The Power of Pathetic: Why the 'Power of Print' ad campaign makes me crazy

Have you ever seen an ad in your local paper or perhaps in your child’s soccer banquet program and thought to yourself, “Wow - somebody paid money for that to represent their business.” But then you remember it’s just a small time ad and the lady who owns Honey Donuts was probably too busy and subsequently poor from her husband’s recent, sudden passing to collaborate with a cutting edge ad firm to really make you feel the sweetness of her “award winning honey rolls.” You should also stop being so ungrateful that local businesses care about the community enough to take out a pointless ad which will be seen by like, 40 people at BEST to support your stupid kid’s soccer league. Jerk.

But what about ads by super powerful companies? Considering how much money they pour into advertising, it always stands out when they totally miss the mark or put their name on something terrible. So when five of the nation’s biggest magazine companies unleashed the “Magazines: The Power of Print” campaign, I kind of became obsessed with hating it.

Let me start by saying this - I love magazines. I read several of them. Would I be sad if print media disappeared? Yes. I like to turn the pages. But would I eventually get used to carrying around a little electronic reading tablet thingy like so many people use now? I’d have to. But this campaign! It makes me never want to read a magazine again. It makes me feel both furious and embarrassed. Let’s take a look at an ad from the campaign:


First of all, cool picture. You really had my attention with that iconic image of a man with shorter-than-dude-appropriate shorts and dumb sandals holding a white folder looking at stacks and stacks of brown bags. I’m assuming those bags have coffee in them. Because of the ad copy headline being all coffee related. But I like to think that these are bags of cocaine. And not because I have a Miami Vice inspired imagination. But because it happens.

Also, that headline: “Will the Internet kill magazines? Did instant coffee kill coffee?” I am assuming I’m supposed to answer the second question with a resounding “No!” therefore revealing to myself that the answer to the first question must be the same. But I am not really a huge coffee drinker and don’t really understand the impact instant coffee introduction had on the java economy. So for me, the second question might as well be, “Did the Teamsters kill Jimmy Hoffa?” Then I’d know the answer to both questions was, “Probably, but perhaps we will never know!”

The main part of the ad is pretty text heavy. It has about a zillion more words than most ads. It is also laid out in such a way that it feels like a letter from the magazines themselves. Which gives it a slightly more personal feeling, but not “super nice thank you note from a friend” personal - more like “love letter from somebody you have no interest in ever being romantically involved with, but who you’re still going to have to see all the time because you work together” kind of personal. So many words, but what are they saying?

“New technologies change many things. But not everything.” Those first two sentences are pretty eye opening, right? It sounds like the lazily translated tag-line to a Hindi science fiction film. Thanks for telling me nothing! That vast statement is followed up with, “You may surf, search, shop and blog online, but you still read magazines. And you’re far from alone.” Ok, they GOT me on the “you still read magazines” thing - after all, I DID see this ad in an actual issue of Rolling Stone. Guilty! Also, when I read magazines, I am constantly fighting back an anxious feeling that I’m all alone. That nobody left on Earth understands my magazine reading. So thank you for including that much needed reassurance. Now if only there were a toll free helpline number included in the ad...

This second paragraph though - that’s where it is at! It is all crammed with facts and stats and compelling information! Right? “Readership has actually increased over the last five years.” If somebody in a suit or lab coat or other authoritative garb said this to me while pointing at a bar graph, I would maybe believe it for a second. But here it’s just all naked and vague and I can’t help but wonder, “Increased from what? Abysmal to slightly less abysmal?” Also, by throwing the word “actually” in there, it shows an assumption that the reader will find this contrary to their current view. I mean, yes a smart person probably assumes that print media readership has gone down since the Internet came into play. But this is America - you’re not selling to smart people. The majority of people who see your ad are the same people that earnestly do their Christmas shopping at the “As Seen on TV” store. If the person who bought this can't be sold on the idea that magazine readership is up, heaven help the publishing industry.

Then we’re hit with the factoid that the precious 18 to 34 demographic “continues to grow.” This is aimed right at advertisers since that’s exactly who they want to sell things like Mountain Dew and Doritos to. Also Axe body spray, Skyy vodka and Trojan condoms. Probably in that order. But that’s not all! “... typical young adults now read more issues per month than their parents.” And atypical young adults write suicide poems and draw pictures of Satan in the notebook they’re hiding inside that issue of Seventeen they’ve never actually read. Oh wait - that describes typical young adults. Also, if they’re reading more than their parents, does that mean that readership in the parent age group has gone down? So does that supposed young adult increase only serves to cancel that out? I don’t know - I only cried in front of one college professor and that was in my Statistics class.

But even I know this is a pretty weak case, magazines. One of my favorite things is when somebody tells me an explanation is “fairly obvious” and then backs this up by telling me nothing but vague bullshit. This next paragraph gets a gold medal in this category. The “explanation” for the maybe-not-even-that-great upswing in readership described above is “Magazines do what the Internet doesn’t.” Hmm... The only thing I can think of that I can do with a magazine but not with the Internet is kill a cockroach. The Internet pretty much does everything. It is a never-ending information land that may or may not consist of a series of tubes. Hardly anybody actually understands how it works. It’s literally magical!

Suffice to say, to strengthen the ballsy statement that magazines can somehow do something the Internet can’t, that follow up sentence better be pretty awesome. “Neither obsessed with immediacy nor trapped by the daily news cycle, magazines promote deeper connections.” Wow. You’ve just gone ahead and listed the two things magazines by design will always be terrible at and laid them out there as if they were your greatest strengths. Well spun, magazines, well spun. Also, what is this “promote deeper connections” business? Between me and the magazine? Between me and other people? Is this because it is easier for the crazy lady on the bus to read a physical copy of Vanity Fair over my shoulder and engage me in a conversation about how she was supposed to be Reese Witherspoon but the government kidnapped her before she could audition for Man In the Moon and forced the director to cast a cyborg fighting weapon robot girl they called Reese Witherspoon than it is for her to see the same article on my iPhone? That’s my best guess.

