This is one of those things like cellphones on airplanes or digital books where I feel like the future is going to be a big headache. Imagine a whole wall of this.
Forget our attention spans for a second--honestly, is the human eyeball built to handle so much flashing and light and movement as the modern world keeps stepping it up? Like physiologically, what does it do to us? Are our brains going to look different when they lift them out of our skulls in ten, twenty years, new wrinkle patterns in the occipital lobes?
Or will we just become increasingly skilled at not seeing? Selective attention, honed pinpoint-sharp.
I was going to speculate it's going to be weird for writers and anyone else who relies on nonspecific observation. But personally I am already zoned out much of the time, too preoccupied with whatever's in my head to notice, say, the chair I'm about to walk into.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Sunday, November 9, 2008
CAN I VOTE ON YOUR MARRIAGE NOW?
I think this says it as well as anything:
I haven't let myself go into despair (yet) about Proposition 8, for a couple of reasons. For one, I have been overwhelmed by the Obama feelings. For another, my heart was so broken by the passage of Oregon's gay marriage ban, Measure 36, in 2004 that the scar tissue is thick. Like Proposition 8, Measure 36 followed a brief exuberant period of legitimate marriage licenses being issued. Friends of mine who had been married were suddenly, upon public referendum, declared "single," for all technical and legal intents and purposes. The subsequent letter that arrived a few weeks later informing them that their marriage had been deemed void was accompanied by a refund check for sixty dollars.
I had never cared about gay marriage until 2004. I had decided that the government had no place legislating love and I didn't need their validation of my personal life. Plus, it dawned on me in my early twenties that one of the great advantages of being gay was that I was suddenly exempt from the questions and pressures that dogged my brothers and cousins at every family gathering. I was delicately skipped over in the boyfriend/girlfriend inquisitions. No one was checking in on my marriage track. Mom wasn't flashing grandma's wedding ring hopefully at me. And I liked it. I alone got to forge my own path, unquestioned.
Then, in the brief time when I lived in the Bay Area, mayor Gavin Newso
m famously issued the directive to the city-county clerk to issue marriage license to same-sex couples, and everything changed. My girlfriend and I, curmudgeonly but curious, went down to City Hall just to look.
How to even describe the weddings we saw? There were so many. They were happening all over the room--on the floor, on the steps, on the mezzanine. We saw people of all ages, styles, some with friends and family, some alone. We watched two men, middle-aged, one with rectangular black glasses, one wearing jeans, both small and comfortably frayed around the edges, get married on those steps. They had no friends or witnesses or parents; it was just the two of them and a deputy with her back to us. They held small bouquets instead of rings. They stood facing each other and held each other’s hands tightly, looking into each other’s eyes as
they said their vows. They looked overwhelmed and shaken, in a good way, and they exchanged bouquets and kissed, and then they all embraced, the men and the deputy. She left to perform another marriage, and the men sat down on the steps. They kept holding each other’s hands and talking quietly to each other.
To be there and witness it was to be witness not only to the weddings themselves, but also to an incredible moment in these people’s lives, in our people’s lives, in history, in American life, in gay life. The ceremonies were obviously unplanned and yet so long planned--almost everyone was in their thirties, forties, fifties, sixties. Many had children and babies. These were unlike any other weddings I’ve seen. They weren’t about the family, the church, everyone you ever knew gathered together to celebrate; they weren’t about table settings or invitations or renting a space or a year’s worth of planning; they weren’t about a wedding party, about clanking wine glasses and heartfelt toasts; people weren’t marrying for money or status or family expectations. These weddings were distilled to the essential meaning of marriage, they were so purely about a love between two people, about lifelong commitment, about forsaking all the trappings in order to get what matters. Each other.
For the first time I witnessed the public recognition of love between two people who happen to be the same sex, and the essential right of that love to exist. For the first time I understood how much that recognition matters. It really matters.
So that was 2004. And time and again, these goddamn bans keep passing, state after state. It cuts profoundly, as always. Says Andrew Sullivan:
I haven't let myself go into despair (yet) about Proposition 8, for a couple of reasons. For one, I have been overwhelmed by the Obama feelings. For another, my heart was so broken by the passage of Oregon's gay marriage ban, Measure 36, in 2004 that the scar tissue is thick. Like Proposition 8, Measure 36 followed a brief exuberant period of legitimate marriage licenses being issued. Friends of mine who had been married were suddenly, upon public referendum, declared "single," for all technical and legal intents and purposes. The subsequent letter that arrived a few weeks later informing them that their marriage had been deemed void was accompanied by a refund check for sixty dollars.
