Category Archives: Text

Dishwasher Pete on the Late Show

While it may not qualify as citizen reporting, anyone who’s been reading this blog for some time knows about my friend Dishwasher Pete and his first book that is taking the world by storm. Pete will be a guest on an upcoming podcast where we’ll discuss the world of work, and the future of labor.

For now, though, this being my last saturday in Portugal this summer, I present to you a clip of Pete on the David Letterman Show recently. I think he’s the most refreshing guest they’ve had on that show in years, take a look and see for yourself. (beware, clip is long)

Click To Play

Radio NL On Zimbabwe

Much like I do on a daily basis in Amsterdam, this morning I hopped on my bike and rode into town here in Caldas da Rainha, Portugal. And much like I do in Amsterdam, I’m sure to load up my mp3 player with recent podcasts so that I can learn about the state of the world while weaving past crazy drivers… crazy being the operative word for Portuguese drivers.

The one recent podcast that I soaked up today was from the program Amsterdam Forum, focusing on the Zimbabwean crisis. While I’ve spoken about and spend a good amount of time learning about conditions and developments in that country, I still seek more and more explanations to understand not only how this happened but creative and potentially effective solutions. In this program Amsterdam Forum, yet another great production from Radio Netherlands, brings in alot of interesting voices who managed to teach me more and give me even more facts and history regarding why and how Zimbabwe got to where it is. There are even some interesting theories which I had never heard about why Mugabe has allowed the country to slip into such a terrible situation.

To hear the whole thing, and I do highly recommend it, go to the Amsterdam Forum website. You can either read or listen.. me I love to listen.

Portuguese in Vietnam

As I sit down to lunch with my parents at a beachside resort famous for having a huge population that immigrated to Newark, New Jersey, the waitress walks over with a bottle of wine. “This one is compliments of the gentlemen sitting in the back of the restaurant.”

My dad is already smiling as he looks across the very basic and typical Portuguese establishment, he starts talking and suddenly I realize he’s talking to me as he looks at the man “Don’t you recognize M? Mr. M who has the so and so business in Newark?” I turned to look at a familiar yet unfamiliar face.. already coming my way with a hand extended. He sat down next to me and immediately began going over all the old Newark stories that he remembers involving my parents, going all the way back to 1960.

Of all the stories he told at the lunch table, one in particular kept coming back and stuck out in my mind. His time in Vietnam. As he showed me scars all over his body, from bullet and grenade wounds, he spoke about his Portuguese friends who had grown up with him, immigrated, and died in the jungle. My dad followed each name, seemingly going through his own list of which Portuguese neighbor who he knew from grade school in Portugal that had wound up serving in the US military and dying in Vietnam.

As he spoke about the day he was ambushed, and the coma that followed, and all the people who thought he was dead… he would occasionally come back to the present, talking about all the young kids and immigrants serving in Iraq. “We had kids with us back then, but they were surrounded by adults, people who could take care of them and teach them… not like how they send them out today.”

Seemed like hours that he spoke, story after story.. and I kept thinking about all those immigrants.. Portuguese people who hadn’t been in the country for more than 5 years, and how they ended up – of all places – in Vietnam.

I sat and listened to Mr. M’s stories well after lunch was over. Sad as it may have seemed, there was a tone of quiet satisfaction…. to have lived a full life since then and to be able to remember each person and tell about them.

On the Road

I’m on the road in Central Portugal… Aveiro to be exact. On family business. Posting will resume faster than you can say blueberry pancakes. Ok not that fast.

I leave you with a photo of BadHareDay’s kids, because they asked me “Are we going on your blog?”

China Given the Red Carpet

Anyone who is paying any attention knows a bit about how China is bankrolling the ballooning US debt, on a government and individual citizen level. If this somehow shocks you I can recommend a dose of Karmabanque Radio, who cleverly titled their recent program Mao-santo… hahah.

Then of course we hear about China’s role, bankrolling the genocide in Darfur in their mad rush to buy up enough oil for their newborn hyper consumer economy.

Yesterday I noticed the Chinese state’s latest push to control Europe’s money, buying a chunk of shares in Barclays Bank in order to get in on its acquisition of ABN-AMRO. (Stay with me here)

ABN is a huge bank in Europe, owning lots of little ones under different names in different countries. My money is in that dam bank, all be it probably the tiniest account they’ve got. And so now I see how the world works, my money is now funding a genocide in Darfur, the stealing of organs from prisoners in China, the murder of Falun Gong, the raping of the environment around the world. All with the help of my checking account. And soon.. yours too.

Obviously my money has gone to evil before. Things I’ve consumed and probably still consume, but this is one of those I hope to avoid… as long as possible. Though I know it would have no effect, I should write a letter to the European Trade Commissioner urging him, as my respresentative and a HUMAN that respects the rights of people to live a proper life and not be exterminated-en-masse, to NOT allow China to take control of European banks… and my little bank account.

Magic of the Bairro Alto

5 years have passed since I was actually a resident of this city. Even though I return often, every visit to Lisbon brings more changes, with familiar places closing up and unfamiliar faces passing me in the street. It starts to feel as though I no longer belong and there is nothing left to belong to.

But then I find myself walking up the steep hill of the Bica, and heading into the even steeper streets of the bairro alto, in search of a little place for food and life. Asking the average restaurants for a table for one on a friday night gets me turned away disturbingly often. No room. Too many reservations.

And then I turn a corner I haven’t turned in 4 years or so, only to find an unfamiliar little eatery. Looking more like someone’s tiny living room than a restaurant, I notice the menu offers numerous creative vegetarian options. And inside it is hard to tell who works there and who is a customer, and everyone seems to be talking with everyone, and the waitresses sit down and share laughs with people as they eat. One of two gorgeous twins spots me from the moment I walk in and greets me like an old friend she has been waiting for. “What’s your name?” — she wants to know my name, and after I tell her that, a few more questions follow… which she promptly relays my answers to the twin and the spanish bartender. The twin comes over to bring me some wine, “So you’re visiting family, in town from Amsterdam eh? And you’re not even Dutch, but actually Luso American!”… I amazed by both the amount of info she had soaked up in the 4 minutes I had been there, and by her warm smile.

It was only the beginning to what would become one of those Lisbon evenings that reminds me of what is so special about this city and why so many good people, including myself once upon a time, make their lives here. German couple at the table next to me start chatting with me. The neighbor walks in and sits down next to me, asking about the Ralph Nader book I have on the table next to me. A kid wearing pink shoes and a pink shirt comes sailing through the doorway, kissing almost everyone in the restaurant hello, sits down at a table across from me. A restaurant wide conversation seemed to ensue, featuring 3 or 4 languages.

One of the twins sits down at my table as I finish my tea, her friendly eyes show clear signs of exhaustion. I ask her about it, and she talks about the long hours that she works everyday, just to make ends-meat in this town. – a different kind of reminder, of why many people DON’T make their lives in this town.

Soon after there are more people floating in and others walking out, friday night and it feels like everybody knows everybody, and my lovely twins make sure that from now on, they know me.

While my evening ends about there, the story does not. After lots of hugs and kisses, I know I’ve made some wonderful new friends in my former home, and I know of one place where I’m expected, from now on.