stopped him.

Who the hell could that be? he wondered as he cautiously approached the door, praying it wasn’t his friends coming to cheer him up.

Pity parties are solo affairs.

His stomach plummeted when he peered through the peephole. On the other side of the door stood a tall, lithe Brazilian man wearing an uncertain expression on his clean-shaven face. His navy-blue wool coat was buttoned to his throat, a Blackwatch plaid scarf draped his neck. Droplets of precipitation glistened in his dark, dark hair.

Eduardo!

Evan’s heartbeat accelerated; blood rushed through his body, causing a whooshing in his ears and a growing erection in his gray sweatpants. Relief, anger, disbelief washed over him, causing tears to burn in his eyes. He felt as if he were moving in slow motion as he unlocked the door before pulling it fully open.

The former lovers stared at each other, facial expressions filled with indecision, hope, regret.

“Hey, Evan,” Eduardo said softly before his gaze dropped to the floor.

Evan found it hard to breathe; everything he had prayed for and cried over the past 90 days was standing right in front of him, waiting to be welcomed with open arms, embraced tightly, and forgiven.

Evan’s stare went from Eduardo’s face to the rolling suitcase at his side.

Eduardo wanted to come back home.

Like nothing ever happened.

Except it had.

Tears streaming down his cheeks, Evan slowly closed the door.

Eduardo’s frantic knocks covered the clicking of the locks.

Compton, CA

Thanksgiving Day in Compton is warm and sunny. Outside, the faint laughter and yells of children racing bicycles down cracked sidewalks and playing football in the streets drift through the closed windows of my kitchen; more than likely, they had been chased out of hot kitchens and crowded houses to let the grown-ups do what grown-ups do: cook, drink, cuss. The iconic palm trees lining my street sway under the touch of a light, balmy breeze.

It's 3pm, and my house is crowded with people despite the fact that dinner is at 5. My family arrived at 11am, carrying bags of ice and carryout food. That’s it. They set up camp in the family room, turned on the television, and proceeded to eat greasy wings, fried rice, and ketchup-drenched fries while taking advantage of my full cable package.

My husband’s family arrived at 2pm with egg nog, ice cream, pies, and my mother-in-law's tiresome rant about Compton being the biggest failure of the state’s housing authority. That led, as always, to an argument with my younger brother, Man-Man. She, her daughter Susan, and my brother-in-law Neil mingled for a few minutes before taking up residence in the living room, watching Food Network and day drinking.

Meanwhile, I’m struggling to remove a 22-pound turkey from an extremely hot oven, trying not to scream out loud from the lower back pain caused by the overdue baby in my belly, and dealing with my three-year-old son Noah tugging on my pant leg asking me to pwease help him.  

I give up on the turkey and set it back on the rack before turning to my son. “What is it, sweetheart?” I ask in a voice filled with forced patience.; it isn’t his fault that there are seven useless, non-functioning adults in this house.

I roll my eyes when he says he wants my phone to play a game. Scary Teacher 3.

Dear God, give me strength.

“Honey, let me find my phone. Go get your Uncle Monty for me while I do that.”

He nods, his dark curls bobbing as he scampers out of the kitchen to find my brother Lamont. Meanwhile, my eyes dart around the room quickly, a growing panic inside me.  With the massive quantities of food that I had cooked, and still needed to cook, my phone had been the last thing on my mind. Earlier, I set it down … somewhere. But where?

I wonder if I stuffed it in the cavity of the turkey.

I’m distracted from my search by my sister loudly arguing with Neil about someone named Kyle being a fraud and that something called fire dragon crab rangoon casserole was nothing more than imitation crab meat, Philly cream cheese, and hot sauce. I’m so busy trying to make their conversation make sense, I neither see nor hear my brother join me.

“What you need, Sandra?” Lamont asks in a bored tone.

I jump slightly but recover quickly. “I need to find my phone, the turkey needs to come out, the ham needs to go in,” I say as I sit in one of the kitchen chairs. “And I’m thirsty,” I add as I mop the perspiration from my brow.

He shakes his head as he busies himself: the refrigerator door opens and closes before a cool bottle of water appears before me, the cap loosened; he grunts as he hefts the roasting pan from the oven, the metal clatters against the stovetop; he lifts the lid on the pot of collards, giving the greens a stir before cutting the flame down low. My phone slides across the crowded table, just in time for Noah to see it as he enters the room.

His little hands reach and grab, but I hold it out of his reach, trying to see if I’ve missed any calls or texts. “Baste the ham before putting it in, please,” I mumble as I guzzle more water.

