Before any one of us was born, before there was such a thing as an organized war protest, and -- miraculously -- before the invention of FedEx, there was The Soldiers' and Sailors' Thanksgiving of 1864.
It's a great article, and it contains a link to a wonderful website that each and every one of you should visit.
Happy Thanksgiving to all of you, for whom I am deeply grateful.
Wednesday, November 24, 2004
Sunday, November 21, 2004
Once in my (Earthly) Lifetime
One of the things I love about living in L.A. is that in one weekend, you can have a number of vastly different experiences.
Friday night I went to an incomprehensible performance art piece comprised of naked people and electricity. The usual crowd was in attendance, the usual conversation filled the air. A bunch of strangers showed up to see a performance, sat through ninety minutes of...well, you can read my last post...and then went our separate ways, possibly never to see each other again. It was a pretentious and disconnected scene.
Don't get me wrong; it was entertaining in its own special way.
But Saturday night, I went to the Billy Graham Crusade at the Rose Bowl...with about 90,000 other people. My main reason for attending was that I'd never heard the legendary Billy Graham (though he'd object to being called that) speak in person, and seeing as how he's about a thousand years old and everyone is calling this his last crusade in L.A., I figured this would probably be my last shot at the experience.
Since it was a youth-oriented night, the program started with a concert by a few popular Christian bands. Southern rockers Third Day (not just my favorite Christian group, they're one of my favorite groups of all time) sang a few of their particularly well-known hits. And, well, they're worship songs that a lot of churches have kind of co-opted for use in their own services, so a lot of people knew them.
Ever heard 90,000 people singing at once? Okay, if you were at the Depeche Mode "101" Rose Bowl show in 1988, you probably came close -- but Billy Graham actually had more seats filled. And what an amazing sound that was, 90,000 people singing to God.
Dr. Graham's message was simple, and people responded to it. Thousands of people.
We all went our separate ways after the show, too, just like the night before. But as the crowds streamed out of the stadium on the way back to the parking area, I thought to myself how strange and beautiful it is that I will see most of these people again, eventually.
Friday night I went to an incomprehensible performance art piece comprised of naked people and electricity. The usual crowd was in attendance, the usual conversation filled the air. A bunch of strangers showed up to see a performance, sat through ninety minutes of...well, you can read my last post...and then went our separate ways, possibly never to see each other again. It was a pretentious and disconnected scene.
Don't get me wrong; it was entertaining in its own special way.
But Saturday night, I went to the Billy Graham Crusade at the Rose Bowl...with about 90,000 other people. My main reason for attending was that I'd never heard the legendary Billy Graham (though he'd object to being called that) speak in person, and seeing as how he's about a thousand years old and everyone is calling this his last crusade in L.A., I figured this would probably be my last shot at the experience.
Since it was a youth-oriented night, the program started with a concert by a few popular Christian bands. Southern rockers Third Day (not just my favorite Christian group, they're one of my favorite groups of all time) sang a few of their particularly well-known hits. And, well, they're worship songs that a lot of churches have kind of co-opted for use in their own services, so a lot of people knew them.
Ever heard 90,000 people singing at once? Okay, if you were at the Depeche Mode "101" Rose Bowl show in 1988, you probably came close -- but Billy Graham actually had more seats filled. And what an amazing sound that was, 90,000 people singing to God.
Dr. Graham's message was simple, and people responded to it. Thousands of people.
We all went our separate ways after the show, too, just like the night before. But as the crowds streamed out of the stadium on the way back to the parking area, I thought to myself how strange and beautiful it is that I will see most of these people again, eventually.
Saturday, November 20, 2004
Hooray for Electric Nudity
Did the title suck you in? Thought so. Let me set the scene for you:
Last night Amy and I go to see a...piece of performance art?...called "Modern Prometheus LLC," perpetrated by L.A.-based group Osseus Labyrint. I'm not typically one to pay for an event of this sort, because hey -- as a theater major, I saw plenty of it in college for free. And I've been known to make my own performance art right here at home, which is also free and far more entertaining. But since the event is taking place on our stage at New Deal, we get comp tickets.
