Tag Archives: Politics

Voting Day Blues (and Red States)(hahah!)

The other day I woke up in the middle of the afternoon to the sounds of children yelling and screaming, and I got a little concerned that some kind of disaster had struck.  But then I realized that I live directly across the street from a public school.  It’d been summer, so this mid-afternoon commotion had been on hiatus.  But now it’s back.  In full effect.  Monday through Friday. 

This afternoon I woke more around dinner time and rather than children screaming, there were sign-wielding democrats screaming!  Primary day!  The day when public schools everywhere are transformed into polling locations!  Normally I only get out of bed to eat or relieve myself, but today I got out in an attempt to fulfill my civic duty.  It was great.  To feel like a citizen.

I threw on pants and a t-shirt and booked it out of my building.  I didn’t bother to brush my teeth or my hair–there’s no superficiality in politics, just as there’s no crying in baseball. 

Even in my disheveled state (pun intended, New York), the sign-wielders handed me a flyer and asked, “Are you going to vote?!”  And I declared, “Yes!”  And they exclaimed, “Good!”  I really felt part of something, ya know?

I have no idea what the story behind this image is.

I have no idea what the story behind this image is.

Unfortunately, upon entering the public school, I remembered that I’m registered as an Independent, so I couldn’t vote in the primary at all.  All the women behind the folding tables consoled me as I cried big, civically unfulfilled tears and they told me everything would be okay–I could come back in November.  I threw a bit of tantrum.  I said, “I hate the system!”  They nodded sympathetically and recommended I move along. 

I trudged back to my apartment building.  I was really looking forward to wearing one of these:

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The Gentleman from Arizona

Charles Gibson’s name was on the tip of my tongue,

and Kathleen was sure I meant Peter Jennings,

“But isn’t he dead?”  Speaking of newscasters,

Tom Brokaw moderated the town hall style debate.

McCain kept calling us “friends,”

but he can’t comb his own hair

and I don’t have many 72-year-old friends.

 

An abandoned Rolling Stone

penned him the “Make-Believe Maverick,”

reporting he called Cindy a cunt who wears too much makeup

after she ruffled his non-existent hair,

but what about all of his cover up?

 

Two nights later we yelled about Sarah Palin in the yellow cab,

our legs grazing, our shoulders bumping,

our political passions on par with

those other passions we feel.  You know—

the ones you feel in places like (to borrow

the word from McCain) your cunt.