Total Perspective Vortex
What really happened to Trillian? Theories abound, but you can see what she's really been up to on this blog. If you're looking for white mice, depressed robots, or the occasional Pan Galactic Gargleblaster you might be better served here: http://www.bbc.co.uk/cult/hitchhikers/guide/.
Don't just sit there angry and ranting, do something constructive.
In the words of Patti Smith (all hail Sister Patti): People have the power.
Contact your elected officials.
Don't be passive = get involved = make a difference.
Words are cool.
The English language is complex, stupid, illogical, confounding, brilliant, beautiful, and fascinating.
Every now and then a word presents itself that typifies all the maddeningly gorgeousness of language. They're the words that give you pause for thought. "Who came up with that word? That's an interesting string of letters." Their beauty doesn't lie in their definition (although that can play a role). It's also not in their onomatopoeia, though that, too, can play a role. Their beauty is in the way their letters combine - the visual poetry of words - and/or the way they sound when spoken. We talk a lot about music we like to hear and art we like to see, so let's all hail the unsung heroes of communication, poetry and life: Words.
Here are some I like. (Not because of their definition.)
Mamas, Don’t Let Your Babies Grow Up to be Smart Girls
(A Trillian de-composition, to the tune of Mamas, Don't Let Your Babies Grow Up to Be Cowboys)
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Smart girls ain’t easy to love and they’re above playing games
And they’d rather read a book than subvert themselves
Kafka, Beethoven and foreign movies
And each night alone with her cat
And they won’t understand her and she won’t die young
She’ll probably just wither away
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
A smart girl loves creaky old libraries and lively debates
Exploring the world and art and witty reparteé
Men who don’t know her won’t like her and those who do
Sometimes won’t know how to take her
She’s rarely wrong but in desperation will play dumb
Because men hate that she’s always right
Mama don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
Don’t let them do puzzles and read lots of books
Make ‘em be strippers and dancers and such
Mamas, don’t let your babies grow up to be smart girls
They’ll never find men and they’re always alone
Even though men claim they want brains
Life(?) of Trillian
Single/Zero
Wednesday, March 17, 2004 Reality Wednesday
The Constituent A constituent attempts to vote. You know, exercise her democratic right as established in her nation's constitution...carry out her civic duty...perform her responsibility of freedom...
6:15 AM: The Constituent arrives at her polling place 25 minutes after the polls are to open.
6:17 AM: The Constituent is met by a guy sweeping the floor of the polling place. (the neighborhood field house in the park) "You here to vote?" he calls out to The Constituent.
"Yes!" she proudly and brightly replies, full of patriotic zeal and vigor.
"Thata way," he points to the left of the hall, across from the gymnasium.
"Thank you!" she proudly and brightly replies, full of patriotic zeal and vigor. She is faced with:
Challenge One
No hablo español. Three rooms, three doors, three wards (or so she assumes, the signs proclaiming the precincts and wards are in Spanish (not the official language of the country in which she is voting)) Undaunted, still full of patriotic zeal and vigor, she pulls out her Voter Verification of Registration, she looks for the room containing Precinct 8, Ward 01, Congressional Zone 4. Her limited Spanish language skills help her deduce recinto means precinct, and sala might mean ward. She thinks it means room, but maybe room/sala loosely translates to ward. Or maybe she's wrong about it meaning room. But she's fairly certain del congreso must mean congress. In any case, she figures if she matches up the numbers she should be in the correct room. She locates 8, 01, 04 and enters.
6: 20 AM The polling "booths" are empty, no one is in line to sign in and collect a ballot. The Election Judges greet The Constituent. "Good morning! You're our first customer of the day!"
"Customer? I know (this town) has a 'history' with voting, but MY vote is not for sale, mister!" The Constituent good naturedly jokes.
Only one of the five election judges laughs. The rest remain silent, blankly staring at The Constituent. The one who does laugh, laughs so hard he chokes on his doughnut and coffee comes out his nose. The Constituent doesn't think it was that funny, but feels kind of bad she made coffee come out the guy's nose. She gives him and apologetic smile and proceeds to the sign in table.
