The days are all the same . . .

The weather has been somewhat tolerable. I've enjoyed the sky. It reminds me of Oakland. Of course, this was usually after the gray morning clouds and fog cleared. I have said before that if the weather stayed like this all of the time I probably wouldn't mind living here, but that's not true. I can't stand Austin, Texas. There are no opportunities to speak of, and on top of that, I'm SICK of its supposed reputation as a musician's mecca. Yes, if you like bad alt-rock country shit that all sounds the same. It's depressing. The "musicians" of Austin have actually banded together to urge local government to put together a live music task force whose mission it is to heighten opportunities and living conditions for the city's "musicians." What the fuck? Here's the thing, if your music is worth a shit, you don't need any damn government task force to help you become a success. The wondrous thing about making music that does not suck is that it works its own kind of Field of Dreams magic . . . if you play it, they will come. But no, this town, in all of its infinite wisdom, and with a slew of misplaced priorities decides to create a commission, waste money which could potentially find its way in more useful coffers. The homeless situation here easily rivals, if not surpasses, that of San Francisco. No shit.

Since we are on the arts (sort of) I shall continue in that vein. I have an interview with a downtown theatre. They are in need of temporary evening sales associates. I was asked if I had "arts sales experience." I do not. But I can be charming. You may not believe it, but it's true. I tried to emphasize this and it snagged me a meeting. So, we shall see.

Saturday's excuse for a newspaper had a small note in the editorial page about the fact that Texas ranks 49th for arts funding. That was not the point of the mention. The point was to gloat about the fact that the state ranked 50th is California. Oh yes, Texans have a huge inferiority complex when it comes to California, myself being excepted seeing as how I've lived in California and hold it to be far superior to the flat, endless, scorching mess that is The Lone Star State. Texans fear the recent increase of California transplants. For the life of me I cannot imagine why the hell someone would leave California for this shit tank, but everybody has their story to tell. However, caveat emptor, because you get what you pay for. There is a reason it's cheaper in Texas. There are quite a few people who come here from the West, but it's usually families. Homes are expensive in California. Young, entrepreneurial types do not find their way here. Why should they? California has a larger GDP than Texas, a more diverse cultural and topographical landscape, and seven (as opposed to Texas's one) top-flight public universities. Unfortunately, both states suffer from some undetected electoral malady which permits the election of nimrods (George W. Bush) and egocentrics (Guvnor Ah-nuhld) as governor. Both states seem okay with permitting a platform to the insipid. Even so, in my opinion the Californication of Texas is a myth propagated by the bizarre, lunatic fringe which keeps this state "red." Besides, most of the "outsiders" in Austin come from Houston, Dallas, or shitty little Texas towns. The Houston and Dallas influx is because the people there find their cities unbearable (sprawling, humid cities), and the shitty little Texas town folk think of Austin as "big city" and realize it really does suck less than B.F.E., Texas. Both sets of individuals usually arrive in Austin to attend the University here. Meh. It's just easier to blame "Yankees" and "Californians." Ridiculous.

As for the arts funding, well I couldn't understand the point of gloating over this. Whooptee fucking doo! That's shitty for both states. It's not necessarily something to brag about that the two biggest states in the union are at the bottom when it comes to the cultivation of beauty, expression, and talent. It's a sad testament to the heightened anti-intellectualism of our age. But rather than recognize that, the pinheads who pass for journalists here decided to use the statistics as ember for an incendiary cultural riot. It's disgusting. Ultimately, I'm a citizen of the country as a whole. The great thing about being a U.S. citizen is that I can rant and rave about the suckworthiness of any state I live in. Isn't democracy great kids?

This blog was a rambling mess! My apologies.

My weekend was uneventful. I went to the library (which I love), and spent my weekend watching dinosaur videos with the following young man (whom I love even more than the library, so that's A LOT of love).



He's pretty good-looking, don't you think?

Ciao.

I've seen the sun rise for a whole week now . . .

Locked up in my room, suffering from insomnia, and unwilling to see any bright side, I don't sleep like any normal person. This always happens when I am unemployed. It's a curse. It's not a good thing to have too much time to think about all of the things you are not, and that's all I do.

