I'm crying a little

I drank the kool-aid, this is not a secret. I watched the Obama-mercial tonight and even though it's not particularly sophisticated or appealing to my demographic, or relevant even, because I've been in the tank for a while and this hasn't been in question, but still. Still. I have such heart-swelling. Such ache. Such pride. Because maybe, maybe there will be a national leadership I can claim as my own, as representing me and my friends and our values and the things that are important to me. Maybe soon Canadians will sew American flags onto their backpacks when they travel in Europe so that they will be associated with our astonishing return to grace, with the overwhelming joy that is imminent. God, I hope it is imminent. I believe. I hope. I must not count chickens.

My tutee told me about his mother's friend, who last time around in 2004 said he would bring Canadian immigration papers with him to the election night party. This year he is bringing a hand gun because there is no consolation prize. There is nothing to turn to. We must win.

Now, personally, emigrating North is no longer an option. Please, American electorate, do not defy the polls, do not fail me now. I tear up a little because I love. Because I am not lost. Because I am so cynical and too cool for school and smarter than idealism and still I love. Still, I want. I hope. Jesus, I am the last person to buy what they're selling and yet I have. I do. I hope.

My promise to me

Let's make something clear. I am not talking about dates, not in the last post nor any others. I will not talk about dates. I may express some thoughts and observations re: boys generally, but I will not talk about (current) romances. The reasons are two-fold. One, I want to minimize internet evidence of feelings or relationships that will most likely change, and two, it's just lame. Lamer even than the concept of blogging in the first place. My narcissism does not extend to blogging about my love life like it's entertaining on its own merits. That's what Slut Machine is (was) for. So maybe feelings are fair game, but narration is not, is what I'm saying. Also, less exploitation.

I'm really going to try.

Today, as I rode down the elevator in the United Federation of Teachers' building where the Obama office is, I encountered an interesting scene. On the third floor an Orthodox Jewish family got on, followed by a young woman wearing a keffiyeh (not the fashiony kind) and escorting a deaf kid. I thought at first that they were together and coming from some sort of peace and coexistence meeting. But I think it was just an odd confluence of costume-identified minorities in an unlikely place that resulted in something close to situational irony.

So, keep the scandalizing to a minimum, that's the idea. And prepare for sister time at Davidson this weekend. I think this photo illustrates both.

When a door is closed, God opens a window, however, our old radiators cannot compensate for the heat loss

Boy, it's drafty. While one nightmare slowly comes to an end (construction is done, fixtures don't quite work), another begins. Reader, I am sick. Obviously, I blame the dengue. I would like to stay on the couch and recuperate, but there's still a lot of dust in the air and home is not so comfortable for vegging.

I am also sick at heart, or more accurately, sick at professional ambition. It seems likely that the financial crisis will make finding a real job much more difficult. It feels like everyone is on a hiring freeze. Or maybe they just don't like me and that's why I'm not hearing back. When does the personal panic kick in, by Christmas maybe? I certainly intended to be employed by Thanksgiving, but, I don't know, man, I don't know.

In other news, I went out on Saturday night with an old, old friend - middle school vintage - who I hadn't seen in at least 5 years. We reminisced about the good times (our Barbie soap opera video for 9th grade bio, Larry the Mole), the bad times (8th grade love triangles, French trip heartbreak) and discovered all the things we have in common today, like Brooklyn, remarried moms, and a love of Toronto. I also spent half an hour monologuing about what makes The Wire so sophisticated and unique and upsetting and intimidating for someone ostensibly "writing" a "screenplay."

Finally, as we have less than 2 weeks until the election for President, I urge you, dear Reader, to go to a phone bank. Make some calls to your fellow Americans in Colorado, Nevada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia, or North Carolina. Put your mouth where your heart is and tell the country why they should support Senators Barack Obama and Joe Biden. If we give them 2 weeks of focussed effort they will give us 8 years of something better.

It's a freakin' nightmare

Our home is covered in a thick patina of grime and white dust. It is choking, horrific, overwhelming. What the hell, man?

Also, what is with the awkwardness in the debates, this grimace-smile of McCain's? Punch him in the face, facts! He must be put to pasture! I am so ready for this all to be over, for the ultimate, cathartic, orgasmic finality of election night. Finally finally finally.

Uhoh

The men came today to take our shower away. Then they put the sink and toilet in the kitchen. They put the toilet "back" at the end of the day but right now 257 out of the 800 square feet of our apartment is shower-related wreckage. Debate night this week might take place entirely at the bar. And we'll shower downstairs?

Barack is playing at my house, my house!

The CormanYu Commune has been hosting the debates lately, enjoying the candidates in high-def with neighbors and friends. Tuesday night was a Nixon-Kennedy redux, what with the handsomest, presidentialy-est of presidential candidates and some old, waxen-faced crank side by side, don't you think?

The VP debate last week has been my favorite thus far, as it reminded me how good I feel about not being a member of the Republican base (when Palin opened with the "I learn about the economy by attending children's SOCCER GAMES" bit I nearly hurled). She is the fucking Antichrist. And we are winning the culture war.

Also, thanks to the special crazy they brew at MSNBC, this adorable moment of sibling silliness was inspired:


Molly is the wolverine attacking the pantleg of a passerby (Ben), just like the Governor of Alaska. Props on the metaphor, Howard Fineman.

I've been trying to work "Halaby" into "CormanYu Commune," but it's not happening. CormanYu rolls off the tongue so nicely. I take comfort that I am represented by the mere fact that I invented it. The name and the Commune.

I love you, world, now hire me!

"I didn't know I was a hippy til you started drumming!"

Finally, a post deserving of the "religious experiences on a farm" tag. It's been a whole year since my time with the kibbutzniks at CADP, and I guess I never really explained what was so holy about it. Something about the greenery and children in a rural setting, and wine with ex-military multinationals, and motorbike lessons and putting hands in the dirt with Ariel, and mosquito netting. Last weekend's farm was very, very different. There was scenery and community and beer and a rope bed to sleep on. Contradancing (different from line dancing!) til my feet went numb and my calves gave out. THEN the drumming circle started. My legs could carry me no more but I stayed awake long enough to watch Paige dance over to the table where the potluck had been spread earlier in the evening, fetch a large cauldron-type thing and a wooden spoon and proceed to bang the shit out of it in time with the fellows on bongos, etc, well into the wee hours. She is truly la señora de la hacienda.

The next morning, after what felt like a full night's rest (oddly), I was treated to a farm-fresh breakfast and a tour of the property. Man, the Adirondacks in September are outrageous. There is no other word for the maple trees in full flagrante, mixed in with the still-greens and the rock, and the rolling, low mountains. The 18th century farmhouse and salad plants were pretty too. If it were way easier and less time-consuming to grow food I would ask Paige to teach me how to do it. It is delicious.

Also of note, and this is maybe a little gossipy (sorry!), but I drove up with a mutual friend who happens to be Paige's college bf and they are such good, genuine buds these days. It is awe/jealousy-inspiring. Or affirming of one's faith in humanity. I will call it affirming. That is all.


What else.... so much...tbd