She is asked her name.
Election Judge One cannot find her in his book. "Are you sure you're registered to vote?" he rather too condescendingly asks The Constituent.
"Yes, I am positive. Voter Registration Card Carrying Citizen!" The Constituent produces her Voter Verification of Registration card.
The Election Judges study it with awe. They are amazed. "No one keeps these! No one ever brings these with them!" they exclaim to The Constituent.
"Well (blush) since I've moved here I take my national rights and responsibilities very seriously." The Constituent explains, full of patriotic zeal and vigor. "I AM in the right room? Because I wasn't sure, couldn't quite read the sign on the door, just followed the numbers and assumed..."
No response except semi-blank stares from the election judges. Election judge one speaks again. "You're in the right place, according to your card, but we don't have you in our book."
"Sooooo, what does that mean?" The Constituent asks, a little afraid of the answer.
Election Judge Two has a bolt of inspiration. "Let me check to see if she's in MY book!" she takes the Voter Verification of Registration card, continually spelling out the last name of The Constituent. Out loud. Over and over. Until she breaks her spelling mantra with, "NOPE! Not in my book, either!"
The Constituent checks her watch.
6:32 AM Election Judge One leaves his post at the table to confer with someone in one of the other rooms about the "little problem" with The Constituent.
The election judge who choked on his doughnut and had coffee come out his nose engages The Constituent in conversation about the weather and voter turnout.
Challenge Two
You're From the Wrong Side of the Street 6:40 AM Election Judge One returns with a man. Or maybe The Man. He seems to be large and in charge. "May I see your registration card?" he barks at The Constituent as if she's a 19 year old with a fake ID trying to get into a 21 and over show. The Constituent meekly hands him her Verification of Registration card.
He studies it and then announces to the Election Judges (who are waiting with rapt anticipation, as if he were Moses) "She's one of the one's not in the books. Her side of the street got put in the wrong books." then, turning to The Constituent, "You live on the odd numbered side of the street." As if this explains everything. Why she's not in the books...why she will not be allowed to vote...why she can't meet and keep a decent man...why her hair curls to the left on humid days...
The Constituent, trying to understand how and why her odd numbered address has anything to do with her right to vote, says "What does that mean? 'I got put in the wrong books.'"
"It means you're going to have to go across the street, over to the senior housing, to vote. You got put in those books. Your whole side of the street is over there." The Man explains.
Still confused, still thinking she's missing a few pieces of the puzzle, it dawns on her, "But won't that be the wrong precinct and ward and potentially the wrong ballot? Or at the very least skew the voter turnout data?" The Constituent inquires, smelling an election scam rat and not wanting to have any part of it. Because she is full of patriotic zeal and vigor.
The Man doesn't like these questions. Or her. She can tell. By the look on his face. And his smarmy attitude when he tells her, "It's the same ballots over there. If you want to vote, that's where you have to go. Your vote will get counted and added to any data collected."
"But it won't be counted in my correct polling place. Voter turnout numbers at specific polling places are very important factors in key election and political issues. Politicians and city council members base important decisions on those numbers. It's a major number in the neighborhood demographic chart." The Constituent says, realizing much too late she sounds like Lisa Simpson when Lisa Simpson is being an annoying know it all.
Sighing heavily, The Man impatiently tells her, "You have to go to the Senior Center to vote. Your sign-in sheet and information got put in the wrong books. There wasn't time to change the books. It's across the street. You can go over there and vote, or not vote at all. There's
nothing we can do for you here."