I stayed up organizing my books. Touching them, flipping through them, and resurrecting them gives me a small measure of comfort. Though I have moved (there was Mexico, and of course, California), my books are constant companions I can't convince myself to abandon. I've disposed of belongings and lost what I believed were indispensable material products (my iPod being the most recent thing), but I must have my books. Even though I frequent the library, my personal library is the only thing I own. I hide behind my voracious reading habits. I am intelligent, but not very smart. I am intelligent, but not a success. I am intelligent, but not worth employing in even the most menial of capacities. I have sent applications for dishwashiing positions, housekeeping, and for busing tables. Austin, Texas is a joke and I am sick of pretending to laugh.

I also found seven of my old journals. Moleskins. I have lost my heart for journaling. Blogs haven't taken the place of my journals, I just realized that far too much of what I wrote in my journals was repetitive and pointless. I used to say that I wanted to leave a legacy for people to read about me after I'm gone, but I've concluded that the world has better things about which to be curious.

I'll cut this short for fear of diving into my usual negative depths. These types of things don't go away. How could they? I have to live with who I am, and that's not much.

I can't think of a clever title . . . sorry.

I am watching 60 Minutes. The host is having a conversation with the “brain trust” of President-elect Obama's presidential campaign. It's hard for me not to notice that they are all white people. Amusing considering that a few minutes before I was watching a C-Span panel of Newsweek reporters and the one African American reporter made a similar observation about the Obama campaign. Yes, I watch C-Span. It's a dirty little secret; tell no one.

I experienced a tiny second of indignation, but then realized something: Presidential politics have always been a game for white people. The players and the participants have always been white people. Why should Obama's campaign have been any different? Who better understands the machinations and nuances of presidential campaigns than those who have always been the primary players? Be that as it may, I hope that once President-elect Obama becomes President Obama he will indeed make a worthwhile effort to introduce qualified minority candidates into the upper echelon of our nation's government. I am not talking about a sprinkling of cronies throughout the Executive Branch (I think we've seen enough of that over the last eight years), but a cabinet which can continue to inspire citizens. President-elect Obama's election has elicited so many statements from African Americans interviewed, statements of hope. I recall several who have been interviewed saying things such as, “Now I can tell my son/daughter that you can be anything, including president.” It's nice to be able to say, but why should we not have a young minority child whose parents say to him or her, “You can be anything you want, including president, Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, Secretary of State, or UN Ambassador to whatever country is most in need of a brave advocate.” It's still so very early and the beginning of President Obama's forthcoming historic presidency is over seventy days away. I have placed the countdown in my cell phone! We shall see what happens.

Accompanying all of the news about President-elect Obama there have been numerous stories about the supposed downfall of the Republican party and what it needs to do to rejuvenate itself and regain its lost stature. It's ridiculous. Do we really need echoes of Palin 2012 to mar our nation's (the world's!) newfound sense that the once sinking ship of democracy may possibly sail again? I'm not a Republican. That goes without saying. However, that doesn't mean I wouldn't bring myself to vote for a Republican (Lincoln and TR come to mind). I'm issues-oriented. Speak to me about your stance on the concerns I feel are essential to our nation's identity and vitality. If you can speak to me from the abstract and point me to specifics and convince me that your plan will bring broad opportunities, I will listen to you. I don't care if you like donkeys or elephants or trees. To be quite frank, I'd love to see a diversification of parties in this country. I find it remarkable that a country which purports to value competition is so frightened by the prospect of political competition. A genuine, vibrant, and robust democracy is best served by a true marketplace of ideas, and ladies and germs, good ideas can come from outside of traditional parties. But most of us know that.

If Republicans are serious about remaining relevant they will indeed be required to take a long, hard look at their positions and what kind of political entity they want to be for people in the coming decades. I don't often agree with the pundits, but I must say that I find myself agreeing with their contention that on some level the election of President-elect Obama is a resounding repudiation of the divisive, below-the-belt politics which were the specialty of the Atwater-Rove-Bush conservatives. (Quick useless plug. Frontline will be airing what looks to be a fantastic episode about Lee Atwater and the world he wrought. Check it out on Tuesday! Frontline is my favorite PBS show. Any potential love interest would be required to snuggle up with wine and Frontline. Now you know one of the many reasons why I am single.) With exceptions, citizens are tired of irrelevant conversations. We want candidates who will respect our intelligence and engage us on a more sophisticated level. If the Republican party is more concerned about selecting candidates on the basis of their ability to field dress a moose and spout off a “Golly Gee” here and there, they are losing sight of what quite a few of us expect from our leaders.