I had never cared about gay marriage until 2004. I had decided that the government had no place legislating love and I didn't need their validation of my personal life. Plus, it dawned on me in my early twenties that one of the great advantages of being gay was that I was suddenly exempt from the questions and pressures that dogged my brothers and cousins at every family gathering. I was delicately skipped over in the boyfriend/girlfriend inquisitions. No one was checking in on my marriage track. Mom wasn't flashing grandma's wedding ring hopefully at me. And I liked it. I alone got to forge my own path, unquestioned.
Then, in the brief time when I lived in the Bay Area, mayor Gavin Newso
m famously issued the directive to the city-county clerk to issue marriage license to same-sex couples, and everything changed. My girlfriend and I, curmudgeonly but curious, went down to City Hall just to look.How to even describe the weddings we saw? There were so many. They were happening all over the room--on the floor, on the steps, on the mezzanine. We saw people of all ages, styles, some with friends and family, some alone. We watched two men, middle-aged, one with rectangular black glasses, one wearing jeans, both small and comfortably frayed around the edges, get married on those steps. They had no friends or witnesses or parents; it was just the two of them and a deputy with her back to us. They held small bouquets instead of rings. They stood facing each other and held each other’s hands tightly, looking into each other’s eyes as
they said their vows. They looked overwhelmed and shaken, in a good way, and they exchanged bouquets and kissed, and then they all embraced, the men and the deputy. She left to perform another marriage, and the men sat down on the steps. They kept holding each other’s hands and talking quietly to each other.To be there and witness it was to be witness not only to the weddings themselves, but also to an incredible moment in these people’s lives, in our people’s lives, in history, in American life, in gay life. The ceremonies were obviously unplanned and yet so long planned--almost everyone was in their thirties, forties, fifties, sixties. Many had children and babies. These were unlike any other weddings I’ve seen. They weren’t about the family, the church, everyone you ever knew gathered together to celebrate; they weren’t about table settings or invitations or renting a space or a year’s worth of planning; they weren’t about a wedding party, about clanking wine glasses and heartfelt toasts; people weren’t marrying for money or status or family expectations. These weddings were distilled to the essential meaning of marriage, they were so purely about a love between two people, about lifelong commitment, about forsaking all the trappings in order to get what matters. Each other.
For the first time I witnessed the public recognition of love between two people who happen to be the same sex, and the essential right of that love to exist. For the first time I understood how much that recognition matters. It really matters.
So that was 2004. And time and again, these goddamn bans keep passing, state after state. It cuts profoundly, as always. Says Andrew Sullivan:
I'm happy to say that Proposition 2 passed, providing minimal humane protections for pigs, chickens and other farm animals. How odd for people to restrict cruelty for animals and simultaneously inflict it on some humans.My friend Robert has declared on his own blog,
Go ahead, ban my future unplanned marriage. You're not making any decision for me--I wasn't getting married anyway. But as soon as I get enough votes on a petition, I'm going to put your marriage up for ban too: your second marriages first (my own parents be damned!), and then your childless marriages (with an 11-month "validation period" to consummate), and then your unhappy marriages (psychologically tested once every 18 months), your adulterous marriages (automatic divorce, with permanent marriage ineligibility for life) and your two-home marriages (regardless of whether you live in separate homes because of work or family obligations).
When I am done, there will be nine people in the country who are married, and marriage will never have been stronger.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
THE MOMENT
I couldn't believe it. It took a while to sink in. At the party, I stood in stunned awe with my colleagues as the returns came in--Should we get out the champagne?, someone asked, dubious, wondrous. Already? We poured the champagne, wide-eyed and grinning, and toasted and cheered and teared up at the sight of Obama, the people. Still, I felt like I had suspended but not shaken my disbelief.
How could the moment have already arrived? This moment?
My friend and I got on our bikes, the night was cold and clear, and I couldn't quite believe that I was biking home and Obama would be president, that we had actually won. No vote theft, no fraud, no lawsuits, no upsets--a clear, undeniable win.