Really bothered by The Man's tone, and that her vote, her precious vote, is being tampered with, The Constituent says, "I'll go over there, because I value my vote. But this needs to be corrected. I, nor any other voter, should be at all inconvenienced when placing our votes. My card says this is where I am to vote. You've got three rooms in this building, for different precincts or wards or whatever, I wouldn't know because the signs are in SPANISH, and yet I've got to go to the senior center two blocks away to vote? How many people do you think are honestly going to leave here, walk two blocks in the freezing snow and rain and vote? And just how did my side of the street get put into the wrong books in the first place? If I didn't know better, (dripping in sarcasm) I'd say something not quite right is going on here." The Constituent gives a squinty eyed stare to The Man. The Election Judges are gape mouth staring at The Constituent for the implication she has just hurled.
Doughnut choking coffee out of nose guy breaks the awkward silence. "Vote early, vote often!" followed by an uncomfortable laugh. No one else laughs.
The Constituent, embarrassed for the Election Judge trying to make nice, says to The Man, "Can I have your name, please?"
The Man gives her a challenging look.
"Do you have a business card, perhaps?" The Constituent persists.
The Man produces a business card and hands it to The Constituent. She wants to say: "How do I know this is you and not some random card you happen to have with you?" But instead takes the card and says, "Thank you." and huffs out of the polling place from whence she has been expelled.
Challenge Three
Find the Entrance to the Revised Polling Place 6:55 AM The Constituent leaves her polling place and walks two blocks, three, actually, to the senior housing center. There are three buildings. Fenced in with tall iron security fences. She cannot find evidence of a polling place. She walks around to the back of the furthest away building and sees a cardboard flag taped to the fence. Normally this would be seen as a faded patriotic decoration leftover from when the war began. Now The Constituent takes this as the last hope that maybe she's found a polling place. She jiggles the latch on the fence gate. It squeaks. She has to force the gate to open on its rusty hinges by throwing her shoulder into the gate. She casts a deadpan look into the camera. "Somehow I don't think this is the place...but then again, given this town's voting history, it doesn't surprise me that the entrance to this polling place would be the never used rear service entrance." Her patriotic zeal and vigor is waning.
7:00 AM The Constituent sees another recinto/sala/del congreso sign on the wall inside the senior housing center. Had she not walked up to the door and peered into the window, she would not have known this was a polling place, that it was even an entry into the senior center. The wind rustles branches of trees. A candy wrapper gets caught on the fence in the gust of wind, the sound of a train can be heard off in the distance. Tumbleweed blows by her. She steps out of its path and somewhat fearfully pulls open the door and steps inside.
She is greeted by That Smell. That Nursing Home Smell. "Oh, now, this is an added bonus to the voting process. So glad millions of people have died saving democracy and freedom and the right to vote for this!" she thinks to herself.
Punctuating that thought, she is greeted by an elderly woman in a wheelchair. She has what The Constituent knows to be a WWII era patriotic ribbon/badge pinned to her cardigan. "You here to vote?" the elderly woman whispers, holding up a skeletonlike hand. (think: Every Horror Movie About the Undead Coming to Life and Opening Their Casket to Feast Upon the Living)
The Constituent smiles, pulling herself out of her all I want to do is vote. Just cast my votes and go to work. That's all. Must I really be forced to endure the trauma, tragedy and neglect of our nation's elderly while I do so? reverie. "Yes, I am voting. They got my name in the wrong book, sent me over here from the Field House. In the park. The Man. Sent me. Here."
Lady in wheelchair, suddenly with a new strength in her voice, rasps, "They told us about you. They told us about your side of the street. We're ready for you." (I swear this is true, I swear I wanted to run screaming out of the building right there and then. sic)
"Oh, good, great, not a big bother, then?" The Constituent tries to pleasantly ask.
Lady in wheelchair raises her hand again and points down the hall, "You go down there. To the left."
"Thank you!" The Constituent exclaims as cheerfully as possible.
7:05 AM The Constituent enters the polling room. The Election Judges greet her. Very different crew than at the Field House.
"I've been sent over here from the Field House, The Man said my name got into your books, that I'm supposed to vote here." The Constituent explains.
