Entries from October 2004 ↓

I spent my birthday standing in line for an hour and 45 minutes this afternoon, the last day for early voting. I arrived and noticed the line was doubled up on itself, and was so long I couldn’t tell where it folded. Somewhere far, far down the hall I could see that. I asked a lady near the door where the actual voting was taking place how long she’d been waiiting. “Just an hour” was her reply.

George Orwell’s “1984″ was hidden away in my overstuffed purse. I pulled it out and began reading the tiny print on withered, yellowed paper (it is my boyfriend’s father’s book). I had to read the sentences over and over again. I couldn’t concentrate with all the freaking talking going on around me. I was trying to get the jist of doublethink when this sweaty guy in a suit told this young black kid next to him, maybe 19, that if he believes in God everything else in his life will just fall perfectly into place. The kid nodded his head in silent, passive agreement. He followed that up with, “We all got to believe in something.” The sweaty man in the suit’s voice grew louder. He said, “NO. No. Not something. God. God is the only thing.”

The kid was embarrased, stared at his shoes and said, “Yeah, man.” I hadn’t noticed person ahead of me had moved up several feet.

There was constant conversation, some between strangers, but because so many people knew each other. I am still voting in Murfreesboro, which is way more “small town” than Nashville, so there was a lot of, “Hey Peggy, how’s your mama and them?” I tried to read but the words on my page swam a lazy swim, then came into focus beneath me: WAR IS PEACE.

A tall, oafish college-aged guy called attention to my reading. Those at the end of the line were face to face with those at the front of the line, since it was a doubled line, with no rope to seperate us. Like at Disneyworld, except instead of a rollercoaster waiting for you at the end you get to push a few small black buttons followed by a big red one. Huge rush. Anyway, the people at the front of the line had been waiting over an hour and they were getting a little cabin fever. It was hot in there. This place wasn’t meant for that many people. No doubt the local fire marshall was just looking the other way. The people in the front of the line were more vocal due to their fatigue. They were excited. They were almost there! I wanted to read in peace, but instead the oafish guy told me about how he gave up after four chapers then read the Cliff’s Notes. I nodded, smiled and looked down at my book. I tried to think of something to say, but I had to pee and he would be moving ahead in line soon, and I didn’t want to say anything too commital, you know? So I gave up and said nothing. After that everyone in line saw that I am a stone cold bitch, so I was left alone.

I alternated reading with eavesdropping. Not a word about politics. I tried to gauge who each person would vote for based on appearances and bits of conversation. Naturally, I hadn’t a clue most times. Well, except the the lady whose kid said something about “Cheney bad vote.” She quickly silenced her child, but that lady had to wear a scarlet K on her chest for the rest of out hour and 45 minutes in line. I vote at every opportunity, and have since I turned 18 years old. I usually go on election day, and am usually the youngest voter there in a sea of grannies. I used to live in a granny sort of neighborhood, so it makes sense, but I was thrilled to see the line filled with a very diverse bunch of people. Lots and lots of young voters and a high number of minorities. Plumbers and sheetwallers and that stinky kid with the mohawk.

Once I finally got into the office to vote I was greeted by an exasperated and rude election commission official who was more interested in socializing with the granny at my right than telling me where to sign. “Here and here,” he barked, then introduced himself as a politician from nearby Eagleville to the old lady next to me. I asked him where my second signature should go, because I wanted to make very sure that I didn’t fudge anything that would make my vote somehow not count, and he barked again, “I said there.” I was exhausted by this point, as was he, so I merely laughed in his face and took two extra PROUD TO VOTE stickers. Boo-ya!, Mr. Politician Election Volunteer, I got your stickers.

I finally voted almost two hours after I arrived. But not before a long line of senior citizens were moved to the front ahead of me. I would never, ever normally think such a thing, but after standing all afternoon my snug, though thoroughly cute, Steve Maddens didn’t even fit on my feet anymore. I was irritated. It’s just that I waited so long. I thought for a fleeting moment that maybe their votes should only count half since they put in half the effort. Then I saw their Bush stickers on the Oldsmobiles parked up front in the blue spaces. Yes, I thought, theirs’ should definitely count half.

Ultimately, my wait was totally worth it. It wasn’t so bad, I had Winston and Big Brother to keep me company. Only one person in line recognized the irony of my reading “1984″ in line for the 2004 election. He made eye contact with me, pointed at my book and said, “Nice choice.”

Something about that line today made me a little more confident about high numbers for Kerry in Tennessee. People were visibally tired or worried they’d be late to pick up Suzy from day care, but they were not willing to come back on November 2, I heard them say. They were eager to get it done today. Everyone took the wait and inconvenience in stride.

I found the last page I’d read before heading back to my car. I covered IGNORANCE IS STRENGTH with a pressed-flower bookmark and made my way outside. The line was now down the street and growing onto the street perpendicular to it. Rain fell from a muddy sky and the line grew deeper. A bus pulled up carrying registered voters from the local university. I felt good about what had just happened; about what will happen.