It's difficult to describe, really. The premise is that this company, (Modern Prometheus LLC), is holding a demonstration for its potential investors (the audience). They've created "human analogues" which are "built from the atom up." Modern Prometheus LLC has "enabled humans to become the first species to acquire control of its own evolution through artificial selection."
Amy and I know, going in, basically what the evening is going to hold. Everything Osseus Labyrint does involves the two main performers being naked and hairless, doing a fair amount of writhing to otherworldly sounds against a visually interesting backdrop. But it's so creepy and freakish and (uhh, mostly) androgynous, there's really nothing overtly sexual about it. We are expecting modern dance in the extreme. We've also been told that the harsh, industrial set includes giant functioning Tesla coils, and some nifty arcing electricity. The generator for the coils is so loud, we have been told, that our stage manager "recommends ear plugs."
Naked hairless dancing people and electricity. Okay then.
So we get there early because it's general seating, but no one has yet given the comp list to the will call table. So we do what any well-connected people in Hollywood would do: we go around to the back entrance to find the people we know, and they let us in, and we grab the best (?) seats in the house. Unfortunately, this does mean that we miss part of the atmosphere of the show. Apparently, some "employees" of Modern Prometheus LLC are taking inner-cheek-swab DNA samples from random people in line (these same "employees" then hawk the DNA samples along with Osseus Labyrint t-shirts after the show, stating you can either buy back your own DNA or someone else's).
The usual artsy L.A. crowd filters in: the young hipsters; the moneyed sophisticates reeking of pre-show sushi and sake (they do share their Mochi ice cream with us though, which is nice); the creatively pierced art and theater students for whom this is probably required viewing; the artificially tightened old ladies who deem it appropriate to don knee-socks despite their, ahem, maturity; the guy (?) in the floor-length lime green and violet spotted coat seemingly constructed of carpet and/or the kind of stuffed animals you might find in one of those "grappling hook" arcade machines; and one (as Cathy Seipp would put it) "Silverlake Dad" with a cute little nine-year-old girl in tow. The house fills, the lights dim. Kenny, our stage manager, is kind enough to get us some earplugs.
Unfortunately, no one has told us to bring eyeplugs.
I'm going to try to describe this for you...but be warned, as there is virtually no dialogue in the show, the meaning and purpose of the actions I'm describing are purely my own speculation.
First, we're treated to a speech by the Big Brother-esque "CEO" of Modern Prometheus, via talking-head video projected high on the walls. Then "Dr. Pank" (no kidding, I swear) and his other jumpsuit-clad cronies bring out the analogues. One male, one female. Everyone is moving in what seems to be slow motion...slow motion, that is, as interpreted by any number of Jim Henson creations circa 1982. Seriously -- have you seen the Dark Crystal? The Skeksis in particular? (Fellow puppetry nerds will know what I mean.)
Anyway, some jumpsuit guys bring out this handtruck/dolly thing, with the analogues lying on it. Naked and wrapped in Saran wrap. They unwrap the two of them, then hang them by their ankles and move them over to a big metal contraption at center stage, where the analogues start figuring out how to move their arms and shoulders, et cetera. Then they're dipped into this...liquid? gel?...presumably to wash them. Because now they're wet and shiny.
Still hanging by their ankles, the analogues are lowered into a mobile vat of some sort. They're unhooked and the hatch of the vat is closed on them. My best guess is that it's a giant dryer, because after the vat shakes back and forth for a seemingly interminable period of time, the analogues are removed, and suddenly they're dry. (Of course, all I can think during this seemingly interminable period of time is "If the vat is rockin', don't bother knockin'..." and I try my best not to crack myself up laughing. I look over at Amy for a brief moment, who is subtly using her hand to "knock" on the bleacher seat between us.)
Then the analogues are removed and placed on the floor, where they're zapped (no joke) with electric prods here and there to stimulate muscle movement. More "hey look, I can move this part of my body" discovery. Aaaaaaaaagonizingly slowwwwwww discovery.
