but I would still like a shirt that said this.
Friday, October 24, 2008
I needed a good laugh
This article if written by David Sedaris and published in the current addition of the New Yorker. I was going to post a link, but it's to good to to copy and paste.
I saw Sedaris tonight at the Long Beach Convention Center and this story was by far the star of the show.
I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circlesWe don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in. ♦
I saw Sedaris tonight at the Long Beach Convention Center and this story was by far the star of the show.
I don’t know that it was always this way, but, for as long as I can remember, just as we move into the final weeks of the Presidential campaign the focus shifts to the undecided voters. “Who are they?” the news anchors ask. “And how might they determine the outcome of this election?”
Then you’ll see this man or woman— someone, I always think, who looks very happy to be on TV. “Well, Charlie,” they say, “I’ve gone back and forth on the issues and whatnot, but I just can’t seem to make up my mind!” Some insist that there’s very little difference between candidate A and candidate B. Others claim that they’re with A on defense and health care but are leaning toward B when it comes to the economy.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
I mean, really, what’s to be confused about?
When doubting that anyone could not know whom they’re voting for, I inevitably think back to November, 1968. Hubert Humphrey was running against Richard Nixon, and when my mother couldn’t choose between them she had me do it for her. It was crazy. One minute I was eating potato chips in front of the TV, and the next I was at the fire station, waiting with people whose kids I went to school with. When it was our turn, we were led by a woman wearing a sash to one of a half-dozen booths, the curtain of which closed after we entered.
“Go ahead,” my mother said. “Flick a switch, any switch.”
I looked at the panel in front of me.
“Start on the judges or whatever and we’ll be here all day, so just pick a President and make it fast. We’ve wasted enough time already.”
“Which one do you think is best?” I asked.
“I don’t have an opinion,” she told me. “That’s why I’m letting you do it. Come on, now, vote.”
I put my finger on Hubert Humphrey and then on Richard Nixon, neither of whom meant anything to me. What I most liked about democracy, at least so far, was the booth—its quiet civility, its atmosphere of importance. “Hmm,” I said, wondering how long we could stay before someone came and kicked us out.
Ideally, my mother would have waited outside, but, as she said, there was no way an unescorted eleven-year-old would be allowed to vote, or even hang out, seeing as the lines were long and the polls were open for only one day. “Will you please hurry it up?” she hissed.
“Wouldn’t it be nice to have something like this in our living room?” I asked. “Maybe we could use the same curtains we have on the windows.”
“All right, that’s it.” My mother reached for Humphrey but I beat her to it, and cast our vote for Richard Nixon, who had the same last name as a man at our church. I assumed that the two were related, and only discovered afterward that I was wrong. Richard Nixon had always been Nixon, while the man at my church had shortened his name from something funnier but considerably less poster-friendly—Nickapopapopolis, maybe.
“Oh, well,” I said.
We drove back home, and when asked by my father whom she had voted for, my mother said that it was none of his business.
“What do you mean, ‘none of my business’?” he said. “I told you to vote Republican.”
“Well, maybe I did and maybe I didn’t.”
“You’re not telling me you voted for Humphrey.” He said this as if she had marched through the streets with a pan on her head.
“No,” she said. “I’m not telling you that. I’m not telling you anything. It’s private—all right? My political opinions are none of your concern.”
“What political opinions?” he said. “I’m the one who took you down to register. You didn’t even know there was an election until I told you.”
“Well, thanks for telling me.”
She turned to open a can of mushroom soup. This would be poured over pork chops and noodles and served as our dinner, casserole style. Once we’d taken our seats at the table, my parents would stop fighting directly, and continue their argument through my sisters and me. Lisa might tell a story about her day at school and, if my father said it was interesting, my mother would laugh.
“What’s so funny?” he’d say.
“Nothing. It’s just that, well, I suppose everyone has a different standard. That’s all.”
When told by my father that I was holding my fork wrong, my mother would say that I was holding it right, or right in “certain circlesWe don’t know how people eat the world over,” she’d say, not to him but to the buffet or the picture window, as if the statement had nothing to do with any of us.
I wasn’t looking forward to that kind of evening, and so I told my father that I had voted. “She let me,” I said. “And I picked Nixon.”
“Well, at least someone in the family has some brains.” He patted me on the shoulder and as my mother turned away I understood that I had chosen the wrong person.
