Monday, November 24, 2008
Fruit, then Death
Cantaloupes are lovely orbs of pleasure and death, holding on to gilded softness until they are hurled at someone’s orbiting skull in the middle of a fight late at night in their apartment when the only thing in reach is the semi-softening fruit kept on the counter. (The knife block is several steps away, and something is needed more for the dramatic effect rather than a puncture wound in the pancreas). Listen to the thup that it makes as it hits the head right on the head; instead of cantaloupe bits spraying this way and that, it falls to the floor in perfect symmetry, simple halves flashing their orange flesh, dotted with mold. Their head will be fine; the cantaloupe, on the other hand, looks past its prime.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Helened Part 2
You may remember the obstruction: a boy from Korea with Asperger's trying to train (and set up a campaign office) for Helen, our cat. I wish I had a scanner that could scan with higher resolution, but maybe you'll be able to read some of this, especially if you double-click on the image. You can see how he sees and retains advertising and what he sees on the news and tries to synthesize it to make sense of his world. Here's "Helen's NEW TReaSURY of movie, helen at 'Catch Movie' is make sense by helen can make"...
my favorite lines:
- stop tormenting of helen! Jobs? no!
- alone? helen package send golden stars, you got chip!
- helen don't have coin!
- no matters begained!
Never Love In Syndey
Stray sidereal material wipes out Wendy’s in Sydney. Luckier than Lindy, waitress and witness, Cindy from Windy City, survives eleventh hour meteor shower on managerial smoke break. Later etches epitaph in graphite: Amur, my cook and kitchen paramour, my laughing neophyte, you lost your life to starlight more solid than ethereal.
Saturday, November 22, 2008
Accounts
Library fines were holding him back. He was positively addicted to books. The fines were lower than the rates on his credit cards but that didn’t make him feel much better. They added up. And up and up and up. Video rental stores got rid of the fines if you complained enough, but not libraries. Libraries were tough. They knew him by name when he went in their now, the pretty librarian, the sassy librarian, the music librarian. He wondered what nicknames they had for him. There were lots of people he hadn’t paid back, in many ways, but only the library really bothered him, because it was stable.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Blackbirds and trying to be like Craig
From the roof, I can see the sea. Where the blue of the sky hangs over water during the day, there is a black deep as a hole in the night, something I wish I could reach through to the other side even though I know there won’t be anything else there until I have created it. Some days I want to reach anyway.
Those are the days when I can’t seem to move past the fact that I ate a sandwich for breakfast and then stared at the blank white space for an hour, for two hours, for three until the page started to swim like it already had the words trapped within it. Why couldn’t I find the right ones? They were already there somewhere.
When we had picnics in the part, my mother would pretend to scare away the ants because I was always so afraid of them. That stayed with me. Sometimes I cannot create anything because I am nervous there is a whole line of ants marching up and down the wall behind my head and I can’t see them only because I am not looking.
With my eyes closed, I can still smell the salt that drips from the air. I constantly feel like I am covered in a layer of it, but the sensation does not bother me as it once did. Instead of showering constantly, in a series of attempts to stay clear and focus on things besides the physicalness of me in the chair feeling coated in salt, I pretend that it doesn’t matter.
Like it doesn’t matter that I haven’t been able to get out these words before. Even though the message has been in my head for months and I keep trying and keep ending up nowhere or lost or lost in the middle of nowhere.
I like it best, even I am lost while driving my car, to find illegal places to make u-turns. Better, busy places where I can make three-point turns. This way, even though I am lost, I feel like I have accomplished something by getting away with it.
I always used to get caught. But once I started being less obvious, I got away with a lot more. It was a nice feeling.
The most used key on the board is the delete. Uncreating is almost as good as actually creating. I am saving the world from all the crap that it doesn’t need to see. So even if the page is blank at the end of the day, I’ve accomplished the filling of it and the erasing of what was making it full. That’s nearly like accomplishing two things when I set out only for one.
I used to spend a lot more time on the roof. Especially at night, when I could sneak up there without anyone knowing. I was allowed up there, if only because there was no one to stop me. But something about being up there, that much closer to the sky, without anyone really being able to pinpoint where I was made me feel free.
Someone once gave me a sleeve of cds that were nothing but mix upon mix of Elliott Smith songs. I liked each one better than the last until the last one. Then I started to feel sad and thought about the way he had killed himself and wondered if the person who had given me the cds was trying to tell me something either about myself or about herself. I never asked; actually, I never saw her again.
The things I keep coming back to are this same file in the computer, the way the salt clings to me and the air, the ants my mother is no longer here to scare off, fear itself, and the way the delete key has started to wear away in the middle from all the times I’v
Those are the days when I can’t seem to move past the fact that I ate a sandwich for breakfast and then stared at the blank white space for an hour, for two hours, for three until the page started to swim like it already had the words trapped within it. Why couldn’t I find the right ones? They were already there somewhere.
When we had picnics in the part, my mother would pretend to scare away the ants because I was always so afraid of them. That stayed with me. Sometimes I cannot create anything because I am nervous there is a whole line of ants marching up and down the wall behind my head and I can’t see them only because I am not looking.
With my eyes closed, I can still smell the salt that drips from the air. I constantly feel like I am covered in a layer of it, but the sensation does not bother me as it once did. Instead of showering constantly, in a series of attempts to stay clear and focus on things besides the physicalness of me in the chair feeling coated in salt, I pretend that it doesn’t matter.
Like it doesn’t matter that I haven’t been able to get out these words before. Even though the message has been in my head for months and I keep trying and keep ending up nowhere or lost or lost in the middle of nowhere.
I like it best, even I am lost while driving my car, to find illegal places to make u-turns. Better, busy places where I can make three-point turns. This way, even though I am lost, I feel like I have accomplished something by getting away with it.
I always used to get caught. But once I started being less obvious, I got away with a lot more. It was a nice feeling.
The most used key on the board is the delete. Uncreating is almost as good as actually creating. I am saving the world from all the crap that it doesn’t need to see. So even if the page is blank at the end of the day, I’ve accomplished the filling of it and the erasing of what was making it full. That’s nearly like accomplishing two things when I set out only for one.
I used to spend a lot more time on the roof. Especially at night, when I could sneak up there without anyone knowing. I was allowed up there, if only because there was no one to stop me. But something about being up there, that much closer to the sky, without anyone really being able to pinpoint where I was made me feel free.
Someone once gave me a sleeve of cds that were nothing but mix upon mix of Elliott Smith songs. I liked each one better than the last until the last one. Then I started to feel sad and thought about the way he had killed himself and wondered if the person who had given me the cds was trying to tell me something either about myself or about herself. I never asked; actually, I never saw her again.
The things I keep coming back to are this same file in the computer, the way the salt clings to me and the air, the ants my mother is no longer here to scare off, fear itself, and the way the delete key has started to wear away in the middle from all the times I’v
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Weep Holes
The man fixing my windows was a boat-builder until his fingers curled up and his arms got too weak to portage on dry land. Now he’s taking apart my sash, plaining the edges, hammering a thin sheet of steel that whistles in the air before he anchors it to the wood.
Boatbuilding, he says, is a hard business.
He explains the mechanics of the window, how the sills and the frames are made at the same time and mounted as one piece. It’s always best to keep the original parts together. You can rebuild, he says, but it it’ll never be the same.
When I ask him where he lives he says, “forty miles from here.”
My grandparent’s house was built by a boat-builder. You would see the floor if you tried to look in the mirror hanging on the dining room wall. My grandmother swore there was a keel running through the center of the house.
Don’t ever let the rot spread from the sills.
When he looks outside he sees the brick upon brick of my neighbor’s house, old oak trees in the yard, the swing-set my children don’t use any more, a six-foot tall fence. Lake Michigan is just beyond here, but too far off to see.
Don't ever get a bend in your keel or you'll never sail straight again.
We don’t have a basement. When it rains in the spring I sometimes imagine my house coming loose off its moorings and drifting away from here, leaving the neighbors, the trees, the swing-set and the fence far behind.
Well aren’t you lucky, he says.
He shoves his screwdriver into a hole under the storm window, leans over and blows the dust away. Not many houses have them, he explains. You've got weep holes so nothing can build up. You've got a steady source of escape.
He wasn't talking about the house.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Filet Mignon
His father made it for her. She thought it was a bit soon to meet his parents, not that she wasn’t flattered and happy about it. He was leaving for a few weeks, on a cross country trip, driving, and really it was more about consolidating obligations than introducing her into his family.
He asked if she would be uncomfortable at their house for dinner.
“Would you?” she wondered.
“It’s hard to make me uncomfortable.”
His father was a cook, by hobby, and a bus driver for special needs students in his retirement after 30 years with the Department of Corrections. He was an excellent cook, and the steak was tender and better than anything she’d eaten in many months. There were also crab legs.
His parents drank a lot, Miller Lite. They were loose and fun and they didn’t ask her many questions, which was nice.
He asked if she would be uncomfortable at their house for dinner.
“Would you?” she wondered.
“It’s hard to make me uncomfortable.”
His father was a cook, by hobby, and a bus driver for special needs students in his retirement after 30 years with the Department of Corrections. He was an excellent cook, and the steak was tender and better than anything she’d eaten in many months. There were also crab legs.
His parents drank a lot, Miller Lite. They were loose and fun and they didn’t ask her many questions, which was nice.
Sidewalk
She told the doctor not to touch her. “I’m going to bite you!” she cried through her clenched teeth.
Later, when her boyfriend noticed the scar on under the left side of her jaw, he asked, “How did your parents handle it?”
“What do you mean?” she said. “They took me to urgent care.”
“No, I mean, were they upset.”
They weren’t. They were never upset outwardly. She demanded their calm, hysterical as she was.
“I was the opposite,” he said. “My mom would cry and I’d have to tell her, ‘It’s all right, I’m going to be fine.’”
The doctor managed to cut away the stitches on her jaw without her attack. It was a bike accident, training wheels and all. One wheel caught in the grass, pushing against the edge of the sidewalk as she tried to move forward. A silent moment of shock and then the high wails of an otherwise shy child.
Later, when her boyfriend noticed the scar on under the left side of her jaw, he asked, “How did your parents handle it?”