But, maybe I’ve just been brainwashed by the Party.

I learned to knit more than three weeks ago. And this is all I’ve got. After dropping stitches and adding rows I started over (i.e., ripping out all all my beautiful work) about three dozen times. AND THIS IS ALL I HAVE. One-tenth of a knobby, uneven scarf.

I will wear this janky scarf come winter, I tell you, whether it’s holey or shaped more like a shawl than a scarf, I will wear it. Proudly. If I get better and faster at knitting everyone is getting gimpy hand-made scarf/shawls for Christmas.

Love, me.

My bank regularly charges me out the ass for just about every transaction I make. They are quick to cash checks while holding on to yesterday’s deposits. That is, if they deposit my money at all. I get nothing but stone faces and bubbling underlying condescension from the people who work there.

And yet, I feel guilty and apologize every time my paperwork is not completely filled out at the drive-thru. Or if I have to ask for a deposit slip.

Clearly something is wrong with me. Seems with my fastly growing age I need to learn to channel my inner Tawanda. Maybe I should just go completely apeshit (in a totally non-violent way) on that bitchy teller lady with the bejewled fake nails and snail-like disposition. Anyone with orange pumpkins sequined onto square acrylics surely deserves my wrath.

But I’ve been to jail once already, and once–for me, anyway–was plenty enough. I like to poop in private, thankyouverymuch. Maybe that means I’m not hardcore. How about I give you that I’m not hardcore, if you’ll just please not watch me poop?

Oh, and another thing:

I’m officially an evil, shallow bitch because I can’t help but think that Ashlee Simpson getting busted lip synching on SNL was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen. It was thrilling. I am obviously a starfucker of the worst kind that I even give a shit, but holy MOSES. That was sheer awesome with a blaming-of-the-band cherry on top. Total classlessness, with a Lucky Charms jig thrown in for good measure. SNL will totally redeem itself to me if they parody this shit storm next week.

There is a high school principal in Nashville that no longer has a job because the kids there constantly fight. Gang fighting, random jumpings, bus beatings. This has been happening all year long, but two weeks ago students were arrested every single day for fighting on school property. MANY students. One day it was like 18.

I am well-informed about the situation because one of the women I like at work has two teenaged daughters who attend school there, so I’ve been paying close attention to the story, which led me to think about the fighting that occured at my own high school.

The situation was very different for me. The public high school my friend’s kids go to is urban and is very racially diverse. My public high school was very rural, yet only a 30 minute drive away fom the school in Nashville. I’d say that less than 2% of the student body at my high school belonged to a minority race. White, rebel flag-waving, tobacco chewing people they were. Well, a lot of them, anyway. Despite the nearly all-Caucasian population, we had serious racial tensions in our school. The few black students at my school felt so threatened by the institutional, as well as intentional and direct racism they experiences that there were a few skirmishes. That involved guns. After that any racially “motivated” clothing or paraphanelia of any kind was not permitted on school grounds. Believe it or not, after that ,things died down.

No, most of the fighting at my school was about other things. It was about boys and girls and bad deals and break-ups. About getting cheated. The fights I happened to witness were passionate, and everyone knew the participants history with one another. For instance, I was not surprised to see Marcia Sloan* and Brooke Binkley* straight up BOXING each other in the hallway during 4th period from my seat in AP English. Brooke fucked Marcia’s boyfriend in the theatre light loft, the one with the winding staircase, and most of the days when Marica was working. I watched them land punch after punch on purpling cheeks and ears, but didn’t say anything to anyone. I didn’t feel motivated to interfere, and I couldn’t interrupt class I was 14 at the time, I was probably afraid of what people would think if I spoke up. That fight was broken up within 2-3 minutes by the petite, 50-something sophomore English teacher who got herself punched in the face in the process. The punch was on purpose. Marcia got expelled for that one.

But the most legendary fights were the ones that were planned in advance. Knowing a fight on school grounds would lead to expulsion or be broken up within seconds, those with a taste for blood would challenge the person they intended to fight to do so at a later date. And always at the Sycamore Rec.
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My friend had an extra one of these stickers and I’ve always wanted one so I put it on my car about a week and a half ago. The blue sticker looks nice against the green color of my car.

Today on my way to the gym the most bizarre thing ever happened. Some guy in a large red truck, perhaps one with a Hemi in it, rolled down his window as he passed and yelled “Faggot!” at me.
I was too stunned to laugh, but man, is that funny. I mean, this guy is so ignorant that he yelled a slur out his car window at someone totally minding their own business. AND he didn’t even do it right. Girls are not faggots. Especially not straight girls who happen to have a simple equality sticker on their cars.