When I go to the polls, I don't want to elect someone who's an Everyman/Everywoman. I want someone whose name will rightly grace my country's history books. I want someone who believed they could lead on the basis of their ideas and because their expectations for our nation were high. I want to cast my vote for someone who recognizes that the democratic experiment cannot be perfected in any lifetime, but that the experiment is an ongoing journey which will require the engagement of its citizens. And while we as citizens may disagree about our priorities, disperse into opposing camps after disagreement, and often deny our responsibilities after we agree to disagree, we are still in it together. I believe that. I do. E Pluribus Unum. Out of many, one. So, I guess unless Republicans can find a way to avoid initiating acidic discourse and recognize public service as a noble plight, they will continue to lose ground. Unless Republicans (or any public servant) can acknowledge the hypocrisy of their ways, they will not be asked to do what Bill Clinton called “the people's work.” To my way of thinking, calling for 'Limited Government' whilst doling out BILLIONS to Wall Street is in no way emblematic of limited government. Gretchen Morgenson of The New York Times put it best. We have witnessed a government eager to “socialize losses and privatize gains” and that is not in the interest of the whole. And don't get me started on the auto industry. Maybe, just maybe, if the Big Three had not been putting all of their damn money into inefficient fuel whores, they would not be facing insolvency. Gas prices may be down, but the problem of energy independence and climate change has not gone away. Any aid to the auto industry needs to come with a quid pro quo which leads to US built hybrids and a move away from SUVs. (I would like to see a diminished car culture, but I'm realistic.)

I am reacquainting myself with my inner-politico. I have always been fascinated by questions of policy and considering the tenor of our times of late, I can't really help but write about it and wonder what it will mean for us. It's either write about this or that other . . . stuff that plagues me. And I'm sure my two devoted readers don't won't to hear about me.

"Luxuriating in our Racial Deliciousness."

Cory Booker, mayor of Newark, is the originator of the phrase in my blog title. He used it on the night we elected our first black president. The CNN pundits giggled after he turned the phrase and Stephen Colbert mocked it; I reached for a pen and jotted it down. Mayor Booker used the term in response to the now very over-asked question as to whether or not the United States now lives in a "post-racial" society. If only it were that simple. I cannot begin to count the number of times I have wandered into tense territory over discussions of race. I've had such discussions with friends and strangers alike. They never seem to end well. Even so, I continue to have these discussions because I believe in the importance of intellectually and socially engaging those who may potentially benefit from exposure to a varying perspective with regard to the subject of race. I guess that sounds a bit haughty. I'll admit, I don't know very much about quite a bit. But I like to think I have the occasional useful insight to offer, and as a mixed race woman, discussions of race, equality, and access are of special importance to me. Here is what I have to say about our a "post-racial" world: It cannot exist. But I do not mean that in any negative way. Let me explain.

I would politely define racism as an ill-advised ideology rooted in illogical fear. As far as I am concerned the same could be said for homophobia. Undeniably, the election of President-elect Barack Obama signals an important shift and makes an important statement. Outside of the statements and signals made with respect to tolerance, there are the statements and signals made with respect to a nation's exasperation with the politics of fear; a politics which has sought to erode our civil liberties, make war through the manipulation of our national heartache, and recklessly belittle our stature to the rest of the world. On Tuesday, November 4, 2008 the electorate said enough is enough. Even so, this does not mean that the appropriate ascendancy of an intelligent, charismatic, and inspiring black candidate to the presidency has eliminated localized, irrational discriminatory behavior. Racism will always exist on some level. Who could ever believe otherwise? For example, here in Austin, my hometown, a member of my alma mater's football team was removed from the roster for posting a text message on his Facebook account which essentially read that it was time for "all the hunters to gather up, we have a n*gger in the white house." The football player was sure to include his love for Jesus on his now deleted Facebook page. Keep in mind that this is a young man plays on a majority African American football team. This was always something which irked me about my so-called diverse alma mater. African Americans were a rarity in our classes, but were always conveniently in surplus for our football field. Hypocrisy knows no bounds.

The opportunity for conversations surrounding issues of equality is at hand. If, as a nation, we can feel inspired to elect an unlikely candidate to our highest political office, surely we can draw from that pool of inspiration to bravely converse about the sticky points which have made this election so momentous. What sticky points? Let's talk about people of color in the context of incarceration rates, the death penalty, access to higher education, executive offices in the corporate world, or home ownership, among other things. Quite a few commentators have implied that blame for the sub-prime mortgage debacle could arguably lie at the feet of minority citizens; this is said while completely ignoring the fact that white, Ivy-league educated executives were largely responsible for the construction of the complex, deceptive financial instruments which have led to so many of our current economic problems.