We heard, then saw fireworks flashing above the trees. "I think it's in Tappan Square," Bernard said. "Should we go check it out?" Of course we did. As we neared, we heard drums thumping and a steadily increasing roar. There, underneath the sporadic glittering explosions, a full-on bacchanalia was underway: a marching band, swarming throngs of people dancing and hugging and screaming and whooping, kids climbing the rafters of the bandstand, gleeful streakers, and, something I never thought I'd hear on this campus, chants of U-S-A! and O-BA-MA! The euphoria was mass, the joyful noise deafening and continuous.
My camera and my phone had both died so I had no way to document the moment, but I was grateful for this. All I needed to do was be in it. The moment demanded no less.
Eventually, having hugged and cheered and shared amazement with everyone I knew there, I took leave of the escalating nudity and shenanigans. Back home I read the online newspapers from around the world until three a.m. I closed the laptop and got up to take out my contacts and on the way, reaching into a dark room to turn on the light, I leaned my forehead against the doorframe and closed my eyes and burst into tears.
I sobbed and sobbed.
I said aloud, Black president. I had to repeat it. Black president.
I'll admit, I talked to myself. I had to say it aloud again and again as it sunk in deeper and deeper. Really? Is this really my country? I could not stop crying. I don't think I have ever felt so surely that America did something so right.
I know there are impossible expectations, but now my cynicism is completely dismantled. All I feel is love and relief and a kind of heartbroken-ness, in a good way--just cracked open, feeling it all, and good with that.
How could the moment have already arrived? This moment?
My friend and I got on our bikes, the night was cold and clear, and I couldn't quite believe that I was biking home and Obama would be president, that we had actually won. No vote theft, no fraud, no lawsuits, no upsets--a clear, undeniable win.
We heard, then saw fireworks flashing above the trees. "I think it's in Tappan Square," Bernard said. "Should we go check it out?" Of course we did. As we neared, we heard drums thumping and a steadily increasing roar. There, underneath the sporadic glittering explosions, a full-on bacchanalia was underway: a marching band, swarming throngs of people dancing and hugging and screaming and whooping, kids climbing the rafters of the bandstand, gleeful streakers, and, something I never thought I'd hear on this campus, chants of U-S-A! and O-BA-MA! The euphoria was mass, the joyful noise deafening and continuous.
My camera and my phone had both died so I had no way to document the moment, but I was grateful for this. All I needed to do was be in it. The moment demanded no less.
Eventually, having hugged and cheered and shared amazement with everyone I knew there, I took leave of the escalating nudity and shenanigans. Back home I read the online newspapers from around the world until three a.m. I closed the laptop and got up to take out my contacts and on the way, reaching into a dark room to turn on the light, I leaned my forehead against the doorframe and closed my eyes and burst into tears.
I sobbed and sobbed.
I said aloud, Black president. I had to repeat it. Black president.
I'll admit, I talked to myself. I had to say it aloud again and again as it sunk in deeper and deeper. Really? Is this really my country? I could not stop crying. I don't think I have ever felt so surely that America did something so right.
I know there are impossible expectations, but now my cynicism is completely dismantled. All I feel is love and relief and a kind of heartbroken-ness, in a good way--just cracked open, feeling it all, and good with that.
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
ELECTION DAY IN PICTURES (SO FAR)
The Oberlin Obama HQ, 9:30 am, already bustling (they'd just dispatched a huge batch of volunteers). I was sent out to rural Henrietta Township with a first-year student named Truc Lin.
I arrived home at noon to find my own door tagged. The campaign operation may not always be super efficient--but it's certainly prolific.
Obama HQ at 3:30 pm
Back to Elyria for one last round
Obama HQ at 5:40 pm
Off to an election party, more to come.
Monday, November 3, 2008
MCCAIN'S LAST GASP/THE BLACK MCCAINS
This arrived in my mailbox on Saturday, printed big and bright on sturdy cardstock, courtesy of the Ohio Republican party.
(cover)
(centerfold)
(back)
Too little, too late is the least of it. That this arrived on November 1st illustrates some real desperation on the part of the Ohio GOP. Weren't they supposed to be wooing the Hillary supporters in June, and sealing the deal with Palin?
Interesting to note that McCain is the central figure here, while Palin is mentioned only once, and appears as a sort of disembodied bust butting into the text while emerging from, or being swallowed by, a mysterious eyeshadow-blue mist. In fact, fogginess is the unifying graphic motif throughout here. Fittingly. And even though she's only an inch or two shorter than him, Palin looks eerily tiny next to McCain (bad Photoshopping?), which magnifies the paternalistic vibe.