Then they're hung by their heads for no discernible reason. For a long time.
Suddenly, things take an interesting turn. The jumpsuit Skeksis wheel out this little round metal table, with three metal stools placed around it. The doctor takes a seat. Slowly and awkwardly, each analogue makes its way to one of the other stools and situates itself. The doctor "teaches" them facial expressions.
Then some other jumpsuit guy brings out a tray with a decanter full of blue-green liquid and three shot glasses. At this point I become suspicious, and rightfully so...because the analogues then proceed to learn how to get drunk, dance awkwardly and hook up.
By the time the female analogue gives birth to a ball bearing, dropping it from her nether regions into a giant metal wok, I'm pretty much done. I have a fleeting pang of sympathy for the performers when that moment brings some muffled and probably unintended laughter from the audience, but then return my pity focus to those who have spent $35 on a ticket to the birth of a ball bearing.
And believe it or not, it actually goes downhill from there in terms of anything that will hold my interest. There's more floor-writhing, more mid-air hanging-by-my-head business, and some lighting cues that suggest the analogues are receiving/growing/building/whatever their internal organs. Not quite sure why the climax (uh, sorry) of the show isn't the actual birth scene, as that seems to be the logical conclusion of the "we've created life" scenario, am I right? Toward the end, there seems to be a vague hint at something gone awry, but whatever it is, is undecipherable -- at least to anyone as ready to get the heck outta there as I am.
The electricity at the end isn't even very exciting. Based on what I've heard, I am expecting things to get all Dr. Frankenstein. Lemme tell ya, Dr. Pank is no Dr. Frankenstein. Tesla coil, zippity-zap, whoop-de-doo.
Fleeing for our lives at the end of the show lest someone actually ask our opinion, Amy and I seal ourselves safely in her car before the inevitable commentary begins...and it occurs to me: somewhere in L.A. tonight, there is a very disturbed nine-year-old girl. Scarred for life, I'll wager.
I know I am.
Last night Amy and I go to see a...piece of performance art?...called "Modern Prometheus LLC," perpetrated by L.A.-based group Osseus Labyrint. I'm not typically one to pay for an event of this sort, because hey -- as a theater major, I saw plenty of it in college for free. And I've been known to make my own performance art right here at home, which is also free and far more entertaining. But since the event is taking place on our stage at New Deal, we get comp tickets.
It's difficult to describe, really. The premise is that this company, (Modern Prometheus LLC), is holding a demonstration for its potential investors (the audience). They've created "human analogues" which are "built from the atom up." Modern Prometheus LLC has "enabled humans to become the first species to acquire control of its own evolution through artificial selection."
Amy and I know, going in, basically what the evening is going to hold. Everything Osseus Labyrint does involves the two main performers being naked and hairless, doing a fair amount of writhing to otherworldly sounds against a visually interesting backdrop. But it's so creepy and freakish and (uhh, mostly) androgynous, there's really nothing overtly sexual about it. We are expecting modern dance in the extreme. We've also been told that the harsh, industrial set includes giant functioning Tesla coils, and some nifty arcing electricity. The generator for the coils is so loud, we have been told, that our stage manager "recommends ear plugs."
Naked hairless dancing people and electricity. Okay then.
So we get there early because it's general seating, but no one has yet given the comp list to the will call table. So we do what any well-connected people in Hollywood would do: we go around to the back entrance to find the people we know, and they let us in, and we grab the best (?) seats in the house. Unfortunately, this does mean that we miss part of the atmosphere of the show. Apparently, some "employees" of Modern Prometheus LLC are taking inner-cheek-swab DNA samples from random people in line (these same "employees" then hawk the DNA samples along with Osseus Labyrint t-shirts after the show, stating you can either buy back your own DNA or someone else's).
