One of My Weird Fixations

Most people who know me well, know that I have an odd range of interests. Stephen King, in a foreword to one of his books, explained it pretty well--it's like everyone has a series of filters in their heads, which all your thoughts and all outside input has to go through. Some ideas pass through the filters and other ideas get caught in them. And what catches in my filter, might pass right through yours, and vice-versa.

When I was much younger, I was a nearly-obsessive keeper of pop music statistics. Every New Years' Eve, I would hunker down in my bedroom with a transistor radio and a portable cassette recorder--this was before boom boxes--and listen to the entire "Big 89 Countdown" on WLS Radio. I would painstakingly write out the list, song by song, as they were played, and I would record the ones I liked, sitting in motionless silence so the tape recorder wouldn't pick up any unwanted noise. At the end of the song I would play DJ, reading off the title and the artist with a sense of deep gravity. I dreamed of a career in radio.

During the other fifty-one weeks of the year, I was no less obsessive. I would pick up the WLS weekly countdown sheet, with the top 45 singles and the top 33 albums, every time I went near a record store, and follow my favorite songs' progress up and down the charts. But even that wasn't enough; though I couldn't afford the $100 for a subscription to Billboard, but I had the next best thing; each Sunday, the Chicago Tribune printed the Billboard Top 10 in their "Arts and Fun/Books" section. I would snip the Top-10 chart out (I left the Country and the Adult Contemporary charts alone--who wanted THOSE?) and add it to my collection.

It was on one of these Sunday-afternoon chart-snipping expeditions that I first encountered the story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels school. I was about twelve years old, and on the same page as that week's charts, there was a review of a book called The Fire That Will Not Die, by Michele McBride, who had survived the fire. I read the review, and somehow the story really hit me hard; maybe because I was twelve years old myself, it caught my interest, and so I mentioned it to my parents, who told me the story.

The story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels is one of those tragic stories which every big city seems to have. Back in 1958, before fire drills were mandatory for schools, and during a time when Catholic schools were mostly filled beyond capacity, a fire broke out in the school basement on a Monday afternoon, about forty-five minutes before dismissal. There was a rule that only the principal could pull the fire alarm, and so was some delay before the Fire Department got there; rather than risk an unauthorized evacuation, the nuns who were teaching the classes told their students to stay in their seats and pray until the firemen came to rescue them. It was the 1950's; children obeyed their teachers, especially Catholic children, especially when the teachers were nuns; in the end, 92 children and three nuns died as a result of the fire.

I was horrified, when I heard the story; I was an obedient child, for the most part, and I couldn't imagine how hard it must have been to stay there. I always wanted to read "The Fire That Would Not Die", but that was awfully harsh reading for someone so young, and so my parents never bought it for me. I tucked the story away in my subconscious, and there it sat for another thirteen years.

Unlike my parents and the rest of their generation, I was fairly uninformed about the Catholic geography system of Chicago--in my parents' day, you were not identified by what neighborhood you came from--Beverly, Marquette Park, Logan Square--but by what parish you lived within--St. Barnabas, St. Rita, and so on. My parents and grandparents could tell you where ANYTHING was, as long as they knew the parish name. I, however, had grown up without that system of landmarks, and so I had no idea, really, where Our Lady of the Angels was located...

...until a late-winter afternoon in early 1995. JP had heard from someone that there was a really incredible heroin spot at Chicago and Lawndale, and so we drove over that way. As usual, we circled the block a couple of times. We pulled around the corner, and on a wall of sky-blue tile, I read the words: Our Lady of the Angels. "Oh my God," I said. JP, of course, had never heard the story; he was the first of several people to whom I'd tell it. It felt strange, to me, circling around the block where so many innocent lives had ended; it felt a little profane, even, to be buying heroin within sight of the building itself. (It wasn't the actual school building as it had stood in 1958; that building had been torn down and rebuilt.) But of course, we continued to do what we were there for; it was just another way the past and the present were dovetailed together.