I didn’t vote again until 1976, when I was nineteen and legally registered. Because I was at college out of state, I sent my ballot through the mail. The choice that year was between Jimmy Carter and Gerald Ford. Most of my friends were going for Carter, but, as an art major, I identified myself as a maverick. “That means an original,” I told my roommate. “Someone who lets the chips fall where they may.” Because I made my own rules and didn’t give a damn what anyone else thought of them, I decided to write in the name of Jerry Brown, who, it was rumored, liked to smoke pot. This was an issue very close to my heart—too close, obviously, as it amounted to a complete waste. Still, though, it taught me a valuable lesson: calling yourself a maverick is a sure sign that you’re not one.
I wonder if, in the end, the undecideds aren’t the biggest pessimists of all. Here they could order the airline chicken, but, then again, hmm. “Isn’t that adding an extra step?” they ask themselves. “If it’s all going to be chewed up and swallowed, why not cut to the chase, and go with the platter of shit?”
Ah, though, that’s where the broken glass comes in. ♦
Friday, October 17, 2008
Intolerant of intolerance...
I am pretty embarrassed of how emotion and angry I have gotten lately over Proposition 8. I think that I am mainky ashamed because I feel like reacting in an overly angry way because in some ways I feel that this puts me in the 'warring' mode that the people I am opposed to seem to be.
But really when I see bumper stickers or signs or when someone mentions that they plan on voting yes, my blood boils and I have to take several deep breaths and try to calm down.
At the heart I feel that is a civil rights issue and that by not allowing same sex couples to get married we are denying them of a basic civil right that other adults who are straight have. I think in a few more decades we will look back on this issue and see that our current treatment of homosexuals (as implied by the propositon proposal) is similar to the way we treated african americans several decades ago. Maybe some people will just think that's rhetoric, but I really think this proposition implies separate treatment that is not equal.
I get so frustrated by the fact that the church feels that this should be a public law enforced issue. I don't think that they shouldn't be able to impose their moral codes on their own members, but to try and make the general public be accountable to their faith's morality just seems like a too much to ask.
But I don't think itls really something anyone would want to get me started on... I just needed to vent a little.
But really when I see bumper stickers or signs or when someone mentions that they plan on voting yes, my blood boils and I have to take several deep breaths and try to calm down.
At the heart I feel that is a civil rights issue and that by not allowing same sex couples to get married we are denying them of a basic civil right that other adults who are straight have. I think in a few more decades we will look back on this issue and see that our current treatment of homosexuals (as implied by the propositon proposal) is similar to the way we treated african americans several decades ago. Maybe some people will just think that's rhetoric, but I really think this proposition implies separate treatment that is not equal.
I get so frustrated by the fact that the church feels that this should be a public law enforced issue. I don't think that they shouldn't be able to impose their moral codes on their own members, but to try and make the general public be accountable to their faith's morality just seems like a too much to ask.
But I don't think itls really something anyone would want to get me started on... I just needed to vent a little.
Monday, October 13, 2008
Ironic
My screenname isn't catbonny for nothing. I am 110% a cat lover, and can remember being one since I was in diapers. (I literally have a picture of myself tackling a cat while I was still in a diaper.)
We had cats for a little while when I was little, but when my father was out of the picture we didn't have any more cats until I adopted a neighborhood stray that has been with us (or is still with my mom) for about 8 years now. She started as an outdoor cat, and became more accustomed to the house, and then got a litter box, and now that my sister and I do not live here I am pretty sure she has the run of the house.
The ironic part of the whole cat situation is that I am also extremely allergic. I went to spend the last weekend in SD with D and spent the whole time sneezing, blowing my noes, and rubbing my eyes or taking benadyrl and getting all stoned on it...
And yet, I really think I can take the allergies because of how much I love them. Also, I tend to build up immunity to them after I live with them for a while. I just think it's silly that I have been so attracted to them for so long, and that my body goes crazy when it exposed to their dander and hair. It's kind of sad, and makes me wonder what it will be like when D and I get a cat in a small apartment or house some day and it will make me all sneezy all the time...
I still pick them up, kiss them, and cuddle them in bed, but man do they make me feel sick.
We had cats for a little while when I was little, but when my father was out of the picture we didn't have any more cats until I adopted a neighborhood stray that has been with us (or is still with my mom) for about 8 years now. She started as an outdoor cat, and became more accustomed to the house, and then got a litter box, and now that my sister and I do not live here I am pretty sure she has the run of the house.
The ironic part of the whole cat situation is that I am also extremely allergic. I went to spend the last weekend in SD with D and spent the whole time sneezing, blowing my noes, and rubbing my eyes or taking benadyrl and getting all stoned on it...
