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Neliza Drew

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Neliza Drew

Tag Archives: economy

A Brave New Economy

20 Friday Jul 2012

Posted by nelizadrew in Life & Such, Politics as Usual

≈ 7 Comments

Tags

borrowing, buying used, community, economic changes, economy, fast company, helping others, indiegogo, karma, kickstarter, lending, loans, microfinance, people, profits, sharing, thrift stores

Optimism is not my standard setting. Cynicism, realism, pessimism, depression, avoidance, angry ranting — those are my normal thought spaces. So, stick with me here. I’m trying.

See, we all know the economy sucks. Okay, maybe Ann Romney doesn’t know what it’s like to be one of “you people,” but most of us have looked around and noticed we’re spending more for the same or less. We’re getting pay decreases instead of raises even though we’re working just as hard or harder. We’re unemployed, underemployed, or caught in that space where we’re lucky to have a job we hate as much as we do. We’re cutting back and still falling behind. Corporate profits go up, employment figures and wages stagnate and stumble.

And yet, I’ve been noticing another trend. I’ve been noticing people using the internet to band together, to help each other, and to circumvent the banks and corporations that have been robbing us blind.

Sharing

Last year, I remember reading an article in Fast Company about the rise of the sharing economy. A few years before that, I’d heard of a couple switching houses with another in Europe for a year. The idea of loaning things one had to neighbors who didn’t was once common, but as communities grew and neighbors became strangers, the practice largely stopped. There’s something that feels ironic about the rise of the “community killing” “faceless” internet reviving that tradition of lending the guy down the street a hammer and sharing a car with a woman across town.  (While we’re talking about sharing, let’s not forget the ultimate in sharing: the public library system, which lets you borrow knowledge, entertainment and computers for the low low cost of nothing (well, except taxes, but you gotta pay those anyway).)

Longboard borrowed from Hubby’s coworker.

Used Goods

Almost everyone by now has heard of eBay and Craigslist and maybe even Freecycle, whereby you can get other people’s cast offs for little or no money. Bricks-and-mortar-wise, thrift stores ranging from old standbys like the Salvation Army and Goodwill to newer (Out of the Closet) or local charities like Poverello and  to even chain outlets like Plato’s Closet also let you pick up things you want or need at a fraction of the new cost. Granted, we’ve also seen such a rise in donations that places like the Salvation Army end up turning a lot of our donations to rags or bulk shipping them to developing nations, so maybe before we buy — even used — we should think about needs versus wants, but that’s a matter for another day. Speaking of needs/wants, though, let’s not forget books and remember that, even for those of us with shiny e-readers, best sellers and popular works especially are often cheaper at used book stores than as digital files. (I know, I know, money from authors…it’s a balance, people.)

Microfinance

There’s two paths or heads or waterparks — whatever — to this concept.

One is funding through sites like Kiva.org where money gets lent, in increments of $25, to businesses and individuals around the world. By harnessing the bank accounts, compassion, and business sense of individual people, farmers can get feed for livestock Peru, caterers in Los Angeles can expand, seamstresses Ecuador can get material… And I think those three elements are key. When banks make loans, they don’t see people; they see numbers. And people can choose to lend on Kiva in the same fashion — picking prospects likely to repay — but since it’s a small expenditure on the part of the lender, it makes it easier to lend because you think Emilio deserves the chance to expand his crops or Lisa could do something special if she could buy more parts.

The other path or waterpark is through sites like Kickstarter and Indiegogo. Kickstarter claims to focus specifically on the arts, but they also have raised huge sums for inventors, especially those with iIdeas. Books, comics, games, movies, music, even a flour mill have been funded this way. It’s rather incredible to think that little people, the 99%, have made dreams happen through spare change and big hearts and we’ve been doing it by the hundreds.

Indiegogo takes the idea one step further by allowing campaigns to fund charities as well. While Kickstarter requires some sort of finished product that backers are essentially pre-ordering, Indiegogo allows a daughter to raise enough money to pay off the lien on her father’s house, a library get cooled off, animals to get help, and a musician to maybe get to the school of her dreams, and oh yeah, art.

Not to mention, Feeding Kate.

People Helping…People? Weird, right?

Maybe we really are on the verge of something special. Maybe we’re starting to realize we can help each other in small ways, banding together to do great things, instead of relying on big systems to look down and care enough not to step on us. Maybe we really are learning to pay it forward, to consider karma, to act a little more like Sabrina Ogden.

Maybe I’m just having a momentary lapse of sanity.

Boxtered In

18 Friday May 2012

Posted by nelizadrew in Flash Fiction, Writing

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

car, economy, flash fiction, free writing, stories, writing

The car. The only thing he had left was the car. Sure, it was a little older. Sure, it was the base model. But it was a base model Porsche and he didn’t care that he’d been parking it in front of a shitty studio apartment on the ugly side of town for six months. It was his. And it was a Porsche. And he wasn’t selling the car.

Six months ago. Yeah, he’d thought he was doing something then. Had the wife. The job. The house. Of course, the car.

