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Frightfully busy am I these days, but I couldn't wait until bloody DECEMBER to thrill and entice my readers with a new post, now could I?
I will warn you that, at present, my brain possesses not a single clear thought. What exists there instead is a jumble of rants and ideas sadly devoid of any rational organization. Thanksgiving was thankfully quiet and uneventful, not counting the seven inches of snow that pounded us over the weekend, accompanied by freezing temperatures the likes of which I haven't felt since my flight from Manhattan ten months ago. Fuck, has it been ten months already? So sad, indeed. I'm tremendously nostalgic for New York lately, what with the holiday madness and all its decorational glory upon us. Somehow, it feels very wrong not to be in New York this time of year, a time I typically loathe but nevertheless managed to find wonder in while strolling the brightly-lit streets of Manhattan.
Speaking of Christmas, those of us in America with half a brain are fully aware the mass-marketed, 21st century version of the holiday has little, if anything, to do with Christ, as I hear was its original intent (I'm a Jew, what do I know of the Christ except that I had no desire to see the movie but can't wait to see the rumored Clerks sequel, The Passion of the Clerks, which has nothing to do with Christ but must piss Mel Gibson off good).
No, Christmas in America (like nearly every bloody holiday) has far more to do with maxing your credit cards at Wal-Mart and enduring the barrage of horridly cheesy TV commercials than anything remotely resembling a religious observance. This brings me to a recent conversation I had with my friend C., who is contemplating starting an anti-religion website out of contempt for those who blindly adhere (when its convenient, of course) to some religious ideology heaped on them by their elders without any real consideration for what it all means, the premise being that if you're anti-gay, anti-sex, anti-other races, anti-anything-but-what-we-believe-is-right, you are spreading hate and segregation and therefore, how dare you equate religion with love and tolerance?
Let me make one thing clear: I'm in no way knocking those who truly believe in a higher power and choose to engage in passionate worship of Him/Her/It. In fact, I'm somewhat envious of people who wholeheartedly cling to beliefs they're willing to uphold at any cost. But I'm skeptical that religion in the U.S. is practiced by more than a miniscule percentage of those who truly believe, instead populated by people who worship out of fear -- fear that they'll burn in Hell or that their children will be cursed or that they'll die a horrible death if they don't send checks to Jimmy Swaggart on a regular basis.
Once again, I have gone off on a tangent. My point in all this is that the reason I enjoy Thanksgiving so much (it's not the turkey, which I am generally unfond of) is that it's essentially the only American holiday with no religious or political overtones. Of course, there's that horrible history behind it, what with us slaughtering and displacing thousands of natives, but we'll gloss over that for a moment while we focus instead on the fact that Thanksgiving exists purely as a day to gather with loved ones in sharing a fabulous meal and (in our house, at least) plenty of wine. And for that, I'm thankful.
Hello. Are you a Canadian border guard?
Bonjour. Êtes-vous une esti de garde canadienne de frontière?
I would like to apply for permanent residence.
Je voudrais solliciter la résidence permanente
I am a political refuge. My former country has been overrun with morons and rednecks.
Je suis un chris de refugé politique. Mon ancien pays a été débordé avec des asti d'innocentes et des batardes.
Before I step over the border, I have a couple of questions for you.
Avant que je passe la frontière, j'ai un couple des questions pour vous.
Can the Prime Minister say the word 'nuclear'?
Peut le premier ministre dire le mot 'nucléaire'?
Is Canada at war with anyone for no good reason?
Le Canada à la guerre avec n'importe qui, et est-il pour aucune bonne raison?
Do you allow pretend cowboys to be in positions of power?
Laissez-vous des osti de cowboys dans des positions de pouvoire?
Yes, no, and no? Fine. Let me the fuck in.
Oui, non, et non? Et ben, Laissez-moi rentre la dedans chris de tabarnaque de callis.
The other day someone asked me how old I was and my reply was "32." This would have been correct two months ago. Had I given my brain just one more second to recall the fact that I'd recently celebrated yet another earthly revolution around the sun, I would have (correctly) replied "33."
Remember the days when you didn't need to pause momentarily upon being asked your age? For me, those days ended at about the age of 22. These days, I find myself lingering over the answer before accurately responding to questions regarding my age (and that of my parents, siblings, friends, etc.). When exactly does this bizarre, age-related amnesia set in?
After realizing I'd once again answered the age question incorrectly, I began pondering my newly-reached age (right, like I never do that otherwise) and how it wreaks minor havoc on my quiet little OCD-induced numbers fixation.