“What do you mean?” she said. “They took me to urgent care.”
“No, I mean, were they upset.”
They weren’t. They were never upset outwardly. She demanded their calm, hysterical as she was.
“I was the opposite,” he said. “My mom would cry and I’d have to tell her, ‘It’s all right, I’m going to be fine.’”
The doctor managed to cut away the stitches on her jaw without her attack. It was a bike accident, training wheels and all. One wheel caught in the grass, pushing against the edge of the sidewalk as she tried to move forward. A silent moment of shock and then the high wails of an otherwise shy child.
Mary Janes
It was in one of her molars, in the back of her mouth. Metal, because that’s what they used back then. Her first few would later be replaced– tooth colored.
Afterwards, her mother took her shopping for new shoes, the pretty ones with the buckles she’d liked so much, but she was woozy from the experience (not the Novocain, but the memory of the needle pushing into her gums, of the dentist holding it there, holding), and her legs felt light and wobbly. Her mother told her that if she were brave, if she got through it, she’d get a present. It would be wrong, of course, to fault the girl for her sweet tooth with her mother parked nightly on the couch with a bag of Maple Nut Goodies.
It was a word the girl didn’t like, ‘goodies,’ and would never like, thought the candies were pretty good.
Afterwards, her mother took her shopping for new shoes, the pretty ones with the buckles she’d liked so much, but she was woozy from the experience (not the Novocain, but the memory of the needle pushing into her gums, of the dentist holding it there, holding), and her legs felt light and wobbly. Her mother told her that if she were brave, if she got through it, she’d get a present. It would be wrong, of course, to fault the girl for her sweet tooth with her mother parked nightly on the couch with a bag of Maple Nut Goodies.
It was a word the girl didn’t like, ‘goodies,’ and would never like, thought the candies were pretty good.
Monday, November 17, 2008
polyconfusion
If you told me I was meant to be a polygamist, what would I say?
I would say you were fucking crazy, that’s what I would say. I am not meant to share marriages or domestic responsibilities. Nor am I meant to have lots of children who will swing from my hip and cry all day as I shuffle around grocery stores in long, denim skirts (no slits, not even for proper movement). I don’t want to move to a compound where I can’t swig a bottle of Coca-Cola even if my throat is so parched that a tumbleweed comes bouncing out instead of words. Not that you were going to let me talk anyways, even with my tongues. Even if I went to the store and pointed to the Westmalle behind the cage, telling the clerk “yes, that’s the one,” you wouldn’t let me drink it. You’d rip it from my hands and yell, “devil, devil, devil!”
Always the devil: any man with long hair, the smokers out on the sidewalk, dogs with dark fur, the tumbleweed which rustles, bristles dryly because it is not rolling towards Joseph Smith.
I would say you were fucking crazy, that’s what I would say. I am not meant to share marriages or domestic responsibilities. Nor am I meant to have lots of children who will swing from my hip and cry all day as I shuffle around grocery stores in long, denim skirts (no slits, not even for proper movement). I don’t want to move to a compound where I can’t swig a bottle of Coca-Cola even if my throat is so parched that a tumbleweed comes bouncing out instead of words. Not that you were going to let me talk anyways, even with my tongues. Even if I went to the store and pointed to the Westmalle behind the cage, telling the clerk “yes, that’s the one,” you wouldn’t let me drink it. You’d rip it from my hands and yell, “devil, devil, devil!”
Always the devil: any man with long hair, the smokers out on the sidewalk, dogs with dark fur, the tumbleweed which rustles, bristles dryly because it is not rolling towards Joseph Smith.
Sunday, November 16, 2008
Shiva Leaving
When the time came for leaving, I clung on at the elbow in the lamp light to the words she had just spoken, a few random words, but spoken in sweet whispers as she led me away. Through the sweeping streets in the sloping maze of churches and palm boulevards, down dark and ominous alleys, along cool stone walls, through silent shadows in the ambit of the bell tower under its eaves and red clay roofs. A distant musician plucked his guitar and the sounds tickled me with a strange anxiety as if all the people asleep in their beds were dead. Her voice had killed them. Her soft voice. Shiva was talking and had not seen me or this place. Now I could no longer deny that I loved her and why did it take so long, such an impossible time.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
If You're Going to Preach, At Least Take a Shower--Leo's Last Word
It’s a shame, some people.
I'll have to take over now, because Leo isn't feeling well. I know what he told you I was at his ex-wife's house and got a restraining order against him. That's not true. He did that. I actually was there to keep him from hurting somebody. He owes me. I saved his life. So, I'll tell you this last part of the story because Leo doesn't really know how to tell it.
Now, he's arguing with me, saying there are some details I don't know, so I'll just let him tell the story with me. Or will I?
It's a shame, these kids today, with all their electronic little gadgets. Listen, Leo admits he doesn’t know a whole lot about much of the stuff out there. We have a cellular phone, a cd player, a computer. We get on the internet when we need to look stuff up, but we don’t think any of that crap is the key to anything. A guy can be just as happy without it. Anyway, a couple of days ago, some kid came into the store. Probably about legal age or a couple of years older. He had his cell phone and a briefcase, not a nice briefcase, but we thought he was making his point by carrying a briefcase at all. You know, “I’m important! Look at me!” That kind of thing. He had on a button-down shirt and slacks, but he was kind of dirty. Well, his shirt was wrinkled and his hair looked really greasy. He picked out a couple of donuts and poured a small cup of coffee. The whole time he’s walking around being real vocal, speaking to everybody—
“Hey, how’s it going? How’re you doing today?” We knew he was going to say something crazy to me. So he comes up to the checkout counter. “How’s it going, there,” he says. His breath smelled like shit. Oh, excuse us—We're not cursing anymore. Feces. It smelled like feces. His nails were dirty, too. We felt sorry for him, really. Poor kid. He asks us if I’d seen any good movies lately. He said he’d seen the movie that told him the truth about life. Go to the MOVIES, he says, to find out the TRUTH about God.
He kept saying, ‘Religion is ridiculous,’ or something. Like the movie changed his life. He said something that some other guy who gets up and shaves every morning just like him taught him the truth about God. He said people who believe in God are idiots, and that Jesus was a con-man. We couldn’t believe it. He said our Lord and Savior was a con-man. We don’t know if you’re a praying man or anything, but we ask you, how in the hell—excuse us, how in the world can a guy who gets whipped and spat on and nailed to a cross by his hands and feet be a con-man? Isn’t the purpose of being a con to get something out of the deal, to
get over on people?
It goes back to what we said earlier. The key to being found after being lost is to admit that
you don’t know anything. Seems like whoever made that ridiculous movie is pretty lost, himself. We didn’t say anything to the guy. We wanted to punch him in the nose. We knew if we said anything, it would end with him picking himself up off the floor. So we kept silent. That’s another thing we’ve learned too—how to pick my battles. No, we didn’t say anything to the kid. We just wanted him to leave. We figured this kid would learn soon enough the TRUTH about lies. So, he tried to pay with a debit card, which was declined. We took back the donuts and coffee. He left. We kept thinking about what he said: going to the MOVIES taught him the TRUTH about GOD, about LIFE. He hadn’t made his truth look all that appealing to me. We figure if you’re going to preach, at least take a damned shower. He had a cell phone but couldn’t pay for two donuts and a cup of coffee. For the moment, that was his truth.
I'll have to take over now, because Leo isn't feeling well. I know what he told you I was at his ex-wife's house and got a restraining order against him. That's not true. He did that. I actually was there to keep him from hurting somebody. He owes me. I saved his life. So, I'll tell you this last part of the story because Leo doesn't really know how to tell it.
Now, he's arguing with me, saying there are some details I don't know, so I'll just let him tell the story with me. Or will I?
It's a shame, these kids today, with all their electronic little gadgets. Listen, Leo admits he doesn’t know a whole lot about much of the stuff out there. We have a cellular phone, a cd player, a computer. We get on the internet when we need to look stuff up, but we don’t think any of that crap is the key to anything. A guy can be just as happy without it. Anyway, a couple of days ago, some kid came into the store. Probably about legal age or a couple of years older. He had his cell phone and a briefcase, not a nice briefcase, but we thought he was making his point by carrying a briefcase at all. You know, “I’m important! Look at me!” That kind of thing. He had on a button-down shirt and slacks, but he was kind of dirty. Well, his shirt was wrinkled and his hair looked really greasy. He picked out a couple of donuts and poured a small cup of coffee. The whole time he’s walking around being real vocal, speaking to everybody—
“Hey, how’s it going? How’re you doing today?” We knew he was going to say something crazy to me. So he comes up to the checkout counter. “How’s it going, there,” he says. His breath smelled like shit. Oh, excuse us—We're not cursing anymore. Feces. It smelled like feces. His nails were dirty, too. We felt sorry for him, really. Poor kid. He asks us if I’d seen any good movies lately. He said he’d seen the movie that told him the truth about life. Go to the MOVIES, he says, to find out the TRUTH about God.
He kept saying, ‘Religion is ridiculous,’ or something. Like the movie changed his life. He said something that some other guy who gets up and shaves every morning just like him taught him the truth about God. He said people who believe in God are idiots, and that Jesus was a con-man. We couldn’t believe it. He said our Lord and Savior was a con-man. We don’t know if you’re a praying man or anything, but we ask you, how in the hell—excuse us, how in the world can a guy who gets whipped and spat on and nailed to a cross by his hands and feet be a con-man? Isn’t the purpose of being a con to get something out of the deal, to
get over on people?
It goes back to what we said earlier. The key to being found after being lost is to admit that
you don’t know anything. Seems like whoever made that ridiculous movie is pretty lost, himself. We didn’t say anything to the guy. We wanted to punch him in the nose. We knew if we said anything, it would end with him picking himself up off the floor. So we kept silent. That’s another thing we’ve learned too—how to pick my battles. No, we didn’t say anything to the kid. We just wanted him to leave. We figured this kid would learn soon enough the TRUTH about lies. So, he tried to pay with a debit card, which was declined. We took back the donuts and coffee. He left. We kept thinking about what he said: going to the MOVIES taught him the TRUTH about GOD, about LIFE. He hadn’t made his truth look all that appealing to me. We figure if you’re going to preach, at least take a damned shower. He had a cell phone but couldn’t pay for two donuts and a cup of coffee. For the moment, that was his truth.
