Thoughts on freeganism, art, and self-worth. 05/12/2012
I’ve had a rough past couple days #ontheroad, which I’ll soon expound upon at my personal blog site. But a large part of the trouble yesterday was with attacks from close friends (via facebook, ugh) on my character, worldview, and lifestyle – especially my views and praxis regarding freeganism, my sense of self-worth, and the value I place on my own art. Caught off guard by certain harsh critiques, I posted the following on Twitter: I've this strange feeling that some friends are ashamed of me. Not for what I've done but for who I am. Not really friends? What say you? To this one of my dearest and closest friends, infamous for his lack of tact and internet manners, replied: “Real friends expect something better. Being broke and poor is not a fashion. It's a state of mind #riseabovemediocrity.” In the following interchange he also said: “Bitching about everything that is wrong with the world while sucking on its teat… You have basically made the choice to eat scraps of others labor and call them evil for living this way because the life you chosen for yourself is so much more fulfilling then theirs. Goddamn you are being so blind to your own bullshit. You've made your crusty bed that you made with sweatshop labor hand me downs now lie in it and dream of a revolution of beggars and complainers. #be@peace with your own hypocrisy. [sic] When you work a 9-5 40hr a week job and buy the things that you need to get you buy, then you can judge rightly the truth that you so desperately believe." As you can imagine, I felt the need to defend myself from all of the above attacks. My defense produced some great blurbs explaining my views on freeganism, art, and evaluating self-worth. Find them here compiled and edited together for coherence. Are you suggesting that I choose poverty because I think it's fashionable? Are you also suggesting that just because a person has more money (we both know is worthless), nicer clothes (made in sweatshops), a home, or any other modern luxury, that they are inherently better than the person who has little possessions? I may be materially poor but I am existentially, spiritually, creatively, relationally, communally (etc) rich. And no lack of (virtually worthless) money could change that. I don't lead a life that results in dumpster diving for sustenance because of financial necessity or desperation. I'm not homeless or a vagrant and my state of mind is the furthest thing from poverty. I'm not a charity case, I work hard, I'm proud of my work, I'm happy with my life and my contribution to society, and I ask for nothing from anyone that I'm not willing or able to reciprocate in kind. My life is far richer than most of my supposed friends apparently understand. Should I work some BS job that makes me unhappy and siphons my time and energy into an exploitative, consumption-driven economy solely so that I can have enough money to pay for things I don't really need? Look, I'm all for supporting local and ethical business, farming, etc. Except that 1) it's expensive. 2) There's plenty of food to be rescued from the waste stream that 3) I don't want to end up on top of some landfill in a low-income neighborhood in Jersey while 4) thousands of people are dying of starvation and 5) so much money, man power, water, oil, and other resources have already gone into the production and transportation of said wasted goods. With these considerations in mind, nearly all the food that I eat and the clothes that I wear were either found or given to me by people who no longer wanted or needed it for whatever reason. So if I did have the money to buy food or clothes I would still rescue it from the trash and probably give the money to ______ [insert non-profit organization working toward peace and justice here]. You can think what you want about the food I eat. I know that it's just as nutritious, beautiful, magical, and love-filled as yours when it's shared in community. As far as what goes into/out of my mouth: "it is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but what comes out of the mouth; this defiles a person." Matt 15:11 [Which brings me to music, art, and expression.] I don't necessarily believe that my music is solely mine. There's inspiration there - whether God, muse, community, other, or some combination. But as messenger I do consider my music, my craft, as being priceless. So I don't put a price tag on it. As you know, I put a lot of work into my music and craft and I have no qualms with offering it for free (or donations). Be careful not to conflate your "compensation" so much over my "tips". Tips and donations are the opposite of obligation. People give me money because they want to give (whatever their motivation), not because they have to. And I want them to be able to listen to my music, whether they can afford a $5 donation or not. I made it for them. Maybe that's not you. Then do you! I was happy to pay $15 for your album. I didn't complain, ask questions, or make excuses even though