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Posts Tagged ‘culture’

The amount of pain and suffering we go through in the name of beautification is impressive.

Yesterday marked the first Groupon I have ever purchased and it was an irresistible doozy. They were offering Laser hair removal for 75% off or more. Ah-ma-zing. Just about every woman who maintains their body hair has considered this option and most do not take the extra leap because holy-mother that sh*t is expensive! So I sucked it up and went for it. $200 dollars (normally over $1000!) and 6 appointments later I can expect to never have to worry about an ingrown hair on my bikini line again. This is very exciting. Awww yeah. TMI? I can’t help it. I have been getting waxed since high school and while my tolerance has gone up (compared to the horrid memory of my first experience where I walked out with only 1 smooth leg), I can only occasionally trick myself into thinking it “tickle-hurts”. Luckily, I have the best waxer ever and am always giving her positive feedback and love and telling her things like: “Thanks for making my ***** pretty”. It’s a special relationship. I will still see her, as the laser treatments are very specific and to do the whole leg and up up up would be close to $2000 (!) and would hurt like a roaring evil beast from hell… So I settled for a smaller area. Still great. Unburstable bubble. Got it?

Before whipping out the drastic plastic to pay it all off, I had a moment of reflection: How did it ever become common practice to rid ourselves so much of our natural state and how did it get so far and  to the current trend of looking like we never went through puberty in the first place? And what would Freud say? He would be jumping up and down, having a field day- that’s for sure- with the worst case of “I told you so’s”. Pervyyyy.

Then I started to wonder if the opposite was ever popular. Like full on Jungle Woman. Or is that just on reserve for the fetishistic? Dunno. And then it hit me~ like a wig in the wind… the Merkin. Who’s heard of this? Let me introduce you to my furry friend. Err, I mean my friend’s friend. I heard of once- yeah. The pubic wig. Yes. The pubic wig. Originally worn by ladies of the night after shaving their business, but are now used as decorative items, erotic devices, or in films, by both men and women. I consulted the Wikipedia for history of it and here’s the deal: The Oxford Companion to the Body dates the origin of the pubic wig to the 1450s! Women would shave their pubic hair and wear a merkin to combat crabs, and prostitutes would wear them to cover up signs of disease, like syphillis. Damn! The Goat God Pan is making more sense now. It has also been suggested that when male actors played female parts onstage, they would cover their man parts with a merkin so they could expose themselves as women in nude scenes. Ahem.

So then, naturally, as you know me- my curiosity peaked. What’s the history of pubes anyway? Here’s what I got:

The earliest shaving devices discovered are flint blades possibly dating as far back as 30,000 BC. Not only does flint provide an extremely sharp edge for shaving, it also becomes dull rather quickly, making these the first disposable razors.

From 4,000 to 3,000 BC, women removed body hair with homegrown depilatory creams made from a bizarre combination of such questionable ingredients as arsenic and quicklime. Copper razors appeared around 3,000 BC in both India and Egypt. The most elaborate razors of prehistory appear around 1,500 to 1,200 BC in Scandinavia where Danish Mound Graves yielded razors in leather carrying cases with etched bronze blades and carved handles. No doubt the Vikings liked their women shaved.

The practice of pubic hair removal goes back to the dawn of civilization. To early Egyptians, a smooth and hairless body was the standard of beauty. The practice first gained total acceptance when it was practiced by the wife of Farao; afterwards, every upper class Egyptian woman made sure there was not a single hair on her body with the exception of her head. They used primitive depilatory creams and a form of waxing that utilized a sticky emulsion of oil and honey – the forerunner of what we now call “sugaring.”

The Greeks adopted the ideal of smoothness, capturing it over and again in their sculpture. Ancient Greek sculptures of women are universally clean-shaven, whereas the sculptures of men have pubic hair. The Greeks believed that a smooth, hairless body exemplified youth and beauty. In “Sexual Life in Ancient Greece” by Hans Licht, the author describes how the Greeks disapproved of women with pubic hair and considered it ugly. It was considered a sign of class distinction and subsequently all upper-class women practiced pubic hair removal, as did many women of the lesser classes.