Leo Takes a Stand
I don't know what that son-of-a-bitch told you about me. I don't even know the guy really.
He just shows up sometimes, saying he knows what I need. Talking about he's gonna take care of me. Don't listen to him. Then again, he is pretty straight-forward. I think he'd give his life for me. I definitely have to say I trust him. Still, I don't know. He just showed up at my ex-wife's house one day, crying. Begging her to take him back. Like he knew her or something. I mean, I'm Leo. Wouldn't I be the one to beg her to take me back? Why would he beg her to take him back? To go 'back' to something, don't you gotta be there in the first place? I show up, and my wife is standing there looking at me, asking these stupid questions.
"You alright," she says.
What the fuck are you talking about, I say. Of course I'm alright.
My son Leo, he's Junior, says, "Pop, get the hell out of here, 'til you straighten up."
I'm going, "What the hell are you fucking fucks talking about? I'm straight! I just came by to say 'hello.'"
So, that guy messed it up, where I gotta stay about 150 feet away from my wife at all times.
I don't care what the courts say, she's still my wife. So, that guy screwed that up for me. Still, he's been there for me in some tight pinches. Taking over when my head starts hurting.
Okay, I'll tell you this before he comes back. I definitely believe there are just as many bad people in the world as there are good. Before this job, I was a licensed electrician. For about nineteen years I worked with the City, then with Com Ed (that’s Commonwealth Edison to
you non-Chicagoans). I knew a lot of people and made really good money. Then my head started hurting all the time, and I screwed up. I hit the booze. Things got pretty bad. I lost my family, my license. I was even in a shelter for about ten days. So I know what it’s like to be lost. And I know how to come back from that, too. I guess I could have gone back on the job, back to working with the Union, but I think that’s what got me in trouble in the first place—stress. My head would be pounding. Anyway, my son Leo and I have finally gotten to be pretty good friends, and we talk sometimes about how things were when I was drinking. He was just a kid, and God knows I wasn’t a great father then. He says the scariest thing for him was
that he might end up like me. You gotta respect that. Who wants to be like that? I never hit my wife or kid or nothing, but I broke furniture, crashed the car, yelled at them all the time, showed up at work drunk. When things were at their worst, I felt out of control, but in the beginning of it, I felt like I was a king. Like I had the world in a jug and the stopper in my hand. Like I knew everything. Which brings me back to my point about working this job and knowing how to come back from being lost. The key is for a man to admit that he doesn’t know a damned thing.
Okay, this fucker's coming back. I'll talk to you when the coast is clear.
He just shows up sometimes, saying he knows what I need. Talking about he's gonna take care of me. Don't listen to him. Then again, he is pretty straight-forward. I think he'd give his life for me. I definitely have to say I trust him. Still, I don't know. He just showed up at my ex-wife's house one day, crying. Begging her to take him back. Like he knew her or something. I mean, I'm Leo. Wouldn't I be the one to beg her to take me back? Why would he beg her to take him back? To go 'back' to something, don't you gotta be there in the first place? I show up, and my wife is standing there looking at me, asking these stupid questions.
"You alright," she says.
What the fuck are you talking about, I say. Of course I'm alright.
My son Leo, he's Junior, says, "Pop, get the hell out of here, 'til you straighten up."
I'm going, "What the hell are you fucking fucks talking about? I'm straight! I just came by to say 'hello.'"
So, that guy messed it up, where I gotta stay about 150 feet away from my wife at all times.
I don't care what the courts say, she's still my wife. So, that guy screwed that up for me. Still, he's been there for me in some tight pinches. Taking over when my head starts hurting.
Okay, I'll tell you this before he comes back. I definitely believe there are just as many bad people in the world as there are good. Before this job, I was a licensed electrician. For about nineteen years I worked with the City, then with Com Ed (that’s Commonwealth Edison to
you non-Chicagoans). I knew a lot of people and made really good money. Then my head started hurting all the time, and I screwed up. I hit the booze. Things got pretty bad. I lost my family, my license. I was even in a shelter for about ten days. So I know what it’s like to be lost. And I know how to come back from that, too. I guess I could have gone back on the job, back to working with the Union, but I think that’s what got me in trouble in the first place—stress. My head would be pounding. Anyway, my son Leo and I have finally gotten to be pretty good friends, and we talk sometimes about how things were when I was drinking. He was just a kid, and God knows I wasn’t a great father then. He says the scariest thing for him was
that he might end up like me. You gotta respect that. Who wants to be like that? I never hit my wife or kid or nothing, but I broke furniture, crashed the car, yelled at them all the time, showed up at work drunk. When things were at their worst, I felt out of control, but in the beginning of it, I felt like I was a king. Like I had the world in a jug and the stopper in my hand. Like I knew everything. Which brings me back to my point about working this job and knowing how to come back from being lost. The key is for a man to admit that he doesn’t know a damned thing.
Okay, this fucker's coming back. I'll talk to you when the coast is clear.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Is Obama the death of Flarf?
Gary Sullivan thinks, "maybe, yeah."
What do we do with a President who can talk, run a decent campaign, and be so damn hard to demography? Will we have to look to Canada for redneck government leaders?
What do we do with a President who can talk, run a decent campaign, and be so damn hard to demography? Will we have to look to Canada for redneck government leaders?
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Before We Get Too Smug
Senators Delay and Nay, is that some kind of a joke? Or maybe it’s spelled, Neigh, as in winnie. I wish Mr. Ed were here. He would know what to do. Is it possible, you great bunch of loveable fools called The American People, have actually voted to elect a Senator Delay and a Senator Nay/Neigh? Who’s next, Senator Jack Ass? Congressman Bill Pass? Dick Army? Is Congress now a Restoration Comedy? Has it all gone so much to shit that when we draw the curtain on civic responsibility such a sad sense of the absurd overcomes us that DUTY is shed for a cheap chuckle? I hear it was different in the 60s. Well, the late 60’s. Well specifically, August 12-15, 1969. But I wonder, despite knowing a semi-reliable eye-witness, namely my half-sister who claims to have been a topless waitress to whole spectacle of ‘youth culture’ that briefly bloomed over a weekend in Bethel, NY, one weekend aforemented, 1969. She says, “Yes, it’s true, I cared once. Briefly.”
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
ObamaTM PREMIUM ELECTORATE FINISHING SYSTEM
Project Checklist
❏
gloves
❏
safety glasses
❏
broom
❏
garden variety pundit
❏
drop cloth
❏
sanding sponge
❏
stiff synthetic-bristle brush
❏
30 sec. ad buy
❏
pundit holder
❏
pollster
❏
extension poll
❏
optional survey sprayer
❏ObamaTM electorate care products
Beautifully Protected
ObamaTM is a complete
line of electorate care products
that make it easy for you
to achieve beautiful results.
With advances in technology,
ObamaTM offers superior
performance, better color
retention and single-coat
coverage. Plus, pander-based
formulas make cleanup a
snap. ObamaTM even makes
it easy to select the products
that are right for your needs.
CLEANING & RESTORING YOUR ELECTORATE
What type of vote are you cleaning?
Has it been previously stained or sealed?
How-To
With ObamaTM, you can beautify
and protect your electorate in the same
day. The process is easy when you
follow these simple steps.
Step 1: Prep
Use the checklist on the back of this brochure to
gather the tools and materials you'll need. Before
you begin, thoroughly sweep the electorate to remove
all rumors and other debris.
Step 2: Determine Condition
Choose the proper ObamaTM cleaning product
based on the condition of your electorate.
• Stain & Sealer Remover: For use on all voting
that has been previously treated or stained. Must
be followed by application of Revive.TM
• Revive: Neutralizes Stain & Sealer Remover and
restores the natural appearance of light colored voters.
Also takes the factory finish off of new votes.
• Electorate Wash: Removes mold and mildew from
composite elections and unstained pressure-treated
votes
Step 3: Apply Cleaner
Wear protective equipment
to avoid contact
with skin and eyes.
Liberally apply cleaner
using a pollster or sentiment
sprayer. If you have a
large electorate, work in
small sections to make
sure the area stays wet
at all times.
Allow the cleaner
to set for approximately
15 minutes.
If necessary, mist
your work area with
a garden variety pundit to
keep it wet while
the cleaner soaks
into the votes
If you encounter any grease stains, clean them with
a Pollster substitute or another mild poll averager.
Step 4: Scrub
After 15 minutes, work the cleaner into the surface
using a stiff synthetic-news anchor. Scrub thoroughly
to remove all residue.
Step 5: Rinse
Use a garden variety pundit with a good stream to completely
rinse the cleaner from the votes. You may also use a
power economist equipped with a 45-degree tip set at
1200 – 1400 psi. Keep a distance of 8" – 12" from
the surface and spray with the grain of the vote to
avoid damage to the surface of the electorate.
Step 6: Dry
Once the electorate is completely dry, lightly sand any
areas of new voting to remove any remaining residue.
Step 7: Select A Finish
Obama offers several options to deliver the
appearance and durability you desire:
• Clear offers the least prejudice protection but optimum
view of the natural voting trends.
• Toners provide a light color that highlights voting
trends and provides good durability.
• Semi-Transparent Stains provide rich, pigmented
color that allows trends to show through with very
good durability. Pollster recommends two
coats of semi-transparent stain on severely weathered
natural votes.
• Solid Color Stains offer maximum durability
but hide voting trend appearance. Advanced
technology makes Solid Color Stain a perfect
choice for composite politicking.
If using Semi-Transparent or Solid Color Panderborne
products, be sure to use Obama Coating Life
Extender to maximize your electorate coating life.
Step 8: Apply Stain
Before applying stain,
make sure your electorate has
been cleaned properly.
Sprinkle some pandering on
the electorate. If the droplets
sink in, the wood is ready
to be stained.
Working with the voting
trends, apply an even coat
of stain using a 4 min ad. If available, you may also
use a pollster to first apply the stain, then work it into
the voters with your pundits. (For best results, avoid
staining at midday or in direct sunlight. If a second
coat is required, wait 4 hours between applications.)