From the other end of the table, the apparently oldest of this group of Election Judges says, "Ah yes, they told us about you. Got your side of the street in the wrong books." He stands up assisted by a cane.
"Oh, don't get up!" The Constituent exclaims, "Can I get something for you?"
"I'm fine sweetheart," mock pinching The Constituent with his free hand, and ambling down to assist election judge One with the book.
"What's your name, there sweetheart?" he says as he begins flipping through election judge One's ring binder of name signature cards.
The Constituent tells him, and hands him her Verification of Registration card.
"She brought her registration card!" Election Judge One exclaims to Election Judge Two. The two ladies a little too lovingly smile and look upon The Constituent. Who is getting ever more uncomfortable with this whole process. She is definitely less full of patriotic zeal and vigor than when she set out on her mission to vote.
"Yeah, doesn't everyone?" The Constituent asks rhetorically.
Except all five of the election judges resoundingly answer, "NO! No one ever has them!"
"Okay, then, The Constituent, we'll just need you to declare your party affiliation and sign here. Then give it to Judy here (election judge Two) who will verify your signature." election judge five explains.
Challenge Four
Party Affiliation The Constituent is already checking the "non partisan" box and signing the form as he says this. She hands the form to Judy. Judy then studies the signature on the paper she has been handed. She then studies a similar signature in her book. Then the signature on the paper she has been handed. Then the book. Again. "Darn these tri-focals!" she finally says, exasperated, shaking her glasses and letting them dangle on their chain, landing on her ample bosom.
"Um, I think that's me, there," The Constituent points to her signature in Judy's book, which is a perfect match to the signature The Constituent has just signed.
"Ah. Yes." Judy says, holding her glasses like a magnifying glass over the signature card, further studying both signatures. "Okay. Gotcha." turning to election judge three, "she needs a non partisan ballot."
"Not participating? What color is that?" election judge three says to Judy.
"I don't know. Maybe it's the yellow one." Judy offers.
"no, no, that's the liberty ticket." election judge three emphatically scolds her. "Not participating..." he says, contemplating this option.
"Non partisan" The Constituent gently corrects him, eyeing the stack of white ballots with "NON PARTISAN" stamped on them. Right next to the yellow ballots with "LIBERTARIAN" stamped on them.
Election Judge Three continues to dwell on "not participating." "If you're not participating, I don't think you need a ballot." he finally announces. (Swear it's true. sic)
"I am participating, I want to vote. I am non part-i-SAN. I don't pledge allegiance to one party. I vote for the candidates, not the party affiliation. I think the white ballot" pointing to the white ballot stamped NON PARTISAN, "is the one I need to use." Feeling the burning desire of her patriot zeal and vigor returning.
The election judges all huddle around the stacks of ballots.
Election judge five suspiciously eyes The Constituent, "You don't vote Republican or Democrat?"
The Constituent, knowing darned well this question is a violation of her voting rights (because she's read up on her voting rights) and maybe even her civil rights, and probably human rights, too, but also knowing darned well she is the first person from outside the senior center to vote in this polling place, ever, and knowing darned well libertarian and non partisan ballots have never been cast in this polling place, and furthermore, trying to be patient and understanding because she's not getting any younger, she'll be elderly one day, too, she answers, "No, I prefer to back individual candidates." as cheerfully as possible, hoping this will be enough of an explanation to get her a ballot, into a voting booth and on her way to work. Because she is trying really hard to be full of patriotic zeal and vigor.
"You can try the white ballot. We can see what happens..." heretofore silent election judge four pipes in, voice trailing skeptically.
The Constituent takes the ballot and heads to a booth. She feels five sets of eyes upon her. And hears election judge three muttering, "if she's not participating she shouldn't get a ballot, she's not participating. Why does she need a ballot if she's not participating?"
7:15 AM The Constituent punches her ballot. She has done her homework on the candidates and knows exactly whom she will punch on her ballot. She does this deftly and quickly.