The last paragraph though, tells us everything we need to know. This two page advertisement is directed at and a cry for help to those who advertise. “Please advertise your products in our magazines, ok? Because we’re terrified that you’re going to stop doing that. We can’t quit you, because that would mean evolving. As you can see from this ham-fisted, desperate ad, we aren’t ready for that yet.” I mean, this ad is TWO FULL COLOR PAGES. To buy that kind of ad space in a high school yearbook is expensive, let alone a major publication. So the fact they’re willing to take up potential money making space with an ad begging people to advertise tells me maybe they’re not as confidant as they pretended to be earlier when they were bragging about their readership numbers. But I suppose that’s just the cynic in me.

So yes - I still love magazines. When Harper's or The New Yorker or Jugs comes in the mail it immediately makes my whole day better. Browsing the newsstand at a bookstore is my favorite part of the experience. I even love the way they smell. But seriously magazines, your insecurity is grossing me out. Knock it off.

Just a child from those ugly new houses

So I went for a bike ride today...

This in and of itself is kind of a big deal. For one, I don't really go for bike rides alone. Additionally, my time spent riding a bike as an adult is pretty slim. This means my bike riding skills are not that awesome. Far from at ease, I spend most of my energy during bike rides fighting off the ever present "I'm totally going to get hit by a car" feeling. And usually my girlfriend is with me. So I have somebody to yell things like, "Is there a car coming?" and "Watch out for cars!" and "Don't let me get hit by a car!" to during the ride. I'm a carefree spirit.

Going for a bike ride alone also means I have to get my bike out of the house (and subsequently back in) by myself. Now, despite the fact that the following will make some post-gender, feminist, egalitarian Queer Studies major somewhere weep (manly?) tears into their copy of Paradoxes Of Gender, I typically make my girlfriend get my bike out for me. She is demonstrably stronger, so I see absolutely no reason not to use this to my advantage when it comes to transporting cumbersome and heavy objects in and out of the house. I mean, I hold the door. It's not like I'm not doing my part.

But alone, it's harder. The security door is heavy and doesn't stay open by itself, and my bike is heavy and when picked up, prefers to allow its handle bars to sharply jerk to one side, forcing the front wheel sideways - a position that renders my bike stuck in the door. This makes getting my bike out awkward. And of course, the whole time I'm struggling, the neighbor kids are staring at me. So are the people three doors down who spend virtually all waking hours hanging out on their front porch. For some reason, the worst thing I can imagine happening is one of them - be it child or day-drunk adult, offering to assist me. So I wrestle my bike out with as much calm as I can muster. Even when I accidentally pop off one of my handle bar grips when it gets stuck in the door, I just matter-of-factly yank it out like I had expected that to happen. I spend the next minute or so calmly trying to push and hit it back into place like that's just what you do before you go for a bike ride. Ms. Cool Ride, at your service.

So now that the bike is out of the house, where to? I had no destination in mind so I just start riding. Soon I am in a Detroit neighborhood near Krown Supermarket. This establishment holds the distinction of being the place with, back about a year ago, the lowest special price on Fruity Pebbles I have ever seen. And they weren't even about to expire. I think they were $1.33 a box. That's like 1986 prices! I still get excited thinking about that.

The neighborhood I ride through is, like a lot of Detroit neighborhoods, a little rough around the edges. Lots of abandoned houses and trash - but also a lot of really well kept, cute houses. I won't give you a full account of my travels - mostly because I couldn't if I wanted to. I did not get lost, and that in and of itself is a big win. I am a person that still has to look at written directions each time I drive to the airport.

I did see this house though, which I think was on the corner of Moran and Lawley:


I decide to take a couple of pictures of it so I can better investigate its origins once I get home. So I stop my bike in front of the house. At this exact moment, a group of people - all wearing regular clothes but with prominently displayed badges hanging around their necks - emerge from the house across the street. They then walk across the street to the house next to this one and started knocking on the door. Being that I'm not especially nosy, nor (I like to think) especially stupid, I thought it probably best to scram before somebody either does or does not answer the door. Not that my pictures would otherwise be awesome, but they were taken in a hurry. You can see the head of the lady in the group in the picture. With my luck, I am now blowing some giant DPD stake out/sting operation by posting this photo.

Thankfully, with a little help from my girlfriend and the best librarian in Austin, Texas, I found out a little more about the house. It is possibly called The Power House. And it is maybe part of some bigger project that may or may not be ongoing? I thought it might have something to do with Design 99, but I also thought those folks had moved on to other projects. So I'll admit, I am still puzzled to an extent. Artists always have confusing web content. But it was a refreshing surprise in a neighborhood that is in very short supply of refreshing surprises. Very cool. Maybe I should do this bike riding thing more often.

She was a fast machine, she kept her motor clean

So, my girlfriend and I are now the proud owners of a new (to us) 2008 Honda Fit. We bought the car from a family owned used car dealer near Great Lakes Crossing. They have a small lot of cars, and a modest show room. The showroom had a few cool, olden days cars, a motor cycle with a carriage-like apparatus on the back and more taxidermy than I've ever seen in one place - including a whole bear. The guy who sold us the car also inadvertently told us an anecdote about one of the trucks on the lot that clued us into his church going nature. So between the dead stuffed animals and the Christianity, it was the perfect place for a lesbian couple - both vegetarians - to buy a car.

Of course, any test drive of a car should include trying out the CD player/sound system. I am not expecting Bose quality sound from a factory installed speaker system, but if a speaker is blown, there is overall crappy sound or the CD player is broken, that's a deal breaker. So we brought a couple CDs along with us on the test drive. As luck would have it, when I switched the stereo from FM to CD, there was already a disc in the player! I popped it out and was very excited to find the mix you see pictured here: "Dennis + Angela's Wedding MIX 2003 (or is that a 5?) October 18." With nothing to go by but the mix title and the songs, I'm going to assume the following:

• Our new car previously belonged to Dennis, and this is a mix of songs from his wedding reception.
• Dennis did not make this CD - it was given to him by the wedding DJ
• The wedding DJ was either a really burned out professional, or a friend who has iTunes and volunteered to DJ the reception as a wedding gift.
• The songs on this CD are presented in the order they were played at the reception.
• Dennis is white and graduated from college no earlier than 2003.