And that is the puzzling thing. I think my sticker would provoke less random rage than say, a pink triangle or rainbow flag. It’s just a Human Rights Campaign sticker, which I don’t think most people even know.

So, I’m a faggot, huh? Maybe I can work that into some sort of Halloween costume.

Here is some context.

Alison Krauss
Kenny Loggins
Richard Marx
Janet Reno
One of the She-Daisy ladies
Lee Ann Womack
Brad Paisley
various members of Lambchop
Mindy Smith
Garrison Starr
Fleming and John
Josh Rouse
Annette from Venus Hum
Marty Stewart

*I’m counting B-listers, C-listers and local celebrities

-All the apartments share the same heating duct system. Now that fall is here we’ve discovered that we live amongst some smokers. It bothers the boyfriend more than it does me.

-We can’t open any windows, except for the bathroom. The painters who put on a fresh, new couple of coats before we moved in painted the windows shut. Besides the sliding glass door in the kitchen, we have only two other exposed windows, both of which contain an air conditioning unit.

-We have to wash dishes in a bus tub because our sink doesn’t have a divider thingy. You know, one side for washing, the other side for rinsing? We just have one big sink with no divider. Makes hand-washing dishes even more laborious.

-Apparently, the ceiling leaks. Getting for work the other morning I noticed the top of my dresser was slightly wet. I thought I’d spilled something. I look up to find the source of the water is rain leaking through one of the many seams that runs through the ceiling.

-Our wooden back balcony is covered in moss or mold or something. So when it is wet it’s like ice skating. Real safe.

-Our daily-pizza-ordering, Outback-take-away-eating neighbor refuses to take her fat trash to the fat street herself.

-This same neighbor has this ridiculous high-pitched screaming laugh that I hear all too often since I think she watches “The Queens of Comedy” on repeat. God knows that Mo’Nique is one laugh riot.

-We can’t purchase anything bigger than a breadbox because our place is too small.

-There is no fenced in back yard for the dog. Our dog. The dog we don’t yet have, but will get as soon as our lease is up. I’m kinda sorry I suggested Agent Cooper for my friend’s dog’s name, ’cause he took my suggestion and now I want it back.

-Taking a shower may mean standing in the corner of the shower stall quivering because the cold water is all gone and you can’t just stand under a piping hot water stream. If someone is doing laundry my shower might take a full twenty minutes. Actually, I don’t take that many showers, but the boyfriend does his shaving in there, so he is more often enraged by this than I am.

Things I Will Miss:

-My writing nook.

-The tiny park with the running track one block down the street.

-The downstairs neighbor’s three cats.

You’ll find a small thumbnail at left that, if clicked, will lead you to a full-sized photo. That photo will change every day. Unless I’m out of town or am sick or something. If you hover your mouse on the thumbnail it will reveal a SECRET MESSAGE. Sometimes it will be a boring, old explanation of the picture you see. Sometimes it will be a cryptic little clue in the ongoing little game I like to play with you, dear reader. I like to call that game Mindfucking my Readers with Bizarre Hidden Messages that Ultimately Mean Nothing.*

Anyway, this will be fun for me and won’t require me to put together an entire photo album that has no continuity. These are just daily snapshots of things and people I like. Feel free to comment on the pictures in the most recent blog post.

Enjoy the looking.

*Not really.

Axe prowls the old house at night, when children are in bed. His footsteps are light like powder. He takes inventory nightly, counting head after head after head. He can see them hiding, waiting, in the black dark of the den or kitchen. They sit on chairs. Some lie on the floor, but their heads and muscles alert. They feel his green eyes hot on their hairy faces. His shoulders move up and down in a sexy rhythm with every stride.

This is his house. It is where he stays. He keeps constant watch over his property and all the way to the end of Front St. He knows all those that live within the spray-stained walls. The neighbors hear the dozens of screaming voices with every passing moon, but they are too strung out or too evicted to notice. Axe never got used to the continuous howling.

Their number is multiplying every week. New ones in groups of five and six arrive wriggling and blind, eyes sealed, mouths gasping and gaping. A few of them will die within a few days or weeks, their carcasses left to rot and turn inside out. Bodies decay amongst countless piles of tissue and skull and maggots just like them.

Axe scratches where his ear used to be, digging at the pink scar tissue with unclipped nails. His stomach is hollow and infested with worms. His belly is distended, the worms slowly taking him over from within his guts. He no longer eats, leaving the scarce scaps to the new arrivals that survived. He is ready to die, but he will wander far from this house, far from these streets to escape his earth. He will not waste away to pulp in his house, exposed for the others to see. He will find a tall, tall building far from his home–his shit-filled home made of hair and stench. He will climb and climb and climb, his shoulders beating in his back like an exposed heart, until he reaches the top. Until he breathes thinner air. He will not look over the edge to the ground, only at the horizon he’s never seen before.

Everyone will say he fell. Only he knows he jumps.
And he didn’t land on his feet.