Challenge Five
The Ballot Box (Ballots and Dimples, and Chads Oh My!) 7:19 AM She walks out from behind her voting booth, rubbing the back of her ballot checking for anything not thoroughly punched. Election Judge Four springs into action. "Okay, let's give this a try. All we can do is try." he says, shaking his head and leading her to the ballot box.
"Now what you need to do is hold your ballot like this, (demonstrating proper ballot gripping technique) and feed it gently into the slot. You should feel it grab the ballot and suck it in. That's when you let go of it. If it accepts your ballot, if there are no dimples or chads, that's it, we're done, you've voted. If there's a problem, it will spit it back out at you and we'll need to start over."
No. Please. No. The Constituent thinks. She's done this several times, she's voted in every election since the 2000 election debacle in Florida, she's viewed and laughed at the on-line voting instructions, she knows the drill, she just wants to cast her votes and go to work. Trying to put on her most accommodating and gracious face, trying to be patient with the election judge, who, after all, is only trying to be helpful, and is doing his job.
All five of the election judges are watching, large eyes in rapt anticipation.
She feeds the ballot into the slot.
It gets sucked into the box (with a force even The Constituent didn't expect).
The election judges are holding their breath, waiting to see if the box rejects her non partisan (NOT PARTICIPATING) ballot.
Nothing happens. The machine remains silent. It has accepted The Constituent's ballot.
Election Judge Four is the first to speak.
"Well, looks like it worked! Thank you for voting!" and holds his hand out to The Constituent. He wants to shake her hand.
She triumphantly obliges, then she turns and smiles to the other judges. They look a surprised and dubious. They begin to make comments about the reliability of the ballot box "machine."
7:26 AM The Constituent, eager to be on her way, wishes the judges a good day, thanks them, and leaves the polling room. Not one other person has entered while she was there.
Out in the hall of the senior center, the wheelchair lady is sitting, poised and waiting at the door for other voters. This hits The Constituent emotionally. This woman is going spend her day sitting there waiting to greet probably a handful of voters. And this is probably the biggest, most exciting day of the year for her. What with all those additional odd street numbered voters being sent to vote here. The Constituent realizes her eyes are watering. She blinks back tears. She goes over to the wheelchair woman and thanks her and wishes her a good day. The wheelchair woman smiles and wishes the same to The Constituent. The Constituent says, "My aunt used to have one of those ribbons," pointing to wheelchair lady's WWII ribbon.
"Oh! Really?! I've had this since The War! One of the other ladies here has one, too!" wheelchair woman, coming to animated life, excitedly responds.
"They must have been popular." The Constituent responds.
"Oh yes. Back then people were much more patriotic. Most of us had men serving overseas." as if this explained everything about nationalism and patriotic duty.
A long conversation regarding The War, men in The War, women keeping the home fires burning, and national pride ensues.
7:47 AM The Constituent makes a polite good-bye, getting on her way to work.
On her way to the train, she passes her usual polling place. There is much buzz of activity around the Field House. Candidates have their henchmen out accosting voters as they enter the polling place. Busy people, obviously on their way to work, dashing in to vote and be on their way. None are leaving and heading toward the senior center.
At the show wrap-up, The Constituent sums up the experience. "I always vote. Always. I take it very seriously. So for me, the whole 'your side of the street got into the wrong book' thing really bothered me. This town is known far and wide for it's underhanded voting scams, and this just really stinks of a scam. I tried to check my polling place information online, to see if it had been updated. On election day, the links to "Where do I vote?" and "View your sample ballot" were dead. Now they are live, but my street is "not recognized." However there is a nice weather update and a live link to the MSNBC weather forecast site. Very helpful. Next time I need a weather update I'll remember to go straight to the Cook County Board of Elections website. Maybe MSNBC Weather has a link telling me where to vote. I sent an email to the Board of Elections, we'll see if I get a response. But, then, in the bigger picture, it made me step out of my comfort zone and into the senior housing center. I went in there concerned about my vote, and came out of there concerned about the people who live there."
9:34 AM