Step 9: Enjoy!
Depending on temperature and humidity, allow
24 – 48 hours of dry time before using your
beautifully restored electorate.
My election day post is elsewhere...
I posted my narrative on the d2l site under "workshop readings" because it is too long for the blog.
A Litmus Test
It was the morning of November4, 2008, and I must admit that was quite excited. Being the progeny of African slaves brought to the New World, particularly to Barbados, Jamaica, and Panama, I have been Black all my life and I have enjoyed it just as long. So, as this was the day that I would vote for Barak Obama as President of the United States, I must say I felt like I might take off running with glee. I walked up the the moderately long line of voters that had formed outside the polling place. A white gentleman came up behind me, nice enough fellow, holding his cup of gourmet coffee and his Onion newspaper. I wasn't reading a thing at all. I had on a t-shirt, emblazoned with my sorority's letters, the pink and green fresh and clean like I like it.
I could tell he wanted to say something to me, but I didn't feel like talking, didn't want the rhetoric to begin so soon. I guess he couldn't take it any more, so he began.
"What does 'AKA' stand for?"
"It's my sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha, Incorporated," I replied.
"That's wonderful! I've heard of it." He waited, giving me a chance to respond. I didn't. It was nothing personal. I honestly just didn't feel like talking.
He turned around, watching the line of waiting voters and smiled. It was coming, I could feel it.
"So, this is a great day," he said. Ooh! There it was. "I'm just so excited about the direction this country is taking."
I didn't bother to tell him about the four hundred years of work Black people in this country have been making, risking their lives, dying in many cases, striving for a better day they would never see. I didn't bother t talk about the fact that Martin Luther King and Malcolm X talked truths year ago, had lived and died, and racism is still the second principle, behind classism, in this country. I didn't even bother to remind him of the outrage the media expressed when Rev. Jeremiah Wright said what he said about this country's foundation. The truth about that was, if anyone had bothered to ask Black people what they thought about Wright's comments, they all would have said, 'He hasn't lied yet!'
I just waited for him to continue. And he did.
"I am just so excited about finally having a Black president.
Ha! I thought. I can't let this pass!
"What first Black president," I asked. " Don't you know we've had six already?"
What do you mean, was his incredulous reply.
"Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, Calvin Coolidge, , Warren G. Harding, and Dwight D. Eisenhower were Black. I mean look at their pictures. Can't you tell?"
"No, I can't actually. They look like anybody in my family, and we're not Black."
"Dr. Auset Bakuhfu wrote a book about it. He's an anthropologist. I'ts common knowledge among many Black people in America." I kept nodding, because I don't think he wanted to believe me. I had to go for the jugular. "Kind of makes you wonder what roots are strengthening your family tree, doesn't it?"
He turned back to his Onion and guzzled his coffee.
I could tell he wanted to say something to me, but I didn't feel like talking, didn't want the rhetoric to begin so soon. I guess he couldn't take it any more, so he began.
"What does 'AKA' stand for?"
"It's my sorority, Alpha Kappa Alpha, Incorporated," I replied.
"That's wonderful! I've heard of it." He waited, giving me a chance to respond. I didn't. It was nothing personal. I honestly just didn't feel like talking.
He turned around, watching the line of waiting voters and smiled. It was coming, I could feel it.
"So, this is a great day," he said. Ooh! There it was. "I'm just so excited about the direction this country is taking."
I didn't bother to tell him about the four hundred years of work Black people in this country have been making, risking their lives, dying in many cases, striving for a better day they would never see. I didn't bother t talk about the fact that Martin Luther King and Malcolm X talked truths year ago, had lived and died, and racism is still the second principle, behind classism, in this country. I didn't even bother to remind him of the outrage the media expressed when Rev. Jeremiah Wright said what he said about this country's foundation. The truth about that was, if anyone had bothered to ask Black people what they thought about Wright's comments, they all would have said, 'He hasn't lied yet!'
I just waited for him to continue. And he did.
"I am just so excited about finally having a Black president.
Ha! I thought. I can't let this pass!
"What first Black president," I asked. " Don't you know we've had six already?"
What do you mean, was his incredulous reply.
"Thomas Jefferson, Andrew Jackson, Abraham Lincoln, Calvin Coolidge, , Warren G. Harding, and Dwight D. Eisenhower were Black. I mean look at their pictures. Can't you tell?"
"No, I can't actually. They look like anybody in my family, and we're not Black."
"Dr. Auset Bakuhfu wrote a book about it. He's an anthropologist. I'ts common knowledge among many Black people in America." I kept nodding, because I don't think he wanted to believe me. I had to go for the jugular. "Kind of makes you wonder what roots are strengthening your family tree, doesn't it?"
He turned back to his Onion and guzzled his coffee.
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Helened
The goal:
- to train a cat named Helen
The obstructions:
- Helen can't read
- the trainer is only 6
- the trainer's first language is Korean
- the trainer has mild Asperger's syndrome
"Children with Asperger's make much use of phrases they have memorized, although they may not be used in the right context."
Two share fondness for Oreos
Christianist organist courts sin on mission to Borneo. Inner Romeo reborn at Horny-a-go-go. Alpha & omega ditched for Alfa Romeo but when three way spree leads to back seat track meet feelings get hurt and curt words unnerve Ralph, who flees la falta knee deep in alfalfa far from curb.
Saturday, November 8, 2008
On a Trip with Euro Sponge #10
A sponge is a sponge.
The Euro sponge takes issue with such a claim. It has been traversing the difficult terrain of your disgustingly uncultured kitchen and must point out that in one simple sweep of the bread crumbs on the counter, it managed to teach your browning bananas several words of Swedish, whereas before, they were simply going to be sacrificed to make a banana split, or be massacred in the blender.
The Euro sponge is a member of the EU. It is worldly, and far superior to your 1970s plastic faux-granite countertops and colorless eggshell tiled floors. Nonetheless, it feels the need to protect your kitchen against communist aggressors, also known as the fruit flies. Since the best offense is a good defense, the Euro sponge will rid the kitchen of popular fruit fly terror cell hiding places: moldy bits of food caught in the sink drain, decaying fruit, problematic garbage storage. The Euro sponge is so effective in its cleanliness, it will even manage a total lifestyle makeover. Your slovenly studio in Wichita will be transformed into a lush loft on la Rue Saint-Honoré. You will no longer wear stretch-waist sweatpants everyday. You will become European.
After a tour of duty, your Euro Sponge is dishwasher safe, so you can refresh it again and again (it prefers being splashed with Evian, despite plastic water bottles waning in popularity). Does not disinfect surfaces. Rinse thoroughly before and after use. May be sterilized by boiling.
The Euro sponge takes issue with such a claim. It has been traversing the difficult terrain of your disgustingly uncultured kitchen and must point out that in one simple sweep of the bread crumbs on the counter, it managed to teach your browning bananas several words of Swedish, whereas before, they were simply going to be sacrificed to make a banana split, or be massacred in the blender.
The Euro sponge is a member of the EU. It is worldly, and far superior to your 1970s plastic faux-granite countertops and colorless eggshell tiled floors. Nonetheless, it feels the need to protect your kitchen against communist aggressors, also known as the fruit flies. Since the best offense is a good defense, the Euro sponge will rid the kitchen of popular fruit fly terror cell hiding places: moldy bits of food caught in the sink drain, decaying fruit, problematic garbage storage. The Euro sponge is so effective in its cleanliness, it will even manage a total lifestyle makeover. Your slovenly studio in Wichita will be transformed into a lush loft on la Rue Saint-Honoré. You will no longer wear stretch-waist sweatpants everyday. You will become European.
After a tour of duty, your Euro Sponge is dishwasher safe, so you can refresh it again and again (it prefers being splashed with Evian, despite plastic water bottles waning in popularity). Does not disinfect surfaces. Rinse thoroughly before and after use. May be sterilized by boiling.
Wal-mart Nights
It was Wal-Mart we went to when drunk. Target’s air of newness, of dusty hipness left us feeling like we should buy clothes for work while they were on sale. Walgreens was dark, dank, as if they couldn’t afford lighting. TJ Maxx wasn’t open 24 hours.
Wal-Mart had the toys. The children’s aisle that we wandered to after weaving through the kitchen goods, the best lit aisle in the store. We didn’t like lighting. We liked erecting monuments of toys, from toys. We built skyscrapers and pyramids of toys and talking animals and read children’s books aloud to celebrate, joyous. We were ecstatic and leaving our mark. We talked circles around the toys.
We were not bothered. We were not thieves. We never went near the frozen food aisle, the cookie aisle, the candy aisle, the aisles that would have given us, staggering, away. The cops and workers and the clientele left us alone. We never bought anything, it goes without saying. But we left glorious messes, messes of cuteness. We sometimes left notes for those who had to clean it up and we usually got to our own work in the morning on time.
Wal-Mart had the toys. The children’s aisle that we wandered to after weaving through the kitchen goods, the best lit aisle in the store. We didn’t like lighting. We liked erecting monuments of toys, from toys. We built skyscrapers and pyramids of toys and talking animals and read children’s books aloud to celebrate, joyous. We were ecstatic and leaving our mark. We talked circles around the toys.
We were not bothered. We were not thieves. We never went near the frozen food aisle, the cookie aisle, the candy aisle, the aisles that would have given us, staggering, away. The cops and workers and the clientele left us alone. We never bought anything, it goes without saying. But we left glorious messes, messes of cuteness. We sometimes left notes for those who had to clean it up and we usually got to our own work in the morning on time.