Also, I must say, I hate the McCain font. Very 1970s minor-university press.
FAR more fascinating is this amazing article I read in the Wall Street Journal a couple of weeks ago about the other McCains--the black McCains. That's right, the descendants of the slaves the original John S. McCain owned back in Mississippi, on a plantation called Teoc. Many of them still live in the area.
The whole article is amazing, and sort of maddening, the way the WSJ tries to temper things ("The McCains in the early 20th century were known among African-Americans for relatively equitable treatment of their workers and tenants, especially compared with the abuses happening on many other farms," key word being "relatively," of course; in the 19th century, they took advantage of a despicable law to forcibly reclaim custody of three girls under age 15 whom they'd owned before emancipation.) Read the whole thing, it's great. One clip:
(cover)
(centerfold)
(back)
Too little, too late is the least of it. That this arrived on November 1st illustrates some real desperation on the part of the Ohio GOP. Weren't they supposed to be wooing the Hillary supporters in June, and sealing the deal with Palin?
Interesting to note that McCain is the central figure here, while Palin is mentioned only once, and appears as a sort of disembodied bust butting into the text while emerging from, or being swallowed by, a mysterious eyeshadow-blue mist. In fact, fogginess is the unifying graphic motif throughout here. Fittingly. And even though she's only an inch or two shorter than him, Palin looks eerily tiny next to McCain (bad Photoshopping?), which magnifies the paternalistic vibe.
Also, I must say, I hate the McCain font. Very 1970s minor-university press.
FAR more fascinating is this amazing article I read in the Wall Street Journal a couple of weeks ago about the other McCains--the black McCains. That's right, the descendants of the slaves the original John S. McCain owned back in Mississippi, on a plantation called Teoc. Many of them still live in the area.
The whole article is amazing, and sort of maddening, the way the WSJ tries to temper things ("The McCains in the early 20th century were known among African-Americans for relatively equitable treatment of their workers and tenants, especially compared with the abuses happening on many other farms," key word being "relatively," of course; in the 19th century, they took advantage of a despicable law to forcibly reclaim custody of three girls under age 15 whom they'd owned before emancipation.) Read the whole thing, it's great. One clip:
The black McCains of today were raised to believe that they were blood relatives of the white McCains, dating back to slavery times. White McCains say they're unaware of any biological connection between the families. A spokesman for Sen. McCain declined to comment.They all support Obama for president.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
SEARCHING, AND/OR AND/OR
The following search terms have apparently led people to this website over the past few months. I save the weirdest for their perversity and/or* strange poetry. Here are some mystifying favorites.
And my all-time favorite, a mother's cri de coeur:
the deer pants -finlandia music
woman in blue shiny rain coats in bondage
it is tipped over so far that it appears to roll in space
silhouette of rabbits humping
practice how to label parts of the heart
where to get dolly parton birthday cards
karaoke Epic of a friend
"new york city" "hard place to live"
when they done closed end the sweden student admission in september 2008 session
distant melody from peter pan karaoke cd
is it true that cheerleader get finger banged at practice
cell phone antenna genocide
"deep forest" "nobody can bring"
ice coffin burial
And my all-time favorite, a mother's cri de coeur:
my 7 month old son has a husky voice why*Incidentally: why can't English have a single word that means "and/or"? Is there any language that does? The construction is so graceless, but I find myself using it daily. (You say "ambiguous," I say "flexible.")
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
BROOKLYN BUNYANS
CHAPTER ONE: IN.
Long ago, after having lived immersed in the hermetic world that is New York City for all of seven months, I boarded a bus to go snowboarding upstate. I still remember the utter shock I felt as we crossed the bridge and drove out of the city--that the ordinary world of parking lots (!) and untended expanses of ditch grass and trees that grew there simply because they wanted to could be driven to, that it was that close, all this time.
I have not lived in New York since 2003 and my relationship with it since then has been sort of burdened and quarrelsome. It's like:
ME: You think you're so great.
NYC:
ME: Well, you're not, you know.
NYC:
ME: I guess I do kind of miss you sometimes.
NYC: Hm? Were you talking to me?
After a week of fall break spent cramming in art, music, performances, a world of food options (beyond Chinese and bar!), time with loved ones, and a glorious close-down-the-house night roaring showtunes at a hole-in-the-ground piano bar (more on all this later, if I get to it), I have reconciled with the city. The relationship is now like, casual fist-bump. I like it. I appreciate it. I'm glad I don't live there. But I'm glad to hang out.