A few months after JP died, when I was still living at my mom's house and had about four or five months sober, I found that someone had finally made an effort to tell the whole story of the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. A book--"To Sleep With the Angels"--was a definitive account of the disaster. It was written by a former fireman, and filled with recollections from people who were actually there, who had survived, or who had lost family members or friends.

Needless to say, I bought the book. Bought, and devoured, and analyzed, and in some cases memorized. My collection of "disaster" books expanded from that point onward, but OLA, as it was called by its students, was always the first story, as far as I was concerned.

December 1st was the 50th anniversary of that fire. In some ways, fifty years seems like an impossibly long time ago; then I consider: The children who were involved in that fire were between 8 and 14 years old. This would make them between 58 and 64 years old now; the survivors, the friends and siblings of the ones who died--even the parents of some of the younger children could conceivably still be alive. Suddenly fifty years isn't that long ago.

We had our yearly fire drill at work this week. As hundreds of people filed out of the building, I heard one of my co-workers say to another "Hey, did you know last week was the 50th anniversary of that fire?" The person to whom he was speaking had no idea what he was talking about, so between the two of us we went on to explain: this is why we have fire drills, fire stairs, panic hardware on the doors. Most of the things we take for granted about fire safety came in part from that fire. There are children in schools in California and New York who have no idea why they have fire drills; fifty-one years ago they wouldn't have had anything to wonder about, because there were no laws mandating such things. (My colleague was unimpressed. "Government intervention at its finest," he concluded, but then again he's a contrarian; we've learned to expect these kinds of comments, from him.)

I don't think about "government intervention", though; I think about ninety-two children and three nuns; about their ninety sets of parents, untold numbers of siblings. I think of the two families who each lost TWO children in the fire--I cannot imagine losing ONE child, let alone two. I think of Mr. Raymond, the janitor, who was blamed for "shoddy housekeeping"; I think of the nameless twelve-year-old boy (now dead) with a history of firesetting, who was widely believed to have set the fire in a trash-barrel in the basement so he could get a day off school. I think of the ones who escaped with burns and broken limbs, and the scars they carried for the rest of their lives; I think of the ones who escaped with no visible wounds, who still panic when they smell smoke, or hear a siren. I think of the hundreds of children who were told "God took them to heaven to be his angels," or "only the good die young"--and who spent the rest of their childhoods wondering why, then, they were left behind.

Many of the friends and families who spoke years later said that the fire was the beginning of the end for that neighborhood. Grieving families moved away, and those that stayed seemed set-apart. Then, of course, the 1960's intervened, and the same scare-tactics which led to the so-called "white flight" on the rest of the West Side were repeated in the OLA neighborhood. By the time JP and I made our circuits of the neighborhood, it was indistinguishable from any of the rest of the West Side--unless you knew the story, of course.

People who know me well, know that I don't make a profession to any particular religious faith. I don't think, despite what Tim says, that I'm an atheist; I'm more a "recovering Catholic" with an unhealthy level of skepticism as regards the afterlife. I try not to get my hopes up by thinking of an eventual reunion with our lost loved ones, for reasons I'm sure will be fairly apparent; likewise, I'm not willing to embrace the concept of reincarnation, for much the same reasons.

But....IF I believed in such things as reincarnation, or remembering past lives, or such-like...I would be inclined to postulate that in some previous life, I was somehow involved in the fire at Our Lady of the Angels. Between my early interest in the fire itself, and my almost-immediate love for the neighborhood (when I started house-shopping, my original intention was to buy in the square mile surrounding OLA. Unfortunately I was priced out, at that point--but that was where I wanted to live)--plus a few other things I haven't mentioned, like my lifelong fear of fire...I can't explain it, and if someone else claimed such a thing, I would probably quirk an eyebrow at them and wonder at their sanity, but it's one of those unprovable thoughts that have come to roost in my strange little brain.