And yet, I really think I can take the allergies because of how much I love them. Also, I tend to build up immunity to them after I live with them for a while. I just think it's silly that I have been so attracted to them for so long, and that my body goes crazy when it exposed to their dander and hair. It's kind of sad, and makes me wonder what it will be like when D and I get a cat in a small apartment or house some day and it will make me all sneezy all the time...
I still pick them up, kiss them, and cuddle them in bed, but man do they make me feel sick.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Train blog
So I realize that by getting to the train station at 12:30 and not getting to san diego until 3:50 is a little bit less time efficient than driving, because those are not peak traffic hours. However, since D comes to OC every Sunday I refuse to drive down here just so that we cab drive two cars up there. That seems to eco non_efficient_ to me so I can't do it in good conscience.
And today I have also realized that I can drink beer, do homework, and blog while on the train so maybe it is time efficient in the respect of the fact that I can do things I wouldn't do if driving.
I actually kind of like the train, but did you know that trains pretty much as not on time as planes? For some reason this surprises me.
And today I have also realized that I can drink beer, do homework, and blog while on the train so maybe it is time efficient in the respect of the fact that I can do things I wouldn't do if driving.
I actually kind of like the train, but did you know that trains pretty much as not on time as planes? For some reason this surprises me.
Monday, October 6, 2008
Talking to yourself
So the other day when I was in Trader Joe's I noticed that like four people around me were talking on their blue tooth headsets, which I think, makes them look like they are talking to themselves.
When I was checking out I said something to the cashier to the effect that it must be weird to be servicing all of these people who just seemed to be talking to themselves. When he didn't say anything I got a little bit self-conscious and said that maybe I just couldn't get used to it.
He never responded to what I was saying at all. He just gave me my bag and told me thanks and have a good night.
As I walked out I wondered if he didn't agree with me or if he just thought I had been talking to someone on my own bluetooth the whole time I was checking out and that's why he didn't respond.
Hmm. If nothing else I laughed while entertaining the thought.
When I was checking out I said something to the cashier to the effect that it must be weird to be servicing all of these people who just seemed to be talking to themselves. When he didn't say anything I got a little bit self-conscious and said that maybe I just couldn't get used to it.
He never responded to what I was saying at all. He just gave me my bag and told me thanks and have a good night.
As I walked out I wondered if he didn't agree with me or if he just thought I had been talking to someone on my own bluetooth the whole time I was checking out and that's why he didn't respond.
Hmm. If nothing else I laughed while entertaining the thought.
Wednesday, October 1, 2008
Missing in Action
I have been pretty consumed by life lately. Between trying to find D a place to live, trying to find a job for me, and becoming a student I have been kind of busy. I also realized that I had a lot of free time at work to spend on the computer while at work, and now that time doesn't exist as much, so my presence on the inter-web is a little less than before.
But anyway, starting my degree in the area of planning has really made me think more closely about what it is I want to do in the field. I was initially drawn to the field because I feel really passionate about environmentalism and sustainable planning, and I still feel those things. At the same time I realize that the socioeconomic side of planning addresses the basic needs of people, and usually they are the same people who need to just survive rather than try to be Eco-conscious. I have thought a lot about whether or not being Eco-conscious is something for the privileged, mainly because when you are just trying to get by, you are not usually thinking about the long-term effects of your actions on the planet.
I guess I would like to try to figure out an answer between the two things. How can environmentalism be something that is made accessible and important to all classes? How can environmental justice issues in places like Wilmington- where there are oil refineries in people's back yard-be addressed?
It's a lot to think about and at this point I can honestly say I have no clue which direction I will move in, but it's exciting and daunting at the same time.
But anyway, starting my degree in the area of planning has really made me think more closely about what it is I want to do in the field. I was initially drawn to the field because I feel really passionate about environmentalism and sustainable planning, and I still feel those things. At the same time I realize that the socioeconomic side of planning addresses the basic needs of people, and usually they are the same people who need to just survive rather than try to be Eco-conscious. I have thought a lot about whether or not being Eco-conscious is something for the privileged, mainly because when you are just trying to get by, you are not usually thinking about the long-term effects of your actions on the planet.
I guess I would like to try to figure out an answer between the two things. How can environmentalism be something that is made accessible and important to all classes? How can environmental justice issues in places like Wilmington- where there are oil refineries in people's back yard-be addressed?
It's a lot to think about and at this point I can honestly say I have no clue which direction I will move in, but it's exciting and daunting at the same time.
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