it was very difficult for me to do so. Because I knew that it was worth so much more to you. Because I love you. Perhaps I'll buy your next album for $15 $20 or whatever. It will still be priceless to me. So you see: I'm not militant about this stuff and I'm not judging you or anyone else who is making their life in a noble way - especially creative people who live off their craft. We work our asses off. We're proud of our work. We're happy. And we are living the lives that we wish to live, not merely existing. We just have different means to achieving these ends. And no one need be ashamed of that. Thus you also have no right to judge whether I am “living” or [merely] “surviving,” you have no idea the abundance of joy, peace, community, and wealth that I have. So it's not measured in dollars and cents? Big deal, you don't get to keep any of that when you're 6 feet under. And the economy is likely to collapse much sooner than that anyway. Then you'll be bartering just like I am. [In conclusion,] I live this way because I believe that it is noble and right. Not better than anyone else, but best for me. My acknowledgement need not come from mere humans and my compensation need not be measured in dollar signs. I know what I'm worth and what my work is worth and I need no other to validate it besides God herself. And S/He does. Then other friends sent me the following encouraging messages, mostly unawares of the heated discussions occurring elsewhere on the interweb: Gio, I think you're awesome. It is hard work to stand up against the things you think are wrong and still have as much cheer, joy, and love as you do. Keep on persevering. God has such huge plans for you, and I am inspired by your commitment to working out your salvation with fear & trembling and to cultivating your calling and gifts with diligence. I am so excited to see how He will direct your steps. Peace, bro! I'll say it again- you are awesome. You are a blessing to have on this earth! You’re a rolling stone. Wherever you lay your hat, that’s your home. You are like Pocahontas living with the wind and shit. Indeed. Add Comment Freegan Origami 04/09/2012
 As I mentioned in a February entry, I've been living rent-free in NYC since November last year. A like-minded friend and activist offered for me to stay with him at his Inwood apartment, in exchange for about 14 hours of work around his apartment. Though he probably would not call himself a freegan, we certainly shared many tenets in our respective worldviews and lifestyles: - extraordinary respect for the environment and human labor - disinterest in consumerism and needless spending - abhorrence of waste - compulsion to reduce and reuse consumer goods (then, at the last straw, to recycle), and to compost food waste - commitment to and participation in our neighborhood and broader "upstate Manhattan" community - supporting local businesses, merchants, artists, and farmers And though he may not identify as a freegan himself, I found that there were many aspects of his views and praxis that resembled Freeganism in key ways, and which I may have much to learn from. I am no longer staying at his place, but I would like to share one of the last tasks he assigned, since it was such a great example of reducing/reusing in a creative and sustainable way. How To Make Standing Files What you'll need: Food box/carton Smaller boxes, perhaps originally for cookies or crackers, are a great size for envelopes or folded sheets of paper Cereal boxes are generally a good size for regular 8.5/11" sheets Scissors Ruler/tape measure Step 1 Measure the width of the box. For example, let's assume 6". Step 2 Holding your ruler to the side of the box (where the ingredients typically are), measure that length from the top of the box. Mark it or just take note. In our example, the 6" mark is right at the bottom of the white ingredients rectangle. Step 3 Cut that same side down both edges to the spot noted in step 2.  Step 4 Step 4 Fold the side back, into the box, so that it reinforces itself. Make a hard crease so that it doesn't bounce up. Step 5 Fold the front and back panels of the box into itself, reinforcing the insides. After folding, both top flaps of the box should be flush along the inside of the side panel that you did NOT cut.  Step 5 Step 6 Fill your new standing files with papers, notes, memos, or anything else that needs organizing. Busking Updates 03/01/2012
 1) I haven't done much subway busking the past couple weeks, so I'm running short on funds. Which means, soon as I'm done with this post, I'm OFF TO THE A TRAIN! 2) I have a new album available on noisetrade, my venue for Virtual Busking. The album consists of the soundtrack from the Clown Of God show back in 2010. Download it NOW for FREE.. or leave a generous tip ;) You can find more info about the show at my personal blog page. 3) A friend of mine recently did a piece on "odd ways to earn money during college." (Many of which I tried both in college and after, haha) He asked me some questions about busking and quoted me in the article. Check it out! Don't Walk By 02/11/2012