A previous misconception (mine) that I have corrected is that New York is where trends originate. Last time I traveled there, I fretted that I would look like a frontier bumpkin, flying in from provincial Portland, hopelessly backwater. Eager to update, I headed for the stores and boutiques and found... that everything looked like it had come from Seaplane or Motel, and three years ago at that. Birds, deer, wood and silver, raw-edged fabrics, reconstructed pretty things in muted colors. The Northwest influence is still mighty this fall: braving the wilds of Williamsburg in buffalo plaid and a beard to your nipples.
(Not to mention the New York Times is still bedazzled by real espresso and the ancient barista art of a fern drizzled in your foam.)
New York seems seized by a growing? perpetual? both? trend of longing to get back to the land without actually getting back to the land. I see more mustaches and beards per capita in Williamsburg than in my northwoods hometown (where the newspaper even holds an annual Jackpine Savage beard contest.) You'd think these dudes were all headed back to their log cabins to split wood and gnaw venison jerky; since the old pickup's on blocks, they had to take the L train. You could argue this is just fashion, but the Times and various lifestyle mags seem to carry articles every week about some well-heeled Upper West Siders or hip Brooklynites who quit it all to go raise heirloom pigs upstate.
I suppose what drives this urban fetish for the country is threefold: One, the woods are awesome, and I think a primal part of us wants and needs to be out in the real world (funny how we tend to refer to the entirely human-made constructs of work and urban life as the "real world.") Two, a nostalgic yearning for authenticity--it's disorienting to work in a universe where words and money and drawings and photos and mail and even voices are usually digitized, intangible, deletable. It's sort of wistful, these homespun sweaters and lumberjack getups. I am not exempt--I'm a devout champion of the Paul Bunyan jacket and furry winter boots, with only a Minnesota birth certificate and Oregon driver's license to my feeble credit.
Three, I suppose it is unfair to overlook that all that hair and wool really keep you warm.
If I could grow a beard, nonetheless, I would not. A blond beard looks weird at worst and ABBA at best. (On second thought...) A blond mustache looks salacious.
CHAPTER TWO: OUT
The Brooklyn Bunyans I can understand. But these next two deathless trends I cannot. At this length, I suppose they are no longer trends, but sadly forever embedded in our culture, like pleated Dockers and children named Madison.
• UGGs. Why are these glorified bedroom slippers not over yet? (I suppose because they feel like glorified bedroom slippers.) They just keep flourishing like the mold they must foster deep in their sweaty toes, growing taller and ever more appallingly cotton-candy-colored and ubiquitous.
Whenever my normally reserved and soft-spoken friend Brock sees them, he is moved to holler, "UGG!" Which I think is an utterly appropriate response.
• Maternity Wear For All. Why is every shirt and dress designed in the last three years shaped to grip the collarbone and/or bust before billowing forth in a vast tent, turning us all into either prospective mothers or sexless children? I wore a dress very much like this when I played Helen Keller in my high school's production of The Miracle Worker. (A star turn, I was told by my grandparents. Unfortunately, video exists.) The reason I had to wear it was because it made me look like I was eight.
I am neither pea nor pod. I just want something that has been cut for a human, not a pyramid.
Long ago, after having lived immersed in the hermetic world that is New York City for all of seven months, I boarded a bus to go snowboarding upstate. I still remember the utter shock I felt as we crossed the bridge and drove out of the city--that the ordinary world of parking lots (!) and untended expanses of ditch grass and trees that grew there simply because they wanted to could be driven to, that it was that close, all this time.
I have not lived in New York since 2003 and my relationship with it since then has been sort of burdened and quarrelsome. It's like:
ME: You think you're so great.
NYC:
ME: Well, you're not, you know.
NYC:
ME: I guess I do kind of miss you sometimes.
NYC: Hm? Were you talking to me?
After a week of fall break spent cramming in art, music, performances, a world of food options (beyond Chinese and bar!), time with loved ones, and a glorious close-down-the-house night roaring showtunes at a hole-in-the-ground piano bar (more on all this later, if I get to it), I have reconciled with the city. The relationship is now like, casual fist-bump. I like it. I appreciate it. I'm glad I don't live there. But I'm glad to hang out.