The school was rebuilt after the fire, but once the real-estate vultures and the crack epidemic had blighted much of the neighborhood, sometime in the 90's the parish was combined with another, and the parish school was likewise shut down in the mid-90's sometime. I believe the building now houses a charter school--but to those who know, it's still OLA, still hallowed ground. For many years there was no memorial anywhere to the victims of the fire; now, recently, they've dedicated a memorial...several miles to the south and east, at Holy Family Church--in a "revitalized" neighborhood, where those who would want to see it wouldn't have to travel to some "scary" part of the city. It makes me sick, honestly; I hope someday the memorial will find its way back to the neighborhood where it belongs.

And if I ever buy another house in the city, I have promised myself that it will be somewhere in the area of OLA. Whether it's real or not, whether it's memory from several years back or the memory of another lifetime--I love that neighborhood, and even though I've never lived there, it feels more like "home" than any of the places where I -have- lived. I can't explain it, but that's nothing unusual; there are a lot of things that I can't explain.

Thanksgiving, a Wee Bit Late

Let's see...You know, I don't know what it is :::coff:::lack of meds:::coff::: but I'm not at my most thankful this year. I mean, I'm not UNgrateful--I've certainly got nothing to complain of (well, except the Itch, which is still here, at which the allergist has finally shrugged her shoulders and suggested a dermatologist, and which seems to respond to exactly NONE of the various lotions, potions, cremes, and pills thrown at it by modern medicine) and many things which are overwhelmingly positive. But in terms of that sense of "Wow, I really have it good, don't I?" I'm going to have to admit that it's just not really strong this year.

I am thankful for my job, still. I am ALSO thankful for the week of days off which I have taken revolving around the Thanksgiving holiday. I have been off since Sunday, and I don't go back til next Tuesday, and even THEN I have Friday off. I need a break; towards the end of last week I was getting pretty snappish with customers.

I am thankful for my cats. I am especially thankful that Snickers isn't showing any after-effects from his yarn-eating escapade of last week.

I am EXTREMELY thankful for Thanksgiving leftovers. I just fixed myself the Obligatory Middle-of-the-Night Post-Thanksgiving Turkey Sandwich, and I must say: nom nom nom!

I am thankful that our country is finally, FINALLY getting rid of GWB. I couldn't believe it when he was "elected", I REALLY couldn't believe it when he was RE-elected, and I'm thrilled that he's now run out his clock. Now, we just have to clean up his mess.

I am thankful that, for the first time in a very long time, I am in a reasonably-safe job in a reasonably-safe industry. This time two years ago I was completely terrified, not sure what would happen next; this year, my biggest concerns are housekeeping and the welfare of my various friends. (And the Itch, of course, but that's just background noise.) It's very unusual for me to feel safe in a job, but in this job, I do--both because I do a good job, and because it's been nearly-impossible to fill open positions in our department. And it's nice to have a job where I feel a sense of accomplishment, most days.

I'm incredibly thankful for all of you who read this blog and comment, or read this blog and lurk, or who find my mundane life interesting in any way. It's been a pretty dull year from my point of view--nothing too cool or catastrophic--so I'm especially grateful that none of you have been driven away by boredom. I'm grateful for your continued presence. I hope everyone had a happy Thanksgiving; that your tables were surrounded by those you love; and that your lefrovers are plentiful.

Confession...

I am SO JEALOUS of those little Obama girls.

Also terrified for them--the possibilities of "what could go wrong" actually keep me awake at night--but if the worst DOESN'T happen? What a life they're going to have...Can you imagine?? Besides which, they're so damn pretty!!! Either one of them could grow up to be a model, if they weren't already going to grow up as the President's daughters. I think there should be a law that only ugly little girls should get to have splendid lives. There really is no kind of fairness, is there?