 At this exact moment in time there are hundreds of volunteers roaming the streets of NYC looking for homeless people to share a meal with, people for whom to provide medical attention, clothes, even a bed tonight. They are coordinated by an alliance of organizations whose collective mission is to serve the homeless in our city. This event is called Don’t Walk By. Last week this mission was launched from a church in Harlem, where hundreds of homeless individuals were directed to be served and to share in hospitality and community. I was among the hospitality volunteers outfitting the homeless with better coats, blankets, new socks, underwear and toiletries. It was an honor to bless them and be blessed by them for my third consecutive year.  Don’t Walk By is an annual event that reaches out to the city’s homeless population each year for four or five weeks in the harshest bitter cold of winter. It is a volunteer effort and much of the materials and resources are donated. They also need money to mobilize the effort. For these reasons and many more, I have made Don’t Walk By NYC homeless outreach one of the recipients for my Zombie Music Campaign for peace and justice. Please click on this link for more details and to contribute to DWB and other organizations working toward peace and justice as they serve “the least of these” in NYC and beyond. Thanks! Gio The Recycling Redeemer (or: The Can Man) 02/08/2012
 The city of New York takes recycling very seriously. Building supers and business owners can get hefty fines (pun intended) for not properly sorting their trash and recycling. They are both to be left on the curbsie for pickup, though on different days, and the latter is to be bagged in blue transparent plastic rather than opaque black or clear plastic. This is also one of those states where virtually any plastic bottle can be redeemed for ¢5 . So perhaps it's not surprising that there are individuals who traverse the city, collecting those blue plastic bags in shopping carts and schlepping them to grocery stores and pharmacies. I've seen these people all over the city and always wondered about them - are they homeless? Do they really make much money? Is it worth the trouble? I greatly respected the work that they do and even fantasized about one day having the expendable income to give them a 20 and a hearty "thank you." At the same time I've had some apprehensions about them - could they be dangerous? - and I never bothered to strike up a conversation or otherwise get to know my neighborhood recycling redeemers. Then last night, as I approached my familiar treasure trove outside of Morton Williams supermarket on Broadway and 115th, I was finally confronted by one of them. "Hey Boss." He was firendly in his address but I assumed he was going to beg for money, which I almost certainly would have turned down. I didn't know yet that he had collected three large bags of bottles for redemption, as they were leaning against the wall of the market, about twenty feet away. "If you take one of those bags into the store for me we can split the money." I was impressed and intrigued by his hustle but "Why can't you take it yourself?" "They only let me take one hundred bottles, one bag." I agreed to help him out and set myself to food rescue while he redeemed a first bag. I overheard him telling the owner, "no, those are his bags," pointing to the other two bags leaning against the wall. "Boss!" I looked over and nodded in agreement. Once he returned, I went to redeem the second bag. The owner stood conspicuously in the doorway, holding another bag open as I transferred the bottles one by one, as quickly as possible. He appeared annoyed. I don't think he was counting the bottles and I certainly wasn't either. So I presume he arbitrarily decided when there were a hundred of them. He pulled away and began tying the bag, directing me to the checkout line for my five bucks. I made the line and within a few minutes I was out the door with the money. I gave three of the five to my business partner and proceeded to rescue my food for the coming week. He asked which way I would be headed from there, wondering whether I could accompany him to the next store. I had already got off to a late start and wouldn't have time to go with him, I said. And before I could look up to introduce myself and give a proper farewell, he was halfway down the next block. His identity may remain a mystery for some time, but I'm glad to have caught a glimpse of the recycling redeemer's way of life. For more info on these folks, check out this article published in the Bronx Journal in June 2011. Rent-Free NYC 02/04/2012