The usual artsy L.A. crowd filters in: the young hipsters; the moneyed sophisticates reeking of pre-show sushi and sake (they do share their Mochi ice cream with us though, which is nice); the creatively pierced art and theater students for whom this is probably required viewing; the artificially tightened old ladies who deem it appropriate to don knee-socks despite their, ahem, maturity; the guy (?) in the floor-length lime green and violet spotted coat seemingly constructed of carpet and/or the kind of stuffed animals you might find in one of those "grappling hook" arcade machines; and one (as Cathy Seipp would put it) "Silverlake Dad" with a cute little nine-year-old girl in tow. The house fills, the lights dim. Kenny, our stage manager, is kind enough to get us some earplugs.
Unfortunately, no one has told us to bring eyeplugs.
I'm going to try to describe this for you...but be warned, as there is virtually no dialogue in the show, the meaning and purpose of the actions I'm describing are purely my own speculation.
First, we're treated to a speech by the Big Brother-esque "CEO" of Modern Prometheus, via talking-head video projected high on the walls. Then "Dr. Pank" (no kidding, I swear) and his other jumpsuit-clad cronies bring out the analogues. One male, one female. Everyone is moving in what seems to be slow motion...slow motion, that is, as interpreted by any number of Jim Henson creations circa 1982. Seriously -- have you seen the Dark Crystal? The Skeksis in particular? (Fellow puppetry nerds will know what I mean.)
Anyway, some jumpsuit guys bring out this handtruck/dolly thing, with the analogues lying on it. Naked and wrapped in Saran wrap. They unwrap the two of them, then hang them by their ankles and move them over to a big metal contraption at center stage, where the analogues start figuring out how to move their arms and shoulders, et cetera. Then they're dipped into this...liquid? gel?...presumably to wash them. Because now they're wet and shiny.
Still hanging by their ankles, the analogues are lowered into a mobile vat of some sort. They're unhooked and the hatch of the vat is closed on them. My best guess is that it's a giant dryer, because after the vat shakes back and forth for a seemingly interminable period of time, the analogues are removed, and suddenly they're dry. (Of course, all I can think during this seemingly interminable period of time is "If the vat is rockin', don't bother knockin'..." and I try my best not to crack myself up laughing. I look over at Amy for a brief moment, who is subtly using her hand to "knock" on the bleacher seat between us.)
Then the analogues are removed and placed on the floor, where they're zapped (no joke) with electric prods here and there to stimulate muscle movement. More "hey look, I can move this part of my body" discovery. Aaaaaaaaagonizingly slowwwwwww discovery.
Then they're hung by their heads for no discernible reason. For a long time.
Suddenly, things take an interesting turn. The jumpsuit Skeksis wheel out this little round metal table, with three metal stools placed around it. The doctor takes a seat. Slowly and awkwardly, each analogue makes its way to one of the other stools and situates itself. The doctor "teaches" them facial expressions.
Then some other jumpsuit guy brings out a tray with a decanter full of blue-green liquid and three shot glasses. At this point I become suspicious, and rightfully so...because the analogues then proceed to learn how to get drunk, dance awkwardly and hook up.
By the time the female analogue gives birth to a ball bearing, dropping it from her nether regions into a giant metal wok, I'm pretty much done. I have a fleeting pang of sympathy for the performers when that moment brings some muffled and probably unintended laughter from the audience, but then return my pity focus to those who have spent $35 on a ticket to the birth of a ball bearing.
And believe it or not, it actually goes downhill from there in terms of anything that will hold my interest. There's more floor-writhing, more mid-air hanging-by-my-head business, and some lighting cues that suggest the analogues are receiving/growing/building/whatever their internal organs. Not quite sure why the climax (uh, sorry) of the show isn't the actual birth scene, as that seems to be the logical conclusion of the "we've created life" scenario, am I right? Toward the end, there seems to be a vague hint at something gone awry, but whatever it is, is undecipherable -- at least to anyone as ready to get the heck outta there as I am.
The electricity at the end isn't even very exciting. Based on what I've heard, I am expecting things to get all Dr. Frankenstein. Lemme tell ya, Dr. Pank is no Dr. Frankenstein. Tesla coil, zippity-zap, whoop-de-doo.