In news of the distressingly average:
--still itchy
--slightly less-sad
--on vacation for Thanksgiving week--wOOt!
--on "stupid cat--please don't be sick" alert (Snick ate an unknown quantity of yarn yesterday morning--he dug through four heavy layers of blanket and two bathtowels to get at the balls of yarn in the bottom of the basket he'd decided to nap on--and though he puked up a big yarn-blob shortly thereafter, I'm still worried--he also barfed his dinner tonight, though from looking at the outcome, I'm guessing it was just because he didn't actually bother to CHEW the chicken pieces--just slurped them down whole. Could be that--could be yarn. I'm worried.)
--worried about the cat
--worried about the itches
--worried about everything, mostly.
--but also on vacation. Did I mention "w00t"?

The Annoying of the Sick and Other Unwelcome Sacraments

So Tuesday morning, instead of going back to the allergist as scheduled, I called my mother, who was supposed to take me to the appointment, to tell her "don't bother--I'm not going." Since about Friday, I'd been feeling less-than-100%; by Monday, most of my focus was needed to keep my stomach contents in place, and by the wee hours of Tuesday morning, I knew it wasn't getting any better. Fortunately I'd scheduled the day off anyway.

Mom, however, needed to pick up some paperwork from me. She's leaving tomorrow to go out of town for a family event, and I'd booked the flight online. Even though she had all the codes and info, Mom is not the sort of person who can walk into an airport with just some hand-written notes; she's got to have something PRINTED, or she's not at peace. I can understand that. She said she'd come by around noon to pick the papers up; I tried, at least, to straighten up anything I thought would cause comment.

Now, let's look for just a moment at the state of things here in Gladystopia. I'm still dealing with the itches, somewhat; they're better, but they're still not gone. In deference to the possibility that it's my meds I'm allergic to, I've now been off my antidepressants for over six weeks. I am seriously stressed out about bullshit at my job, and frankly I'm doing quite well to get through the basic daily routines right about now. Oh, and now let's layer three days of nausea on top of the equation. The point being: My apartment is not at its best right now. It's not -dirty-; it's just messy. The laundry is in a large pile that overruns the boundaries of the hamper; there are dishes soaking in the sink; things need to be picked up and put in their rightful place, and unfortunately this apartment is not overrun with "rightful places" in the first place. I have lots of make-shift shelves, bookshelves full of not-books, things like that.

So: Mom comes in. She is fully aware of the situation--I'm stressed, depressed, itchy, and now nauseated. Her first comments: "What's this with your hair?" (I had put in a braid the night before, then taken it out but didn't wet it down, so I had a crinkly piece toward the front.) "Your face is kinda puffy again, isn't it?" (Yup.) "I'm worried about you. I mean..." (long pause) "...You're not on drugs again, are you?" (Sigh. No, Mom. I'd probably be feeling better if I was, to be honest.)

She stayed about an hour. About 20 minutes in, I started feeling REALLY pukey, and I'd found that I felt better if I laid down, so I went into my room and told her to follow me. She came into my room and immediately started in on "the mess". "This place would drive me crazy," was her comment. "Don't you have a hamper?" THEN she started picking up objects. "What's this? What's that over there? What are you reading? What's this catalog? What's that--a box of Froot Loops? Gladys..." At one point, she picked up a sketchpad from a table near my bed, and I asked her to leave it alone. "Really?" she said, "I can't...?" "I'd rather not," I told her. "Well, I hope it's nothing....pornographic, or anything..." (No, Mom, actually, it's me trying to work out my unhappiness in cartoon form. Remarkably enough, it pretty much starts with the declaration you threw at me all the months after JP's death: "Why do you think your life should be different? You're no different than anyone else..." So...yeah, I'd really rather have ONE item in my room safe from your intrusions--IF you don't mind--since my own damn BRAIN can't even have that much anymore.)

Eventually, thank heaven, she left. And I went back to bed, and around 11 PM I woke up feeling mostly-better, and also hungry enough to eat a buffalo. Instead I settled for a little bowl of leftover rice--no use pissing off the tummy-gods--and this morning when I woke up, I was fine. Well, my stomach was fine, anyway. My mind...well.