My belief is that there is a continued need for diversification on many institutional levels. This persistent truth points to anything but a "post-racial" society. But we can change. I can type that and actually believe it. Tuesday night has instilled me with a bit of hope. A bit. The passing of anti-gay measures in four states (including my also-home state of California) leaves me disheartened. I read Thursday's New York Times editorial and agreed with the general argument that the most recent backward steps are a temporary barrier. Make no mistake, until gays and lesbians are given the unfettered right to marry or start families, we are denying U.S. citizens their rights under the 14th Amendment and continuing to fall short of our egalitarian ideals. Bigots can say what they want, but the time will come when true equality exists throughout this country. One day (perhaps after I am long gone), I hope the presidency will be occupied by an openly gay president. Perhaps, in its own symbolic way Tuesday's victory will get us closer to that day. I have too many beautiful gay and lesbian friends who deserve the right to commit themselves to a long-term partner and it would be an honor to have an opportunity to work on their behalf for their freedom struggle.

In closing, I am still basking in the afterglow. I have my copy of Wednesday's New York Times tacked to my wall. It reminds me that for all of my cynicism, we are indeed living in a different world. I like it very much. I had a person actually ask me, "Where were you when you found out?" And we went from there. I won't be having children (let's not go there right now), but I know that I will remember this week for the rest of my life and will be telling someone's children about the feeling of renewal and exhilaration which poured over our country. President-elect Obama is going to make mistakes (offending Nancy Reagan will be the least of his worries, and calling himself a mutt bothers me not in the least . . . I, too, am a mutt!), but I have a deeper faith in his ability to use his intellect to avoid the more damaging mistakes which could threaten to further rip apart the democratic fabric of this country I love. Yes, that's right. I really do love my country. Always have, always will, but it's just so much easier to love it now more than ever.

Obamanos.

I'm still around. Not exactly for lack of trying not to be, but we won't talk about that. Instead, let's talk about history. Yes, history.

I was in the kitchen at about 10 pm last night, around the time that Barack Obama became our nation's 44th president. I came home at 9:30. After I walked into the apartment my youngest sister, Nancy, greeted me and said, "Sister, Obama has 200 points." I didn't correct her and tell her that he didn't have points so much as votes. It didn't matter. I was impressed with her interest. I went to the kitchen to make tea when I heard my sister yell out, "Sister, Obama has 290 points now!" My response was immediate, "No way. Are you kidding me?" I put the kettle down and raced to the TV. And there it was. I sat down, covered my eyes, and began to cry. The first thing that came to my mind? I wish my father, my black father, had lived to see this.

I have been obsessively watching videos on YouTube and newspaper web sites, videos of rejoicing, hopeful, embracing crowds. I smile as I glance at the photographs of tearful celebration, these photos do something good to my heart. I need that right now. Very much. It is definitely a time for dancing in the streets. No one is expecting President-elect Barack Obama to change the world overnight. At least, I hope not. People with even a modicum of common sense can concede that the damage done by eight years of George W. Bush cannot be undone overnight. And any who would have you believe that the last eight years have done no damage, well, I can't really help those people. Perhaps they have lived on another planet since the year 2000.

As I watched President-elect Obama's rally on television, I made a mental comparison to Senator McCain's and realized that we do indeed now have a candidate whose eloquence, intelligence, and judgment can unite people from disparate and distant camps. To my mind, that's the true calling of a 21st century president. Of course, it's not the only calling. But that goes without saying. That celebrating Chicago crowd was full of Blacks, Whites, Asians, Arabs, Gays, Straights--you name it, we were all there. President-elect Obama, please do not let us down. I beg of you. Inspire us, instill hope, but be honest with us, and we will follow you. We are ready to be genuinely and honestly led. I believe that.

I sent Jenna a celebratory text which said very simply, "WE HAVE A BLACK PRESIDENT!!!" Her response? "YES WE CAN!"

I guess we can, can't we?

I don't believe in a Heaven or Hell, but if I'm wrong, Daddy, I hope you're watching.

Experimentation.

I just put YouTube to the test. I looked for a track I used to dance to as a teenager who used to sneak into dance clubs in Austin, Texas. Back when she thought this place had something to teach her. I danced my ass off in those days. I loved to show what I could do on a dance floor. I was not the pretty girl you wanted to take home with you, I was not the cute girl with the smile that stopped you on your way out the door. I was just this pudgy girl who loved music and loved to dance. I used to dance all night, without drugs, without alcohol, and people would come up to me and say, "Wow! You're a great dancer!" This was no reference to my technical prowess (I own none), this was, "You're having fun, aren't you?"