Fleeing for our lives at the end of the show lest someone actually ask our opinion, Amy and I seal ourselves safely in her car before the inevitable commentary begins...and it occurs to me: somewhere in L.A. tonight, there is a very disturbed nine-year-old girl. Scarred for life, I'll wager.
I know I am.
Friday, November 19, 2004
Get Well Soon, Detective
I had a little scare a few days ago. My beloved Vincent D'Onofrio was sent to the hospital after fainting for the second time in a week. The first collapse occurred after rehearsing a strenuous scene for his show "Law & Order: Criminal Intent."
Amy, who thinks this was inevitable, attributes the fainting to "his hotness overwhelming even himself."
Amy, who thinks this was inevitable, attributes the fainting to "his hotness overwhelming even himself."
Thursday, November 04, 2004
An Open Letter to the Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library
Dear Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library,
As I was driving home, I felt a little guilty for blowing you off like that. You see, it's just weird. I'm not used to the "pick-up line" thing, or to random guys asking me out without knowing anything about me, including my name.
Don't get me wrong; part of me is flattered. The fact that you thought enough of my appearance alone was a highlight of this day, on which I had been feeling particularly end-of-a-cold "cloggy" and generally not very attractive. So, I sincerely thank you for the compliment.
But I couldn't deal with the weirdness, the pressure of the moment. I hope you understand that I felt it was my responsibility, knowing that I wasn't interested in actually going on a date with a perfect stranger, to be honest rather than wasting your time with smalltalk that would lead absolutely nowhere. I feel pretty strongly that it's wrong to be a tease, but I hope you didn't take my "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested" as some bitchy "I'm too good for you." Is there any truly non-damaging way to communicate non-interest?
Let's face it. If you knew me better, you probably wouldn't be interested either. It's not because I'm not intelligent, fun, or entertainingly quirky...
...it's mostly because of the celibacy.
And heck, to be honest, if I'd have thought fast enough, I would have played that card and made us both feel a whole lot better about our little "missed connection." But, Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library, you caught me off guard.
So, please accept my apology for any unintended offense. I wish you well. Blessings to you, and good luck out there.
Sincerely,
(Not that you would know this but my name is) Jenny
As I was driving home, I felt a little guilty for blowing you off like that. You see, it's just weird. I'm not used to the "pick-up line" thing, or to random guys asking me out without knowing anything about me, including my name.
Don't get me wrong; part of me is flattered. The fact that you thought enough of my appearance alone was a highlight of this day, on which I had been feeling particularly end-of-a-cold "cloggy" and generally not very attractive. So, I sincerely thank you for the compliment.
But I couldn't deal with the weirdness, the pressure of the moment. I hope you understand that I felt it was my responsibility, knowing that I wasn't interested in actually going on a date with a perfect stranger, to be honest rather than wasting your time with smalltalk that would lead absolutely nowhere. I feel pretty strongly that it's wrong to be a tease, but I hope you didn't take my "I'm sorry, I'm just not interested" as some bitchy "I'm too good for you." Is there any truly non-damaging way to communicate non-interest?
Let's face it. If you knew me better, you probably wouldn't be interested either. It's not because I'm not intelligent, fun, or entertainingly quirky...
...it's mostly because of the celibacy.
And heck, to be honest, if I'd have thought fast enough, I would have played that card and made us both feel a whole lot better about our little "missed connection." But, Guy in the Orange Shirt Who Hit on Me Today at the Huntington Library, you caught me off guard.
So, please accept my apology for any unintended offense. I wish you well. Blessings to you, and good luck out there.
Sincerely,
(Not that you would know this but my name is) Jenny
Wednesday, November 03, 2004
Anchoring the Long Haul
Most of you, I imagine, have the luxury of cable TV. Since I don't, I have to rely on the "big three" for my election returns and commentary. Living on the west coast makes this especially entertaining, because we have the Time Zone Coherency Factor Advantage.
After about midnight PST tonight, when Amy and I began speculating as to whether George Will was the victim of an entire can of AquaNet or simply sportin' a 'piece, the broadcast anchors started falling apart. I remember watching this happen in 2000 as well, and things haven't changed much.
