Lost and Found

Vote.

Well, it's the last Friday before the election. I've spent a few hours at the phone banks this week, and will be going door to door tomorrow and all day Tuesday. If this country re-elects Bush, I'll seriously consider leaving. I wonder if Great Britain will hand out visas and greencards on the basis that my fellow citizens are morons.

Surprisingly enough, I keep running into friends and acquaintances who are still unsure about who they want to vote for. I thought that by now, an undecided voter in Ohio was an urban legend. For those of you not in Ohio, it's been crazy around here. Every day brings a new "celebrity". Claire Danes was here a few weeks ago, urging women to vote. Yesterday Kerry held a rally with Bruce Springsteen on campus. Michael Moore will be here this weekend, and I've already seen Jerry Springer speak. There are no fewer than eight presidential campaign commercials per hour on television, and the yard sign wars are getting heated.

Speaking of. I'd like to send a note out to the person who stole the Kerry sign out of my yard:

Dear Sir or Madam:

Thank you so much for helping me realize the error of my ways, through your thoughtful misdemeanor. Before you took the sign from my yard, I though that I was going to vote for John Kerry. Now I know that he's nothing more than a Liberal wussie from Massachusetts with a big vocabulary.

Best,
Jill

Hello, Is _______ Available?

Luckily, I've never been in such dire straits that I've had to try telemarketing. Many of my friends have, and I don't know one of them that actually stayed more than two weeks. Most quit after hours or days, at the most. Last night, I became familiar with the industry while working the phone banks at ACT (America Coming Together). For half an hour, I read a script on my computer screen and tried to pronounce the names of African American Democrat first time voters in Cuyahoga County, Ohio. I was terrified at first, but eventually got into the rhythm of things. After my experience (which I will probably repeat again tonight, for a longer portion of time) I came up with the following. Enjoy. And feel free to add your own.

Things Not To Say While Working the Phone Banks for ACT

Would you say Bush is a cocksucker, an asswipe or both?
I'll give you a dollar if you vote for Kerry.
Do you have any deceased relatives that you can vote for?
What are you wearing?

Quack.

Ever since my high school and college career of selling seasonal paper crap at the now defunct Half Off Card Shop, I’ve never been a big fan of Halloween. Having attended college in Athens, Ohio, the home of the biggest costume party in the Midwest, this might be deemed as blasphemy. My main memories of the holiday are of a) re-shelving plastic trash bags colored to look like giant pumpkins when filled with leaves and b) vomiting for three or four hours at a house party on Court Street. (Note: the hosts of the party did not provide a sufficient amount of mixers, leading this girl to down shots of crap vodka and gin like they were water. This girl now avoids liquor, mixed or straight.)

Despite my dislike for the holiday, I’ve found myself celebrating it every year post college and my days of retail hell. I have many good friends whose birthdays fall near the day, and I am sucked into costume discussions as early as July.

Last year, I bedazzled the crowd at Byrne’s with a hand-sewed felt Christmas Elf costume. My main accessory for the evening was a ghost of relationships past, a guy that I would not ever introduce my sister to, but somehow thought that round two of dating might work out a little better than round one, my freshman year of college. It didn’t.

This year, my only accessory will be costume related – a bandage. I tried it out at my first Halloween event on Saturday. My costume? A Lame Duck. I was dressed from head to toe in yellow and orange, with a bill, tail feathers and everything. It made for a night of puns. I was a sitting duck. I shook my tail feathers. And because it was raining, there was water off of this duck’s back. (Whatever that means.) Unfortunately, the bandage on my knee was too subtle, because strangers referred to me as “the bird.” Whatever.

I can only hope that the guests at the next three parties will be more impressed by my witty costume. And more than that, I hope that there will be a real Lame Duck in our near future.

Though someone may need to inform him that he need not be injured, nor wear orange tights to be lame.

A Ray of Light.

So it turns out that I’m not the best at writing concert reviews. After the show, all I could tell anyone was that it was “awesome.” That’s so vivid. So. I’m going to work on a real piece of writing about the Tom Waits show. I don’t know when I’ll get it out to you, but until then, I’ll move on to more pressing thoughts.

Like this one.

When you’re flying across the United States watching Disney’s Jackie Chan flick, "Around the World in 80 Days", it’s not difficult to think to yourself, “If this plane crashes, I will die watching this movie.”