I can't remember the last time I had that kind of fun.

I really can't. Pure, unadulterated, uninhibited fun, courtesy of the drug of Life. I used to be able to do that, but now I'm just numb inside.

I found a song from that many years ago (16!) and realized, that yes, I am old. I used to be a baby, but now . . . I'm old. And that cannot be changed.

Also . . . I really need to stop reading shit about My Ex-Best Friend Who Sent Me To Jail. That's how I refer to her. I can't bring myself to utter her name. It's like a sharp metallic penny on my tongue, the taste of her name poisons. Even so, I miss her. Even after all of this stupid time, I miss her. What the fuck is wrong with me? Of course, I miss Andrew sometimes, too. I can't let go of bad things. Why is this so?

She picked my favorite color, and one of my favorite pairings with my favorite color , for her wedding. I know she didn't do it intentionally. I'm sure I hardly register as a cerebral fart on her radar (which is as it usually is with anyone I let matter to my life), but even so, I was bothered by this fact. WHAT IF SOME DUMB SHIT WANTED TO MARRY ME???? I can't even use my own fucking favorite colors any more! But that won't be a problem. What idiot would marry me? Maybe I'll pull a Ross and Rachel and get drunk with a guy friend or an ex-lover who will dumbly, drunkenly wed me! Oh wait, my ex-lovers don't talk to me.

Where's the wine?

The View from Dolores Park . . .

Okay. Yes. I want to be back in the Bay Area.

I am back in hell (Texas). Austin has nothing for me. I can't feel myself here. But here's the thing, even without Jenna (my best friend) I can feel something pulling me back to California. Will it happen? I don't know. I am also very honestly considering a move to Pittsburgh. Explanations will come in time. The only thing I really need is for wherever I end up to not be Austin, Texas. I've just been here too fucking long. It's great for Texas, but not great for me.

I sat in Dolores Park and peered over at the San Francisco skyline, Oakland (my true Bay Area home) in the distance, and asked myself, "Why are you not here, Tiffany? This is where you want to be, isn't it? Even if you didn't know Jenna, Lincoln, and her family, isn't there just something electric about this part of the country. It's teeming with possibility. There's a palpable intellectual current running through this whole region. On top of that, there are MIXED PEOPLE!!! Like you!"

I can't get stuck here. I just can't. Texas holds nothing for me. I can't live in somewhere that pretends to be a player when there is nothing holding me back from really trying to be in places where life is happening.

I didn't tell Jenna I was thinking of moving back to California. She had drunken moments when she said to me, "You should just come back. Fuck Texas, man. Just stay. What have you got to go back for?"

I wanted to, but realized that I need, well, money, before I can go back to California. But I am going to try. I have no lover, no children, no pets, no nothing. What the fuck am I waiting for? The plan is simple enough--get a job, and then get the fuck out of here. Whose life is it after all?

The Yay Area.

Ah, where to begin, really?

The opportunity to come back to my second home is something that I am glad I did. I am truly, truly glad. The weather? Outstanding as usual. The sights? I almost forgot how damn beautiful the Bay Area is, if you can believe it. The sounds? I smile a little when I hear BART in the night air. The friend? Jenna was absolutely amazing Saturday. She danced Juliet in her director's Romeo and Juliet, and even though she claims that she could give a shit about reviews, all of the reviews written about my friend were gushing. As is appropriate! I would provide links, but am going to take a quick shower so that I might go for a walk around Lake Merritt. The day is just too damn good to waste.

The bad? I no longer have a job. My job was a joke. I lost it two days before I came out for my trip. I was fine wasting the time to save money and try and move back out of Austin, but only if there was work to do. And well, there was never any damn work to do. I begged. I am not kidding, I really did literally BEG to be given things to do. I was sent home twice after having only worked for an hour. What is that? I can't live on that kind of money and certainly can't make plans to move anywhere on that type of an income. So finally, the owner of the company sadly confided that he just didn't think he needed me on staff.

I am back at square one. Even so, I have decided that when I go back home I will probably just volunteer and do something worthwhile with my time until I either a)win the lottery, or b) find a job I actually can put my head and heart into, but either way, my life has to be lived doesn't it?