Peter Jennings gets downright pissy. He cuts off his statisticians in mid-sentence, condescends to his people in the field, and tends to smirk when projecting a state in favor of John Kerry. Dan Rather gets a bit punchy. The drawl's a little more pronounced, there's the occasional chuckle, and if you're paying close attention, you might even catch a goofy down-home Texan idiom or two. But my favorite just might be Tom Brokaw, who sounds more with every passing hour as though he's enjoying his own behind-the-anchor-desk electoral college drinking game ("Somebody said 'Too close to call' -- pass the tequila!").
I hope you exercised your rights and voted today. As of this hour, we don't yet have official word on who will be our president for the next four years. We might know in the morning, we might not know for days or weeks. Whatever the outcome, though, I hope you'll join me in respecting the office, and respecting the man who holds that office, regardless of his party affiliation or your own personal feelings. President of the United States is the toughest job in the world, and it's 100% guaranteed to be held by a fallible human being.
(Of course I'm not saying "don't make jokes." Who are you talking to, here, anyway?)
After about midnight PST tonight, when Amy and I began speculating as to whether George Will was the victim of an entire can of AquaNet or simply sportin' a 'piece, the broadcast anchors started falling apart. I remember watching this happen in 2000 as well, and things haven't changed much.
Peter Jennings gets downright pissy. He cuts off his statisticians in mid-sentence, condescends to his people in the field, and tends to smirk when projecting a state in favor of John Kerry. Dan Rather gets a bit punchy. The drawl's a little more pronounced, there's the occasional chuckle, and if you're paying close attention, you might even catch a goofy down-home Texan idiom or two. But my favorite just might be Tom Brokaw, who sounds more with every passing hour as though he's enjoying his own behind-the-anchor-desk electoral college drinking game ("Somebody said 'Too close to call' -- pass the tequila!").
I hope you exercised your rights and voted today. As of this hour, we don't yet have official word on who will be our president for the next four years. We might know in the morning, we might not know for days or weeks. Whatever the outcome, though, I hope you'll join me in respecting the office, and respecting the man who holds that office, regardless of his party affiliation or your own personal feelings. President of the United States is the toughest job in the world, and it's 100% guaranteed to be held by a fallible human being.
(Of course I'm not saying "don't make jokes." Who are you talking to, here, anyway?)
Monday, November 01, 2004
Apologies, Maladies & Awards
Please forgive my recent blog hiatus. During periods of unemployment, my inner slavedriver kicks in and prevents me from doing "fun" things, like writing or reading or...well, anything that isn't directly related to pounding the virtual pavement for my next steady gig...or, apparently, cleaning my apartment.
But it's past midnight on this chilly October Sunday night/November Monday morning, and owing to the raging headcold that has sucked the life out of a potentially fun-filled Halloween weekend, I am still conscious. My muscles, it seems, are angry: "NO MORE BED!!!" Apparently, there's only so much sleep a girl can take.
While a head full of mucus typically renders most non-Kleenex-and-drug-related thoughts vastly unimportant, I have managed to find humor in a little game Amy and I play during election time. It's called "The Riordan Award." You fellow Californians, and some non-Cali lovers of politics, may remember former Los Angeles mayor Richard Riordan's campaign for governor in the recent ousting of Gray Davis (which brought the title of Governator to our beloved Ahnold).
Well, it seems good ol' Dick Riordan really wanted our vote, because we received more phonecalls from him than from anyone we knew in real life. Seriously, when two of the three messages on your answering machine are recorded messages from the candidate -- and the third is from his wife -- it's a heated campaign. So we've created this dubious award to honor the candidate, not restricted to any party affiliation or specific office, who tries his darndest to convince us he's the man for the job...by any means necessary.
This year, local politician (and alleged telemarketer!) Mike Gordon is running against Redondo Beach mayor Greg Hill for state assembly. Oddly enough for an alleged telemarketer, there were no phonecalls this time. Instead, we've been bombarded with paper. I don't know what the history is between these two, but a mere peek into our mailbox every day is enough to suggest that things are nasty.
