October 21, 2004

Am I just getting old and paying more attention, or is this a terribly intense campaign?

It feels intense. I mean, it should feel intense, but this whole thing has an almost apocalyptic vibe. Strangely, it doesn't seem to be affecting everyone. I can't begin to account for the undecided voters. My dad doesn't care about anything but taxes--or I should say, his perception about taxes, as he has mindlessly bought in to the old tax-and-spend threat line without beginning to contemplate what a deficit this size is going to do to his real income. His completely idiotic disregard for/ignorance of the administration's policies and their consequences is incredibly depressing. The only reason he can give for his vote is that he "doesn't like" Kerry, like we're throwing a frat party here and he wants the president who will funnel half the keg and then streak across the quad (and then wiggle out of his DWI hit-and-run because he's rich and well-connected, and still make it to church Sunday morning). (Okay, yeah, I realize this metaphor has gone on too long, but jeez, it's frighteningly apt.) It got me all in a lather talking to him last week, but then I remembered we live in Texas and our votes won't matter anyway, so let the baby have his bottle.

But the least I can do is mow my fricking yard and give my Kerry sign nice surroundings. My neighborhood's pretty much all Democratic, so I'm just preaching to the choir, but still.

A couple of weeks ago, Suzanne and I drove to Kansas City to help register last-minute voters. We were trying to avoid that sick, sinking why-the-fuck-didn't-I-do-anything feeling. It was somewhat overwhelming and a little exhausting (especially with the added stress of dragging along a 14-year-old mongrel, though she seemed to have a ball), but also very gratifying. Democracy in Action and all that. I don't think our smattering of registrants is going to tip the scales, but we did get our feet wet, and it was pretty exciting to interact with a bunch of like-minded people outside of our own circle (as well as the occasional smug old man, or weirdo hollering "I don't vote for Yankees!" or little child obviously parroting some family propaganda--at least his mom had the decency to be embarrassed when he did it).

It also made me totally queer for Kansas City--not for the city itself, which I'm really only neutral on at this point--but for the gorgeous 100-year-old houses you can get for a fucking song. I mean, I'd seen pictures of Kelly Sue's house & knew it was cute, but holy cow, was it gorgeous. They all are. Huge and old and wood-trimmed, with high ceilings and big front porches and basements and leaded glass windows, for like, nothing. It was very hard not to have fantasy after fantasy about my new imaginary life in my $160K 6-bedroom turn-of-the century palace.

Now that I'm home, my totally cute little '50s 3-bedroom looks like a squat. Sniff. And I'm up to my asshole in next year's calendar. I punch and bind the damn thing by hand, and this year I'm Gocco printing the covers and pockets, hurrah! Which is delightful, but also a terrible pain in my asshole. (Hm. Two asshole references in one paragraph....) Maybe next year I'll pick up a secondhand electric binder and my life will be luxurious and leisurely and I'll be able to sip mint juleps all autumn and watch the sun set.

10.01.04