Last June I began considering new living situations in NYC. I was feeling a little bit frustrated with the lack of intentional community at the Edgecombe House and I was hankering to move to the Heights, where I already spent a great deal of time volunteering and I knew Trinity Grace would plant a church in the not-too-distant future. Nothing substantial came of my brief search, though, because I knew that little could tear me away from the Edgecombe House. Living there was amazing. I got along really well with my roommates; I loved the apartment, building, super, street, and neighborhood; I had a great view exiting the building and another from my desk in a corner of the dining room; there was plenty of common space to host small group meetings, regular movie screenings, freegan feasts, or even DIY shows; and the rent was reasonably low - I shared a two bedroom in Harlem with four other men, so my rent and utilities combined never exceeded $400 (for any non-NYC-dwellers who may not know this, rent that low is virtually unheard of here!) A month or two later I was approached by one of my roommates who suggested that it would behoove us not to live together anymore. This was a hard word to take, but - after a week or two - we agreed that this would be the best for all of us. So I returned to the search for people who would be willing to share intentional community with me in the Heights by December. Nobody turned up. Then one day at Word Up a fellow volunteer generously offered for me to stay with him at his apartment indefinitely, in exchange for housekeeping chores and other labor. I needed some time to think about this - I would essentially be living rent-free in Manhattan, which was a pretty big deal, but I would also have to postpone community living. Regardless, I had no other options available to meet my immediate need - to get out of the Edgecombe House - so I decided to move the bulk of my possessions to his apartment at least through the end of 2011. I've now been living with Bob for a whole month. I work fourteen hours a week in exchange for a tiny space to house my minimal possessions, freegan food, and sleeping body. This is our barter arrangement and yet another example of God's miraculous provision for me in the city, provision for which I am unspeakably thankful. Moreover, it has been and will be another opportunity for me to learn what it means to live in community as I continue to prepare and look forward to the future Heights Community House. This is NOT an Allstate insurance ad... 01/26/2012
 I began playing Hey Jude immediately after switching cars on the uptown A train. I leaned back, slightly, against one of the hand poles and faced the long subway car before me, quickly surveying my audience. I was annoyed and disappointed to see two police officers standing at the other end of the car. I knew full well that I wasn't allowed to play on the subway trains and that I could get a ticket - or worse - if I didn't play my cards right. But this was a long ride, from 59th street to 125th, and it would have been absurd for me not to try and make the best of the scenario. Especially since, by this point, I was already halfway through the song. I avoided looking toward them, hoping that they were doing the same for me. At the harmonica solo I began walking in their direction, still averting my eyes. Nobody gave anything. Not even a look or a word. It's not uncommon for train conductors to announce that giving to solicitors is illegal. Compassion and generosity are criminalized in NYC for some reason? I have yet to confirm the claim, but in any case it gives charitable riders pause when police are on board. By the time I finished Hey Jude I was even closer to the police, shocked they hadn't stopped me yet. I didn't allow the final chord to fade out. Doing so might present one of them with a golden opportunity to approach me. Instead I hastily began picking the intro to Awake My Soul by Mumford And Sons. When I was nearly done with the song, bellowing the final chorus ("awaaaaaaake my soul!"), I saw one of the officers approaching. He made a short slashing motion with his hand across his neck, indicating for me to stop. "You can't play on here. It's considered disorderly conduct." I raised my eyebrows, "oh," and nodded. I already knew this. "You could also get a ticket for panhandling." We both knew that I wouldn't stop. Finally he got to the point: "I don't really care what you do on your own time, but you can't do this when we're on the train with you." I hadn't shrunk away in fear and intimidation. Maybe it hurt their pride. But I also knew that he could get in trouble if he didn't at least give some kind of warning. Thankfully that's all it was. He walked away, leaving me standing on the still-moving train with the neck of my guitar gripped in both hands and lips sealed. The train was sickeningly silent. There was a void, perceivable by the other riders as well, as only the hum of the train and the faint tinny sound of bachata guitar filled the sound spectrum. One woman stood up and approached, pausing just a few feet away. "He said you can't play in here? It sounded great." "Thank you! Yea, It sounds so empty now, doesn't it?" "It does! Well.. Thank you." And with a sweeping, defiant gesture she stretched a dollar out, dropping it in my tip jar. The train slowed to a halt. As I moved to step off the train - toward the next car, of course - four or five other people surrounded me with money in hand. They were all so.. generous, compassionate! What disorder I had caused! I rushed to the next car, hoping the police wouldn't follow. They didn't. Now who's to protect New York City from mayhem like me? Open Letter to Santa Claus 12/29/2011
