You will need:
To hit the bullseye:
You’re done!
Well, the line was way too long when I went by the polling station on the way to work. So I’ll be voting in the afternoon. Apparently the state rep for my area (Pat Jehlen) is facing a rather odd little challenger in the form of a man named Dane. He seemed nice enough when I spoke with him at the train station some months ago, but the more I learn about him the less I like him. Also Carl Sciortino needs to get elected– he’s running against a rather vicious little write-in campaign.
But basically I don’t give a damn. the dwarf is all excited and afraid. Same with the whole Sox thing– hand-wringing, nerves, pacing. I just can’t bring myself to any semblance of emotional engagement.
Other things that do not wake me from my stupor: film, dining, vacation planning, exercise, shopping for cool new exercise equipment electronics clothing or motorcycles, video games, the existential questioning of Sox fans now that they are no longer the greatest underdogs ever. I’m sure I can think of some additional ones. Mmmm, numb.
NYT:
In each case, severely mentally ill inmates at separate prisons died from ”decreased intake of food and water” — they starved, in other words — one after announcing a hunger strike and the other while on a suicide watch. The Commission of Correction was searing in its criticism: ”In both cases, the inmates had been identified as having significant mental-health and/or medical problems and were not afforded the care and treatment that these services are required to provide.” Significantly, the commission’s findings are nonbinding; they are often rejected or ignored.
I don’t know that I can say anything about this: there is no pity, no compassion, and no justice in this situation.
When safe and painless goes horribly, horribly wrong. Ow ow ow ow ow.
Here’s an event for John Fleck or one of the other sports fans out there: it’s like a triathalon, but with extra running and swimming and running and swimming and running. And you have to carry your shoes with you in the water. No prizes.
Americans, please vote this time. Are you registered? Voter registration forms are online here. Print ’em and mail ’em. One vote per person, please. There are a number of important non-presidential contests going on as well, so be sure to check Vote-Smart to read up on who’s running for what in your area.
Boston-area voters should know that the Suffolk County Sherriff’s election is really tight right now. That Tuesday the 14th is the Democratic Primary election aroud here and that Sciortino is probably a better choice over Rep. Vincent Ciampa in the Somerville and Medford area. Incumbent Ciampa is anti-gay-marriage, but Somerville has a big gay population so this is a good chance to tilt Beacon Hill toward justice. You could do worse than to look at the virulent bigot’s guide to anti-judicial-review candidates, and vote the opposite of what they suggest.
Also, it’s not too late to donate to the MoveOn Voter Fund or the MoveOn PAC.
NYT and Slate both weigh in on Florida elections.
My parents had an opportunity to move to Florida a few years back and one of the reasons they decided not to was that Florida seemed to be riddled with corrupt politicians. That, and my brother and I were pretty stiffly opposed to the whole concept of leaving our friends behind. And my mom wasn’t too keen on it either. And in fact it wasn’t that great an offer. But the political intrigue was definitely on the list of reasons not to move to Coral Gables or wherever it was.
There’s a story in The Torturer’s Apprentice where an atheist develops stigmata and powers of prophecy. He has a psychiatrist to deal with the implications of this, but as the underground religious groups begin to take care of him more, he stops seeing her. Months later, he calls her and says “don’t go on the trip next week.” She’s unsettled that knows about the trip in advance, but is genuinely terrified after she has a drunken hookup with another doctor at a reception, and gets pregnant with this other man’s baby. What does she do? She raises the child and lies to everyone about its origins. She’s certain she’s going to hell for this, but why should she be the one who’s happy? Confessing would make her feel better, but it would hurt everyone else immeasurably. Instead she holds the secret inside her, painfully, and plans to take it to the grave. “Why should I be the one who’s happy?” She did wrong, after all. She can punish herself.
On the way home today I beat someone off the line at a stoplight: a 1951 Model A Ford.
Last night I was in a bar with some friends and there was this sort of familiar looking woman there who mentioned in a roundabout way that she was a friend of Nat’s from high school. I said, I know Nat from high school. She looked at me closely and I didn’t know who the hell she was, and it took her a second to recognize me. Only after being prompted did I realize it was the girl I held hands with for three days in fifth grade, who of course looks nothing like she did at the age of ten, or for that matter seventeen.
Secretly Ironic 