It was a lot of fun playing it all the way through not knowing what would come on next. Let's just take a look at the disc track by track, shall we?

1. Bad Company - Feel Like Makin' Love
With this setting the tone as the first track, we knew we were in for one heck of a wedding mix.

2, Billy Idol - White Wedding
The inclusion of this song is as painfully unoriginal as it is painfully inappropriate. I have had actual wedding DJs tell me they won't play this even if somebody requests it. So that's a good test if you're talking to a potential DJ for your wedding - ask them their thoughts on this song.

3. Queen - Another One Bites the Dust
I've heard more than one person say they wanted this song played at their funeral. Ha ha! There's nothing your grieving loved ones will like more than your eye rollingly predictable after death jokes! It does seems an odd choice for a wedding though. But it has that funky bassline, so I'll give it a pass.

4. Michael Jackson - Don't Stop 'Til You Get Enough
This is one of my favorite MJ songs. It's also one of those songs that, when it starts, people are all, "Yeah, I love this one!" and rush out on the dance floor. What most of them don't realize, is that it's six minutes long. By minute four, people are perspiring and losing steam, but nobody wants to admit it, so they smile and switch to a slight side-to-side shuffle with small up and down hand movements while they slowly move toward the edge of the dance floor in hopes they can find an escape. I think DJs play this song to test the stamina of your out of shape guests.

5. ZZ Top - Sharp Dressed Man
I have no doubt the groom, his best man and the other men in the wedding party danced around to this song like, "Yeah - this is about ME! I've got a tux on and I look SHARP!!" One hopes the bride was paying close attention, as this may actually be the last time the term "sharp dressed man" can be applied here. The terms "watching sports in his underwear man" and "sweatpants all the time man" might not roll off the tongue the same way, but they'll quickly become apt descriptors for her man as he settles in.

6. AC/DC - You Shook Me All Night Long
Overplayed or not, this song is awesome. No complaints here.

7. Madonna - Holiday
I guess it's a better choice for a wedding reception than "Like A Prayer," "Justify My Love" or "Papa Don't Preach."

8. Bee Gees - Stayin' Alive
I heard on NPR a few months ago that this was THE song to think of as you performed CPR. The tempo is exactly how fast you should do chest compressions or some such. When I first heard the story, I thought the lady was saying that you only do the compressions during the "stayin' alive, stayin' alive..." part and just rest while singing the other parts of the song in your head until it comes back around to that part again. You better hope that if you ever need CPR that I'm not the only person around.

9. Van Morrison - Brown Eyed Girl
My dad told me a story about this song once that will forever stay with me every time I hear it. When he was a boy, he apparently had a crush on a girl with a big birthmark on her arm. So the other boys would tease him and sing "brown armed girl." Kids can be so cruel, yet so clever!

10. Garth Brooks - Friends In Low Places
This song is the great equalizer at a wedding reception. Your bedazzled sweats-clad cousin who brought Milwaukee's Best in a flask and your rich uncle who has never loosened his tie in his life and considers a Saab an "affordable starter car" can both stomp around and proudly celebrate their white trash roots.

11. 50 Cent - In Da Club
This is the point of the evening where everybody's drunk enough to be open to "black people music." It's time to get jiggy wit' it!

12. The Doors - Back Door Man
Really? This is just too easy. I refuse to make the obvious joke here. So I'll just say this: I hate the Doors.

13. Neil Young - Harvest Moon (live)
This was the first really pleasant surprise on the disc. Great song. I DO think it's weird to use a live version, but maybe the bride and groom met at a Neil Young concert, right?

14. Robert Palmer - Addicted To Love
What wedding would be complete without some Robert Palmer?

15. Phish - Bouncing Around the Room
The inclusion of this song is proof that the bride and groom went to college.

16. Ben Harper - Sexual Healing (live)
This is the only song on the CD that my girlfriend and I couldn't immediately identify. We knew the song of course, but not the artist. It only took a quick Google search to find it though. Again, weird to use the live track. This song clocks in at almost six minutes which just seems uncomfortably long for a "sexy" song. I hope nobody on the dance floor got pregnant.

17. Marvin Gaye - Let's Get It On
Ok! Jesus! We get the point! You're married now and can finally see each other naked. Get on with it already.

Well, happiness to the Dennis and Angela on their upcoming 4th or maybe 6th wedding anniversary. Thank you for accidentally sharing your memories with us - it made our first trip in our new car that much more fun.

Are you still there? Or have you moved away?

Let's say you are visiting from out of town - maybe you even used to "live in Detroit" (i.e. the suburbs) but could do nothing but bitch and moan about wanting to get out while you lived in Michigan - and you come to my house. You then tell me you want to see the "sights of Detroit" and ask me to show you around. I can't help but notice you somewhat impatiently nod through my suggested destinations (Mexicantown? Corktown? People's Records? MOCAD? Eastern Market? Belle Isle?) and instead of showing any interest in my suggestions, you say, "I want you to take me to a totally fucked up, bombed out neighborhood." Well, guess what? I'm not going to. And I'm also going to kick you in the nuts and tell you to get out of my house. Maybe to you, seeing a house that's collapsed into a heap or a burned out shell is some kind of amusing, touristy thing to do. But for me, those kinds of houses are a block away. In my neighborhood. Where I live. And it's really fucking insulting to me that, when visiting a city that actually has some pretty awesome things going for it, all you want to do is marvel at Detroit's collapse and ruin. I'm not blind to the city's serious issues, but I'm not going to exploit them for your enjoyment either. Sorry, but I will not enable you.