A previous misconception (mine) that I have corrected is that New York is where trends originate. Last time I traveled there, I fretted that I would look like a frontier bumpkin, flying in from provincial Portland, hopelessly backwater. Eager to update, I headed for the stores and boutiques and found... that everything looked like it had come from Seaplane or Motel, and three years ago at that. Birds, deer, wood and silver, raw-edged fabrics, reconstructed pretty things in muted colors. The Northwest influence is still mighty this fall: braving the wilds of Williamsburg in buffalo plaid and a beard to your nipples.
(Not to mention the New York Times is still bedazzled by real espresso and the ancient barista art of a fern drizzled in your foam.)
New York seems seized by a growing? perpetual? both? trend of longing to get back to the land without actually getting back to the land. I see more mustaches and beards per capita in Williamsburg than in my northwoods hometown (where the newspaper even holds an annual Jackpine Savage beard contest.) You'd think these dudes were all headed back to their log cabins to split wood and gnaw venison jerky; since the old pickup's on blocks, they had to take the L train. You could argue this is just fashion, but the Times and various lifestyle mags seem to carry articles every week about some well-heeled Upper West Siders or hip Brooklynites who quit it all to go raise heirloom pigs upstate.
I suppose what drives this urban fetish for the country is threefold: One, the woods are awesome, and I think a primal part of us wants and needs to be out in the real world (funny how we tend to refer to the entirely human-made constructs of work and urban life as the "real world.") Two, a nostalgic yearning for authenticity--it's disorienting to work in a universe where words and money and drawings and photos and mail and even voices are usually digitized, intangible, deletable. It's sort of wistful, these homespun sweaters and lumberjack getups. I am not exempt--I'm a devout champion of the Paul Bunyan jacket and furry winter boots, with only a Minnesota birth certificate and Oregon driver's license to my feeble credit.
Three, I suppose it is unfair to overlook that all that hair and wool really keep you warm.
If I could grow a beard, nonetheless, I would not. A blond beard looks weird at worst and ABBA at best. (On second thought...) A blond mustache looks salacious.
CHAPTER TWO: OUT
The Brooklyn Bunyans I can understand. But these next two deathless trends I cannot. At this length, I suppose they are no longer trends, but sadly forever embedded in our culture, like pleated Dockers and children named Madison.
• UGGs. Why are these glorified bedroom slippers not over yet? (I suppose because they feel like glorified bedroom slippers.) They just keep flourishing like the mold they must foster deep in their sweaty toes, growing taller and ever more appallingly cotton-candy-colored and ubiquitous.
Whenever my normally reserved and soft-spoken friend Brock sees them, he is moved to holler, "UGG!" Which I think is an utterly appropriate response.
• Maternity Wear For All. Why is every shirt and dress designed in the last three years shaped to grip the collarbone and/or bust before billowing forth in a vast tent, turning us all into either prospective mothers or sexless children? I wore a dress very much like this when I played Helen Keller in my high school's production of The Miracle Worker. (A star turn, I was told by my grandparents. Unfortunately, video exists.) The reason I had to wear it was because it made me look like I was eight.
I am neither pea nor pod. I just want something that has been cut for a human, not a pyramid.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
INCIDENT REPORT #10
Shenanigans galore and a touch of the paranormal in the Park Rapids area, courtesy as always of the good ship Enterprise:
Here is a picture from Uff Da Days, which took place in Nevis on Labor Day weekend. Photo not mine (I wish!)--full gallery here.
.jpg)
A cash register was reported missing in Akeley; Three mailboxes were damaged in Lake Emma Township; An 11th Crow Wing Lake resident reported being unable to sleep because of music coming from Akeley; An Arago Township resident reported a strange light over the southwest corner of Potato Lake, thinks it may be a UFO (unidentified flying object); A loud party was reported in Todd Township, possible underage drinking; Tires were slashed in Helga Township; An Akeley Township caller reported someone trying to kick in his windows; A Lakeport Township resident reported his tires slashed twice in two days; A vehicle was reported passing in the no passing zone; A Park Rapids caller reported receiving a phone call form a person who states her car windows will be broken tonight; A cash register was reported in the river in Nevis Township; A driver was reported leaving a Lake Alice Township bar intoxicated; A Henrietta Township caller found a car on his property and would like to speak to an officer; Harassing e-mails were reported in Akeley; Pain reliever Percocet was reported stolen from a Park Rapids residence; A loud pickup was reported tearing around on the road in Nevis Township; ATVs were reported tearing up the Nevis High School parking lot; A caller reported deer appearing to suffer from malnutrition in a fenced area in Todd Township; An older male was hit by a tractor tire in Hubbard County, ambulance requested; A Straight River Township caller reported cows in her yard again.It's hunting season, so I expect the next few Incident Reports might get a bit rowdy.
