Yard Sign Catharsis

I just chanced upon a blog of greetings for President Clinton. Of course, he will never see this, but for some reason I felt compelled to put down a few sentences. Unconsciously, I think it was a reenactment my Election Day ritual.

Just as my post will not affect President Clinton, my holding up yard signs on a street corner on Election Day will not affect any votes. However, the exhilaration I feel standing at the intersection of two busy downtown streets while pumping signs in the air and waving, was a complete shock to me the first time I did it. I have been making Election Day a holiday for myself and doing it ever since.

It is cold on an early November morning (at least it is in Denver and Ohio where I have done this; in Denver, however, it is sunny). You show up at a street corner. The first time I did it I was assigned to a corner by my pimp; I mean my party. Since then I have learned that you can just show up wherever the hell you want. I always meet new people, from all parts of the political spectrum, who I know must be feeling the same way. When you stand next to a kindred soul and a person drives by and points at you and honks or gives a thumbs-up, as trite and ridiculous as it sounds, it sends an electric shock of pride through you. You feel freedom. You are democracy.

I want to be in Thailand again. Now.

Tomatoes, Chive Oil, and Slugs

I made tomato confit with chive oil tonight. It's a recipe from the French Laundry cookbook. If you are a foodie and do not have this cookbook, get it. The most succinct review I can give it is to quote an unknown reviewer: "porn for chefs." It takes about 4 hours to make these tiny rounds of minced oven-rendered tomato, shallot, and chives. The master stroke for me is the chive-infused oil which is drizzled on the plate where the composed confit will sit.

I have a small herb garden with rosemary, lavender, chives, sage, tarragon, oregano, fennel, lovage, borage, thyme, basil, lemon balm, mint (several varieties), marjoram, and burnet. Slugs are a pestilence.

I just had to get away from the cleaning saga for a bit today.

Well, we're movin' on up II: Season of the Witch

Stop. Be sure to read the exciting prologue to this posting or you will regret it as much as much as hearing the "secret" in "The Sixth Sense" before seeing it. Actually, that was obvious. It's more like.... Why do I feel the need to make comparisons about everything? Metaphors, similes, like, as though, as if, kinda sorta. Moving onward toward the chilling conclusion.

So I took the smarmy, noisome bastard to court. And I subpoenaed his heinous handmaiden, too.

I walked across the grounds of the Ohio statehouse knowing that justice would be done. Several blocks south, I arrived at the courtroom. My heart was pounding. I suddenly realized that as much as I wanted justice, I wanted them not to show up. Is forfeit justice? Then they turned the corner. You couldn't miss them.

Homer, was walrus-like and lumbering; the trashy old "perk" perpetrator with her Sunday dentures in and her one pair of polyester pants that weren't pilled in the crotch. These people were the embodiment of white trash. I don't take that term lightly since my likely lineage is such. Accordingly, when I say white trash I don't denigrate based on net worth or appearance, but rather on the mendacity and entitlement flaunted by the unaware, disengaged luddites who consider only themselves. They consume without conscience. They confabulate as easily as they breathe.

Well, we're movin' on up.

Some crackhead stole my clothes from the vestibule of my dry cleaner. Sadly, this is not the first time I, the law, and the laundry industry have met at a crossroads.

Many years ago I lived in a dark, barren land called Columbus, Ohio. I kid Columbus. Actually, we had many good times there. One cold day I took a linen bed cap to this dry cleaner. Classic Cleaners, I think, was the name. It came back with a four foot long brown stain from top left to bottom right. The woman who returned it to me said that it was likely from something she pronounced as "perk." Educated as I am now in the ways of the dry cleaner, I now know that this "perk" is the key chemical used in dry cleaning, and that when mixed with water, it can cause stains. I requested a reclean.

Reclean complete. Stain still there. Repeat.

Stain still there. At this point the classically debonair owner of said Classic Cleaners (his name was Homer) refused to perform another recleaning. When confronted with the words of his own employee re: the "perk," he told me without hesitation or shame that my cat must have made the stain. His suggestion was that we have the comforter tested for urine (at my expense), and if it was not in fact cat urine, he would do another recleaning. Blood rushing to my face, I heatedly explained that a cat has neither the capacity nor the dexterity to piss about a gallon over a four foot straight line. Also, it didn't smell. This fell on deaf ears; this meant war.

I always knew I'd make it big.