The Romans also disapproved of pubic hair; young girls began removing it as soon as the first hair appeared. They used tweezers, which they called the “volsella” as well as a kind of depilatory cream called the “philotrum” or “dropax” which was sometimes made with bryonia and foreshadowed moderndepilatory creams. Waxing with resin or pitch was also used to depilate. Furthermore, the practice of pubic hair removal wasn’t unique to Rome – it was practiced in even the most remote parts of the empire. Julius Caesar (101-44 BC) writes that, “The Britons shave every part of their body except their head and upper lip.” It is reported that Poppaea, wife of the Roman Emperor Nero, used depilatory creams to remove unwanted body hair daily. At that time, the latest available creams included some wonderful ingredients like resin, pitch, white vine or ivy gum extract, ass’ fat, she-goat’s gall, bat’s blood, and powdered viper.

Islam also has a long history of pubic hair removal. According to the Sunnah, every adult Muslim, as a part of keeping his/her body clean, should remove the hair from his pubic area and armpits. The hair may be removed through any method that one feels comfortable with. The spread of Islam brought the practice to India, Northern Africa, and the other vast areas of the world under Muslim influence. In 1520, Bassano de Zra wrote “The Turks consider it sinful when a woman lets the hair on her private parts grow. As soon as a woman feels the hair is growing, she hurries to the public bath to have it removed or remove it herself.” The public baths all had special rooms where the ladies could get rid of their hair. Even today, the hamams (public baths) still have special rooms for the ladies to depilate.

The returning Crusaders (1096-1270) brought the practice back to Europe. In many European castles built between 1200 and 1600 AD, a special room was constructed where the ladies of the court could gather to shave. During the Renaissance, the practice of pubic hair removal flourished. Sixteenth and seventeenth century artists portrayed women as having little or no pubic hair. The work of Rubens, whose models typified the ideal in feminine beauty at the time, most dramatically reveals this.

The habit of depilating started to wane (publicly at least) during the reign of Catherine de Medici (1547-1589) who was then queen of France and something of a religious zealot. She forbade her ladies in waiting to remove their pubic hair any longer; however, it was still widely practiced until the reign of Queen Victoria (1837-1901) and the smothering prudishness of the “Victorian Era.” Even then, it remained popular in private, especially for the ruling classes. There is some photographic evidence ranging from the time of the Civil War to the “blue movies” of the 1920s and 30s that shows that the amount of pubic hair during that time varied from full to none. Even though repressed by the outward morality of the era, it appears pubic shaving never disappeared but instead more appropriately went underground.

The modern industrial age saw the rise of such razor manufacturers as Gillette, Schick, and Wilkinson. With the availability of cheap, quality razors, the practice of women removing their body hair became more publicly acceptable again. When women’s clothing styles began showing bare arms and legs in the 1920s, leg and underarm shaving followed immediately. In fact, armpit shaving was not common until May of 1915 when Harper’s Bazaar magazine featured a model in a sleeveless evening gown that showed her bare shoulders and hairless armpits. Shortly thereafter, Wilkinson Sword launched an advertising campaign to convince women that underarm hair was “unhygienic and unfeminine.” Sales of razors doubled in two years, perhaps the result of pent-up demand.


Pretty interesting stuff. Your choice at the end of the day. Soft and silky~ bushy and bold (you 70′s misfit rocker you). Shave it, pluck it, zap it, sugar it, hot wax yo’ self… Do how you do- but my best advice? Leave the merkins in the past and maintain. Hair today, gone tomorrow. Adieu.

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This here lil’ diddy was developed by the Wisconsin RPCV (Returned Peace Corps Volunteers) group. This is a bird’s-eye view into what the world would look like if the population were shrunken down to a village of 100 people with all of the existing human ratios remaining the same. The following is what would be:

61 are from Asia

14 are from Africa

11 are from Europe

8 are from South America, Central America (including Mexico) and the Caribbean

5 are from Canada and the United States

1 is from Oceania (an area that includes Australia, New Zealand and the islands of the south, west and central Pacific)   even my computer doesn’t know about Oceania because it’s reprimanding my for misspellings. Twice.

More than half the people in the global village come from the most populated countries:

20 are from China

17 are from India

5 are from the United States

4 are from Indonesia

3 are from Brazil

3 are from Pakistan

More than half of the people speak these 8 languages:

21 speak a Chinese dialect- 16 speak the Mandarin dialect

9 speak English

9 speak Hindi or Urdu

7 speak Spanish crazy, right? My ethnocentric side is all like “What?! I thought everyone spoke Spanish, everywhere!”