The presents were unwrapped and the living room left a-clutter. The event was over and everyone else in my nuclear family was recharging to meet with other friends and in-laws. Not me. I sat alone on the sofa with the sounds of Christmas glee, laughter, surprise, and Chipmunk carols only a faint echo in my subconscious. A memory. Of something long past. Of innocence. Anais walked briskly past the living room when she stopped suddenly. I don't know how she interpreted the look on my face or the distant gaze in my eyes. She only asked, "well, what DID you want for Christmas??" I looked up sullenly. Pensively, though I already knew the answer. Then with slight jest but real sorrow I replied, "to be understood." Dear Santa, My nephew and niece (5 and 3 years old, respectively) already believe that you don't exist. That is to say: they know that the heavy set man with the white beard and red suit who models for CocaCola ads, conscripts elves to create presents all year to give to the "nice" children while dropping coal in the stockings of the "naughty" ones, rides around the world on a sleigh pulled by nine reindeer, and always pauses to eat milk and cookies - they know that THIS guy doesn't exist. Personally, I do prefer that they know the real meaning of Christmas, which has nothing whatever to do with Santa Clause, evergreen trees, or gift exchange. And they'll be the first to tell you, over an awkward Noche Buena dinner, that the real meaning of Christmas is the birth of Jesus. But they'll also be the first ones by the tree skirt, ruthlessly tearing the wrapping paper from packages you've addressed to them. This is where I depart from them. You see, they say that they don't believe in you; but they are still influenced by the spirit of unfettered consumerism that you embody in the mythology of our culture. As a freegan, I not only recognize and believe in this spirit, I denounce it! And I've done so many times, publicly, on the multiple blogs that I keep. Still, I find each year that you address gifts to me. You should know by now that I don't want them, that I'm not interested. Look, I'm no grinch. I like presents, I really do! But I guess I turned on you when I realized that the presents you bring me are not made in the North Pole by your trusty elves. I checked the tags, Santa. The clothes you bring me are made in China, India, Sri Lanka. Even you are outsourcing your manufacturing jobs to women and children in the third world who work under deplorable conditions. I'm sorry, but I just can't abide this. Every time I read the tags it makes me feel personally responsible for the suffering of others. "But," my sister protested, "if you didn't have any presents at all, you would feel bad." Perhaps. But I assure you, Santa, the guilt and shame that I feel from knowing that others have suffered to produce for me clothes or toys that I don't need is far worse than any hard feelings I might have for not receiving the gifts at all. Besides, I never said that I don't want presents. I just don't want presents made by your so-called elves in the developing world. So if you insist on bringing me gifts that are not made by your North Polish elves, then please just keep a few things in mind:
I think that's it! Look, Santa. I know that times are hard. You don't always have the time or money to get some of the items mentioned above. Still, if all else fails, just remember that I prefer no gift to - well, you know, the normal stuff you give me. I do hope I haven't come off as ungrateful; but I also hope that I won't have to write another letter like this next year! Perhaps this one will help spare both of us any hard feelings. Until next Christmas, here's wishing you and yours a joyous and peaceful new year. Shalom, Gio Zombie Music Campaign Continues! 12/10/2011
 My new album, Protest Songs (Are Dead), has been produced and the Zombie Music Tour has ended; but the Zombie Music Campaign presses on and needs your help! I have committed to donating $500 to each of five non-profit organizations that I have volunteered with and in whose work I strongly believe. I still hope to follow through on this commitment, to contribute to the great work these organizations are doing. Between the money I've made on tour ($235), on NoiseTrade ($12), and on the facebook FundRazr page ($60), I have just over $300. That's still less than 10% of my goal and not enough to donate to even one of the organizations I've partnered with. Yet I'm confident that I will reach my goal and there's a great way that YOU can help make that happen! For the next two weeks of this holiday season, my Christmas album A Light Has Dawned will be available to download on NoiseTrade. You can download the album for free, but if you make a $5 suggested donation on the NoiseTrade link, the proceeds will go directly to the Zombie Music Campaign! Please check it out and support this great cause. Happy holidays to all. Peace. If you already have the album or if you can't or don't want to download it, here's another link where you can contribute to the School of the Americas Watch 11/27/2011