And then, tonight, I decided it would be a good night to return all the calls I'd been ignoring while I was feeling pukey. Tim didn't answer, so I left him a message and went on to the next call: Debbi.

You all know: Debbi has been my friend since we were preschool age. I know she wouldn't intentionally upset me for anything. Today, though...well, I wished I'd left that call for another day.

Debbi is getting married soon. I don't know whether or not I like her guy; I've really only met him a couple of times, and he's definitely not what I would have expected her to pick, but she says she's happy. She ALSO, however, admitted that she'd just taken two days off to have anxiety attacks about whether or not she really wants to get married. I would characterize this as 25% normal cold-feet, and 75% Other. And I think, on some level, she's trying to convince herself.

However, as much as I'd like to be her sounding board about "I've already lived the wild part of my life, I won't miss it" and "I'm happy just to come home and have him there, or wake up and the dishes are done, or..." ...As much as I'd like to be her sounding board (or maybe even to ask the right questions to have HER see how weird that all sounds from an outside standpoint)...can I tell you, just talking about "the wild part"--which she seems to somehow think I'm "over" too--is like having bamboo splinters shoved under my nails. There were a couple of times when I had to tune out what she was saying and focus on something meaningless for a minute, just so I wouldn't sound like I was ready to cry--which I totally was. And you don't want to rain on the nearly-wed's parade when she talks about how fabulous it is to have someone to come home to, but...again, I ain't the one to talk to about it. Not in general; DEFINITELY not at the moment.

I got off the phone as soon as I could, and went into the kitchen and had my cry while washing the dishes. At least the kitchen is clean...

There's more to it; more connected to the way I feel society sees me as a middle-aged, unmarried woman with no children; and the way I see my life, with my mother hanging over it so effectively that she doesn't even need to object anymore to what I want, because I've now got her objections down so well that I fill them in for myself. I don't really see a path through this, you know? It's just one of those things...

I'm tired of trying to count my blessings. I'm tired of trying to be a good person and not question the way things happen. I'm tired of trying to rise above it all. It's hard, sometimes, not to even see myself as a petulant child; because somewhere underneath all the pretty little words and the psychobabble, one of the main issues I have with all of this is: It's not fair. And honestly, all I really want is someone--maybe even just myself--to be able to honor that little voice instead of seeking to shut it up with the callous adult's: Of course it isn't. Life isn't fair. Why should you be any different?

We always seem to come back to that question, don't we.

Why Don't They Use Scotch Tape?

One of Two Things Is Happening Here

Either a) I really, REALLY need to be on meds again, as in "more than even I suspect", or b) the human race at large is devolving into an irredeemable pack of heartless fuckwads.

Normally, I'd put the probability ratio of the two choices at about 50-50, or maybe 60-40. But in the case of the item that inspired this post, I'm going to have to rethink my optimism and call it 90-10, if that.

Here is the article. As you might imagine, I find it heartbreaking: three ostensibly smart kids, who have already overcome many of the difficulties of growing up in a rough neighborhood, who are on their way to greater things, die because they made a silly misjudgement in a moment of fun. I would cry at THAT no matter what.

But go to the end, and read the comments, and you'll see why I'm more depressed by this article than I would normally be; why I'm pretty much ready to write off the greater part of the human race as heartless assclowns. What on earth would possess these jerks to write such cruel things about people they don't even know--people whose families could very well be reading that website--that article--those comments?? Whatever happened to not speaking ill of the dead?

I am finding it harder and harder to deal with the human race in aggregate. Again, this may just be the absence of antidepressants...but I don't think that's the whole story. People have always been cruel; but lately, I think, they're getting crueller and crueller. That, just as much as the tragic story, makes me cry.