Here's how it breaks down: my lucky number has always been 11. I am also very fond of 16 (the number of letters in my full name) and its multiples, most notably, 32. So being 32 was a score in my little black book of bizarro ways I categorize and rate things in my life. 32 is one of those magical numbers in my obsessive-compulsive world, the number I'll always employ in completely irrelevant areas like alarm clocks and microwaves. Ahhh, 32.
But now I am 33, making my blantant overuse of the number 32 somewhat incongruous, if not completely pitiable. See, 32 is still my number of choice but my twisted mind interprets that as a refusal to acknowledge the aging process and move on to the fact that 32 is behind me. That is, until I realized 33 is a multiple of 11, my lucky number, the number of ounces tacked on to my birth weight, oh sweet blessed 11!
Upon reaching this happy revelation, I proceeded to toss the number 33 around in my head for several thrilling minutes (What? It was a slow day!) to see just what other fascinating and potentially soothing deductions I could muster. For some absurd reason, it dawned on me that both Jesus Christ and Karen Carpenter died at the age of 33. And Jesus was a carpenter. Hel-lo! My head is still spinning.
I expect those kindly people with the clean, white straitjacket to show up anyday now.
For those with an interest in other cultures, some observations made during my travels throughout Spain:
* There is no bullet-proof glass in banks or post offices. Public restrooms use only air-dryers (no paper towels). Taxis don't have meters. It is nearly impossible to get iced coffee. "Stop" signs are--curiously-- written in English. Motorbikes (at least in Cadiz) outnumber cars by a fucking lot. They are fucking loud.
* We left the United States with lofty hopes of being exposed to some great Spanish music, happily escaping the nauseating pop music permeating every last airwave here. Well, guess what we heard all over Spain? Bloody horrible American pop music at every turn. Fucking Britney and Matchbox 20 and Justin and Shania (yes I know she's Canadian) and whichever Simpson sister makes stomach bile float up into your throat faster. EVERYWHERE. For the love of everything holy, make it stop.
* Every human being in Spain smokes. Everywhere. People smoke at the airport, at the supermarket, in restaurants, in line at the bank, in train stations, in every manner of public edifice. Puff after fucking puff.
* There are no dog shit clean-up laws (at least not in Cadiz, where we spent most of our time). There are hundreds of little apartment-sized dogs leaving apartment-sized shits on the sidewalks and few dog owners scooping it up so not to foul the soles of my shoes.
* As is customary in most American restaurants, diners in Spain are brought a basket of bread upon ordering a meal. However, imagine the surprise of naive diners like myself when they notice the unrequested bread added to the tab to the tune of about two bucks. Bastardos!
* The same is true for water, which is always out of a bottle, and, while delicious, costs near as much as a cheap but decent glass of wine in the States.
* Cab drivers in Spain are mostly articulate, well-dressed older gentlemen with immaculate late-model cars. This reminded me of being surprised years ago in Paris to see cab drivers tooling around in Mercedes and BMWs.
* Cell phones are rampant (epidemic!), their blatant abusers just as annoying in Spain as everywhere else in the world, a trend I despise.
* When you order a scoop of ice cream in Spain, you actually get a scoop of ice cream, as opposed to the $3.00 American gargantuan heap shoveled onto a cone that must be held with two hands, lest its massive weight drag us to the floor.
* In New York, tourists walk painfully slowly while Manhattanites stride past them at speeds far more acceptable of urban pedestrians. In Cadiz, it's the locals who amble down cobblestone streets at a snail's pace while tourists hell-bent on photo opportunities race toward the next sight-seeing bonanza.
* Spaniards seem to be in absolutely no rush to do anything. Impatient Americans accustomed to quick-moving bank and supermarket lines are in for a rude awakening in southern Spain, where tellers tend to chat endlessly with each customer who reaches their window. You'd think Spanish customers would sigh and fume and shout obscenities, as do Americans when faced with even the briefest wait. But Spaniards waiting in line simply chat amongst themselves, taking long drags on their cigarettes while gossiping about who makes the best paella and who blows off their siesta to knock boots with the mailman.
* Ah, the siesta. Spain's version of Prozac with a Valium chaser. Between two and three each afternoon, businesses all over shut their doors and everyone goes home, presumably to nap. You heard me. A compulsory, mid-afternoon nap. Fuckin' A. The streets become ghostly quiet, stores are shuttered, pedestrians vanish from sight. Nothing open but a bar here and there, usually filled with older Spanish gentlemen boozing it up and warbling loudly over sangria. Most businesses reopen around 6pm and stay open late into the night, with restaurants not serving dinner until 8 or 9pm. In Madrid, every restaurant we tried was packed to the gills at 11pm with hungry Spaniards and tourists drunk since sundown.