What's that you say? But you have a camera? Well why didn't you say so, you bonafide artist you! You will totally be the first white kid crawling around the ruins of Detroit snapping pictures. Your fellow photography class students back home will be so impressed with your amazing shots. What an eye you have! Take the photo included here for example. I took it with my cell phone after work today. Which wasn't hard to do, because it's very near my house and I drive or ride my bike by it several times a week. Like most of your photos, this isn't that impressive. Good thing the interesting subject matter is clouding your lack of real photography skills! You look like a real artist instead of a hack thanks to the collapse of Detroit. Who can blame you for wanting to exploit such things? That girl in your class who takes those cool, overexposed pictures of trains is totally gonna sleep with you when she sees your pictures of the Packard Plant!

If you want to see pictures of Detroit's ruins, there are tons of them. But "the Sweet Juniper guy" is the best source. Why? Because he lives here with his wife and kids. On purpose. His writing and pictures also point out many exciting, touching and hopeful things about Detroit - it's not just pictures of ruin. I really appreciated his post featuring pictures of "feral houses." The idea of a house being so long abandoned that vegetation completely envelops it is a fascinating concept. What bothered me about the Sweet Juniper feral houses post were the overly romantic comments about the pictures. Things like, "These are so beautiful - I want to frame them and put them on my wall" and other such flowery nonsense. Yes, there's something beautiful there, but you want to put it on your wall? Would you feel the same if the homeless dude who stays there was standing in the doorway? If the family that used to call that place home until tragedy struck and they were evicted or foreclosed on was holding hands on the front lawn? Maybe that sounds overdramatic, but the underlying reason these "feral houses" exist is some tragedy or another. But yes - you should totally buy some Ikea frames and put these pictures in the foyer of your suburban home. Then, during your next dinner party, you can impress your friends with your art. And when they say, "Wow - that's amazing. Look at what Detroit's become! Who would want to live there?" You can laugh and shake your head as you pour them another glass of Merlot.

Also, I hear Time is in town. So drink up.

We won't vote Conservative, because we never have... or: Everybody's (poll) workin' for the weekend

So Election Day has come and gone, can you believe it? Last Tuesday will forever be remembered as a historic day – one of hope and triumph for Democrats and an unmistakable sign of End Times for the Far-Right who will now start hoarding canned goods and building Muslim-proof fallout shelters in their back yards. So depending on which way you voted, you’re either just getting over your Obama related mother-of-a-celebration hangover, or your shoulders are really sore from shoveling (by the way, I am fairly certain most cities require a permit for larger-scale building projects, and a personal fall out shelter would count. If you are too mistrusting to even want your local government involved in your life, I hope you at least called MISS DIG first). Either way, thank you for voting, for without YOU, I would not have had a reason to work the polls this election and you would not be reading this firsthand account of my experience.

Tuesday morning I woke up at the ungodly hour of 5:30. I was told to report to my polling precinct at 6:00 so that everything could be set up and ready at 7:00 when the polls opened. I sleepily got ready and put on clothes with the “dress nice” decree from Election School in mind: black dress pants, a burgundy button-down shirt, and my black Doc Marten boots which might not count as “dress shoes,” but sore feet were not going to impede my ability to be involved in the political process. I had entertained the thought of walking since the polls are so close to where I live, but considering the fact I might be there for the rest of my life depending on how many people turned out, the environment would have to take a back seat to my need for a half hour more of precious, precious sleep. So like a real American, I hopped in my car and drove the few blocks to the polling place.

I got there at about 6:10 a.m. and was let into the building (a former elementary school now second-chance high school, I think) by the janitor. I will admit I was nervous. I had never done this before, and I sure didn’t feel adequately trained for the occasion. However, I comforted myself with the knowledge that I would be working with seasoned poll workers who would guide me along. I was new, sure, but willing and able to do my part for Democracy! To my superiors request of “jump” I would only answer “how high?” and before I knew it I would be part of a well-oiled voting machine!

When I walked into the gym, a petite older woman missing most of her bottom teeth greeted me. It seemed like she had just been running. She also had an entire donut hanging out of her mouth. She quickly took a bite of the donut and set the rest of it down on the table next to her without bothering with a napkin or plate. Her nametag indicated her name was Pam. After telling her who I was, she welcomed me, gave me my nametag and pointed to a larger woman with white hair and said she was who I needed to see about “what you’ll be doing today.”

This woman (Stephanie) was one of two chairs at my polling station. She seemed to be pretty perky for so early in the morning, but also a tad scattered. Each polling station had to have two chairs, one from each major party. The other chair, Vivian, was an older African-American woman who, incredibly, was the Republican. My first impression of her was that she was kind of crabby. The other volunteers that day were:

Sunny – a very small older woman who was wearing a black sweater with enough light colored animal hair on it to make it appear patterned. I was later informed that her shirt also appeared to be heavily Kool-Aid stained. When Vivian saw Sandy first thing in the morning, she greeted her with, “Sandy! No – we’ve got to get you out of that sweater – you’re covered in dog fur!” Sandy looked despondent yet never did remove the sweater, and was still wearing it fifteen hours later when we were done. During that entire stretch of time, I saw her get up only twice – and both times to make the short 3 yard walk to a trash can to throw away several feet long ribbons of “I Voted” sticker backing.

Rose– an even keeled 83-year-old who I ended up working with most of the day. She had a box of Kleenex with her, which she told me she brought because, “I never know when my sinuses are going to drain” and told me I was welcome to use her Kleenex whenever I wanted.

Mickey – an older man who liked to tell really bad jokes and who I witnessed saying to a voter who asked a question about straight ticket voting, “Don’t vote straight ticket! Your vote could flip! I saw it on the Internet!” He and I went in together for pizza later in the night. I paid for my portion with a roll of dimes.

Melody – a 30-year-old woman with coke-bottle glasses wearing a matching Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles ball cap and hooded sweatshirt. I am guessing that, to her, “dress nice” translated as “make sure your cartoon apparel is tastefully matching.” I found out later, she also had a TMNT vanity license plate. She told me that she was Stephanie’s daughter, and that she was volunteering “kind of last minute” because one of the ladies who was supposed to work Election Day had a “mental breakdown” and was in the hospital.