“Lawd, woman! You tryna work me to the bone,” Lamont complains.

I pay him no attention; he didn’t have to buy the groceries; he doesn’t have to cook the food. We’re using paper products, plastic utensils, and solo cups; minimal clean-up. All the others have to do is eat, take out the trash, and help put up the Christmas tree.

Easy peasy.  

“MOMMY!” Noah wails impatiently.

“What, little boy?” I huff playfully before surrendering my phone. “Hey, babe … you hungry?” I ask, trying to recall the last time I fed my child.

He shakes his head, eyes glued to the screen. “No. Gamma gave me chicken and fwies.”

Lamont shuts the oven door. “Anything else?”

I think over what’s left to do: macaroni and cheese, which is already prepped. It just needs a thorough heating. Stuffing: it’s boxed. so that makes life easy. Biscuits: thank you, Pillsbury Doughboy.  Mushrooms: already prepped, just needs heating.

I shake my head. “Nope. Thanks.”

The plan now is for Noah and me to head upstairs for an hour nap … we’ve both been up since 6am …but I neglected to look at the time. The whoops from my family members, coupled with the off-key singing of Bad Boys, the theme from Cops, tell me my husband is home from work. His deep, deep voice literally booms throughout the rooms as he greets his family and in-laws.

My son practically throws my phone at me before he rushes into his father’s arms. Once securely hoisted onto his daddy’s hip, Noah smirks smugly at his cousins who are pulling excitedly on their uncle’s pant legs.

Through the mayhem, my eyes meet my husband’s, and he winks at me with a wide grin on his face. The man I married is tall … very tall. His shoulders and chest are broad and sculpted. There are dimples in his cheeks. He is an officer with the LAPD.

He is unfortunately named: Scott Peterson. He tells strangers that his name is Harry.

And he’s white.

It hasn’t been easy being an interracial couple in Compton. I was born and raised here but marrying a white cop has called my blackness into question with my family, my friends, my very community. I think it has more to do with him being a cop than his race.

Scott grew up in Los Angeles proper; his childhood was more affluent than privileged until his father went to prison for insider trading. His mother, as WASPy and Karenesque as her personality suggests, gave up bridge clubs and martini lunches to re-enter the workforce. I wouldn’t call her racist; I see her as more of a bigot. An elitist bigot.

When we bought our home six years ago, his mother told Scott she was extremely disappointed in him.

He responded he was through trying to impress dead folks and racists.

With wide eyes and a horrified expression, she clarified she was referring to him living in Compton. Who lived in Compton?

Pulling me closer to him, he asked her who could afford LA nowadays? Hell, she didn’t even live there any longer. And judging by Compton’s growing and diverse population, a lot of people did indeed live in Compton.

But we’ve survived and are more in love than ever. Scott and I are a working-class couple; I’m a teacher at the local preparatory school. We’re happy, and family gatherings have become louder and more boisterous in the best way possible.

After promising to play with the children after dinner and advising Man-Man what to do about his upcoming case in traffic court, one of the suggestions being do NOT wear orange as it may give the judge ideas, Scott is finally making his way to me. He pulls me to him, planting an eager and lingering kiss on my lips; when we part, we walk into the kitchen together so I can show off what I’ve accomplished.

He admires the spread and insists that he’ll take over so I can get some rest before dinner.

“No!” I yell quietly. “Your mom is here; MY mom is here. Our sisters are here. Our BROTHERS are here! You’ve worked all day!”

He’s rummaging in the utensil drawer; it’s a hot mess that I keep meaning to organize. He closes it when he finds a fork, which he dips into the pot of collards. “We’re the hosts,” he explains as he tastes the greens; he noisily smacks his lips to express his satisfaction.

“We’re always the hosts!” I retort. “And they are not guests!”

He pulls me into the closest embrace he can manage with my belly extending from here to the I-10. “You’re tired. You’ve done a lot of work today. You know my mom can’t fix anything other than salad kits and Stouffer’s. Your mom loves her fatback a little too much for me.”

I giggle. “Remember the Thanksgiving she shoved a slab of it inside the turkey?”

“That’s when you said we would be the hosts of Thanksgiving!”

“Fine,” I grumble, pretending to still be disgruntled.

“Come on, let’s get you to the bedroom.”

We don’t make it.

There’s a sharp pain in my lower back that spreads around to my belly, and my water breaks.