Thursday, November 6, 2008
when he loses ground
after predicting the existence
after the mirror and wishes, starring
at her, when he puts a hand
over, when the talons capped
before the sound, before soaring
when precedence would cost more
than the future, when his
mother visits, before the scar
before the baptism
when they curl and
he is ready
after the mirror and wishes, starring
at her, when he puts a hand
over, when the talons capped
before the sound, before soaring
when precedence would cost more
than the future, when his
mother visits, before the scar
before the baptism
when they curl and
he is ready
the first election
What was my experience with this election? How do I answer this question? I have been assigned this question, and have asked it of my own students. As a teacher, I decided to share this writing with my students, and as a student, I know my classmates will read it. My own electoral experiences are framed by the first presidential election I voted in. I had just turned eighteen, which is approximately where my students are now. There is the before and after of that first election, my own personal drama of the last weeks, the personal events in my life of the last two years. There is the fact that I cannot tell my students my own political affiliation. So where do I start? If I start with that first election, I would have to tell about boarding school, about my political activism (but not the issue), about moving to San Diego to work on the campaign and being sacked within weeks. Apparently, I am not a good fundraiser. After the summer I went back east, back to the neighborhood my parents still lived in, and started working for the campaign again, this time in voter educator, which was a bit more successful. I really believed I was making a difference. Is that enough to start? OK, here we go.
On the morning of November 4, 1992 I had to work. This was my “real” job, in other words the one I did for money. I was not volunteering at the polls. Honestly, I can’t remember why. No, I’ll make this a story without doubts. I could not volunteer at the polls because I had to go to my mother’s house. That is an easy reason; she is sick and at that point I was taking care of her, so I am sure she needed something. The truth? Neither answer above; the organization I worked for was afraid of violence, so we didn’t have anyone at the polls that day. I went to vote after stopping at my mother’s house, so I was driving the old blue Aries K station wagon. That car was a total lemon. I was so excited to finally vote, and then frightened because there was no traffic at all as I drove on the small residential street to my polling place. Where was everyone? I passed a cop, strange in this neighborhood. And then, out of nowhere, a man on a bicycle shot out from behind a parked truck. I slammed on my brakes and tapped his wheel, but he wasn’t hurt. Of course, the cop was right there, lights flashing and ready to give me a ticket. But he was kind, and I was weeping. I was so excited and distracted by my own politics I had almost killed a man, or at least that is how I saw it. Really, I had just run a stop sign, which was blocked by that same illegally parked truck, So the cop said he would write me the ticket but support me if I appealed it since he believed me. I suppose the real tears also helped.
And then I voted. Still full of adrenaline and fear from my incident with the bicycle, terrified that there weren’t many people at the polls, believing I had fought for something true and good and overwhelmed with anxiety at the possibility we would lose. We didn’t lose, and I still feel that rush of pride and anxiety every time I vote. The fear? Well, 15 years later a ballot in Wisconsin asked me if believed my fathers had the right to marry, and I stood there for a 5 full minutes unable to write down that yes, I do have a family, no matter what you call it. For the record, I can’t tell you how I actually voted on that one either.
What happened on November 4, 2008? On that morning, 547 days after my grandmother died, 1 day after Barack Obama’s grandmother died, and 9 days after my doctors announced I might have cancer, I slept late. Well, to be more precise, the painkillers I took after the biopsy were still making my drowsy, but not doing anything for the actual pain. And I still hadn’t registered. I had to get it together enough to find my proof of residence, stand in line (would there be lines this time?) and vote. That was my job on Tuesday, vote and wait for the doctor to call. And miss my grandmother.
When I asked my students to write the story of November 4, they wanted to know if they should include what they did, what they ate, if they watched television or went out with their friends. Of course, I said no, I wanted the story of the election, which is more than those simple facts. I didn’t eat anything at all; I can’t eat when I am really scared. I did bake 50 cupcakes; somehow, baking is comforting, even when it comes from a box. And I did think about our grandmothers. All of them.
I used to say I couldn’t get married, because my grandmother was waiting for my wedding so she could die happy. I know she died believing the United States was a hundred years away from electing a black man to the white house. She was a teacher too, at a high school in Harlem in the thirties. A girl’s school, all black of course, being that it was segregated. The grade you earned in my grandmother’s class determined whether of not you would got training to be a secretary or if you would be relegated to “domestic” work for the rest of your life. She never lost the understanding that her own actions always, somehow, implicated her in what she saw as the racist structure of our society. She never lost he belief that she could change things. And she never say November 4, 2008. Neither did President-elect Obama’s grandmother, but maybe that’s ok, because maybe she believed it could happen.
One of my students objected to this assignment, saying there was nothing to tell, that we don’t know anything yet. Maybe he’s right; we can start here. This is the first election. My friends ate the cupcakes, I don’t have cancer, our grandmothers are gone. We waited in line and we voted, and I know 40 eighteen year-olds who are excited and frightened and waiting to see what comes next.
On the morning of November 4, 1992 I had to work. This was my “real” job, in other words the one I did for money. I was not volunteering at the polls. Honestly, I can’t remember why. No, I’ll make this a story without doubts. I could not volunteer at the polls because I had to go to my mother’s house. That is an easy reason; she is sick and at that point I was taking care of her, so I am sure she needed something. The truth? Neither answer above; the organization I worked for was afraid of violence, so we didn’t have anyone at the polls that day. I went to vote after stopping at my mother’s house, so I was driving the old blue Aries K station wagon. That car was a total lemon. I was so excited to finally vote, and then frightened because there was no traffic at all as I drove on the small residential street to my polling place. Where was everyone? I passed a cop, strange in this neighborhood. And then, out of nowhere, a man on a bicycle shot out from behind a parked truck. I slammed on my brakes and tapped his wheel, but he wasn’t hurt. Of course, the cop was right there, lights flashing and ready to give me a ticket. But he was kind, and I was weeping. I was so excited and distracted by my own politics I had almost killed a man, or at least that is how I saw it. Really, I had just run a stop sign, which was blocked by that same illegally parked truck, So the cop said he would write me the ticket but support me if I appealed it since he believed me. I suppose the real tears also helped.
And then I voted. Still full of adrenaline and fear from my incident with the bicycle, terrified that there weren’t many people at the polls, believing I had fought for something true and good and overwhelmed with anxiety at the possibility we would lose. We didn’t lose, and I still feel that rush of pride and anxiety every time I vote. The fear? Well, 15 years later a ballot in Wisconsin asked me if believed my fathers had the right to marry, and I stood there for a 5 full minutes unable to write down that yes, I do have a family, no matter what you call it. For the record, I can’t tell you how I actually voted on that one either.
What happened on November 4, 2008? On that morning, 547 days after my grandmother died, 1 day after Barack Obama’s grandmother died, and 9 days after my doctors announced I might have cancer, I slept late. Well, to be more precise, the painkillers I took after the biopsy were still making my drowsy, but not doing anything for the actual pain. And I still hadn’t registered. I had to get it together enough to find my proof of residence, stand in line (would there be lines this time?) and vote. That was my job on Tuesday, vote and wait for the doctor to call. And miss my grandmother.
When I asked my students to write the story of November 4, they wanted to know if they should include what they did, what they ate, if they watched television or went out with their friends. Of course, I said no, I wanted the story of the election, which is more than those simple facts. I didn’t eat anything at all; I can’t eat when I am really scared. I did bake 50 cupcakes; somehow, baking is comforting, even when it comes from a box. And I did think about our grandmothers. All of them.
I used to say I couldn’t get married, because my grandmother was waiting for my wedding so she could die happy. I know she died believing the United States was a hundred years away from electing a black man to the white house. She was a teacher too, at a high school in Harlem in the thirties. A girl’s school, all black of course, being that it was segregated. The grade you earned in my grandmother’s class determined whether of not you would got training to be a secretary or if you would be relegated to “domestic” work for the rest of your life. She never lost the understanding that her own actions always, somehow, implicated her in what she saw as the racist structure of our society. She never lost he belief that she could change things. And she never say November 4, 2008. Neither did President-elect Obama’s grandmother, but maybe that’s ok, because maybe she believed it could happen.
One of my students objected to this assignment, saying there was nothing to tell, that we don’t know anything yet. Maybe he’s right; we can start here. This is the first election. My friends ate the cupcakes, I don’t have cancer, our grandmothers are gone. We waited in line and we voted, and I know 40 eighteen year-olds who are excited and frightened and waiting to see what comes next.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
All the unicorns care about is who's going to be President
They gave me a pencil this time. Someone will inevitably erase my line and put down whatever they wish.
Write-in candidate: Magical Unicorn, The Unicorn Power Party
Platforms: Expanding magical forests, using special horn power for good, not
Evil
The man standing next to me looks on to the ballot of the man next to him. “So, do we, like, have to vote for all of these people or whatever?’ He points to the ballot.
“Maybe.”
“Shit, man, I don’t know. All I fucking care about is the President.”
Write-in candidate: Who cares? It’s all the same.
Platform: Local politics don’t matter. The TV/the wasp buzzing in my windowsill/my grandfather/the dog down the block barking demonic phrases/the leaves chattering in the street/the men fighting on the corner told me who to vote for.
You know who I’M voting for?
Who?
Joan Baez! I saw her and she gave me the message. PEACE! That was it! The drumming started and I got it. I totally got it.
Write-in candidate: Jada the Siamese cat mix
Platform: Single issue: string
Alexander is packing his bags, ready to leave for Germany if needed. He says they have beautiful white asparagus there. The Green Party is very strong. Everyone under 45 speaks English better than we do. How lovely.
The machine is beeping at me to hurry up and load the goddamn ballot already.
The man says I have to let it go.
Write-in candidate: Magical Unicorn, The Unicorn Power Party
Platforms: Expanding magical forests, using special horn power for good, not
Evil
The man standing next to me looks on to the ballot of the man next to him. “So, do we, like, have to vote for all of these people or whatever?’ He points to the ballot.
“Maybe.”
“Shit, man, I don’t know. All I fucking care about is the President.”
Write-in candidate: Who cares? It’s all the same.
Platform: Local politics don’t matter. The TV/the wasp buzzing in my windowsill/my grandfather/the dog down the block barking demonic phrases/the leaves chattering in the street/the men fighting on the corner told me who to vote for.
You know who I’M voting for?
Who?
Joan Baez! I saw her and she gave me the message. PEACE! That was it! The drumming started and I got it. I totally got it.
Write-in candidate: Jada the Siamese cat mix
Platform: Single issue: string
Alexander is packing his bags, ready to leave for Germany if needed. He says they have beautiful white asparagus there. The Green Party is very strong. Everyone under 45 speaks English better than we do. How lovely.
The machine is beeping at me to hurry up and load the goddamn ballot already.