Tyrone and Emily – two high school students who were both exceptional and we were lucky to have them for the precious hours we did.

So about five minutes before 7 a.m. I asked Vivian about when I should actually vote – although I had asked the folks at City Hall about getting an absentee ballot, I was told that, since I was working in my own precinct, I could just vote in person. Although I tried to explain that, seeing as I would be busy working the polls it might be easier for me to just get it out of the way ahead of time, they didn’t seem to think that was a good enough reason. So Vivian looked at the clock and said, “Hurry up and vote before we let people in.” By this time, the line to get in was all the way down the hallway, and people were starting to get restless. I wasn’t crazy about this voting under pressure scenario, but what could I do? I grabbed my ballot and filled in the little bubbles as fast as I could.

I then put my ballot into the machine using the “secrecy sleeve” as instructed, but instead of accepting it and pulling it in ala a dollar bill into a vending machine, the machine beeped and rejected my ballot, giving me an error message of some kind. I motioned to Vivian and she came over to the machine. I explained what happened and she asked me, “Well, did you fill it out right?” Now, I don’t want to imply that I am a genius, but in our precinct we had over 1100 ballots cast. Of that number, only TWO people “spoiled” their ballot or “messed it up badly enough to need a new one” (this doesn’t count the one person who’s baby actually threw up in the voting booth and literally spoiled a ballot for what may very well be a historical first. I really hope I can find an Election Historian who can verify this for me). So even though I was rushed through the process, I was pretty sure that my ballot was fine. I finally just took it back to my assigned workstation with me and hid it under my chair, hoping I would find the time to look it over and recast it.

When the machine also rejected the first voter’s finished ballot, I felt vindicated. Of course that also meant that we were in a predicament considering the biggest piece of equipment in the place was not working. I had not been prepared in Election School for the possibility of a complete mutiny should our station, right at the start, have to shut down due to technical difficulties. Crisis was thankfully averted when Stephanie realized that the key used to start the machine had not been turned all the way. “Well, did you fill it out right?” Shut up, Vivian.

So here’s the basic set up in the assembly-line style voter procedures: Station #1 was where voters filled out their name and address on an “application to vote,” a little slip of paper about the size of a magazine subscription card. At Station #2 voters showed their ID and were looked up in the Precinct list to make sure they were actually listed. Station #3 had two people, one with an “A-L” list of Precinct voters, and one with an “M-Z” list. At this station, voters gave their application to vote, and that voter was then looked up in the book. The voter name was then highlighted, and a corresponding sticker next to their entry that also had their name on it, was taken out of the book and, along with the application to vote, was passed on to Station #4. At Station #4, the ballot number and voter number were assigned, recorded into a book next to the voter’s name sticker, and the ballot and voter number were written on their application to vote. This now completed application to vote was then passed along to Station #5 where the application was checked against the number on the ballot before the voter would be handed said ballot and told to choose any open voting booth. After the person voted, they took their ballot to Station #6 where the stub was removed, and they were instructed in the ways of feeding their ballot into the machine. After they managed to do this successfully, they stopped by Station #7 and exchanged their application to vote for an “I Voted” sticker. If this sounds unnecessarily complicated to you, then it is obvious that you hate Democracy and should move to Amsterdam where they love Socialist heathens like you.

So where was I in this line up? I spent the better part of 15 hours highlighting voter names and peeling stickers out of the “M-Z” book with Rose doing the same for “A-L.” Really, if somebody wanted to take a look at the above process and make some quick changes to streamline, I have no doubt that my sticker-peeling, highlighting ass would be the first one downsized. Nonetheless, I did my job as quickly and efficiently as I could and really had few issues.

Stephanie, the Democratic chair, was right next to me at Station #4, so should any questions arise, she could answer them. One such instance came up when a man pointed to his wife’s name in my book and said, “My wife passed away a little while ago. How do I get her name off the voter list?” I, of course, was not taught this in Election School, but seeing as I wanted to help offered that he could contact the City Clerk when he had a moment and they should be able to easily accommodate this request. Stephanie, overhearing this part of the conversation looks up and says, “He needs his wife taken off the list? Okay – just circle it in the book and write DIED.” Thankfully the pained expression on the man’s face was fleeting – as we were very busy – and he was shuffled along to the next station to get his ballot.

So it went the whole day long – look the name up, highlight it, take the sticker out of the book, pass it down… Most everybody was really nice and thanked us for our service. To this Stephanie would reply, “Oh, we’re getting paid for this!” which I found mortifying. Because, considering how hodge-podge our operation was, the types of hang ups, mistakes and lack of information was pretty forgivable should we just be a group of bumbling volunteers. But once it’s known we are receiving actual cash dollars to be that disorganized, that’s when people become judgmental and irritated. Also, after working a 15 hour day with barely a 15 minute break the whole time, I totally earned my $7.40 an hour, damn it.

After the last voter had finally left, my last task of the day was to go through all the write-in ballots and see if any of them were legitimate. Most people don’t realize this, but in order to be a valid write-in candidate, you have to actually file a Declaration of Intent with the appropriate officials before a certain deadline. This is, I guess, what keeps us from the possibility that election results could, for instance, force Detroit Piston Tayshaun Prince off the basketball court and into the Oakland County Commissioner’s office as one of my Precinct’s voters apparently wanted. The only valid write-ins were two people I had not heard of for President (and Ron Paul was NOT on the list as a valid write in, which I am sure will make the two people who voted for him in my Precinct riot or at least refuse to ever take their fucking Ron Paul signs down) and one person I had never heard of for the OCC Board of Trustees or some other such thing nobody cares about.

By the time I got home, I was completely exhausted. While the rest of the country was glued to the TV watching the results come in for this historic election, I was unconscious by 10:30pm. A friend I have not talked to in forever called me at 11:15 to share her excitement, and when, jerked out of a deep sleep, I incoherently answered the phone she said, “Whoo hoo! Obama did it! We finally have… hey wait, um, were you asleep?”