So kids, if you’re feeling sad and lonely, if you’re feeling like life just isn’t going your way, if your meds are low and the weather’s bumming you out, just remember this: chances are, you won’t die while watching "Around the World in 80 Days."*

*Same goes for "Spiderman 2" and "50 First Dates."

Speechless.

So my review of the show got a little delayed, because the girls sitting next to me (in the front row!) invited me to share a drink with their friends, including a man who looks exactly like Keith Richards who, at closing time, was drinking a spilled $3 martini off of a table with a coffee stir.

Let me compose my thoughts – and get a good night’s sleep - and I will present to you today’s story.

Speechless.

So my review of the show got a little delayed, because the girls sitting next to me (in the front row!) invited me to share a drink with their friends, including a man who looks exactly like Keith Richards who, at closing time, was drinking a spilled $3 martini off of a table with a coffee stir.

Let me compose my thoughts – and get a good night’s sleep - and I will present to you today’s story.

Hi Folks.

So. I'm in Seattle right now, recovering from jet lag and an evening of bowling and karaoke fun. I was a bit disappointed that no one asked for my autograph after last night's emotional rendering of "Happy Together" with Claudia, but it's probably because I didn't bring my promotional black and white head shots to sign. Next time.

Tonight is the Tom Waits show, and you should expect a full report after the show.

Hope Arrived Today.

Kerry keeps saying that hope is on the way. I've been checking out the Fed Ex and UPS boxes that come into the office, to see if it had arrived yet. Turns out that hope doesn't travel by freight companies. Rather, it comes by Nissan.

The über-Republican owner of the company came in today, huffing about the debate.

"Did you hear what he had to say?" she asked. I froze. I've learned not to give too many opinions to her, especially because we're on different sides of nearly every social and political fence imaginable.

"His face. His expressions," she went on, "He looked like a petulant child."

That's when I realized that she was talking about Bush. She went on to say more, but I zoned out when she said, "I'm voting for Kerry."

The sad part, I must admit, is that we'll no longer get pictures of Dubya in the office mail addressed to her and thanking her for her contributions.

Too bad.

Under Cover.

I had my monthly phone call with Ricky, the guy I shared a bedroom in London with for an entire summer. He's also known as the guy who has, as a result of that summer, refused to share a room with anyone else for the rest of his life. (When he's old and in love, there's no doubt that Ricky will have his own wing of rooms for his sleeping quarters. This is directly related to a French drunk named Ilham and her lesbian friend, whose name eludes me, who spent an evening sleeping on our bedroom floor.) Ricky's also known as the man who slept on my couch last Christmas while wearing white frilly Laura Ashley from my mom. But that's a different story.

Ricky lives in LA now, and never calls me back because he's Very Important.

When he does, we have pleasant conversations about whether more people would label me as "crazy" or "obnoxious". We decided on the latter of the two. Ricky has a unique way of giving complements. "Oh, Jill, no one could ever call you crazy. You're splendidly obnoxious."

We discussed our usual on Sunday, as well as this Saturday's wedding. Ricky's a groomsman, and, as far as I can tell, is getting away with doing absolutely nothing for the wedding. The guy didn't even know what a rehearsal dinner was. When I told him, he whined, "I hate spending time with people's families."

We used our Alias-watching skills to determine a way for me to crash the bachelor party on Thursday. Pretty much, it will go like this.

Ricky will find out where it is, and then take his cuff link, which is really a miniature phone, and call me to disclose the location. I will answer my cell phone, which is disguised as a phone from the 80's, and will most likely roll my eyes, and agree to join them.

The night should be fine, so long as French lesbians stay out of it, this time.

Counting Minutes.

My waking up process these days takes roughly three hours. The alarm goes off from seven to ten. It's not very efficient, but I am who I am. Wednesday morning, in between hitting snooze, I sleepily looked at my cell phone half a dozen times. No call from Robert. My morning dreams were sad with the realization that I wouldn't be seeing Tom Waits.

He wrote saying that only the first hundred people in line got tickets, and he didn't want to call me (at four a.m. my time) with the bad news. If two record stores sold 200 tickets each, that left more than two thousand tickets available through Ticketmaster. These tickets would go on sale at ten a.m. Pacific.

I devised a strategy: get no fewer than three people to simultaneously call Ticketmaster and go to the website fifteen minutes before the show went on sale. Keep hitting "refresh" on the site, and continuously ask the person on the phone if I can be put on hold until it was time to buy. They'd say no and I'd hang up and try again. (As would my teammates.)

