The Village That Never Sleeps VN - First Demo Hack Working \/\/FREE\\\\
With twin babies (Grace and Seth) at home, Lisa took the plunge and signed up for the course. "We learned everything from how to demo the product, to getting feedback, how to set up your products, what kind of labels to choose," she says. "And the final of the course was to pitch to New Seasons Market, which is kind of like a Gelson's for the Portland area. They ended up loving our sauces so much that Tân Tân was the very first company to go through this program that launched in all of their stores."
The Village That Never Sleeps VN - First Demo Hack Working
Lisa was under a lot of pressure to make every moment count, because with her parents' blessing (albeit a relectant one), she'd sold the restaurant in Vancouver to launch the sauces line and promised her mom that she would devote one year to getting the sauces off the ground before coming back to work at the original restaurant. "Honestly, looking back, I don't know how I made it through that period," she says. "I was exhausted, getting no sleep, working through these double demos, picking up the babies and then coming home, feeding them and then taking care of the paperwork portion of the restaurant, because my mom didn't do any inventory." But over time, Lisa's dedication, the network she built, and the hours she logged demoing began to pay off.
Andit's five-six-seven open up the pearly gates Well,there ain't no use to wonder why Whoopee,we're all gonna die. After the song ends someone turns down the radio and someone says,"We need us a jarhead song. The Green Beanies have got their own song, and theyain't shit. What we need is a Marine song. A song for grunts." BOOM. "Fuck this incoming," someone says, thenlaughs. "Yeah. Yeah. That could be the title!" A chorus of "fucking As" and everybody laughs. Outside, a hard rain falling, enemy shells, 147 pounds each, heavierthan the men who are firing them. First, a long, long whistle, then the rush of airof a falling freight car, then boom. The deck shivers, and hot shrapnel singsits mean little song. Most of the shells just bang in and miss. They move thegarbage around a little bit and scare everybody and then they turn into paper and somebodyputs them into history books. Listening is a waste of time because you never near the shell that hitsyou; it just hits you and you're gone. Anyway, we're thinking, it's a known fact that incoming artilleryshells always kill somebody else. Every single time we've been shelled, the shellshave killed somebody else. Not once have the shells killed us, not even one time. That's a proven scientific fact. No shit. So we ignore the incoming, without forgetting that while our bunkerscan take a hit from a gook mortar, a direct hit from one of those high-velocity 152mike-mike flying demolition balls will knock this bunker right off of the face of theearth. Even the dud shells go four feet into the ground.
slices on toothpicks. "You give me one cigarette! You give me onecigarette!" Suddenly the ugly good kid swung his cardboard box full of pineappleslices up into the truck bed. Daddy D.A. was the gunner in the 50 mount. He swings the 50around and his whole body shakes boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom-boom and the kidexploded and was splattered all over the side of the road like a butchered chicken. Then the six-by came apart and D.A. and I floated up and squad wassucked into a vortex of translucent black fire and then as suddenly as that it was allover and Daddy D.A. was trying to help me up out of the road. My head had hit the road hard. Daddy D.A. lifted me p and I spatout grit and on the deck all around us were pieces of men. Some pieces were moving,some not. All of the pieces were on fire. The six-by was on its side and onfire and every one of Daddy D.A.'s people was a legless ball-less wonder. "You're plain fucking crazy," I say to D.A., trying not tothink about the painful past. Daddy D.A. looks at me, then looks at the gun in his hand. "There it is." I shrug. I say, "Sorry 'bout that." Daddy D.A. says, "I'm a lifer, Joker. Hell, I love thisdamned Marine Corps an' shit. But Khe Sanh was never a battle: it's been apublicity stunt. And green Marines are not elite troops; we're movie stars. The Marines at Khe Sanh were just show business for Time magazine. We're straight men, feeding lines to the gooks. The brass has demoted us to beinglive bait for supporting arms. We're nothing more than glorified forward observers,recon for an avalanche of bombs and shells. Guns have made war less than agentleman's sport. Modern weapons are taking all of the fun out of killing. Wemight as well just prop up some wooden Marines like duck decoys and dee-dee back tothe World and get pogue jobs and make lots of money." I don't say anything. "Hunker down, they say. Dig in. But Marines are notconstruction workers. We don't dig. We get wired. Dee-Dee
I leave Daddy D.A.'s Conex box and march back to my own. Thesky on the horizon is turning pink and pale blue. Dawn at Khe Sanh. As the day suddenly turns real, dew glistens ona shantytown of tents built with shelter halves and muddy ponchos. From the last ofthe decaying bunkers still standing and from the mouths of manmade caves, hard reptile menpoke steel-helmeted heads out into the cold morning air, squinting, their facesstubble-bearded, bulky in their flak jackets and baggy jungle utilities, with weaponsgrowing out of their hands like black metal deformities. They walk hunched over andfast in the Khe Sanh quick-step, humping ankle-deep in red mud, grunts, skuzzy fieldMarines, slouching half-awake toward burlap-wrapped piss tubes that no longer exist,scratching their balls. A sky train helicopter lifts a howitzer off the deck and whack-whacksinto a sky the color of lead. The howitzer dangles like a big toy on the end of asteel cable. I crawl up into my gray metal hole and I try to sleep. Outside, an engineer yells, loud and bored, "FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!" Whomp. Thuds and thumps are doing what enemy gunners have been having wetdreams about doing for months. They are tearing up some of the perforated steelplanking from the airfield and loading it onto trucks. They use burning brooms toset fires. There are so many fires that most of the guys are wearing gas masks. The engineers are blowing up the last bunker with blocks of C-4 while workingparties of tired grunts chop into sandbags with E-tools and machetes. Growlingbulldozers bury any remaining trash beneath tons of red mud. I curl up into a ball to hide and wait for darkness. I close myeyes and I try to dream. If I'm going to go one on one with the Phantom Blooper Ineed my beauty sleep. If I don't kill the Phantom Blooper before we leave Khe Sanh, he willlive forever.