Tagging:  @jared2612 @ao719  @marietrinmimi @merridithsmiscellany-blog @queenjilian @indiacater @kingliam2019 @bebepac @liamxs-world @mom2000aggie @cmestrella @liamrhysstalker2020  @neotericthemis @twinkleallnight @umccall71 @superharriet  @busywoman @gabesmommie1130 @tessa-liam @phoenixrising0308 @beezm @gardeningourmet @lovingchoices14 @foreverethereal123 @mainstreetreader @angelasscribbles @lady-calypso @emkay512 @jovialyouthmusic @21-wishes @princessleac1 @charlotteg234 @queenrileyrose @alj4890 @yourfavaquarius111 @motorcitymademadame @bbrandy2002 @queenmiarys

In case you’re interested: @athena-anna-rose​

[prettygoodnames]

hello! I was wondering if you could make a list of femme/neutral names that start with an La, Le or Ly? I have a speech impediment so I'm looking for a name that starts with the same letter as mine but that's easier for me to say. Flowery/ fairy/ mythical vibes would be an added bonus ✨ -anon Lily

Lacey

Meaning: ?

Origin: Gaulish

Alternate spelling: Laci, Lacy

Lada

Meaning: glorious ruler

Origin: Slavic

Laelia

Meaning: ?

Origin: Latin

Laia

Meaning: sweetly-speaking

Origin: Greek

Lala

Meaning: tulip

Origin: Persian

Alternate spelling: Laleh

Related names: Lalka

Larisa

Meaning: citadel

Origin: Greek

Alternate spelling: Larissa, Larysa

Related names: Lara

Lark

Meaning: lark

Origin: English

Laryn

Meaning: laurel

Origin: Greek

Lavender

Meaning: lavender

Origin: English

Layla

Meaning: night

Origin: Arabic

Alternate spelling: Leila

Leah

Meaning: weary

Origin: Hebrew

Alternate spelling: Leia, Lia

Lee

Meaning: clearing

Origin: Old English

Leilani

Meaning: heavenly flowers

Origin: Hawaiian

Leona

Meaning: lion

Origin: Greek

Lera

Meaning: to be strong

Origin: Latin

Leslie

Meaning: garden of holly

Origin: Gaelic

Alternate spelling: Lesley

Lexi

Meaning: defending men

Origin: Greek

Related names: Lexa, Lexia, Lexus

Layre

Meaning: pertaining to a legion

Origin: Latin

Lian 濂

Meaning: waterfall

Origin: Chinese

Libi

Meaning: my heart

Origin: Hebrew

Lieve

Meaning: dear, beloved

Origin: Germanic

Lilac

Meaning: lilac

Origin: English

Lilia

Meaning: lily

Origin: Spanish

Lilith

Meaning: of the night

Origin: Akkadian

Lillian

Meaning: my god is an oath

Origin: Hebrew

Lilo

Meaning: generous

Origin: Hawaiian

Linde

Meaning: linden tree

Origin: Dutch

Liv

Meaning: olive

Origin: Latin

Lola

Meaning: sorrows

Origin: Spanish

Related names: Lolita

Lorelei

Meaning: ?

Origin: Germanic

Lydian

Meaning: from Lydia

Origin: Greek

Lynn

Meaning: lake

Origin: Welsh

Lyra

Meaning: lyre

Origin: Greek

Lyric

Meaning: lyric

Origin: English

[thecaptainsgingersnap]

🌟 Carlie

Carli was a bartender at Fish's club for 3 summers

She has a degree in forensic science from GCU

She crashed her mom's Lexus into a tree at age 14.

She's never been in Arkham as an inmate.

She was kidnapped by The Goat in s1 of Gotham.

Any time she and the Joker run into each other, she calls him Jeremiah or  Wannabe.

She's older than Roni by 3 minutes.

She scared the hell out of Batwoman (Kate AND Ryan) the first time she walked into the Batcave.

She's jealous that Oliver brought back Roni's boyfriend, but not hers.

Jane Doe didn't shoot Harvey because Carli begged her not to take away the man who has become her father.