How old people do poll work is beyond me. I think it proves that elderly pollworkers indeed have secret powers, and that I must continue on down the pollworking path so that I can learn what they are. My experience has made clear that, despite their best intentions, Democracy must be pried from the exclusive hands of the elderly. Indeed, the civic duty wealth needs to be spread around regardless of what that dumb ass “Joe the Plumber” has to say about it.

But where the President is never black, female or gay… or: On the eve of my debut as a pollworker

For four years, I’ve been thinking about what I could do to “make a difference” on Election Day 2008. The day that George W. Bush was declared the winner of the 2004 election was a very sad day for me. I had just one month before moved across the country to the “red state” of North Carolina, hadn’t really had a chance to make any friends in my new home, and was still several months away from being let in on the fact that my marriage was failing. Sure Kerry had run a lackluster campaign, was from the liberal homosexual-marrying state of Massachusetts and (worst of all!) looked “French.” But considering all my other life circumstances, his loss still came as quite a blow. I vowed that in 2008, I’d find my political-volunteerism niche, roll up my sleeves, and work hard for democracy.

So as soon as Barack Obama was the official nominee, I contacted the local campaign HQ to let them know that I would love to volunteer – phone calls, canvassing neighborhoods, delivering home cooked “Oba-meals” to the elderly (this was my idea which I couldn’t wait to pitch to them) – whatever they needed! Apparently the Obama campaign needed no additional help, as nobody ever got back with me. I was a little disheartened by this, but then I got an e-mail from Pollworkers For Democracy asking me to consider being a pollworker. I was immediately struck by the notion. Working the polls would allow me to get an insiders view of the process, work hard for my community, AND learn skills that apparently only old people know. If patriotism means anything, it is having the courage to learn the secret abilities of ancient election workers before they perish. Because when they die, they’ll be taking their secret knowledge with them, and leaving as their legacy the nomination of Betty White as president for life forever, the end. Plus being a pollworker meant I could make jokes about working at a strip club (Ha! Get it? It’s funny!).

Unlike the Obama campaign, the City of Ferndale responded to my request, and ultimately hired me as an election worker. Now, I say hired, because being an election worker is a paid position. I was informed via a letter notifying me of my appointment that: “Compensation for Election workers is $7.40 per hour.” In other words, the outcome of every election rests on the shoulders of (mostly very old) people making less than a Shift Manager at Taco Bell. God Bless America.

In addition to my hours spent at the polls on Election Day, I was also informed that I would need to attend a four-hour training session dubbed “Election School” prior to the big day. The importance of said session was explained thusly: “Because the training class is very important for the success of this election, if you do not attend Election School, you will not be able to work.” The letter went on to say that I would be paid $5.00 for attendance at Election School. Considering all the sessions were scheduled for 9am to 12pm or 1pm to 4pm, those willing and able to work the polls had to either be unemployed or stupid enough to miss half a day of work to make five dollars. (I hope I’m not the only one who feels uneasy about this situation.)

After notifying my boss that I would need to take half a day off, I started to wonder what Election School would be like. The cynic in me expected it to take place in a cafeteria-like room, led by a frazzled, overworked city employee, and populated by a sea of sexa, septa, and octogenarians in holiday themed sweaters, orthopedic walk-for-life footwear and the strained facial expression of somebody who can only hear every third word or so clearly. Also knitting. Somebody would be knitting. But on the other hand, I was just being stereotypical, right?

The day of Election School I walked into a cafeteria-like room at the local community center and was greeted by a frazzled city worker who was trying to get photocopied Election Day information into the hands of about 18 people. By the most conservative of estimates, at least 11 of those people were sexa, septa, or octogenarians – three of which had on Halloween themed sweaters (one was a vest), most wore orthopedic walk-for-life footwear and all wore the strained facial expression of somebody who can only hear every third word or so clearly. And yes, a lady was knitting. I never knew my inner cynic could be so eerily, prophetically correct.

As a newbie, I grabbed a seat, dutifully opened my notebook and poised my pencil to start taking notes. After all, I had never done this before and there was a lot of information to parse in the course of four hours! I must keep up and learn the Election Day secret powers! Not only will I need to learn the whole darn process, but what about challengers, protesters, new voting equipment, ID requirements… so much to learn! But I was ready. As I waited for something of substance to be stated so I could write it down, I started to read over the “Opening and Closing the Polls” checklist we had been handed. Automarks… stubbs… tabulators… PCMCIA card slot seals… so much new and totally confusing terminology! What in the hell does this all mean? How do old people understand these words and I don’t?

Over the course of our four hour training, I never got much in the way of definitions or explanations for these odd sounding whosits and whatsits. The one thing I did learn was (and I quote) “The automark will take ballots of any orientation, but bottom end first is best because the bottom is smooth.” (Democracy is kinky!) By listening closely to the woman leading the training, and subsequently to the questions and concerns voiced by the seasoned veterans amongst my group, I did learn some very valuable tips and got to better understand the priorities of the average election worker. For instance, we were told to “dress nice” and that we were “not to wear sandals.” Should an illiterate person be bold enough to attempt voting, “illiteracy counts as a disability, so that person would be allowed to bring their own help as long as said helper isn’t their employer or labor union leader.” Challengers were allowed into the polling place, but with stipulations – they can only challenge with “good reason, not all willy-nilly.” On several occasions, complicated questions were answered with some version of, “I don’t think we need to get into that,” or “That’ll just confuse the voters.”

The training ended with our facilitator saying, “I’m sure it’s all clear as mud at this point” and then asking if we had any final questions. Yes, I thought, I have several, but let’s start with, “Can we have an Election School do over please?” I decided this question wouldn’t go over too well with a woman who had already jokingly asked one of the more vocal Election School participants if she could “go ahead and teach the next session so I can have a three martini lunch.” So I remained silent. Two other hands shot up though – the first question coming from somebody concerned about how busy we’d be and if we’d “be allowed to have snacks at the table.” Apparently her only concern about the expected record voter turn out related to how many granola bars she should pack. Yes, she was told, you can have snacks – just be discrete. The second question came from one of the appointed Chairs. Surely this would be a worthwhile question that would give me a bit of needed insight before I headed out the door. “Since we’re using the voter name stickers this year instead of writing them in the voter log, will we still be using highlighters?” I didn’t even bother to wait around for the answer – after all, I needed to run to the grocery store to stock up on granola bars so I would be ready for Democracy-In-Action. Look out Election Day – here I come!