On my third try, I learned that I had six remaining minutes. "Do you think I could be put on hold?" I asked the girl.

"No," she replied slowly, "But I CAN tell you about other shows."

We talked about the Mariners. "What sport is that?" I asked.

"I think they're a baseball team."

We talked about upcoming Seattle shows. Gillian Welsh is playing there soon. We talked about Seattle live theater (the only event going on in Seattle on October 19). Portland shows and venue sizes. I never knew six minutes could be so long. (And now kind of have a little empathy for Bush. If I have trouble filling six minutes, I can understand how he could have problems working with two. There were a lot of "um's".)

With thirty seconds to go, she started processing my ticket. I wanted to hug her. After she gave me the confirmation number, I asked her how many seats were left.

"Ten," she said.

Tickets had been on sale five minutes.

What Would You Do For A Drunken Piano?

I like music. Especially sad, folky and melodramatic music. Musicians that utilize accordions, violins, harmonica, stand-up bass and piano top my list. Ah, creativity in sound. There’s more to life than two guitars, a bass and a drum set.

Tom Waits uses a saw.

So. I’m scouring the airfare websites for a “cheap” fare to Seattle to go see Tom Waits play in less than two weeks. I’m doing this alone and on a weekday. And in eight hours, hopefully, Robert will buy me a ticket to the show. All I know about Robert is his e-mail address and that he, too, likes Tom Waits.

It’s my hope that Tom Waits fans are not unlike people who follow Phish. While I’m not expecting grilled cheese sandwiches and one-hitters in the parking lot, I’m hoping that I’ll be greeted by people who will not think I’m a freak for flying across the country to see a single performance. (Now, if I hitchhiked, I might expect at least a hemp necklace and a pot cookie.)

The difference (and not the only, I should add) between Tom Waits and Phish is that (at least to me) Tom Waits oeuvre is way more varied. In the late seventies, Waits was singing lullabies. In the late nineties, he sounded like the type of person you might not want to allow around your children. I imagine the people who like the early stuff to be nice, huggy people who will welcome me and might sway with me to *Martha*. The fans who admire his later work, might, say, collect stray cat hairs off of my sweater to knit into a pair of socks. They will later wear these socks while rocking back and forth to *What’s He Building In There.*

Now, I’m (sometimes) an optimist. The one thing that the huggy lady and the sock guy have in common is good taste in music. That, and they will both be scribbling a play list of Waits’ performance to e-mail to their three other friends that like Tom Waits.

Hopefully all three of us can go for a drink afterwards and compare notes.

P.S. I write this knowing that Robert may not be able to get me tickets and that United might, inexplicably sell out of all flights to and from Seattle for the week of October 17th by the early morning hours. If I cannot see the show, I will get to see both The Decemberists and Crooked Fingers in Columbus. For considerably less money and jetlag.

P.S.S. If, however, I do get to go to the show, I have a ticket to see The Decemberists in Columbus that I'd love to sell someone.

Things That Are Nearly Impossible To Find.

A Straight Male Pastry Chef. (Not for me, but for Sarah, who really likes cookies. She technically already has a man, and doesn’t seem to be looking for another one, but perhaps if she came across a straight male pastry chef, they could just be friends. Then again, if it’s just cookies that she wants, and not sex, it’s not really important that she find a straight male pastry chef.)

An Appropriate Time To Go Running. (Something always comes up. Like discussing politics, playing Minesweeper on the computer, or inspecting the poor quality of my cuticles.)

A Toothpaste That Does Everything. (If you want to fight cavities, fight gingivitis, whiten your teeth, remove plaque, freshen your breath, have the power of baking soda and have an attractive container that isn’t messy, you’re pretty much screwed. Or you're brushing your teeth 12 times a day and spending a lot of money on toothpaste.)

A Smoker-friendly Coffee Shop With Wireless Internet. (I afraid it’s going to get even more difficult.)

A Bumper Sticker That Won’t Require You To Scratch Up Your Car When You Remove It, Not Because You No Longer Support What The Sticker Has To Say, But Because You Might End Up Selling Your Car Someday. (It would be nice if the sticker said “Kerry” on it. For now, a removable window sticker will suffice. )

A Sunday New York Times At The Speedway On My Corner After 10.00 A.M. (I’m not complaining. In Chicago, I had to walk several blocks to Border’s, and be there by 9.00 a.m. In Athens, I had to call the grocery store and ask them to hold one for me. In London, I could only find USA Today. Still. Maybe I should just get a subscription.)