Shortly after I posted about the Russian
True Love website commercial that penetrated my usual TV fog, I received this
lovely invitation:
I know, I know—spammers don’t bother much with CRM
systems that might determine that I’m not a particularly receptive target for
following up on “messages from ladies”. Not even on a spam “I’m feeling lucky”
basis.
I just wonder how many people looking for love actually click on the
link?
We’re a week into NaNoWriMo,
and I’m knee deep in word count. So far, as the jumper said passing the 15th
floor, so good.
And, speaking of passing, here’s something passing
strange—people participating in NaNoWriMo have Write-Ins. They get together at
coffee shops and libraries and even bars to unfold laptops and write. Who knew
that writing was a social activity?
I’ve not been to any of them so far, although I do go to
coffee shops to write at least some of my daily word count. But I’m thinking
that one of the South Bay “lush write-in” is something I cannot miss. In a
couple of weeks they’re having it at a pub about a mile away from me. (It and
the Starbucks are the only two businesses in that particular shopping center
that aren’t Asian.) That one’s calling my name.
As for my progress towards logging 50,000 words by month’s
end: shhh, but I’m rounding on 50% done.
Still looking for forensic, investigative and
North-of-England help, though.
I got to my polling place—the fire station down the
block—at 0645 yesterday, but it turns out that polls in California don’t open
until 0700. Well, blow me—in Virginia they open at 0600. Californians are
pikers.
Anyhow, there was one person there ahead of me, a
South Asian in motorcycle gear who said he’s a software developer and he
doesn’t own a mobile phone. I almost high-fived him. (I have one, but I’ve
always told employers I don’t. If they think you have one, they’ll only want to
call you and annoy you.) He was carrying his gloves and helmet, and his
sample ballot.
We talked about how more than half
the ballots cast in this state for this election are expected to be by mail,
but he said he likes the experience of voting in person. He’s right—it feels
more civic to be handed your ballot by a really old guy with extremely limited
English skills (but who I expect is a holy terror in Mandarin), and go mark it
in a little plastic boothlet.
The ballot itself (which was actually two sheets,
because of all the initiatives and referenda) was in English and Spanish,
although the cover sheet was in the other three languages that election
materials come in, so I’m assuming that if you’d wanted one in Mandarin,
Tagalog or Viet, it would have been produced.
By the time the place opened up, there were maybe
five people behind me, and a bunch more arrived before I left—at least 12 or
15, standing there with coffee mugs, babies and briefcases. I was outa there
by 0712—all those ballot measures.
That’s one thing I love about California—every election
has at least five grass-roots laws or proposed measures referred by the
legislature to the electorate for approval. There’s almost always something
about marijuana or prisons. This time there was no grass in the grass-roots,
but there was the one on the death penalty and one on amending the
three-strikes policy, so we had the penal system represented.
Also, there were two competing measures to raise
taxes state-wide to pay for services/education that have been gutted by the
economic crunch; one sent down from Governor Brown, the other framed and funded by a woman who was, for about 17 minutes, a childhood friend of mine.
When I left the fire station, I slapped that “I
Voted” sticker on my shirt and wore it all day. It’s a good day’s work to
vote.
If you’re a US citizen, I hope you’ve voted today.
If not—stop reading immediately and go do that. If you’ve voted—or non-US—read
on, because you deserve a bit of a fanciful break.
And those fun-loving Kiwis are giving it to you. Again.
Those loveable wits at Air New Zealand have given Richard Simmons the heave-ho
from their in-flight safety video and replaced him with…Middle Earthlings.
Sure, it’s a tie-in with Peter Jackson’s The Hobbit
opening. But—what the heck. It’ll probably get more attention than any airline
video ever.
But if you’re a die-hard Simmons fan—you can watch
it again.
If that doesn’t get you out to the polls to escape,
I don’t know what will.
Tomorrow is the first Tuesday after the first Monday
in November. It’s Election Day, and there are a lot of things at stake. You’ve
no doubt been barraged by TV campaign ads, robo-calls and a whole load of
crap in your mail. If you’re like me, you were ready to cast your ballot and have the whole thing in your rearview mirror at least a month ago.
But it’s time to get past your disgust with pretty
much everyone involved in politicking, from presidential candidates down to
city councilors. Forget how much money the Koch brothers and Sheldon Adelson have
poured into PACs and alleged “social welfare organizations” helmed by Karl
Rove; or—if you lean the other way—the millions that George Soros and Ariana
Huffington have donated to Democrats. Put aside the fact that your local and state office candidates are being funded by people who’ve never set foot in
your fair community, but have a vested interest in fielding candidates who think
their way get into your political offices. Draw a breath and disremember that once they’re
in office all they seem to think about is the next election.
Leave all that crap aside and think about what a
wonderful thing it is to vote. The Founding Fathers laid the framework for a
government of the people, by the people and for the people. Their “people”, of
course, were adult white males; but the Fifteenth and Nineteenth Amendments to
the Constitution rectified that. We are privileged
to elect our governments—it’s a principle that tens of millions of people view
with longing because they know it only in theory.
Andthis brings me to my point for the day: my
fellow women—my sistahs: we have not had the right to vote for even 100 years.
Our grandmothers and great-grandmothers first went to the polls in the
presidential election of 1920. To get that vote, generations of women agitated,
educated, annoyed and became thorns in the sides of every civic, religious,
political and business organization in the country. They suffered ridicule,
legal prosecution, imprisonment, financial hardships and ostracism from
family and community. In a very real sense, they went into harm’s way so that
we can mark the ballot with our choices for those who will act as our leaders.
(Yes, fine—generations of men before them struggled
for the vote, before democratic republics became the norm. You want to feel
good about that?—post to your own blog. I’m talking the ladies, here.)
We owe it to the
suffragists who won that vote at hard cost to themselves to exercise that
right.
And consider the sistahs:
This election year has any number of themes that are
categorized as “women’s issues”. In my opinion, this is a misnomer. The right
to access to affordable healthcare (for all aspects of health), the right to make
decisions about whom you’ll associate with in what relationships (First
Amendment, anyone?), the right to be protected from physical harm in the home
as well as on the streets, the right to a sound education that leads to
economic opportunities so that your children don’t grow up in poverty—these aren’t
“women’s issues”. They’re “human issues”. They affect us all.
But they’ve slapped the women label on them, so I
say, sistahs: bring it on. Bring on those votes. Offer to drive someone to the
polls who might not otherwise be able to get there. Urge your friends to vote.
High-five anyone you see wearing one of those “I voted” stickers. Strut your
vote. You talk the talk when you bitch about political leaders; now’s the time
to walk the walk by voting.
This is only the 24th presidential
election we’ve been able to participate in—so vote for your man. One day your
man may be a woman. But don’t stop there—vote for your Senator, your
Representative, your Governor, your state reps, your initiatives and your referenda. What the
hell—do not stop voting until you’ve run out of ballot. (If you need guidance
on issues, consult your local chapter of the League
of Women Voters. These broads know their onions and they give you the
straight scoop. They are not the
Junior League.)
My sistahs—I’m as cynical as they come about
politicians. But your vote matters.