I am trying to forget about what awaits me back in Texas, if only because I realize that it's nothing to speak of. I have a few more days here in the Bay Area (will be here a week in all), and all I can say is that it's amazing how good it feels to be back. Lincoln, Jenna's handsome younger brother, and my dear friend, upon seeing me, hugged me tightly and said, "Welcome home, Tiff." It almost made me cry.

I think I'm going to walk over to Peet's and have a cup of Joe to take around the Lake with me.

Tomorrow I'm going into the City, and I'm going to sit at Dolores Park . . . and pretend that I didn't have to leave. I think I'll ride the J for a bit and just let myself roll along.

For the most part, I feel good. I feel very, very good.

More politics.

For the most part the people at my current place of employment continue to treat me like I’m an alien from another planet. Or maybe a pod person. It varies from day to day. There are a few exceptions. One of them is a woman whose husband occupies a figurehead position and used that light influence to secure her a position as the company’s designated filer. She loves her job, absolutely loves it. I’ve had jobs like hers before and they suck hairy donkey balls, but she’s possessive of what I refer to as the WBB (Worker Bee Brain). My mother has a WBB, lots of my friends have WBBs, and countless members of my extended family have WBBs. Alas, I have never quite managed to acquire a WBB and have long sought to be employed for the some type of intellectual or creative enterprise. Silly me! It’s never happened. It won’t ever happen. Pfft!

This woman is a sweetheart. We converse about quite a few things. The subject matter ranges from cockroaches to politics to the goings-on of her children. She wants little from life but to be secure in her person, attend her church, and be with her family. I respect her for ability to just . . . well, live. Today she asked me what I had done last night. My answer? Drank beer, ate a sandwich, and watched the Presidential debate in my pajamas. (Yes, I do practically drink every night. Problem with that?) The woman looked at me and said, “You know, I haven’t watched any of the debates and I don’t really read the paper, but I’m really undecided. There is something I don’t like about Obama, though.” I asked her what it was she didn’t like. From anyone else, anyone I hadn’t had an opportunity to engage in conversation, the following answer would have sent me into paroxysms of fear and left me incredulous. “Well,” she said. “it really bothers me that he won’t put his hand over his heart when they say the pledge . . . or sing the national anthem. You know? I mean, that’s a big part of America.”

I was about to walk to the library and only had fifty minutes to get there and back. But I stopped for a second and thought to myself. I had one of two options. Option one: I could have smiled politely and said something similar to the following:

“Well, I totally understand.” (even though I don’t understand, especially when this allegation has been proven false), and walk away. Option two: Respectfully, share my position. I opted the for the latter and said something along the following lines.

“Well, I can see how that would be a valid objection, and you have to use whatever criteria you feel matter most when you decide to vote. I think the most important thing is just that you vote—period. Even if you only write yourself in, just vote! But I would say this, as much as I understand the need for people to examine symbolic action taken or not taken by a candidate, the idea of America is stronger than any symbol. At least it is for me. I’m a patriot. Very much so, but I don’t believe whether or not someone places their hand over their heart for the Pledge or Anthem is a valid measure of one’s patriotism, if only because quite a few of those same people who would judge those things don’t even know the words to the national anthem, how many justices are on the Supreme Court, or which parts of the Constitution affords them what rights. I think those things, much more than whether or not someone wears a flag pin or shits red, white, and blue, are a more important part of America . . . for now. We’re a work in progress. Democracy is an experiment. The USA is an experiment.

“Neither of these candidates is perfect. But if one of them will wrest us away from the politics of fear then I’m for it. If we’re talking about what’s American and un-American, how American is it that under the present administration’s guise it’s been perfectly possible that these books I’m taking back to the library could potentially put me on a terrorist watch list? Is that what America is supposed to be? You should vote for whoever you believe will do the best job, but be sure the logic behind your decision isn’t just something you’ve been told to believe. Just like what I’m telling you, it’s not necessarily something you should believe, just consider. Does that make sense?”

She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I can see what you mean.”

I kind of felt like an asshole after saying all of this. This is a woman with five children, she’s been married twice, and she is probably happier in her skin than I will ever be in mine. She loves her life. Who am I to pretend to tell her how to precondition her electoral participation? Well, I’m no one really, but I don’t know that my idea of America would be worth talking about if I hadn’t at least tried to point out to her that the pettiness which has so negatively impacted the process is a larger danger to the idea of America than the lack of any lapel pin or an uncovered heart.

I hope I didn’t come off like a snot-nosed, idealistic shit.