Something That Inexplicably Pisses Me Off Way More Than It Ought To

Okay. So all over the news, there's this link to a story about a former American Idol contestant who drove to Paula Abdul's house and killed herself, apparently. Her name was Paula Goodspeed, and she apparently was one of the not-so-good auditions from the 2006 season.

I don't remember her. I don't remember 99.999% of the bad auditions; in fact, I'd say I remember less than 75% of the actual top-ten contestants of a given season. But I do love the show; Season 1 got me through the summer after CR left me, and along with "Shrek" and "O Brother Where Art Thou?", I have to give it credit for the gloriously-necessary distraction that it was.

Not my point, though.

My point is: In not ONE of the articles, not one of the links that I've seen to the story of her suicide, do they actually show a picture of Paula Goodspeed. Instead we're treated to picture after picture of Paula Abdul--one of the most overexposed, most useless celebrities I've ever encountered. We KNOW what her goofy ass looks like; yet every media outlet that's writing about this poor girl's suicide, is making it into a story about stupid Paula Abdul.

Talk about shit not being fair....

I'd Prefer the Itch

I will attribute to my current lack of psych-meds the fact that I hate pretty much everything and everyone, right at the moment.

Without my non-altered state to blame, I would have to say it's my job that's thoroughly soured me on humanity right now; that, and the weather, and my loneliness, and the total lack of anything approaching "fun" in my life. I'm SERIOUSLY pissed at work, which for me is unusual; suffice to say a number of giant, enormous, painfully STOOOPID things have taken place, and I'm rapidly growing weary of everyone else's "no, we can't do that; we always do THIS" attitude. They're wasting my enthusiasm and my willingness to go beyond what's expected of me, and they're crushing my morale at the same time. I'm sick of offering to help; it's always turned down, generally in a way that makes me wish I'd never said anything in the first place.

I would love to run away, right about now. Part of this misery is that I feel like I'm wasting my life living by other people's rules; I look forward to the day when I don't have anyone to justify my actions to. And that, right there, is a pretty not-nice thought to think...but my god, I'm nearly 40 and I feel like I lived for maybe 18 months, once, a long long time ago. There are so many things I want to do that DON'T have anything to do with a 9-5 job, a quiet life, and a 401k...and every day I get closer to being too old to do them. But even the slightest move toward ANY of them--something as simple as dressing the way I'd like, or wearing my hair in a way that would make me happy--requires explanation to those who see any sign of change as dangerous.

I'm fairly damn miserable, to be honest. I have the beginnings of a plan, but no energy to carry it out; all I really want to do is sleep.

But at least the itch is mostly better; there are still a few spots I find myself scratching, and my legs look like I lost a battle with a blender; but for the most part, I think the worst is over.

Now, if only my brain would play nice...

History

I would have expected myself to get a little more grandiloquent and pompous tonight. Finally, finally, the last eight years of bullshit are over; that alone would be enough, but that it would unfold the way it has....What could I possibly add? Honestly, the weather in Chicago said it all today; sunny and bright, with the changing leaves gleaming in the sun and the cool breeze coming from the lake. It was perfect; it was a day for history.

The only thing I would change: I would wish for JP to be here for this moment. He was really a militant; in fact, he endured a lot of teasing from his childhood friends, for dating a white girl. I don't know if it ever stung him, but I would guess it probably did. The notion of an African-American President, back in 1995, was a pipe dream; yet here we are, thirteen years later, and within viewing distance of his mother's apartment Barack Obama is making his victory speech. I wish JP could have lived to see this day. It would have blown his mind.

As for me, I'm just happy and hopeful and worried, all at the same time. This could be the best thing to ever happen to America...or it could be the nightmare to end all nightmares. Time will tell. But tonight we are all a part of history, and I think the best thing to do is enjoy it.

Diagnosis (Totally Specious)

I've figured it out.
I've figured out my itching, my misery, my queasy tummy, my abject exhaustion, my total anomie:

I have American Electionosis.