I am an insect and I must confess I'm very proud of that...

Here is the most disgusting product warning I believe I've ever read. It has not been corrected for spelling or grammar:

"Do not eat the culture media as it contains all natural ingredients it has not been kept refrigerated and may cause illness in humans if consumed plus the uncooked yeast used can cause sever bloating and gastric pains."

My sister in law recently purchased the product for which this warning was written. It is a plastic tub crawling with wingless fruit flies. The "culture media" refers to the light tannish goopy environment which I am assuming provides both home and nourishment to the fruit fly community. How any person on earth, even the most severely and tragically retarded, could look at this container and think, "I will eat this" is so far past my comprehension it gives me a headache to contemplate it. But I recognize the need to put warnings on virtually everything sold in this country considering our society's litigious nature. After all, this is America. If your vacuum doesn't include the explicit warning "Do not have sex with me," you should be able to sue Hoover for millions when your penis gets stuck in the hose causing permanent scaring from second degree burns. So I guess it carries over that if your "waste not, want not" philosophy is so rigid that you just can't waste good yeast – even unrefrigerated yeast that fruit flies have been living in – well, damn it, you are owed a monetary reward for your "sever bloating and gastric pains" if it wasn't made clear by the company that this would be the consequence of your actions. It's about freedom.

The fruit flies were purchased in conjunction with three baby praying mantis' (manti?). These were delivered to the house last week via Priority Mail. I came home from work and was greeted with, "Guess what Stacy got in the mail?" as my sister held up two small boxes. She then opened the first box and took out the fruit fly container. I assumed that whatever Stacy had ordered (some sort of bread mix?) this could not be the condition she expected to receive her wares in. "This is food," D'Anne told me, "for these guys." She then opened the second box and took out a little solo cup with a lid – the kind you get your dressing in when you order it on the side – which held a little baby praying mantis. "Stacy ordered these as pets for her classroom. She mentioned they might come today, but I have no instructions and have no idea what to do with them. I told her they're here and to come home immediately." D'Anne is no insect fan.

Since their sole purpose is to be praying mantis food, feeding time for the fruit fly community must be akin to a random, chaotic, large-scale mass kidnapping by an enormous "human creature." One minute you're playing racquetball at the fruit fly community center, and the next thing you know, the lid comes off your city and a giant hand starts plucking your neighbors off – seemingly at random – one by one. Where they go, you have no idea, but despite the nice amenities, after the second attack it is getting hard to relax at Shady Yeast. There are rumors sure, but nothing has been substantiated. There's an asinine theory that the abducted flies are being transplanted in groups of about 20 into a new community that is a little smaller and less yeasty than their homeland, and that this new contained environment also includes a "predator" who then hunts the captives for sport and food. Although the theory has gained some traction, many of the flies dismiss it as "liberal propaganda." "Sure," they say, "and next you're going to tell me it's all part of an inside job and our government knows about it. I mean, why would a human creature want to help a predator insect creature? That doesn't make any sense – there's just no motive!"

Despite the lack of information and a heightened sense of anxiety and suspicion, the flies do their best to go about their daily activities at the urging of their leader. "They can't stop our flying or stop our buying - and if we let them, then the giant handed terrorists have won." It was then pointed out to the fruit fly president that they were a wingless breed and therefore could not fly to begin with. Unfortunately at that exact moment, the human hand struck again and the president fly was one of the citizens to disappear. The vice-fly was hurriedly sworn in, and as his first official act of office told the assembled throng to "go fuck themselves" and then turned and shot his elderly fly-friend in the face.

Thank goodness fruit files have a 20 to 30 day life span and their new political situation, though brutish, will be short.

I am now a central part of your mind's landscape...

My sister and her partner were in Florida this week, and while they were out of town, I decided it would be a good idea to mow the lawn. It's been raining a lot lately, so the grass has gotten pretty long. Nobody likes to come home from vacation to find their house looks abandoned. Recognizing that by the time they got back it would be hard to distinguish our yard from the yards of the foreclosed homes around us, I penciled in Saturday afternoon as grass cutting time.

Along with her abhorrence for plastic water bottles and her desire to compost virtually all household garbage, including dryer lint, my sister rounds out her Earth-friendly lesbian way of life by owning one of those old school, elbow grease powered push mowers. It is the exact type of lawnmower you'd expect to see Handy Smurf using to spruce up the landscaping of Smurf Village. I had yet to use this charming little mower, and was even somewhat looking forward to what my sister described as "a little work out while you mow."

My guess is that in order to get this "little work out" the grass has to be tackled before it's "we're-about-to-put-a-car-up-on- blocks-y'all!" length. Once it's this long, there is no "little work out," only a frenzy of erratic, desperate pushes and pulls as the mower gets caught in a jungle-like growth of healthy well-watered greenery. I am not an overly self-conscious person, but recognizing that this particular mower looks feeble and antiquated on the best of days, fighting over and over to get the blade wheel to make a full rotation was anxious-making enough for me to feel my face flush even in the presence of the neighbor children. I felt certain they were starting as they went by on scooters and skate boards, all the while wondering, "What's wrong with that lady? Why doesn't she get a real lawn mower?" As a child, I distinctly remember thinking the two elderly ladies who lived next door to us were weird because they had a lawnmower that was bright orange and had a cord that plugged into a socket, so it's no stretch that these kids saw this display as equally odd and suspicious.