Here is a picture from Uff Da Days, which took place in Nevis on Labor Day weekend. Photo not mine (I wish!)--full gallery here.
.jpg)
Monday, October 6, 2008
HOW TO VOTE PROGRESSIVE IN OHIO
...and pick up my slack, because I wasn't fully ready (spoiled by years of Oregon's ingenious and pragmatic ballot-by-mail system! Why doesn't every state do this?) (P.S., Amanda, I really needed your Deep Throat voter guide--consider branching out from Oregon.)
Today I registered and cast my ballot, under Ohio's relatively new early voting system. Because I registered five minutes before voting, I think what I received was a provisional ballot--but any anxiety about my ballot being somehow mishandled or not counted is balanced by relief that I didn't have to use one of those suspect Diebold touch-screen voting machines. They are not the big sturdy steel robots I had envisioned; they looked like Leapfrog learning pads on crutches. Give me a ballpoint and a paper ballot any day.
Already there was a line out the door when I arrived. It had grown down the block when I left. Even though we were standing in a line snaking through a gray-carpeted fluorescent-lit office, the excitement was palpable. A young election official told us happily that already in six days of early voting, they had been visited by 2100 people.
The total for the entire last presidential election was 2000.
My only regret, and it's a real pang, like it makes my stomach kind of hurt, is that I came without knowing anything about the ballot measures and the judges up for election to the Ohio Supreme Court. I did my best to parse the cagily neutral language and discern what the ballot measures were really about, and I voted on those--correctly, it now turns out. Whew.
But the judges? I didn't want to risk voting for the wrong one, so I swallowed it and voted for none.
Ohio's Supreme Court, it turns out, is currently 100% Republican. The New York Times ran a huge article two years ago about how the judges are bought and paid for. And in case of a tight vote count in Ohio, this big important swing state? Guess who decides.
So here's who I wish I had voted for, if I had known.
OHIO SUPREME COURT:
BALLOT MEASURES:
Detailed information on the various 'pediae out there: Ohio Supreme Court elections detailed on Judgepedia, ballot measures explained on Ballotpedia.
Today I registered and cast my ballot, under Ohio's relatively new early voting system. Because I registered five minutes before voting, I think what I received was a provisional ballot--but any anxiety about my ballot being somehow mishandled or not counted is balanced by relief that I didn't have to use one of those suspect Diebold touch-screen voting machines. They are not the big sturdy steel robots I had envisioned; they looked like Leapfrog learning pads on crutches. Give me a ballpoint and a paper ballot any day.
Already there was a line out the door when I arrived. It had grown down the block when I left. Even though we were standing in a line snaking through a gray-carpeted fluorescent-lit office, the excitement was palpable. A young election official told us happily that already in six days of early voting, they had been visited by 2100 people.
The total for the entire last presidential election was 2000.
My only regret, and it's a real pang, like it makes my stomach kind of hurt, is that I came without knowing anything about the ballot measures and the judges up for election to the Ohio Supreme Court. I did my best to parse the cagily neutral language and discern what the ballot measures were really about, and I voted on those--correctly, it now turns out. Whew.
But the judges? I didn't want to risk voting for the wrong one, so I swallowed it and voted for none.
Ohio's Supreme Court, it turns out, is currently 100% Republican. The New York Times ran a huge article two years ago about how the judges are bought and paid for. And in case of a tight vote count in Ohio, this big important swing state? Guess who decides.
So here's who I wish I had voted for, if I had known.
OHIO SUPREME COURT:
- Kucinich-endorsed Peter Sikora (vs. conservative anti-choice incumbent Evelyn Stratton; very important)
- Progressive Joseph Russo (vs. moderate Republican incumbent Maureen O'Connor; not as dire)
BALLOT MEASURES:
- YES on Issue 1 (sets earlier deadlines to file ballot measures)
- YES on Issue 2 (environmental protection and conservation)
- NO on Issue 3 (which attempts to privatize groundwater)
- There is no Issue 4.