🌟 Drop one of my characters’ names in my inbox and I’ll tell you 10 facts about them 🌟

[diwangpalaboy]

DEVELOPMENT STUDIES

DEVELOPMENT DEFINED Rethinking Development by Roland Simbulan (1982) Development and the Developing World by Uma Kambhampati (2004) Development as Freedom by Amartya Sen (1999) An Introduction to Economics and Economic Development Issues in the Philippines edited by Reuel Hermoso (1997) Human Geography by Meredith Marsh and Peter Alagona (2009) DEVELOPMENT STUDIES Development Studies edited by Jeffrey Haynes (2005) International Development Studies: Theories and Methods in Research and Practice by Andy Sumner and Michael Tribe (2013) Critique, Rediscovery and Revival of Development Studies by Mural Arsel and Anirban Dasgupta (2015) The Irrelevance of Development Studies by Michael Edwards (1989) Oryentasyon at Kasaysayan ng UP Development Studies Program ni Roland Simbulan (2014) Development Studies in UP: History, Curriculum and Practicum by Edberto Villegas (2014) Development Studies by Trysh Olives (audio-visual presentation) Praxis by Yfur Fernandez (audio-visual presentation) DEVELOPMENT PARADIGMS AND MODELS Technocracy and Development in the Philippines by Roman Dubsky (1993) Discourses on Development by Bjorn Hettne (2005) The Development Reader edited by Sharad Chari and Stuart Corbridge (2008) The Political Economy of Development and Underdevelopment by Charles Wilber and Kenneth Jameson (1996) Perspectives and Debates in Development Studies by Benjamin Tolosa (1997) Perspectives on Society, the Economy and the State by Benjamin Tolosa (1997) The Crisis of Development Theory by Bruce McFarlane (1989) The Myth of Development: The Non-Viable Economies of the 21st Century by Oswaldo De Rivero (2001) Models of Development and the Concept of Social Development by Alfonzo Guzman (1993) Notions of Social Development in Philippine National Development Planning by Lourdes Rebullida (1987) Philippine Social Development Perspectives by Rizal Buendia (1995) Rural Administration and Development by Wilfredo Carada (2000) The People's Economy: Philippine Community-Based Industries and Alternative Development by Masaaki Satake (2003) Kaunlaran nina Jessica Dator at Marilu Cardenas (2004) Disciplines and Ideas in the Social Sciences by John Ponsaran, et. al. (2017) Center and Periphery: Economic and Political Levels of Analysis by Miomir Jaksic Challenges to Capitalism: Marx, Lenin and Mao by John Gurley (1976) The Myth of the Market: Promises and Illusions by Jeremy Seabrook (1990) Models of Development: A Comparative Study of Economic Growth in South Korea and Taiwan edited by Laurence Lau (1990) Indigenization for Development by UP College of Public Administration Research (1995) Good Practices on Indigenous People's Development edited by Victoria Tauli-Corpuz (2006) Small is Beautiful: A Study of Economics as if People Mattered by EF Schumacher (1973) Story of Stuff by Annie Leonard (audio-visual presentation) DEVELOPMENT INDICATORS Political Economy of GNP Accounting in the Philippines by Edberto Villegas (2008) Human Capital and Development in the Philippines edited by Joseph Capuno and Aniceto Orbeta (2008) The Economist Pocket World in Figures Human Development: The Neglected Dimension edited by Khadija Haq and Uner Kirdar (1986) Human Development Report Philippine Human Development Report DEVELOPMENT ETHICS Researching the Vulnerable by Pranee Liamputtong (2006) Displacement by Development: Ethics, Rights and Responsibilities by Peter Penz, Jay Drydyk and Pablo Bose (2011) Contesting Development: Critical Struggle for Social Change edited by Philippine McMichael (2010) Politics of Unequal Development by Anthony Payne (2005) Science and Technology for Development by James Smith (2009) The Elusive Agenda: Mainstreaming Women in Development by Rounaq Jahan (1995) Male Bias in the Development Process: A Overview by Diane Elson (1995) Migration and Development: A Matter of Seeking Justice by IBON International (2013) DEVELOPMENT ADMINISTRATION Capacity for Development: New Solutions to Old Problems by UNDP (2002) Framework and Strategy in Human Wellbeing by Conservation International Philippines (2007) Community Organizing for People Empowerment by Angelito Manalili (1990) DEVELOPMENT COMMUNICATION Introduction to Development Communication by Jia Virginia Ongkiko and Alexander Flor (1998) Communication for Rural Development: A Source Book by Mario Acunzo, et. al. (2014) Panimulang Kurso sa Gawaing Propaganda by People's Education Resource Center - International Political Economy (2005) Campaign for People's Goals: A Toolkit for Campaigners by Campaign for People's Goals for Sustainable Development (2013) Communication from the Ground Up by Mina Ramirez (1990) Using Video for Sustainable Development: A Training Handbook by Paulina Baustista (1997) Panimulang Kurso sa Gawaing Propaganda by People's Education Resource Center Institute of Political Economy (2005) Making Documentaries in the Philippines by Isabel Enriquez Kenny (2005) Reflections on Development Communication by Nora Quebral (2007) Communication for Development by Alexander Flor (audio-visual presentation) GLOBALIZATION, DEGLOBALIZATION AND ALTERGLOBALIZATION Globalization: The Key Concepts by Thomas Hylland Ericksen (2007) Globalization and Development by Ian Taylor (2005) Globalization and Labor: The New 'Great Transformation' by Ronaldo Munck (2002) The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization by Thomas Friedman (2000) Power Shift by Alvin Toffler (1990) A People's World: Alternatives to Economic Globalization by John Madeley (2003) Questioning Globalization by Kavaljit Singh (2004) Intensifying Working Women's Burden: The Impact of Globalization on Women Labor in Asia edited by Judy Taguiwalo (2005) Deglobalization: Ideas for a New World Economy by Walden Bello (2002)