The hooches of the village blend into the brown and green landscapeso naturally that they seem to have grown right up out of the soil like large squareplants. When I first came to the village over a year ago I said to myself: These are not reservation Indians. These Viet Cong people are notAsian mutants like the Vietnamese I saw as a Marine, not those sad, pathetic people with acloned culture and no self-respect, greedy and corrupt, ragged shameless beggars andwhores--Tijuana Mexicans. These Viet Cong people are an entirely different race. They are proud, gentle, fearless, ruthless, and painfully polite. When I woke up that first day I expected a bucktoothed Jap officerwearing bifocals with lenses thicker than Coke bottle glass, a samurai sword in one handand a bouquet of burning bamboo shoots in the other. But nobody jammed bamboo shootsunder my fingernails. As Song explained, "We do not torture. We criticize." Centuries of starvation-level poverty and endless war have not made theVietnamese bitter or without mercy. Their culture is old and was here before thewar. A year ago I looked out of the window of the Woodcutter's hooch and sawa troop of little kids with bamboo guns trying to shoot down a toy bamboo airplane hangingfrom a tree limb. "Bat ong my! Bat ong my!" the kids werechanting: "They've caught an American!" Of course, back then, I could only speak pidgin Vietnamese, so Ifigured that they were saying something like, "Burn the infidel!" When Song pushed me back on the sleeping mat and wiped my sweaty facewith a damp cloth I blurted out, "Bao Chi, Bao Chi, Bao Chi!" And Iadded: "I'm not John Wayne, I just eat the cookies!" The Marine Corps sent me to Viet Nam as a Marine Corps CombatCorrespondent. The was before I pissed off a lifer Major in Hue City and got myselfshitcanned to the grunts. Correspondents wore Bao Chi patches on our jungleutility jackets and we always said that if we were ever captured we would yell "BaoChi"--newspaper reporter. Then the NVA gooks would think we were bigshotcivillian news reporters
For over a year the Woodcutter has been studying me. For overa year the Viet Cong have been trying to convert me to their cause. For over a yearI've been pretending that I am being converted. For the first few months, I'm told, I was a catatonic, a big whitezombie. I could walk, but I couldn't talk. They made me wear leg irons. I came out of it while rumping rice to distribute to North Vietnamese soldierscoming down the Ho Chi Minh Trail. The personnel for our rice run resupply detailwere mostly children. The children were all wearing thick flak vests made from wovenbamboo. The Phantoms came in, laying snake eyes and nape, and I saw kids dying. I saved a lot of kids that day, with crude tourniquets and Boy Scoutfirst aid. One of the kids was Johnny Be Cool, the Woodcutter's adopted son. After that, the Woodcutter removed my legs irons. He appearedbefore the village council and argued that if I ever tried to escape from the village hegave his word to track me down and bring me back. For my own good, actually. In the jungle, without food or weapons, I'd die. The Woodcutter was on target and firing for effect. I'll neverescape from Hoa Binh until the Viet Cong trust me enough to allow me to go on a combatmission. Until then, I must wait patiently and pretend to be a genuine defector orthey will ship my scrawny ass nonstop to a broom closet in the Hanoi Hilton. If I'velearned anything from these people, it is the power of patience. Escape will taketime because my conversion must appear gradual and sincere. There are no fools in this village.