4 speak Arabic

4 speak Bengali

3 speak Russian again- this surprised me. It’s a huuuge country! I figured more! And certainly not the same amount of people speaking as….

3 speak Portuguese !

More than half the villagers are under the age of 30. On average, 1 person dies and 3 babies are born every year. A baby born in the village today can expect to live to age 63. Hmmm world average…. Interesting. Three cheers for modern meds, eh? Keeping us up past 40 on the regular. 

There is no shortage of food in the global village. If all the food were divided equally, everyone would have enough to eat. But the food isn’t divided equally. No way! So although there is enough to feed the villagers, not everyone is well fed:

20 other people are severely undernourished

Only 30 people always have enough to eat. Count your blessings my friends.

52 would be female

48 would be male

70 would be nonwhite

30 would be… guess… white! right.

68 would be non-Christian

32 would be… you got it.

89 would be hetero

11 would be homo

10 people would possess 59% of the entire world’s wealth. I found this figure rather astounding, assuming the number would be far lower. Trickle down, anyone??

76 would have electricity. Ya’ll are surprised by this too, right? That’s a lot. I figured… well… wrong.

17 would be unable to read. That’s more like it. Not that that’s a good thing, I am just not surprised by that fact. Incase you cared about what I thought! Boy, I’m seeing cynical patterns brewing up inside of me in relation to all this info…

1 would have a college education

17 would not have clean, safe drinking water

43 would not have adequate sanitation (public or household disposal)

32 would breathe air that was unhealthy because of pollution

15 would own a computer. On my bike the other day I rode by a dirty, dusty gutter punk kid sitting outside of his squat messing around on his laptop. Amazing. I composed a list for him in my head for when he’s packing up camp after, oh- I don’t know- train hopping? Do kids do that these days? I might be romanticizing. I used to be in the know!… Toilet paper- check. Leathermen- check. Mangey puppy- check. Banjo with missing string- check. Facial tattoos- check. 100 lb. pack- check. Overalls- check. Sign for skrilla- check. Portable computer—- um- check?

And so~ if you have $$$ in the bank, your wallet, or even spare change in a dish somewhere~ you get to rank among the top 8% of the world’s wealthy

Being able to read this message you have a leg up on the over 2 billion who cannot read at all.

~ Food for thought people. It’s good to have some perspective. Bless up!

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This is the official launching of publicity and requests for my new collection. Get ready for it… I am requesting- ANONYMOUSLY- your MosT embarrassing stories. I want the juiciest of details. I want the funny, the savage, the outrageous, the tormented, the moments inducing the barrage of curse words. GIVE. IT. TO. ME.

Write it out in the comment area if you want- though obviously that would not be anonymous. ORrrr- send them to me here:

Lisita Lawless

3333 NE Morris St.

Portland, OR. 97212

I will collect and post them. Oh boy!!!

Don’t put your name. Just put your truth.

The idea for this came to me when I was watching a TED Talk about a man who went out onto the streets of NYC, handed out 1,000 self-addressed (to his abode) postcards with the simple question on the back: “What is your biggest secret?” Needless to say it caught like wild fire and a website exists now that you simply must check out at www.postsecret.com

His wife and himself receive unruly amounts of people’s dirty laundry from silly, to scandalous, to simply heartbreaking. I gift you with the TED talk that I watched that inspired my brilliant, comparable idea you see today. I am excited!

http://www.postsecret.com/2012/04/postsecret-ted-talk.html

So, in order to get the juices flowing- I suppose it’s only fair that I give you a good admission. Fine. Fair enough. (Deep breath) … Well, the truth of the matter is that a lady like myself runs into things a good bit on the often tip- that are pretty ridic. I have a bit of a penchant for it. That being said, the first things that come to mind have to do with peeing. Either a devil lives inside my bladder and takes up all the room, I have a premie one, or I only have a year and some months left on my bladder before it gives out completely… so yeah, you’re about to get a good pee story. And the answer is yes, for the record; I do fear incontinence.