[barstool84]

Watch "Is Russia the first country to invade another country with a McDonalds?" on YouTube

[eltristanexplicitcontent]

Watch "Is Russia the first country to invade another country with a McDonalds?" on YouTube

[fnqf123]

[PDF] Download The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization PDF BY Thomas L. Friedman

Download Or Read PDF The Lexus and the Olive Tree: Understanding Globalization - Thomas L. Friedman Free Full Pages Online With Audiobook.

  [*] Download PDF Visit Here => https://best.kindledeals.club/1250013747

[*] Read PDF Visit Here => https://best.kindledeals.club/1250013747

"A brilliant guide for the here and now."---The New York Times Book ReviewIn this vivid portrait of the new business world, Thomas L. Friedman shows how technology, capital, and information are transforming the global marketplace, leveling old geographic and geopolitical boundaries. With bold reporting and acute analysis, Friedman dramatizes the conflict between globalizing forces and local cultures, and he shows why a balance between progress and the preservation of ancient traditions will ensure a better future for all. The Lexus and the Olive Tree is an indispensable look at power and big change in the age of globalization.

[nakedgrease]

Enough with emotions

No Logo The New Silk Roads: The Present and Future of the World The Lexus and the Olive Tree Communion: The Female Search for Love

[scintilla-ism]

Reading List.

Will be updated timely. 

Essentials (Academia Essentials, Logistics/Supply Chain/Transport, Trade Economics, Global Value Chains): 

The Uses of Argument, Stephen E. Toulmin (first 50 pages only)

Value Chains: The New Economic Imperialism, Intan Suwandi

Ninety Percent of Everything, Rose George

Door to Door: The Magnificent, Maddening, Mysterious World of Transportation, Edward Humes

Maritime Economics, Martin Stopford

International Logistics: The Management of International Trade Operations, Pierre David

Export-Import Theory, Practice, and Procedures, Belay Seloum

Southeast Asia in the Age of Commerce (1450-1680), Anthony Reid

The Sea in History, NAM Rodger

The Goal, Eli Goldratt

The Box: How The Shipping Container Made The World Smaller and The World Economy Bigger, Marc Levinson

The Toyota Way (sigh) : 14 Management Principles, Jeffrey Liker 

The Lexus and The Olive Tree, Thomas Friedman

The Boundless Sea: A Human History of the Oceans, Allan Lane

Non-Essentials: 

Limits To Growth, Dennis Meadows

Silent Spring, Rachel Carson

Don't Think Of An Elephant! : Know Your Values And Frame The Debate, George Lakoff

23 Things They Don’t Tell You About Capitalism, Ha Joon-chang

The Long Road to the Industrial Revolution: The European Economy In A Global Perspective, Jan Luiten Van Zanden

Principles for Dealing with the Changing World Order: Why Nations Succeed and Fail, Ray Dalio

[ildalil]

مقدمة فى الاستهلاكية "الإسلامية" !

مقدمة فى الاستهلاكية “الإسلامية” !

مقدمة فى الاستهلاكية “الإسلامية” ! عبد الرحمن أبو ذكري   “No two countries that both had a McDonald’s had fought a war against each other, since each got its McDonald’s”. – Thomas L. Friedman: The Lexus and the Olive Tree. “لم تتحارب دولتان افتتحت فيهما مطاعم مكدونالد؛ منذ حظيت كل منهما بمطعمها الخاص”. – توماس فريدمان: السيارة لكزس وشجرة الزيتون.  لم تبالغ أدبيات اليسار الجديد التي وصفت توماس…