We take the count every day. Two Mike Gordon mailers, one Greg Hill. Three Gordon, three Hill. I think our single-day record is actually five to two, in favor of Gordon. This has been going on for weeks.
And they're getting weirder by the day. A cute, fluffy, bowtie-sporting rabbit in a magician's hat: "Political Telemarketer Mike Gordon knows all the tricks." A filthy elephant, spewing a shower of brown muck out of his trunk: "Republican Greg Hill sure throws a lot of mud...." A doe-eyed little boy, his cherubic visage twisted into the disappointed skepticism of the innocent: "When we were young, it wasn't called 'spin.'"
But the grandaddy of them all is the one that trumpeted "Republican Greg Hill will say anything to win!" This one was our favorite because it made such grand use of comic book art. On the front cover, an astonished Mary Worth-esque blonde woman stares wide-eyed at the headline, "Mike Gordon causes earthquakes in California!" A redhead graces the back cover, similarly shocked at "Another attack mailer from Greg Hill!" that reads "Mike Gordon Kidnapped Elvis!"
Well, that was the deciding vote. So, in recognition of the sheer volume and strangeness of his printed campaign materials, Amy and I proudly bestow this election's Richard Riordan Award upon Mike Gordon. Better luck next time, Greg Hill.
But it's past midnight on this chilly October Sunday night/November Monday morning, and owing to the raging headcold that has sucked the life out of a potentially fun-filled Halloween weekend, I am still conscious. My muscles, it seems, are angry: "NO MORE BED!!!" Apparently, there's only so much sleep a girl can take.
While a head full of mucus typically renders most non-Kleenex-and-drug-related thoughts vastly unimportant, I have managed to find humor in a little game Amy and I play during election time. It's called "The Riordan Award." You fellow Californians, and some non-Cali lovers of politics, may remember former Los Angeles mayor Richard Riordan's campaign for governor in the recent ousting of Gray Davis (which brought the title of Governator to our beloved Ahnold).
Well, it seems good ol' Dick Riordan really wanted our vote, because we received more phonecalls from him than from anyone we knew in real life. Seriously, when two of the three messages on your answering machine are recorded messages from the candidate -- and the third is from his wife -- it's a heated campaign. So we've created this dubious award to honor the candidate, not restricted to any party affiliation or specific office, who tries his darndest to convince us he's the man for the job...by any means necessary.
This year, local politician (and alleged telemarketer!) Mike Gordon is running against Redondo Beach mayor Greg Hill for state assembly. Oddly enough for an alleged telemarketer, there were no phonecalls this time. Instead, we've been bombarded with paper. I don't know what the history is between these two, but a mere peek into our mailbox every day is enough to suggest that things are nasty.
We take the count every day. Two Mike Gordon mailers, one Greg Hill. Three Gordon, three Hill. I think our single-day record is actually five to two, in favor of Gordon. This has been going on for weeks.
And they're getting weirder by the day. A cute, fluffy, bowtie-sporting rabbit in a magician's hat: "Political Telemarketer Mike Gordon knows all the tricks." A filthy elephant, spewing a shower of brown muck out of his trunk: "Republican Greg Hill sure throws a lot of mud...." A doe-eyed little boy, his cherubic visage twisted into the disappointed skepticism of the innocent: "When we were young, it wasn't called 'spin.'"
But the grandaddy of them all is the one that trumpeted "Republican Greg Hill will say anything to win!" This one was our favorite because it made such grand use of comic book art. On the front cover, an astonished Mary Worth-esque blonde woman stares wide-eyed at the headline, "Mike Gordon causes earthquakes in California!" A redhead graces the back cover, similarly shocked at "Another attack mailer from Greg Hill!" that reads "Mike Gordon Kidnapped Elvis!"
Well, that was the deciding vote. So, in recognition of the sheer volume and strangeness of his printed campaign materials, Amy and I proudly bestow this election's Richard Riordan Award upon Mike Gordon. Better luck next time, Greg Hill.
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