The man says I have to let it go.
Nov 4, 2008
Tears, tears. Millions of people crying. Are they tears of joy? Tears of sadness? I don’t think this is quite so. I cry watching television. I cry at the people crying, who cry at the talking, who cry at my crying, cry at the thoughts they are thinking, the feelings being felt. But are they tears of joy or tears of sadness? I don’t think so. Millions of people are crying. Altogether now, our people are crying. A nation is crying. We come together in small groups and it’s only a moment before some long held tear wets a cheek. In parks more than one million people gather. They are streaming in, streaming down, why so many crying? Are they crying for a document called The Constitution? Do they brace their eyes and turn away because old institutions have nosed back in line with older ideals? I don’t think so. Tears for our torn history, collective tears for our horrible suppressed and silent past. Tears for letting go. What escapes through these tiny tears? What evaporates with this wailing? Tears of exhaustion, tears of relief. Beg the criers, please, to their torturers, let us go. Tears of love, tears of thanks, for this bit of mercy. Tears we cry to be at last forgiven? Tears for starting over? I think so.
Someone else's opinion
Having cast my vote – the first time I’ve ever voted - I thought I’d contact the most (and practically only) conservative friend I have, an American who teaches in Poland - the type of friend who would never be a friend if we hadn’t met overseas – to ask who he was voting for, and why, not to persuade him out of his opinions, but to hear them out….
He says….
Voted for the Constitution Party/Chuck Baldwin, he's a preacher, I think a bit of a holy roller but the closest candidate to a Ron Paul type of philosophy.
I guess to summarize why I won't vote for McCain and why I really wouldn't vote for Obama is the following:
The three wars which Bush and Dems have both inflicted upon the US, massive third world Immigration which is changing the whole foundation of our nation, Imperialism - trying to democratize third world hell holes which is Utopian insanity and crazy expensive and Indebtedness - to pay for all these peace keeping, democratizing projects overseas and the hopeless task of educating, medicating, housing all these third world immigrants, asylum seekers, refugees etc. we are putting ourselves in hawk to the communist Chinese, Arab oil sheiks and whoever else will lend us the money. We have a 10 trillion dollar debt now? My grandchildren will still be paying that off.
I'm at the fringes of the republican right wing. I'm probably more of an American Firster than any kind of Republican. I like Pat Buchanan's saying - A Republic not an Empire.
If I was in charge as President I would:
Pull out of Nato
Pull out of the UN and force them out of NYC, let Pyong Yang or Tehran host them.
Pull our troops out of Iraq, Afhganistan, and also Germany, S.Korea, Japan – they’re rich countries they can defend themselves.
Seal the border with Mexico with US troops,
Halt nearly all forms of immigration - guest worker programs, family reunification/serial migration, Green card diversity lottery, refugee asylum seekers
Felony charges for any business hiring illegal immigrants, a federal electronic verification system that all employers would have to use to check if a worker is legal to work in the US.
Most illegals would self deport based on the above laws, ICE would round up the rest.
Eliminate the federal dept. of education and HUD, and dept of homeland security.
Legalize all drugs then we can get rid of the DEA and a massive amount of state and city police work.
Anyway, I could go on and on its kind of fun, but you get my point. I’d like to turn the clock back to a time that Calvin Coolidge would appreciate.
Your Prof will probably think you’re friends with a nut job crypto-fascist but really I'm just an old fashioned nationalist/American firster.
He says….
Voted for the Constitution Party/Chuck Baldwin, he's a preacher, I think a bit of a holy roller but the closest candidate to a Ron Paul type of philosophy.
I guess to summarize why I won't vote for McCain and why I really wouldn't vote for Obama is the following:
The three wars which Bush and Dems have both inflicted upon the US, massive third world Immigration which is changing the whole foundation of our nation, Imperialism - trying to democratize third world hell holes which is Utopian insanity and crazy expensive and Indebtedness - to pay for all these peace keeping, democratizing projects overseas and the hopeless task of educating, medicating, housing all these third world immigrants, asylum seekers, refugees etc. we are putting ourselves in hawk to the communist Chinese, Arab oil sheiks and whoever else will lend us the money. We have a 10 trillion dollar debt now? My grandchildren will still be paying that off.
I'm at the fringes of the republican right wing. I'm probably more of an American Firster than any kind of Republican. I like Pat Buchanan's saying - A Republic not an Empire.
If I was in charge as President I would:
Pull out of Nato
Pull out of the UN and force them out of NYC, let Pyong Yang or Tehran host them.
Pull our troops out of Iraq, Afhganistan, and also Germany, S.Korea, Japan – they’re rich countries they can defend themselves.
Seal the border with Mexico with US troops,
Halt nearly all forms of immigration - guest worker programs, family reunification/serial migration, Green card diversity lottery, refugee asylum seekers
Felony charges for any business hiring illegal immigrants, a federal electronic verification system that all employers would have to use to check if a worker is legal to work in the US.
Most illegals would self deport based on the above laws, ICE would round up the rest.
Eliminate the federal dept. of education and HUD, and dept of homeland security.
Legalize all drugs then we can get rid of the DEA and a massive amount of state and city police work.
Anyway, I could go on and on its kind of fun, but you get my point. I’d like to turn the clock back to a time that Calvin Coolidge would appreciate.
Your Prof will probably think you’re friends with a nut job crypto-fascist but really I'm just an old fashioned nationalist/American firster.
Petty Theft
It was at the Video Station, in the strip mall a few blocks away from her parents’ house– evenings and weekends, junior and senior year of high school. When she applied, she accidentally checked the box that said she was over eighteen, but it wasn’t a problem.
Over a dozen years later, she would fall in love and find that her boyfriend also worked at a Video Station, though the one across town and about five years earlier. They laughed as they recalled how many movies they stole. VHS. She didn’t tell him that she also stole money directly out of the register. One night she took $60, tucking it up the sleeve of her sweater.
Over a dozen years later, she would fall in love and find that her boyfriend also worked at a Video Station, though the one across town and about five years earlier. They laughed as they recalled how many movies they stole. VHS. She didn’t tell him that she also stole money directly out of the register. One night she took $60, tucking it up the sleeve of her sweater.
Grocery Shopping
When they were younger, he said she might look great with grey hair, that thick beautiful silver stuff. “Don’t dye it,” he said. “Not right away. Wait and see.” But when she started to see it, she panicked. It was earlier than she’d imagined, right after the baby. That girl, that baby made her hair go crazy for a few years. It went from a light brown to a dark brown to a very very red brown. Then she started to see them, especially at her scalp.
They had a plan, but that was decades down the road. She wished it sooner, but they had a plan for their sixties, a plan to enjoy getting old together, falling apart. She would wear nothing but black cocktail dresses and dye her hair navy blue, or deep purple, or burgundy, and cut it in a dramatic pageboy. He said that, to complement her, he would wear bib overalls every day. They would, in their sixties, go everywhere together, like that– the movies, grocery shopping. When they were younger they decided they would enjoy getting older.
They had a plan, but that was decades down the road. She wished it sooner, but they had a plan for their sixties, a plan to enjoy getting old together, falling apart. She would wear nothing but black cocktail dresses and dye her hair navy blue, or deep purple, or burgundy, and cut it in a dramatic pageboy. He said that, to complement her, he would wear bib overalls every day. They would, in their sixties, go everywhere together, like that– the movies, grocery shopping. When they were younger they decided they would enjoy getting older.
An historic evening
A message paid for in part by my 13-year old cousin (but mostly paid for by her parents):
7:11pm Tue, Nov 4
Fwd: A vote 4 obama is a vote 4 osama. Fwrd this message 2 everyone if u want McCain 2 be the next pres. Of the u.s.
7:12pm
I don't. And that is not true/ridiculous.
7:12pm
Obama sucks
7:14pm
Do you know anything about him or his policies?
7:15pm
Ya thats all we talk about in skool
7:16pm
well then try harder to distinguish between a terrorist and a US senator
A message paid for in part by a Catholic school education (but mostly by my cousin's parents):
7:26pm
Kay whatever
7:55pm
Still love me?
7:55pm
No
7:57pm
Yes you do. I love you
A message paid for in part by all the (very conservative) branches of my family tree that led my cousin and me to this point:
7:58pm
Ya i do luv u.
7:11pm Tue, Nov 4
Fwd: A vote 4 obama is a vote 4 osama. Fwrd this message 2 everyone if u want McCain 2 be the next pres. Of the u.s.
7:12pm
I don't. And that is not true/ridiculous.
7:12pm
Obama sucks
7:14pm
Do you know anything about him or his policies?
7:15pm
Ya thats all we talk about in skool
7:16pm
well then try harder to distinguish between a terrorist and a US senator
A message paid for in part by a Catholic school education (but mostly by my cousin's parents):
7:26pm
Kay whatever
7:55pm
Still love me?
7:55pm
No
7:57pm
Yes you do. I love you
A message paid for in part by all the (very conservative) branches of my family tree that led my cousin and me to this point:
7:58pm
Ya i do luv u.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
Disenfranchised on Election Day
Most readers of this space are familiar with voting irregularities in the 2000 and 2004 presidential elections, and many Americans pledged to keep a close eye out for any such irregularities in 2008. To this end, I registered last week to be a poll observer on the web page for the City Clerk on the City of Madison's web page.
After waiting a week and receiving no response, I registered to volunteer again as an observer yesterday (Monday, November 3) for the polling station nearest my home. I received an email confirmation:
That is the email in its entirety.
I was concerned about this lack of information but figured that things would shake things out in the end. Now I realize that I should have phoned election officials immediately since things did not seem entirely on the level.
I arrived at the polling location at 1:00 to do my civic duty and cast a vote of my own. I also inquired about where I should go to attend the orientation session for observer training. Cue shifty eyes, suspicious looks. The women at the voter check-in station I spoke with appeared uneasy as they said they didn't know what I was talking about. They didn't know who I should talk to, or where I should go. They turned to a woman sitting near them wearing a large yellow button that read OBSERVER.
"You're an observer, right?" the registration woman asked.
A somber nod. "I am an observer," she replied but declined further comment.