Now, it was just the car.

His own fault, really. Well, the wife part. Probably shouldn’t have been dumb enough to put the hotel on his credit card. Then, how was he to know Eileen’s coworker would have her ID stolen and she’d develop a habit of meticulously checking statements she’d never glanced at before?

The job? That wasn’t his fault. Damn company shipped everything to India except the sales force. India: land of the programmer and customer service rep. Engineers and IT support hanging from ever twisted tree. But apparently no one willing to take a guy out for a steak dinner, call his butt-ugly wife lovely and get a signature. How they even planned for the sales force to sell the crap they were manufacturing (in Thailand) was beyond him. Even the redesign they’d had him working on before the layoffs was a turd in plastic housing. Not that it mattered anymore except the stock options they’d showered on him were now worthless. Couldn’t even sell them for enough to make rent.

Which left the car. But he wasn’t selling the car.

As it was, he’d get maybe a summer’s worth of rent money out of it and then what would he do? Ride the bus? Steal his neighbor’s Schwinn?

No, the car was his.

Finally, he got a line on a job. Decent pay, working in a warehouse district down under the interstate. Left his car out front, but hid it behind a work van in case the guy hiring thought someone driving a Porsche wasn’t really looking.

He was in a hurry. Had gotten stopped at the tracks by an Amtrak, by a couple of charter yachts at the bridge. Had nearly run out of gas and was sweating filling the tank with the last of his savings.

The interview itself went okay. No better or worse than the other two. Just knew the supervisor could smell his underarms and the desperation living there.

“Well, we’ll call you either way.” Guy had said, rubbing the back of his thinning hair. “You said you had reliable transportation, right? Last guy…” He shook his head.

He was pretty sure he wouldn’t get the job. And if he did, he’d be making a quarter what he had before.

He left feeling like he’d felt the day before. Like the only thing he had left in the world was that stupid car. The one his buddy had told him was a trap, right before he’d quit corporate and taken off to tour European couches with a punk band named Sloppy Meat Surprise.

He took out his keys, walked around the work van, and stared at the empty space.

His head whipped around involuntarily, looking for another work van, another space, his car. But the lot was small, the van alone, and the car gone.

He’d have pulled out his phone and called the police, but his service had been cut and he hadn’t been able to let himself give up his hipster phone for “ghetto PCS.” The only thing he knew about the bus schedule was that those little yellow signs always popped up when he was running late.

Walking around the curve toward the main road, he saw the red.  As he got closer, he realized that was about the only thing left. The rest? Stripped and sitting in the middle of the road.

He got behind the wheel and tried to start her. No gas. No wheels anyway.

A semi, heading for one of the warehouses, came up on the curve fast. The driver wasn’t expecting to find a car there. There were never cars there. It was one of the least-traveled roads in the city.

He looked up at the daytime running lights bearing down on him and wondered if they’d stolen the airbags, too.

Bombs & Beers and the American Dream Flash Fiction Challenge

10 Wednesday Aug 2011

Posted by nelizadrew in Flash Fiction, Politics as Usual

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

beer, challenge, contest, economy, flash fiction, music, neliza drew, politics, punk, revolution, write, writing

I’ve spent part of the day cheering on the stupid stock market like it was wearing a jersey and I had a bucket of beer.

Stocks, douchebaggy Congresspeople, “compromising” POTUSes, poor kids rioting because they’re angry and out of a future anyway, students protesting, citizens protesting, recalls, endless wars… It’s the stuff of a George Orwell tale. Or Ray Bradbury. Or Suzanne Collins for that matter.

Which means Hubby and I have been listening to a lot of The Shakers lately. Old-school-style punk rock out of Margate, FL. For giving your inner anger something to yell about, they can’t be beat.

So, in the spirit of “our failed economy” and “start[ing] a revolution,” I’m tossing a challenge out into the void. Take as your inspiration, either the song “American Dream” from their current CD Crabby Road or “Bombs & Beers” from Good Enough. I don’t care what they inspire you to do. Pick any random lyric, the title, the “theme,” whatever. Make it about 1000 words.

I give you until Aug. 30th because that’s when I’m supposed to be registered for something so that date will be on my mind anyway. (It’ll also give me a chance to track down a prize or two). Prizes, you ask? Sure. How ’bout a free Shakers CD to… (honestly, probably a name from a hat because I hate being all judgmental unless I’m not asked to be)?

To hear “American Dream,” click here. (Writers may also find a new anthem in the “Booze” song under it.)

A Place of Your Own

12 Friday Nov 2010

Posted by nelizadrew in Flash Fiction

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

crime, economy, exercises, fiction, writing

You’re not a big spender, but you like nice things. You deserve nice things, damnitt. You’ve worked hard for nice things. And this place? It’s brand new. State-of-the-art appliances, no scuffs on the hardwood floors, custom carpet in the hallways, and a new-paint smell that makes you feel like you live in the after-shots on HGTV.