Setting: The mountains of Mexico, on a a janky, rickety, music-blaring bus with those little hanging fabric balls (bolitas pequeñas??) for proper decor. And dashboard-Jesus too. It was mostly campesinos on this piece. And there’s me. Chilling. Actually, that is a huge lie. I was not chilling. I had to take a wiz like nobody’s business. No one else seemed phased by the fact that we would only stop for long enough to pick people up, and if you dare disboard and were not on the bus by the time the (crazy f*%^ing drive-like-a-death-wish) driver was ready to bounce, sucked for you. So I was under silent torture. Everyone around me was settled in on those crazy roads- perhaps the best way to deal was to catch some rest, but nope, I wasn’t that lucky. I had to go. And to make matters worse, I was surrounded by strangers. A friend that was traveling with me was one row across and one seat up, so they could do me no solids (not a foreshadowing pun). Finally I asked her if she had a plastic bag. She knew right away why. Bitch! She liked it too much. No bag though. I fumbled through my belongings until I found a beautiful, gorgeous, thin, blessed plastic bag. I blew it up to check for wholes because I am very smart like that. Safe. Now again, I will remind you- everyone around me was sleeping. Accept my pal, of course, and that was fine. I squat down off my seat and pulled my pants down and ahhhhhh. Relief. Pants up, bag hanging, BUT suddenly- a river. The bag had deceived me and had a terrible whole. A very bad whole! And the river- there she was, twisting rivulets down the isle and around, and into people’s belongings, and all over the floor. And here is the craziest part- people began waking up. This will never make sense to me. Liquid is silent. Things spill on the bus. Those 2 facts put together do not sensibly equate to waking up the sleeping. How? Was this something they were hyper aware of due to others going through the same thing? Well people started to get very excited and upset. Before the people next to me woke up I managed to chuck my rapidly deflating bag-of-pee out of the window (which is part of the (fairly generous) list of the reasons for why I am going to hell) and look relatively innocent. My friend on the other hand, had completely lost her shit. She was out of her body laughing. She could not get it together. There was nothing to be done.

All in all, I was never burned at the stake, or got found out about for that matter, but still the experience with terrible and embarrassing, and I am sure that there was at least one other person that saw the entire ordeal unravel. Yup, pretty embarrassing. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

Your turn! Hooray!

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There are two kinds of people in the United States who will sit down next to a perfect stranger on the same park bench when there are other ones in the nearby area that remain unoccupied:

1) A person that wants you, or has something that they hope you want

2) Drunks

It is not unusual for me to take my bike and point it towards the direction of an adventure I hope to come upon.Often times I will ride westward towards the esplanade of the city. The latter part of the ride itself is lovely; over the river, next to the train tracks suspended above the water on tremendous, whiny, old, wooden beams. For the many who are yet to be familiar with Portland town, the esplanade is a long stretch of sidewalk that is on both sides of our river, the Willamette, dividing the city respectively into east and west. As you can imagine, there is a good ebb and flow of foot traffic here at every hour. There are joggers, bike riders, people strolling, destitute folks, people recovering from another long night of drinking, drugging, or just plain ol’ being homeless and snoozing there. There are people taking photos, people reading or drawing, musicians playing together…

I came down to the river the particular day in question to wrap myself up in the gentler flow of the city. Equipped with sketchpad, writing book and an array of pens of different thicknesses, I sat. I looked into the river and at the passers bye, hoping that the words would begin to collect themselves for me. Gather anytime my fantastic friends. Inspiration? I’m here.

Stage left, in come this rather large fellow. He seated himself next to me on the bench. No invitation needed for public benches, true, but when there are other vacant benches, don’t most people know to take one of those? It’s one of those unspoken social cues that we all adhere to and accept. (Similar to the unspoken rule in the men’s rest room where when using the urinal you go to the one at the very end, and each next guy to get up to use the john goes as far as possible from the other user. Right? Yes, woman know these things (woman, did you know about this?!) (We are so lucky that we get to pee together!).) So there we are: me with my pen, dutifully sussing out a brilliant topic bound to dawn any minute, with a slight distraction due to my new bench mate who was fairly odorous (boozy stank); and he, a rather lumbering fellow with a large presence that had a slightly jumbled and wayward feel, along with a subtle allure that peaked my interest an itty bitty bit. Microscopicly so.