I vowed to finish the job, even though I had quickly decided that I might have an easier time with a basic pair of scissors. But it was already looking like it might start raining, and I really wanted D'Anne and Stacy to come home to a freshly mowed lawn. Thankfully, their yard is fairly small and I'm fairly stubborn. I started to do my jerky "push and pull" (which was strenuous enough I had to at times stop myself from audibly grunting - audibly grunting being something I pride myself on not usually partaking in) and I bumped into the trunk of the small tree in front of the house. I thought nothing of it, but a few seconds later heard a loud insect buzz by my ear, followed a second or two later by two more buzzes in quick succession in my other ear, and what felt like six or seven slight taps on my head. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a softball sized hive in a low branch of the little tree I'd just bumped. My brain took just long enough to send the signal to my feet: "Run!! It's bees!" I don't have a lot of experience being attacked by a swarm of angry bees so I don't know if running like hell is the best method. I'm not very "outdoorsy" and the only other "how to protect yourself in case of an attack" information that I vaguely know about is "if a bear approaches you in the woods, lie down and pretend to be dead." I don't even know if this is true or if it'll work. Either way, something tells me that this advice doesn't transfer from bear to bees and would be quite disastrous and akin to giving up if applied to the latter instance. Even if running like hell is the recommended "how to survive when an angry swarm attacks" advice, I don't know how helpful or effective, in addition to the running, my cry of, "What the fuck? What the fuck? WHAT THE FUCK?!" was. I fell to my knees a few houses away stunned and relieved when I realized I somehow avoided being stung even once. I looked up to see the neighbor children were, for certain this time, staring at me. I am sure I'll be remembered as "the lady with the weird lawnmower who suddenly started running down the street yelling the f-word and waving her hands in the air for no reason." Fantastic.

Welcome back D'Anne and Stacy! I'm sure by now you've noticed just how shoddy a job I did on the lawn. Maybe ask one of the neighbor children next time.

When your gift unfurls, when your talent becomes apparent...

Gift registries are stressful. For starters I admit to being a bit ambivalent toward buying people presents they have picked out themselves. Add to that the stress of trying to make sense of the printed registry as you navigate your way around what is typically a huge box store. I have a hard enough time just finding the basic things I buy on a regular basis at a big “we sell everything” store. Things like peanut butter and toothbrushes are never where I'd expect them to be. Now in accordance with the wishes of somebody I presumably want to make happy, I have to track down the exact make and model of things I have never given a second glance at such places – pizza pans, waffle makers, suede throw pillows.

My friend Karin is getting married to a great guy named Dave, and the shower is coming up. As in, the shower is tomorrow. Like a total a-hole I realized just yesterday evening that I hadn't RSVP'd yet, OR purchased a gift, though I have had ample time to do both. So when toxic adhesive fumes left me feeling faint and nauseous at work today and I was ordered to go home early, I took the opportunity to stop at Target where they are registered and get them a shower gift like a good friend.

I don't know if it was the fumes (I am thinking it was the fumes), but as I made my way around the store I'll be damned if I could find anything on their list. I came close several times – some huge knife that was the same brand and size, but the registry indicated red, and this was clearly black. I found the pizza pans and thought I was done, but no – they seemed to have every size larger and smaller than the ones on my blue printed page. What the hell is a "scent diffuser stick holder?" Fuck if I know, but the sheet said I would find it in aisle B8 and I was getting desperate and feeling sick to my stomach. I found the "diffuser section" but none of the odd scented sticks matched the dreaded registry code. I scanned the sheet again and saw "Buddha pillar holder" as something that could be found in aisle B9 and therefore should be directly behind me. I turn around slowly for fear that any sudden movements might scare it off. Luck is apparently on my side and I easily locate it. It is a fairly ample Buddha statue holding a saucer for a candle. There is only one in stock and it is bigger and heavier than I expected. I put it in my plastic basket and feel the handle bend under its weight and head for the check out. Whew! Present found!

When I take it up to the register, I ask the sales woman to double check and make sure it's the exact thing they registered for. "It seems like their taste," I say to her, "But I just want to make sure." She looks at the statue and while glancing at the registry says, "How old are they?" Which I think is an odd question. It's not like I'm purchasing his n' hers Dora the Explorer and Go! Diego Go! kick scooters. This is clearly a decorative piece that an engaged couple might display in their home. "They're both about thirty," I say. She responds, "Okay that's on the list... I mean if it's their style that's fine. I wouldn't want Buddha in my house, you know?" I am not sure if this is meant as a simple comment on taste differences or an anti-Buddhist affront, but I decide it's best to let it go. I don't realize until I get home that in my haste and confusion I have not purchased a wedding shower card. Nor have I abided by the shower’s “garden theme:” I was to bring some seeds or flowers as well as a gift. Luckily, my sister has a great collection of all occasion cards, and I find a cute tasteful one, blank inside, with a little girl holding a heart on the front. I fill it out:

Karin and Dave –
Best wishes and congratulations to you both.
Take care of each other.
I'm sorry I wrapped your gift like a retard.
xxoo,
Laura

Because I have wrapped their gift like a retard. And I feel my best defense is to come clean about it right here in the card. It would be worse if they thought I was under the impression that the gift looked really nice. I'm not a great present wrapper, but usually I do okay. But this odd shaped statue-thing just did not lend itself to an easy wrapping job. I found a giant gift bag among my sister's ample arsenal of wrapping supplies – one of only two that looked big enough. It pictures a white rabbit riding a carrot through a blue, partially cloudy sky. I am assuming it is Easter related. My only other choice was one with babies on it, and it seems far more inappropriate to bring that to a wedding shower than one with a carrot rocket riding Easter bunny. After all, with the baby bag I'm either saying, "Now that yer hitched, bring on the baby makin!" or "What kind of shower was this again?"

In my defense, I did find some floral printed wrapping paper – which I wrapped the Buddha in much like a fish stand merchant might wrap a striped bass down at the wharf. I then stuff pink and silver tissue paper in the bag to cushion the present. I feel that despite my lackluster presentation, I'm at least in line with the theme thanks to the flower paper, and the contents, no matter how oddly sized and badly wrapped, is something they very much wanted to have. And that's got to count as much as the thought, right? Let's hope so...

Congratulations Karin and Dave! Aren't you glad you're friends with the likes of me?