Sure, it was supposed to be condos. The economy tanked that idea. But the developers’ loss is your gain. You get to live in a luxury rental for the same thing you were paying before. Didn’t have a pool before. Didn’t have a health spa either.

I mean, it might get a little lonely until more people move in. You’ve heard more people are definitely moving in. You haven’t really seen any of them yet. But hey, plenty of street parking.

Besides, you’re blocks from the ‘hood. You never see any of the gangbangers and oversized teenagers on little pink bikes over near you. There’s even a gate downstairs in case any “undesirables,” as the realty agent put it, happen to wander down this far. Sure, the keypad doesn’t work. But it’s not like the agent handed out instruction cards in the ghetto. Right?

You even need a key fob to get into the parking garage. Those things are set to specific frequencies or something. It’s not like anyone could casually get around that falling gate. It comes down so quickly, it almost took the finish off your Mercedes SUV.

So, maybe you shouldn’t have bought that thing. Made the down payment, really. But the economy was going so well then. You had bonus money. You had to keep up appearances at the office. You couldn’t let Eddie in accounting roll in with a new Lexus. Not and keep driving your old Subaru.

At least you don’t have to worry about anyone scratching it at home now. You rarely see more than three cars in the whole garage. Hell, one day you saw a couple of teens driving a Mini in wild backwards circles on one of the ramps until the brunette got sick on the pavement and the blonde laughed so hard she spit Slurpee out of her nose.

Tonight, you pull up to see a U-Haul van near the side door. You don’t see anyone, but you think: Hey, new neighbors. You try to get a peek inside the van, but the only thing on the seat is a receipt you can’t read without your glasses.

You shrug and head in out of the heat. They say it’s the humidity that gets you and they may be right. It certainly does feel like you ran through a sprinkler, you’re so damp, and you just got out of your car. You have a shower on your mind.

You’re also wondering which take-out menu to pull out. You still have kung-pao something from lunch in your messenger bag, but you’re thinking pizza would go better with the Heat game. You wonder if you have any weed leftover from the last time your pothead friend stopped by, but figure you can settle for beer. You know you still have a couple Native Lagers or maybe a LandShark.

You’re not paying attention as you take the elevator up to your floor. Even though the place is practically empty – and you could have easily gotten a place more convenient for hauling up couches and groceries – you wanted the view of downtown. So, you’re the only one you know of on your floor.

It’s okay. You’re fine with that. You like your solitude. You also like being able to smoke your weed on the balcony without worrying about narks. Well, when you have some.

You never expected to find your door open.

You never expected to find strange men drinking your beer.

You never expected to find yourself duct-taped and naked and bleeding on your bathroom floor.

You hear the front door slam shut after they’ve finished pilfering and thieving.  They even took the company laptop and you’ll never hear he end of that.

You listen to the stillness of the apartment. Of the building. Of the quiet of the street outside.

No one knows you live up here. No one will miss you until tomorrow. The office will call. But your intruders stole the phone. The call will go to voice mail. Voice mail you’ll be unable to check. Will they eventually call the police? Will Sandra in marketing try to stop by? She did send you that Christmas card. But will she be able to get past the gate?

You find the puddle of blood is growing. You find yourself getting lightheaded. Maybe a little sleepy. And what else do you have to do up here on top of the fledgling little city-in-training?

Your eyes are heavy. Your head hurts.

No one can hear you.

Why can’t we all just get along?

25 Friday Jun 2010

Posted by nelizadrew in Life & Such, Politics as Usual

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

consumerism, economy, food, life, new world order, optimism

Wouldn’t it be great if we could mix the old with the new?

By that I mean, we could still send tweets to anyone, anywhere, at anytime of day or night.  That we could email, IM, etc. our whole “social network” no matter where our network roamed.

But we would also choose to spend that $200 we had earmarked for shoes on locally-made, quality heel-covers instead of giving the same amount to a giant corporation that would spend a dollar (maybe) on the manufacture of a piece of crap produced by a sweatshop kid and the rest on marketing?

Wouldn’t it be great if we read more, hugged more, drank and ate at a big table full of loved ones more? (And at a place serving fresh, sustainable eats that were delicious and in season and local instead of plunking down a credit card to absorb high-fructose corn syrup and lard and imported, cheaply-produced who-knows-what at ApplebeesChilisOutbackOliveGardenEtc.)  Even if we choose to check our emails on our phone when we head to the restroom?

Wouldn’t it be great if we knew our neighbors as well as we think we know our Facebook “friends”?

Wouldn’t it be just awesome if stuff could be repaired, if we owned stuff that would last, if we were capable of preferring things that would last instead of hopping on that next commercial/gadget train to buy more/better/slightly different/favorite color trinkets and status symbols?

Wouldn’t it be interesting if we affiliated ourselves with and identified ourselves with people from the same town, with the same interests, with the same nationality… again instead of just people with the same consumer preferences?  (Come on, you know you’ve met the “Starbucks” devotee and the guy who stood in line for seven hours for a phone yesterday.)

Obviously, a parasite is eating my brain.  I’m never this optimistic or have this much faith in humanity.

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