He began talking and asking me questions that were just fluff and I felt that he was hoping to find a friend in me. I was still absorbed in my hopes of creation, also hoping he would leave, albeit humoring him despite my disdain for superficial conversation for the sake of conversing. Well whaddaya know, he pretty much talked to me until I was hooked. It’s when you least expect it, kiddies. Hints of his story splintered through the fluff of simple monologue and he had my attention. He got me, like a slow drug would: Methodical and persistant administration.

And the verbal foreplay had reached a point where I wanted to know more. Impatiently awaiting. Maybe he would get it out and then I would have some fodder. That was when he became distant and when I realized I was, in fact, an asshole. He wasn’t going to just give it up. I had taken this man for granted because he sat down next to me,  and I had assumed that his routine was the same old song and dance number I had seen exacted so many times before: drunkard with loose lips, talking to who ever will listen. I didn’t feel special or “chosen” and I had taken him to be very open. I forgot, and was slapped with the reminder- there are still sacred tales behind eyes the of the broken.

Finally, it came.

His story. True as sin.

Drunk Native American.

Big, lost man.

Ancient myth.

Vagabond.

This story unfolded in such a fashion, becoming absolutely one of the most beautiful and humbling tales that I have ever heard.

Somewhere in the Southwest a large man once lay. A sterile gown. A white bed. Eyes shut. A coma had claimed him from nights and days of exessive drinking. A coma that turned days into weeks and turned weeks into months. Doctors and attendees stood by, idly. Deep sleep of an undisturbable variety. Dreams showed no presence, playing on the lids of no eyes.

A small number of people were left in his life. Bridges had been burned and pain had struck chords, severing ties with too much weight to mend. The tiny amount of loved ones left came to visit. Trickling in slower than tortoise. They whispered and prayed. They cried. They talked to him. Different tactics elicited nothing at all.

His uncle came one day,this time bringing Sage from the desert. In the hospital room the bundle was lit, and the man in the starched gown was smudged. Did they treat him like a lost spirit? His body was brushed with the sacrement’s smoke. His face washed clean with the scent. The big man’s nose… began to twitch.

This was seen.

A break through. A big deal. But the end of the road, as nothing else dented the differnece between the standing and laying in the room again. Not even Sage. Not for weeks.

Weeks later another family member came. With them was a family heirloom. An instrument used in ceremony. A beautiful, simply ornate rattler. A rattler that guided this family in the hogan. A rattler that his ears knew. The sound of the desert. The sound of song. Perhaps the sound of home.

The big man lay completely still. When the rattler was shaken- up rose his hand, mimicking the movement. As if to shake the tools, as if it was he, making the noise.

Weeks lapsed once again, and intermittently his responses shortened the amount of days between the stretches of stillness.

It was these visits, featuring different family members, presenting an instrument, a scent, a song, that brought him to, eventually.

Finally one day he awoke, and slowly reoriented himself with the world. Reacquainted himself with his family. Embraced the ways with which he was raised. Got back on his feet. This is not to say that his base was solid, or suddenly he was resilient to his demons and the challenges that awaited. He was still a weak man who’s best friend and worst enemy were combined to be found at the bottom of the bottle, with a call that over powered the rest. But his sense of self, his sense of spirituality, his understanding of connectivity and family… all these things were bestowed upon him. Refreshed. Now, if he were to die, he knew where and how he would go, and that it would be his time, and his journey would be safe.

Thank you for reading. Aho. 

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I want to live where the wild Ginger grows.

I want to set up shop amongst the racket of howler monkeys that shriek at the warm, sleepy, star dusted dawn. Everyday. Reliably.

I want to look down at the ground and kick at fat grubs with my barefoot feet, and feel the virile earth give just a bit; just enough to let some air out and give the worms some work to do for no good reason in particular.

I desire the smell in the air of mysterious and magnificent, unnamed tropical flowers that are very red and robust,  screaming pinks, bold charming candied yellows. I want to pluck them for my tea after humming a new tune of gratitude that I just made up because the inspiration is so damn thick that it is simply oozing- wet and juicy all over the place, where I stand drenched in the generous gifts of rhythmic cobalt full magenta golden song and hot spellbinding aqua haunting ocher poetry. 

A place where art is never dormant. The spark of creation ignites and burns burns burns, creating an absolute ruckus of overturned firey beauty.