I gave a curt nod of my own. I could see I was being railroaded. Ramrodded. Blackballed, blacklisted. Call it what you want. I was being disenfranchised.
That's when I began some informal polling of my own. The results are staggering. Consider Table 1.1 below:
After waiting a week and receiving no response, I registered to volunteer again as an observer yesterday (Monday, November 3) for the polling station nearest my home. I received an email confirmation:
Date/Time: 11/04/2008 (2:00 PM - 4:00 PM)
Location: xxx High School
To cancel this registration, click the following link:
http://www.cityofmadison.com/isevents/registration_cancel.cfm
That is the email in its entirety.
I was concerned about this lack of information but figured that things would shake things out in the end. Now I realize that I should have phoned election officials immediately since things did not seem entirely on the level.
I arrived at the polling location at 1:00 to do my civic duty and cast a vote of my own. I also inquired about where I should go to attend the orientation session for observer training. Cue shifty eyes, suspicious looks. The women at the voter check-in station I spoke with appeared uneasy as they said they didn't know what I was talking about. They didn't know who I should talk to, or where I should go. They turned to a woman sitting near them wearing a large yellow button that read OBSERVER.
"You're an observer, right?" the registration woman asked.
A somber nod. "I am an observer," she replied but declined further comment.
I gave a curt nod of my own. I could see I was being railroaded. Ramrodded. Blackballed, blacklisted. Call it what you want. I was being disenfranchised.
That's when I began some informal polling of my own. The results are staggering. Consider Table 1.1 below:
Table 1.1 - Voter to Volunteer Ratio
Clearly the odds were stacked overwhelmingly in favor of the pollsters. As a voter, I was in the clear minority.
But it doesn't end there. Consider Table 1.2:
Table 1.2 - Pollster Activities
The operation was working like a well-oiled machine. As I kept two people busy checking me in, that left over two dozen others at the ready, some watching me very closely. Too closely perhaps. Big Brother is watching?
For all the talk about coming together as a country I could still sense a deep divide in the faces of these people, allegedly from my own community. Table 1.3 shows my perception of how my attempts to help were received:
Table 1.3 - Pollster Attitudes
Perhaps the following two tables are the most damning to the system. Not only were the pollsters primarily female, but analyze these numbers:
Table 1.4 - Poll Worker Age
Table 1.5 - Poll Worker Race/Ethnicity
This election was supposed to be about change, about new beginnings, but now I see the rhetoric was just hot air. As long as the elections are rigged so only retirement-age white women get to volunteer at the polls in overwhelming numbers, nothing is going to change. How many young white men are going to be denied their right to volunteer on election day? How many will be turned away from polling places?
This experience has shaken me to the core and has shredded my last bit of hope in democracy. I'm moving to Canada where everything is perfect.
Polling Places
I sit outside the polls having exercised my voice in the only meaningful way possible.
Nobody offered me free coffee for my convictions. Nobody asked because my answer might have conflicted with their hopes, their compliance funds, their private punditry and their public progressivism. They read the polls and placed me in the category that filled their needs – to demonize or sympathize were the same in some way. I remember when people made their choices in the booth and their opinions in the bar, not in herds seeking hope in human vessels. I recall when partisans carried clubs and torches, not stolen signs. What do we carry now? How do we want to be carried? Whose card should be punched? Who is represented in a representative democracy? When did a campaign of issues and plan become antiquated? When debates cease to be conversations? When did we forget that it’s a bad idea to judge a candidate by the color of his prose or the content of his sound bites? When did the right to choose become the rule?
My shirt says “I didn’t vote…” on the front. Nobody reads the back. It says “…for who you think I should have.”
Nobody offered me free coffee for my convictions. Nobody asked because my answer might have conflicted with their hopes, their compliance funds, their private punditry and their public progressivism. They read the polls and placed me in the category that filled their needs – to demonize or sympathize were the same in some way. I remember when people made their choices in the booth and their opinions in the bar, not in herds seeking hope in human vessels. I recall when partisans carried clubs and torches, not stolen signs. What do we carry now? How do we want to be carried? Whose card should be punched? Who is represented in a representative democracy? When did a campaign of issues and plan become antiquated? When debates cease to be conversations? When did we forget that it’s a bad idea to judge a candidate by the color of his prose or the content of his sound bites? When did the right to choose become the rule?
My shirt says “I didn’t vote…” on the front. Nobody reads the back. It says “…for who you think I should have.”
Monday, November 3, 2008
Response to “the stupid idiot in white BMW” on www.JustRage.com
Original post by Anonymous:
“To the stupid fucker in the white BMW.. how the hell are people do stupid!!!.. I was watching you in my review mirrow when the Fire engine came up behind you.. and instead if you stopping and yielding.. you instead race and are soon behind me... trying to get me to make me move faster ..and then you think you can blow your fucking horn at me to move faster!!!!... so I slow down to fucking piss you off..and you almost rear end me!!! and then you try to overtake me by crossing the double yellow line!!!.. You stupid fuck!!!.. But I got you didn;t I? :) swerving my car to the center of the lane and almost sending you out of control!.. you stupid shit.. next time there's an ambulance of fire truck behind you.. follow the rules!!!!.. PULL OVER AND LET THEM PASS!!!!”
Response by Firefighter:
TO THE STUPID FUCKERS IN THE WHITE BMW AND BLACK JETTA!
You stupid fucks! I’m trying to get to a FUCKING FIRE!!! and you stupid cunt-punt fucktards won’t fucking PULL THE FUCK OVER!!! instead the fuck in the BMW fucking speeds up and honks his horn at the guy in the black Jetta trying to pull over, but then THIS asshole makes things worse by trying to cut off the other shit fucker by crossing into the center lane, nearly causing a goddamn pile-up and THEN HOW THE SHIT AM I GOING TO GET TO THE FUCKING FIRE, YOU SHITS! I made sure to flip both of you shit faces off when I drove by!!!
“To the stupid fucker in the white BMW.. how the hell are people do stupid!!!.. I was watching you in my review mirrow when the Fire engine came up behind you.. and instead if you stopping and yielding.. you instead race and are soon behind me... trying to get me to make me move faster ..and then you think you can blow your fucking horn at me to move faster!!!!... so I slow down to fucking piss you off..and you almost rear end me!!! and then you try to overtake me by crossing the double yellow line!!!.. You stupid fuck!!!.. But I got you didn;t I? :) swerving my car to the center of the lane and almost sending you out of control!.. you stupid shit.. next time there's an ambulance of fire truck behind you.. follow the rules!!!!.. PULL OVER AND LET THEM PASS!!!!”
Response by Firefighter:
TO THE STUPID FUCKERS IN THE WHITE BMW AND BLACK JETTA!
You stupid fucks! I’m trying to get to a FUCKING FIRE!!! and you stupid cunt-punt fucktards won’t fucking PULL THE FUCK OVER!!! instead the fuck in the BMW fucking speeds up and honks his horn at the guy in the black Jetta trying to pull over, but then THIS asshole makes things worse by trying to cut off the other shit fucker by crossing into the center lane, nearly causing a goddamn pile-up and THEN HOW THE SHIT AM I GOING TO GET TO THE FUCKING FIRE, YOU SHITS! I made sure to flip both of you shit faces off when I drove by!!!
Response to “You Deserve It, Bitch!” on www.JustRage.com
Original Post by Anonymous:
“You are a fucking cunt and i fucking HATE YOU! You fucked up my marriage permanently, and now my curse on you is coming true. It's better that your baby died, because you would be a SHITHOLE CUNT SLUT horrible mother. you are a lying bitch who lies to her husband and fucks up other women's marriages. YOU SUCK FUCKING CUNT BITCH! I HATE YOU!! FUCK YOU WHORE SLAG BITCHHOLE!!!!!”
Emotionally Attuned Translation:
When my husband had an affair with you and impregnated you, it made me feel abandoned and ashamed. Even though it is socially unacceptable for me to wish harm to your unborn child, part of me felt that justice was served when you had a miscarriage. Part of me realizes that I should be directing my hatred toward my husband, but society has conditioned me to apportion a majority of the blame onto you.
Rodney, American Style
At the age of seventeen, Rodney Aiken resolved to base his entire existence upon the example given by popular culture. His hope was to become a kind of living mockery of his age. 1986 – the year he began – was the most confusing for him, as he had difficulty climbing the corporate ladder in fish-net stockings. He tried to explain at interviews that despite his long, poofy hair and glittering red fingernails, he wanted to make “truck-loads of cash . . . do cocaine . . . and fuck lots of women, just like any other American.”
Rodney was turned down by every interviewer, except for the human resource manager at Goldman Sachs, who appreciated Rodney’s “enthusiasm and straightforwardness.”
“To tell you the truth,” the interviewer confessed, “you can . . . make love for hours on that stuff . . . fuck for hours, I mean,” he added, more softly.
Rodney excelled at his new position as stock broker until the early 90s when his mood became decidedly more “depressive,” as his supervisors called it. After Rodney appeared at four board meetings in flannel over-shirts – interrupting his superiors with one-liners like “corporate pig” and “stuff it fascist” – he was summarily fired; however, due to obligations insisted upon by Rodney’s earlier, more vigorous glam-rock incarnation, the company was forced to dole out $150,000.00 in severance pay, a generous retirement portfolio, as well as two tickets to the Grand Cayman Islands, which his boss had laughingly agreed upon.
By the time Rodney reached his thirtieth year, he had squandered the bulk of his fortune on Backstreet Boys albums and Limp Bizkit paraphernalia. He was fond of “rockin’ the ganja” and when his mother made her annual Thanksgiving invite call, he replied, obligingly, that he was “stoned out of his gourd” and that “stuffing would be awwweeesooome.”
9/11 caught him off-guard, but he soon found himself at home in the new right-wing order, clogging the Operation TIPS hotline with reports about his suspicious “Muslim” neighbors, many of whom he knew to be Mexicans or Latinos as he had smoked marijuana with them only a few years prior. He felt at ease protesting his Constitutional right to free speech in the designated free speech zones, threw massive fundraisers for Bush’s re-election bid and within a few years was the most active member of Houston’s anti-war movement.