 Aspiring Intellectual I was a young music student and aspiring intellectual when I first became privy to the crimes of the School of the Americas. The broader humanities had struck my fancy as I removed past musics from their academic vacuums and returned them to their time and place, to their historical contexts. As I learned about Bach, Beethoven, and Bartok, I couldn't help but wonder about the many extramusical factors that influenced their composition; and conversely, the ways that their music contributed back to their cultural, intellectual, political milieus. So I enrolled in several humanities courses during my time at UCF, each examining the humanities (philosophy, art, science, architecture, religion - that which distinguishes us as humans) of a different era. The modern humanities began to touch on a time and culture with which I was more familiar, to which my own so-called postmodern era was responding. This was the era where the crimes and ideology of the nefarious School of the Americas fell squarely into place. And my own generation's response to the tragic existence of the SOA has been rather typical: ignorance, ambivalence, apathy. Will these be the hallmark of postmodernism, the legacy of my generation? Not if I have anything to do with it! The School of the Americas is a US military agency that trains latin American soldiers and dispatches them back to their countries to commit terrible atrocities against their own people. Graduates are notorious for murdering diplomats, educators, political and religious leaders, union and community organizers, missionaries, and virtually anyone working to organize or help poor and exploited people in these underdeveloped countries. Renamed WHINSEC, it continues to this day, proliferating a violent, repressive, and imperialist US foreign policy in Latin America. It sounds unreal, like something US-ians would never allow to exist; but most people have no idea that it does. I began soaking it in myself during the fall of 2007, at the aforementioned humanities course. We read about the life and activism of Rigoberta Menchu, about US military engagement in Guatemala, Nicaragua, and El Salvador, about the SOA. I could no longer feign ignorance. The following fall I made plans to join the annual two-day protest and vigil at the gates of Ft Benning, GA, where the school calls home. This event has occurred for over twenty years, organized by the ever vigilant SOAWatch and attended by thousands of religious, radical, and peacenik groups persistently calling for the close of the school. The numbers exceeded 20,000 that year and I was proud to be in their number. It was heart breaking to hear the names of thousands of torture and murder victims read off, each repeated by the haunting chant "presente." It was also empowering to see the solidarity shared by so many people working for peace and justice in the world.  I've just returned from my fourth year at the event. I have played on stage, taught workshops, joined direct action groups, played drums and participated in puppetista parades. I have also joined actions in NYC and DC with music and solidarity. But most importantly, my song Pax Americana is largely inspired by the evils of the SOA and I have repudiated the school many times in my blog writings. I have thus found my own place as an artist and writer in the 21st century USA and global economic empire. I have contributed to the humanities of my era and perhaps we'll see our collective social consciousness increase as a result. Until then, the school remains open, funded with taxpayer dollars while most people remain totally unaware of it's existence and the numbers at the annual vigil dwindle and the unspeakable violence of the SOA continues. BUT! Now that you're swimming in the still shallow pool of collective consciousness regarding the SOA, you can also do your part. Educate yourself, educate others, and support the SOAWatch! One way you can do this, while also supporting my contribution to the humanities, is by supporting the Zombie Music Campaign for peace and justice. Part of the money supports my recently released album, Protest Songs (Are Dead), which includes the song Pax Americana. Another 10% will go to SOAWatch so that they can continue to shed light on the SOA and its crimes, until it is finally closed. | "No one can serve two masters... You cannot serve God and Mammon."
-Yeshua of Nazareth AuthorGio Andollo is a musician, writer, busker, freegan, and activist living on a shoestring in the most expensive city in the world. Twitter
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