All the cruelty, horribleness, meanspiritedness, disregard of fact, reliance on innuendo, ugliness, and generalized putrid behaviour surrounding this election has taken on a physical manifestation: namely, all the stuff I've had for the past month or so.

Since my defenses were already weakened by eight years too many of That Person Who Insists He Is The President, I was prime territory for this new disease to take hold. And take hold it has.

Fortunately, Tuesday is coming. I'm sure there will be a few days of residual symptoms, but I don't expect to experience this again til 2012, at least.

Itchy.

The Itch, which improved for several days, has returned. This is probably due to the allergist's prohibition: no antihistamines for three days before my appointment. As I was feeling utterly hideous anyway--to the point of taking two days off work and pretty much sleeping the clock around--I just said "to hell with it" and stopped taking everything. My body spent the better part of today kicking me very hard for it, including a barfing spell early in the morning as I was getting ready for my much-unloved Saturday work day. This was followed by queasy-icky-tummy for most of the rest of the day, which led me over to Walgreens for Sick Tummy Supplies: Pepto, Rolaids, 7-up, and animal crackers. The Pepto helped a little, but it was an uneasy truce. Finally, after I got home from work (Mom actually gave me a ride, and unlike most times she offers, I didn't object--it was that or a cab, because if the ride to work was any indication, I wasn't going to make it on the bus) and laid down for a little bit, normal processes resumed and, after a while, I felt much better. A couple hours later, I fixed myself some mac and cheese, which seems to be staying down all right, and since I don't feel queasy, my outlook on life is much improved. (Seriously, is there anything that can make you more instantly and more thoroughly unhappy than an upset stomach? I honestly think that someone could have come to me this afternoon and told me "Gladys, you've won the lottery, and furthermore, you will now be transported for the rest of your natural life to the mythic Island of Hot Men, Free Chocolate, and Cute Kittens" and I would have had a hard time registering any emotion.)

So now, there's just The Itch. I have nothing more to say about the Itch, other than that I really wish it would go away, ASAP, and nevermore return; other than that, however, I think I've said all there is to say on that topic. I can't wait til my allergist appointment, anyway. I'm very much NOT used to my body screwing with me to this degree--especially when it's not clearly an effect to a cause. Heroin withdrawal, I understood: You do A, and B comes of it. This latest episode of itch/misery/discomfort/whatever seems to have no cause-effect relationship that I can see; I've stopped all the possible causes I can think of, and yet the effect remains stalwart. I'll be greatly pleased if this turns out to be something stupid and easy that I just didn't think of...but I'm starting to think it won't.

Anyhow, Tuesday will have a dual distinction: both The Itch and The Dubya--nasty, long-term scrofulous annoyances both--will be rooted out, and the process of sending them on their way begun.

I have wrestled in my mind with the notion of going downtown for the Obama rally. The "For" side says "It's history in the making! You'll be able to tell someone else's grandkids about it someday!" The "Against" side says "Are you fecking KIDDING me? All those people? MILLIONS of them. Do you know what the buses will look like afterwards? And besides, we have to go to work Wednesday morning...do you really want to stay out til they call the results, and then stay around for the party? Also, all those PEOPLE. Nuh-uh. History happens on TV too, you know."

There's another concern I have, too, about this rally; almost too horrible to whisper about. For the first time in my adult life, I am actually afraid for a public figure. If anything happens...yes, I know, millions upon billions have been expended to make sure nothing happens. But...Things happen. And if they happen, a lot of people will die. I honestly believe that; if something goes wrong, 1968 will look like a practice run. The Rodney King riots will look like a day in the park. And I'm afraid that if the worst happens, a lot of people who know better, who in normal times would trust their neighbors no matter what their race, will forget what they know. If it comes to that, I'm in a bad place. But if it comes to that, I really don't know too many people who AREN'T in a bad place.

So, further disproving Tim's evaluation of my belief system: I'm praying it doesn't come to that. But it scares me, all the same.