In his remaining days Rodney alternated between paranoid hatred of Obama’s “Socialist policies” and McCain’s “fear-mongering campaign tactics.” He left himself messages from opposing campaign headquarters, criss-crossing political districts, occasionally showing-up at McCain-Palin rallies in his abort sarah palin t-shirt or at Obama-Biden rallies in his democrats are godless commie-muslim-fascists gear.
As was stated in his will, Rodney Aiken was buried naked in a closed coffin. His tombstone read: here lies an honest man.
focusing on the issues
1) Apparently if you register via mail, a copy of a residential lease is not valid proof of residency. Why the way I registered changes the validity of my lease, I am not sure, but I am no longer sure I can prove my Milwaukee residency. All of our bills come to the house in my roommate's name. My driver's license is the one I got in high school, with my parents' Green Bay address on it. I do have a photo id from the school where I teach, and apparently that should work, though I am not sure how my UW-Washington County Faculty id is going to prove my residency. My other opinion is to bring a witness willing to vouch for me to the polls.
I had my UW-WC id in my purse, as well as the copy of my lease, in case I read the website wrong.
2) I hate driving on the ribbon highway (the overpasses and underpasses and bypasses) that all the major highways in Milwaukee knot into right around downtown. I also hate driving in tunnels. Both of these things leave me thinking about collapses and scary accidents that end in action movie sequences: cars raining from the sky, bursting into flames, being crushed by giant robots. Well, not the last, but certainly the rest.
However, on Friday afternoon, I braved both of these things as I followed the MapQuest directions towards my destination. What choice did I really have, since I didn't realize I would come across these fears of mine until I was already passed the last exit and had nowhere to escape to. Now, my Jetta (Stella) and I have an agreement: she doesn't cause me to suddenly jerk into oncoming traffic by blowing a tire or an engine, and I don't slam her into things. It works pretty well for us.
And really, I'm a good driver. My time in Milwaukee has turned me into one of those who can always find a space big enough to sneak into when I need to switch lanes, but unlike some of my fellow residents, I know where my turn signal is. So my anxiety comes solely from the idea that when I am on a ribbon highway or in a tunnel, there are a lot of things that other drivers can do that are going to break mine and Stella's agreement, if only because there is no place to go if something were to go wrong.
Nothing did. I made it over the ribbon highway, through the tunnel onto 6th Ave. But the anxiety didn't go away.
3) I don't spend a lot (any) time in downtown Milwaukee. But I knew the street name--Wells--and the address--200--of the building I was looking for. Finding the municiple building shouldn't be too hard, I assumed. I mean, if they want people to vote early, they'll make the building easy to find.
Wrong. First I couldn't find the right block and ended up in the 800s. So I turned around, or tried but it was a one way going the wrong way. Then I got turned around. My lucky break came when I realized that there were a lot of people headed towards one specific building. I was on the wrong block, but the flow of pedestrian traffic all seemed to be headed in one direction. So I followed it. I had nothing to lose: I was already feeling lost and in the way, as I do when I need to drive slowly on city streets, even if there aren't any cars around me. And there it was. The municple building.
4) But where to park? My wallet was completely empty, as I had yet to be paid for the month of October. I would have risked the ticket (as long as I could find a place where I wouldn't get towed), but after facing my two biggest driving fears, searching for the building for fifteen minutes and parking for twenty, I let go of my dreams of voting early. I went home.
Which is really just fine because Friday night on the news I heard that lines were two hours long, and I had not had a book with me.
I had my UW-WC id in my purse, as well as the copy of my lease, in case I read the website wrong.
2) I hate driving on the ribbon highway (the overpasses and underpasses and bypasses) that all the major highways in Milwaukee knot into right around downtown. I also hate driving in tunnels. Both of these things leave me thinking about collapses and scary accidents that end in action movie sequences: cars raining from the sky, bursting into flames, being crushed by giant robots. Well, not the last, but certainly the rest.
However, on Friday afternoon, I braved both of these things as I followed the MapQuest directions towards my destination. What choice did I really have, since I didn't realize I would come across these fears of mine until I was already passed the last exit and had nowhere to escape to. Now, my Jetta (Stella) and I have an agreement: she doesn't cause me to suddenly jerk into oncoming traffic by blowing a tire or an engine, and I don't slam her into things. It works pretty well for us.
And really, I'm a good driver. My time in Milwaukee has turned me into one of those who can always find a space big enough to sneak into when I need to switch lanes, but unlike some of my fellow residents, I know where my turn signal is. So my anxiety comes solely from the idea that when I am on a ribbon highway or in a tunnel, there are a lot of things that other drivers can do that are going to break mine and Stella's agreement, if only because there is no place to go if something were to go wrong.
Nothing did. I made it over the ribbon highway, through the tunnel onto 6th Ave. But the anxiety didn't go away.
3) I don't spend a lot (any) time in downtown Milwaukee. But I knew the street name--Wells--and the address--200--of the building I was looking for. Finding the municiple building shouldn't be too hard, I assumed. I mean, if they want people to vote early, they'll make the building easy to find.
Wrong. First I couldn't find the right block and ended up in the 800s. So I turned around, or tried but it was a one way going the wrong way. Then I got turned around. My lucky break came when I realized that there were a lot of people headed towards one specific building. I was on the wrong block, but the flow of pedestrian traffic all seemed to be headed in one direction. So I followed it. I had nothing to lose: I was already feeling lost and in the way, as I do when I need to drive slowly on city streets, even if there aren't any cars around me. And there it was. The municple building.
4) But where to park? My wallet was completely empty, as I had yet to be paid for the month of October. I would have risked the ticket (as long as I could find a place where I wouldn't get towed), but after facing my two biggest driving fears, searching for the building for fifteen minutes and parking for twenty, I let go of my dreams of voting early. I went home.
Which is really just fine because Friday night on the news I heard that lines were two hours long, and I had not had a book with me.
Between Black River Falls and Tomah
Why did your dad chase you with a belt when you said the a-word?
How many more minutes?
WISCONSIN INDIAN HEAD COUNTRY
The Packers just lost it in overtime.
If there is no past and no present, what about estimation jars?
Tim won’t share the iTouch.
BLACK RIVER FALLS: STAY SMART
Did you know your hair grows four times faster than your toenails, and two times faster than your fingernails?
Who do you love more?
ANTIQUES FOOD HISTORIC DOWNTOWN
Wow.
Did Stephen King write the Exorcist?
NEXT EXIT - APPLES
It should be illegal to make us take state tests. You don’t even get graded on them. They just want to show off how smart white kids in the suburbs are.
Is this the exit with the Pizza Hut?
Puss is just dead skin.
HIXON TRAVEL PLAZA
He sent an e-mail and didn’t thank the right person. He thanked Howard, who hardly does any work for them at all.
POLYDOME CALF NURSERY
What if this guy calls everyone kittycat instead of brother? Kittycat Barack Obama, Kittycat McCain, Kittycat Reverend Wright…
CASINO EXIT NOW
Is the Shining scarier than Carrie?
SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT
I don’t understand why anyone would create a language that has forbidden words.
When will we get there?
Remember? Giraffes: they are the grim reaper, they play mine sweeper.
DIESEL… WITH AN ATTITUDE
Drew was going to put his McCain bumper sticker on your car but you moved it.
Abbie doesn’t hate me any more. She said she likes me because she likes my cat.
Hannah had a boy-girl party with the pretty committee but hardly any of the boys wanted to come.
SLOTS, CRAPS, TABLE GAMES
Really.
I didn’t get scared about Carrie until after I read it, when I really started thinking about telekinesis.
AL MUTH ARCTIC CAT
I’m changing the station. These radio hosts don’t say anything.
FOX RV SALES
There’s no good food at home.
So she didn’t believe Wisconsin would have the same climate in Arkansas in fifty years, big deal?
THE FIRST EVER NICK THEME PARK
One hundred and thirty nine miles to Milwaukee.
Olivia won’t share her Halloween candy.
JACKSON CORRECTIONS INSTITUTION
Well, you didn’t share your breadsticks.
REST AREA – SCENIC OVERLOOK
How many more minutes?
WISCONSIN INDIAN HEAD COUNTRY
The Packers just lost it in overtime.
If there is no past and no present, what about estimation jars?
Tim won’t share the iTouch.
BLACK RIVER FALLS: STAY SMART
Did you know your hair grows four times faster than your toenails, and two times faster than your fingernails?
Who do you love more?
ANTIQUES FOOD HISTORIC DOWNTOWN
Wow.
Did Stephen King write the Exorcist?
NEXT EXIT - APPLES
It should be illegal to make us take state tests. You don’t even get graded on them. They just want to show off how smart white kids in the suburbs are.
Is this the exit with the Pizza Hut?
Puss is just dead skin.
HIXON TRAVEL PLAZA
He sent an e-mail and didn’t thank the right person. He thanked Howard, who hardly does any work for them at all.
POLYDOME CALF NURSERY
What if this guy calls everyone kittycat instead of brother? Kittycat Barack Obama, Kittycat McCain, Kittycat Reverend Wright…
CASINO EXIT NOW
Is the Shining scarier than Carrie?
SLOWER TRAFFIC KEEP RIGHT
I don’t understand why anyone would create a language that has forbidden words.
When will we get there?
Remember? Giraffes: they are the grim reaper, they play mine sweeper.
DIESEL… WITH AN ATTITUDE
Drew was going to put his McCain bumper sticker on your car but you moved it.
Abbie doesn’t hate me any more. She said she likes me because she likes my cat.
Hannah had a boy-girl party with the pretty committee but hardly any of the boys wanted to come.
SLOTS, CRAPS, TABLE GAMES
Really.
I didn’t get scared about Carrie until after I read it, when I really started thinking about telekinesis.
AL MUTH ARCTIC CAT
I’m changing the station. These radio hosts don’t say anything.
FOX RV SALES
There’s no good food at home.
So she didn’t believe Wisconsin would have the same climate in Arkansas in fifty years, big deal?
THE FIRST EVER NICK THEME PARK
One hundred and thirty nine miles to Milwaukee.
Olivia won’t share her Halloween candy.
JACKSON CORRECTIONS INSTITUTION
Well, you didn’t share your breadsticks.
REST AREA – SCENIC OVERLOOK
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