As a final note . . . I'm listening to Fresh Air as I type this and am hearing about anonymously composed fliers being circulated in primarily African American neighborhoods in Philadelphia in which the recipients are told that they should not vote. Why should they not vote? Because of the undercover police officers at the polling stations who will be present to arrest people with unpaid traffic citations, warrants, and the like.

That's right. That's the level we've been reduced to. And they call it the City of Brotherly love. If this is what happens there, imagine what types of things are going to be possible in the South.

Do not let this happen. Shame on any of you who would dare to engage in these types of tactics. For what? Are you really so afraid of those who are different from you?

Hearing this just now makes me furious. It pisses me off so much that I could cry.

The next segment is about potential voter intimidation tactics in crucial swing states. If you haven't listened to this, I suggest you go to the NPR web site and listen. Talk about this with your friends.

The last time I cried because of politics was the year 2000. I don't think I need to say too much as to why. All I will say is that the whole thing left me coated in disbelief and killed a very significant part of my idealism. I couldn't believe the system could be so fucked up. Don't allow ignorance and fear to steal another election. Let the process override all prejudice.

Here is hoping.

It's not TV, it's YOUR F*CKING FUTURE!!!!

Lest I forget to address the issue, I hope many (or any?) of you reading this blog will watch the debate tonight. I sat for a brief moment and realized just how damn close the election is, and was a little frightened. By close I mean close in terms of the proximity of Election Day and the razor thin margin which separates the winner from the loser.

If you watch the news or read a decent newspaper you don’t need to do too much reading or watching to see that the candidates are pulling back no punches and have decided to not just hit below the belt, but essentially kick one another in the balls. I can’t stand to hear so many distortions, half-truths, and outright irrelevant comments, especially when so many of them will actually find a willing audience which in turn will exercise its right to vote having been filled to the brim with crap-knowledge. What is even more infuriating to me are the people who will watch the debate and use random measures to declare a victor. Obama must be articulate, but not too articulate. McCain can be angry, but not too angry. Don’t use big words or you’ll be labeled an elitist! This one is my favorite. I can’t get enough of how voters are supposedly now ardently anti-intellectual and willing to embrace ignorance. Well, don’t be one of those people. Snobs, unite!

Watch. Listen. Learn. And when the time comes, vote.

I put my hand up on ya hip, when I dip, you dip, we dip!

It’s Tuesday, right? I am having a hard time getting motivated to do anything this week. I am going to blame it on Aunt Flow. Squeamish—and I might add, silly—males who stumble upon this blog may not want to read further. As I get older I am finding myself more and more frustrated by my menstrual cycle. For some ridiculous reason I always assumed that getting older would mean having more control over the consequences of my monthly spewing. I mistakenly believed that I would eventually have it all “figured out” and never need to guess about the secret things my body was telling me. Unfortunately, I have not stopped guessing since that fateful morning in the bathroom almost 20 years ago. Ultimately, being on the rag is making me feel grosser than gross, more gross than usual; because let no one lie to you, being on your period is nasty shit. I just reread the sentence before this one and am thoroughly amused with myself. I hardly ever amuse myself.

Of course I may also feel like uber-poop because I essentially spent the whole weekend wasted. I still am not up for seeing any of my friends. It’s not easy to explain. Hating this place as much as I do, and wanting to be everywhere and anywhere else each day do not make me a great conversationalist. Plus, I save more money, read more, and can watch crappy TV by myself (or sports) if I don’t see people. Even so, I like people and feel the need to sprinkle my life with them from time to time. So last Friday my friend Amber texted me and quite literally asked me if I wanted to come over and “kick it.” Amber and I haven’t known one another very long, but I dig her style. She smokes hard (not cigarettes), drinks hard (anything that’s wet), and talks hard (I get along especially well with people whose mouths are potty like mine). And on top of that, she’s also extremely intelligent and fun to talk to, so it’s an honor to call her my friend. And, as appears to be the case with most of my friends, within the first two days she said something to me about my lack of self-confidence. The following is a brief paraphrase of the conversation. Please do bear in mind that we’d been drinking lots, lots, lots, lots (tequila shots, vodka, beer, and wine were all present) and smoking *ahem* stuff, and now we were playing Scrabble (or maybe it was Yahtzee, either way I lost.) Amber proceeded to make a comment about her crazy-looking face, or something to that effect. I guffawed. Amber is GORGEOUS! I mean, S-S-S-S-S-S-S-moking HOT! She is EXACTLY the kind of mixed-girl I wish had been! Perfect skin, great figure, and the right height! I hate her . . . but in a loving way. So, as soon as she made light of her beauty I proceeded with the following: (Please keep in mind that this is a blog re-enactment.)