- YES on Issue 5 (cracks down on predatory cash-advance payday loans)
- NO on Issue 6 (allows a casino to go up in Wilmington, OH, promising lots of tax revenue for the state--but the catch is that if anyone else builds a casino in Ohio, ever, this one's taxes must be dropped lower than the new one's. So if, say, a Native American casino is built? No taxes for either.)
Detailed information on the various 'pediae out there: Ohio Supreme Court elections detailed on Judgepedia, ballot measures explained on Ballotpedia.
Friday, October 3, 2008
MAIN STREET MEAT
Main Street (remember that ol' thing?) is suddenly back in vogue, invoked hourly by politicians and pundits. Suddenly, after years of being completely ignored, Main Street has currency again--because it is the opposite of Wall Street. And everyone is scrambling to be as opposite of Wall Street as they can. Back to the good old days.A little too late, alas. Funny that now they care about Main Street. What Main Street exactly are they talking about? I don't mean metaphorical Main Street, I mean real Main Street, as in the ones that have been emptying out and dying and going ghost-town for the past twenty years as strip malls and Wal-Marts suck the life out of the town center and into gangly, hideous, ever-extending limbs.
With the assistance and approval of many a plum tax incentive and dare I say many of The American People.
Downtown Park Rapids.
My hometown of Park Rapids, MN, which has a population of 3500 and a Main Street three blocks long, "got" a Wal-Mart last year. Concerned citizens had staved off Wal-Mart for many years, fearing what would become of the local merchants on Main Street, who already have an uneven time in a rural economy whose residents' median income is half that of the rest of Minnesota, and have to rely largely on three months of summer lake tourism to carry the rest of the year. But crafty Bill Jones, our resident crooked lawyer--seriously, the guy is like a villain from an old western, the stunts he's pulled approaching legendary in their brazen corruptness, like literally scamming little old ladies, he is a genuine crook of the classic order, and somehow despite the malpractice suits and license suspensions he always snakes back onto the scene--Bill Jones bought 28 acres of land along the highway, got the city to annex the area against many of his neighbors' wishes, and then sold it to Wal-Mart for $1.2 million.
Now there is a 161,000-square-foot Wal-Mart SuperCenter in Park Rapids.
The devil's advocate might argue that Wal-Mart will draw people from all over the region to Park Rapids, and some of that money might spill over to Main Street.
However, Wal-Mart has also sprung up 36 miles south of us in Wadena (pop. 3900), 43 miles west of us in Detroit Lakes (pop. 8000), and 52 miles north of us in Bemidji (pop. 13,400). Consider that there's not much more than woods, fields, and a handful of one-block towns scattered between, and relative to the area, that's a Wal-Mart blanket.
So this classic Main Street we love to wax nostalgic over is like the elderly citizen left to deteriorate in a "rest" home: how great it was, a paragon of goodness, those were better days, gotta run, see you next holiday. Obviously it's not just Park Rapids. Take the lovely and half-empty downtown of Bemidji, where all the picturesque brick sidewalks and benches and four-way stops can't stanch the hemorraghing of customers to the lopsided big-box growth metastasizing out of the northwest end of town. I'd wager most old Main Streets in an American small towns--where, for all the proud extolling of their virtue and importance, hardly anyone lives anymore--suffer the same fate, including Wasilla, Alaska, where Mayor Palin wooed in the chains, including W-M.
Downtown Bemidji.
And now a "Wal-Mart Mom" has become a viable voting demographic--joining NASCAR Dads, I guess, among the first (?) electoral demographics stamped with a corporate brand.*
But maybe even more insidious than Wal-Mart--which is indisputably soulless, a non-place--are the new fake Main Streets that have been cropping up all over, especially in affluent suburbs and planned communities. In the Portland suburbs, they call it The Streets of Tanasbourne™; the one near Cleveland is Crocker Park ("It's all in a park-like setting filled with the captivating charm and bustling energy of a traditional downtown main street.") But it doesn't matter what they're named. They're malls without roofs. They spring up instant and glittering like those crystal gardens we grew on rocks in elementary school, and are stocked exclusively with mall staples. You can even live in them. (Overheard in the Crocker Park Gap: "Oh, we moved into one of the condos above Talbot's down the street.") They even sport the kiosk directory of stores, replete with YOU ARE HERE. Wherever that is.
*I can't help but think here of Infinite Jest, set in a near future where the years themselves no longer have numbers but corporate sponsors: Year of the Maytag Whisper-Quiet Dishwasher, Year of the Depends Adult Undergarment, Year of Glad.
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