* Lastly, almost everyone we met in Spain spoke English, a reminder of just how narrowly-focused and inadequate our American education system truly is. Even tourists we met from other countries spoke at least two languages since childhood, many speaking three or four. How are we so far behind?
After seven glorious days in Spain, it's good to be home.
But not really.
But man, proud man,
Drest in a little brief authority,
Most ignorant of what he's most assured,
His glassy essence, like an angry ape,
Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven
As make the angels weep.
- William Shakespeare
My readers rarely use my Comments link to comment on my blog, instead communicating their thoughts via email. I am touched by the number of people who have emailed since Tuesday to make sure I was not en route to Washington DC with a rocket launcher tucked under my arm.
Naturally, I have much to say, especially after having been involuntarily muted by sadness since early yesterday. Sadly, the words simply don't exist to express my feelings on the matter (rather unfortunate, considering I'm a writer). Apart from the disappointment rampant among Americans (or at least half of us), upon hearing the news Wednesday morning, I was faced with emotions I did not know existed.
In many ways, my core beliefs and faith in humanity have been shattered. My rather childlike way of looking at the world in terms of "good people are rewarded/bad people are punished" was blown to pieces. My intrinsic belief in karma and its relationship to people and their actions--right out the fucking window. What do you do when your deep-seated beliefs are abruptly eradicated?
I have accepted the fact Bush is our president for another four years. I am too exhausted to entertain the notion that he may have won illegally. If his opponent was willing to concede, who am I to question it? Kerry's concession did, however, drive home the sad fact that he just was not the right candidate at this point in time. The one thing providing me an iota of peace with this whole matter is that Bush and company are now responsible for their own mess. No passing the buck to the Kerry administration, who no doubt would have been slammed mercilessly from all sides with every setback in Iraq and at home. I can't help thinking Kerry must be feeling some measure of relief in that respect. Bush must now roll up his sleeves and clean up his own shit, Cheney holding the shovel when he gets tired, Rumsfeld pouring the water to wash blood from all of their hands, Ashcroft sweeping up the ashes of personal freedoms incinerated by the Patriot Act.
I have accepted the fact that Kerry was defeated. But the Bush-bashing is over for now. Not to say that I support him wholeheartedly in his dangerously right-wing agenda. I cannot possibly support a narrow-minded ideology that stomps on people's rights as human beings just because they don't subscribe to your religious beliefs or share your sexual orientation or agree with your policies. I will be the first to turn activist if they dare attempt to overturn Roe v. Wade or pass an amendment banning same-sex couples from the right to which every American is Constitutionally entitled. But my day-to-day life will not change in any measurable way depending on who is or is not in office.
I don't see this country uniting in their personal or political ideologies; it's not possible. What I would like to see is an honest, passionate movement to change the way democracy is carried out. We desperately need alternatives to the blue and red--a swell in Green and Independent party support, an increase in the number of viable options on our next presidential ballot. Maybe that could be the early 21st century version of the Civil Rights movement? The question for all of us aching to redirect our "Vote Kerry" energy elsewhere is, "How can we make the U.S. a multi-party nation before it becomes a one-party nation?"
Too busy to attempt expressing my myriad thoughts and emotions concerning the impending madness, but I thought I'd fulfill, at least partially, my duty as cyber-denizen by passing along some vital resources to those of you planning to hit the polls:
Seven crucial steps to ensuring your vote is counted.
The Election Protection Card (download and take with you).
The League of Women Voters card (download and take with you). Or visit their website.
Who to call if someone tries to interfere with your voting rights: (800) OUR-VOTE.
If you're not sure where your polling place is, click on the link or call (866) MY-VOTE-1.
A state-by-state listing of resources and information for voters.
The Voter's Self-Defense System, designed by Project VoteSmart (a helpful, non-partisan citizen's organization).
The National Constitution Center, with links to candidates' websites and a comprehensive Voter Website Resource Guide.
Most importantly, if you show up at your correct polling place only to find you're not on the registered voter list, don't fret. Many states allow registration on the spot. Otherwise, call (866) OUR-VOTE or request a provisional ballet.
This site has up-to-the-minute electoral college vote predictions (which lunatic friends and I have been watching obsessively closely).
Lastly, we've all heard about the thousands of lawyers and other officials who will be on hand to ensure voters' rights are upheld across the country. I'm also pleased to hear Michael Moore plans to install cameras outside hundreds of polling places, targeting minority areas in the hopes of catching on film any attempts at interfering with voters' rights. For everyone's sake, let's hope there's no interference to speak of and that all involved behave like adults. I realize that's naive, but we can still hope, can't we?