“Dude, what the fuck are you talking about? You’re fucking gorgeous! A sick hottie!”

Amber proceeded to lay down a Triple Word Score and said, “Why is it alright for you to say shit like that but you never let people tell you the same thing?”
Insert universal cricket sound effect here.

After giving myself a few minutes to dust off some brain cells I answered, “It’s not the same.” Which it is not. “I may be ‘cute’ and have had a singular occasion to maybe be ‘pretty’ but I have never been ‘hot’ or ‘beautiful.’” It’s true. I am not even an unconventionally attractive woman. I just look like a fucked up muppet!

Amber rolled her eyes at me. I do not like when people roll their eyes at me. It makes me feel foolish.
“It’s exactly the fucking same.”
More crickets, please.
“Well, let’s not talk about it,” I said.
“It’s kind of hard not to, you’re always saying something shitty about yourself so it brings itself up. I oughta make you take a tequila shot every time you say some fucked up shit about yourself.”
Thank goodness this did not happen. If I die as a result of my boozing I’d prefer it not happen in a friend’s living room. And, tequila shots in such a volume are sure to present an interesting set of circumstances. I hardly take tequila shots, so my having taken one was feat enough.
“What’s so wrong with you?” Amber asked.
I have had more of these types of fucking conversations than I care to recall. What’s so wrong with me? What’s WRONG with me?

Ah, the 25 gazillion dollar question. Oh, where to begin . . . what isn’t fucking wrong with me! Here's what's wrong with me . . . here's what I should have said: “Look, the truth is, I’m never going to like who I am. I’m not going to learn to love myself and be all new-agey and shit about who I am. I don’t like who I am. I never have. I never will. I know this. I don’t like the way I look, the way I talk, the way I smell, the way I laugh, or the way I have to justify my dislike for myself to the people in my life. Why is it such a hard thing for people to just let me. People try and scare me and tell me shit like, ‘Well, you’ll never love anyone else if you don’t learn to love yourself!’ BULLSHIT! I love people with complete body, mind, heart, and soul, and you know what it has gotten me? Jack shit. But do you know how many fucked up, obnoxious people in this world get everything they want by pissing on people’s hearts? Do you know how many of them are married, have life partners, blah, blah, blah! I’m sure they may love themselves, but they’re assholes. Just because someone doesn’t like themselves, doesn’t mean they’re not a good person, or they can’t be a good friend.”
Uncomfortable silence.

“Shit, if it’s such a big deal, I’ll marry you then.”
I laughed.

A sweet, friendly way to basically say . . . SHUT THE FUCK UP WITH YOUR NEGATIVITY!!!! I got it. I'll just never be able to really get it.

It’s true. I don’t want to be married. I don’t give a shit if I don’t ever get married. For some reason this is impossible for people to believe. I have actually met people who insist on saying shit like, “Oh you just haven’t found the right one yet,” or “Someone’s going to change your mind.” What part of “I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO GET MARRIED!” is impossible to understand? Don’t get me wrong, I do get a little sad when I realize I’m probably going to end up a buffet for the maggots without ever having experienced a real kind of loving, but so be it! We are not all put here to be someone’s parent or spouse. I know it in my heart that I’m not the marrying type. I would be the world’s shittiest wife. Without question! I can’t cook, I hate cleaning, and I am crap in bed. Well, this last part’s not true, I’m actually AMAZING in the sack. I give great head, too! But great head is nothing a newfangled machine won’t soon be able to duplicate, if not perfect. So soon I won’t even have that! Um, that was a tangent, sorry. Does this mean I am anti-marriage? Absolutely not. I think marriage is a beautiful, beautiful thing. Please read how I’ve written marriage and allow me to confirm that when I write marriage I mean marriage between two consenting adults (even those with the same genitalia). Yes, marriage is a fine thing, it’s just not for me. (*Edit* I do think that all of the readily accessible sex introduced as a possible marriage residual makes marriage enticing, but as much as I like sex, I don't like marriage enough to get married for sex.)

242/220. 224 days until I leave this place for good, 220 days until I leave this job for good. I can hardly wait.

A little over two weeks until I’m in San Francisco and Oakland and my heart gets giddy with the thought of it.

Oh, and TO1’s response to my text was simple enough. Dodger died. And he thanked me for rooting for his team. I want to see him so badly.

Work sucks.