Where I just can’t get any sleep and no- not because I am unrested but because the jungle hums and churns and I have learned to listen, as I am actively learning secrets of the ancients and what it is like, and what it takes to live housed and homed in the middle of la selva.

Little green snakes will slither clear and not slip into my favorite shoes.

A place permeated with the scent of  fresh tortillas. Todo fresco. Tierra local. Harvest practices relied upon for generations. Methods of sowing and reaping on dial with the waxing and waning of the solar system  itself. Stone ground and pounded with experience, hardened hands, hardy laughter, crows feet on faces for days.

I want to bathe in tepid waters of mineral pools, cleansing my mornings in mud and waterfalls. I will run my fingers through my hair and let the little pieces of leaves and sticks stick around like they picked me on purpose.

Let me live in Spanish town. Some where, somehow, someday. Where colors are brilliant, where the plants dance along, where old stories are revered and passed on, where we feel exuberant and incredibly alive because home es donde el carazon es.

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Definition of HERO

1
a : a mythological or legendary figure often of divine descent endowed with great strength or abilityb : an illustrious warriorc : a man admired for his achievements and noble qualitiesd : one who shows great courage
2
a : the principal character in a literary or dramatic workb : the central figure in an event, period, or movement
3
plural usually he·ros : submarine 2
4
: an object of extreme admiration and devotion : idol
       Ask a modern kid who there hero is. It’s probably no surprise that  the majority of the time the response will be full of celebrities and sports players… Curses. Sometimes someone on their list might make the cut that’s worthy of hero/ heroine status; albiet dead. Obviously this is a reflection of our value placements in our flashy, splashy, frenetic, bigger-is-better, faster, technologically-infused society. But wait! Fear not, as this isn’t a rant on our scopes or sad states of affair… Hold tight.
       Every now and again I like to step back and take inventory of my interests, priorities, actions, and what/ who I appreciate. Knowing too much celebrity gossip, or really any for that matter, has always just freaked me out. I think this stems partially from a deep seeded fear that the info would take up valuable space in my brain. The other part being that I really just don’t give a rat’s ass. It’s just kind of creepy. I never got the fascination with ‘People’ mag, or any of that kind of thing… Different strokes… Keeping abreast of politics is an absolute priority, despite the fact that it generally tightens each and every one of my muscles, as the daily stresses of world events settle in. Man, there is some heavy sh#t going on!
       It is my intention in this post, to draw upon the quite, ever present, ever acting champions. The people, places, and things that lend us inspiration and encouragement, just by virtue of being. These are beings who exist, embedded in the very fabric of our lives, as if to sway gently, steadily, and with constance in the background, yet provide a critical placement that is key in the peace that we do feel.
 And so, my heroes…  are comprised of the little old ladies with practiced, yet natural poise, who carry huge, heavy baskets on their heads, walk for miles, and can laugh with out spilling a drop.
People who have a cause and are rebels who do not lose sight of the grand picture, and remain steady and as light hearted as possible, and bring ease to those around them; effortlessly.
Living, breathing artists who are aware of their God/ Goddess given gifts and do not keep there talents pent up, but share, inspire, create, and spread the colors of their imaginations all over the cities and onto the children, encouraging them and pushing them to do great things.
People who are brave enough to pick up a beat and make it come alive, and/ or who play an instrument and speak the language of love with it, bridging cross cultural gaps. 
The beauty, resilience, and tenacity of every flower, weed, lichen cluster, and blade of grass that bores it’s seed or spore into the side of buildings, cracks of sidewalks, breaks in pavements, whispering softly the song of reclamation.
The      humble gardener with the itty bitty plot who gently and wisely tend their crop, planting flora in the name of healthy eating, good living, sharing the abundance, and beautifying the area to make passer byes happy and meet friends.
The ones who let there freak flag fly (say it 5x fast!) and dare to be. And do this just cause why not. 

Motivated individuals who are driven enough to start up companies that do not compromise their morals, that support free and fair trade, a livable wage, and respect to the people and the land.

I will likely have to come back to this and add. Regularly. A roaming tally.

Feel free to add as well… Who are your heroes???

     ”The only people for me are the mad ones. The ones who are mad to love, mad to talk, mad to be saved; the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow Roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars.”
-Jack Kerouac 

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