Bree's Blog

New Year's Resolution #2: Puerto Rico, Puerto Pobre

This brothel, er, motel had rooms outfitted with lots of mirrors, for starters.

By Bree Barton

Well, we’re halfway through January. President Obama is all set for his historic inauguration. The next season of LOST is about to start. The Jonas brothers are dating again. New England is locked in a nasty winter chill. And in Dallas, Texas, it’s 65 degrees.

So I guess it’s time for my second New Year’s Resolution.

Now, as I was sifting through my experiences over the past year as I came up with three dynamite resolutions for 2009, it occurred to me that most of the terrible, horrible, no-good, very bad fiascos occurred in the same three-week stretch. The September-October period (aka, The Age of Debacles) wasn’t one of my best. As it so happens, the incident that inspired my second impassioned goal transpired a mere two weeks after I birthed my baby battery in the harsh streets of New York. Only, this one occurred on foreign soil.

Well, kind of foreign soil. “Commonwealth soil” is probably more accurate. Colonial politics, anyone?

New Year’s Resolution #2: Plan better vacations. Or, “Puerto Rico, Puerto Pobre.”

The day my car left its last dewy drop of motor oil on some ungrateful Jersey highway, I was scheduled to leave for Puerto Rico in less than forty-eight hours. It was September 23^rd.

But wait. Let’s go back a bit. When I bought these tickets originally, it was July. I was eating fresh blueberries from my backyard, watching my skin freckle, frolicking in the sunflowered fields, and having scones and tea in the sala with friends while discussing philosophy. One pleasant July morning, I woke up, yawned and stretched in the slanted late morning sun, and made my way to the computer (active addiction!) to where my weekly email from Travelzoo awaited me.

Now, as many of you may or may not be aware, someone at Travelzoo had this brilliant marketing idea to send out emails every week to travel-hungry people like me, showcasing the best deals on flights, hotels, etc. They call it "The Top 20." It's basically like parading a kindergarten class in front of a child molester. Who wouldn't jump at the bait? And sure enough, on that languid July morning, the wanderlust was just too much. A roundtrip ticket from JFK to Puerto Rico for only $230? I couldn't resist. I whipped out my credit card and purchased it on the spot.

Of course it didn't occur to me at the time that perhaps there was a reason all those flights in September/October were so cheap. A reason called hurricane season.

And so, in the midst of my car going caput and having to sell it for scrap metal, Hurricane Kyle was working its magic around the tiny isle of Puerto Rico, drowning people with reckless, wreckful abandon. In the meantime, I was fielding calls and emails from my mother, brother, and a few conscientious friends, all uniformly along the lines of, “BREE! Four people just died in flash flooding in Puerto Rico!!! Considering your recent luck…do you really want to push it?”

I decided that no, I did not want to push it. I’d just pushed a 15-pound battery through the streets of Manhattan, for chrissakes. I was all pushed out.

So I cancelled my original PR trip. Then, wonder of all wonders, they offered me the chance to reschedule it for only $100. Which is what I’d gotten for my Corolla, right? Spending that 100 bucks seemed justified. So I rebooked my trip for October 6-14^th. Perhaps this would mitigate, at least in part, that nightmarish week culminating in explosive car engines and atrophied dreams.

Of course, I wasn’t completely out of the woods yet. The whole island was still under what they call a "tropical depression." I would later find this term to be rather apt, since it could also be used fairly accurately to describe my general state of mind during the first half of my trip.

For one thing, it didn't occur to me that JetBlue's funky flight times would be an issue. "Fly out of New York at 11:59 pm and arrive at 3:47 am?" I thought optimistically to myself when I initially purchased my ticket. "Piece of cake!" What I wasn't accounting for was the very nice and well-meaning Puerto Rican man who sat next to me on the flight and talked to me the whole damn time. I would literally have my head bent in that horribly awkward angle (it's almost like some scheming airplane engineer is trying to make it categorically impossible to get comfortable) with my eyes closed, and this man would lean over and say, "So, have you thought about going to…" and thus would begin the next strand of conversation. And, because I am not very good at being a jerk, I didn't have the nerve to say, "SHUT THE HELL UP!"

Three and a half hours after takeoff, I hadn't gotten one wink of sleep. I arrived in Aguadilla (northwest tip of the island) in a total daze.

And I had to get a rental car.

And I had to drive it.

And I had no place to stay.

And it was raining.

My trip had officially commenced.

In a sense, my trip was a disaster before it even began. Let me explain. Once I'd gotten my rental car, it took me a goddamn hour to get out of the airport. Out of the airport. Not the city of Aguadilla. Not the tip of the island. Out of the Aguadilla airport. It's like I was on this endless loop and I could not get out. Ever seen that B horror movie with Sam Neill called In the Mouth of Madness? Well, it was like that, except there wasn't a Stephen King-esque closet of gooey monsters waiting for me at the end. Although there might as well have been. I finally, finally got out of the airport onto the main highway.

And then I stayed in a brothel for the night.

Ok, well, technically, it wasn't a brothel. At least it wasn't a brothel per se. It's what they call a "motel," but the guy at Enterprise smirkingly explained to me that a motel doesn't mean the same thing in PR that it does in the States. Basically, a brothel is where you pay for a place to "sleep"…in six-hour increments. You park your car in a garage, then close the garage door behind you. Then you step into a sparsely furnished room which has a lot (I'm not kidding: a lot) of mirrors. Then you open up a little door in the wall, and a mysterious man comes to collect your $30 (cash only, of course) through the hole. You never see him. He never sees you. Then you are free to do whatever you'd like, with only the mirrors watching, until those six hours are up. There is no blanket on the bed. On the wall is a list of room service items, including an array of flavored lubricants, prophylactics, and oddly shaped plugs. It's basically a brothel without the hired help.

And this is how my PR vacation began: going to sleep at 6 am for 6 hours, exhausted, frustrated, and a little unclear as to the cleanness of the sheets.

Nothing nearly as scandalous happened over the next four days (that was part of the problem). I quickly realized what a very different kind of trip this was for me than the ones I'm used to taking. Case in point: I generally don't get a rental car when I travel. I mean, in Europe, why would you need to when public transport is so effective? But in PR, there's no such thing as reliable public transportation. So I had a car, which meant I was constantly getting lost (road signs are horrific) and felt like I couldn't drink (no need to say how much that sucked). There's also no hostel culture, so I was paying a pretty penny for private hotel rooms ($60-80 a night) and not meeting anyone. My general MO when it comes to traveling is to bound off alone, meet other cool travelers along the way, and pal around with them. Italy, Spain, the UK, Greece, Germany—it's always worked before. But it just wasn't happening in PR.

To make matters worse, EVERY SINGLE RESTAURANT my Lonely Planet guidebook recommended was closed. I'm not kidding. On my second night (brothel +1), I went to bed with no dinner, starving, because every freaking restaurant on the west coast of the island was out of service. It was uncanny. I kept driving to all of these out-of-the-way places, which usually necessitated driving in circles for at least twenty minutes, and then once I got there I'd discover they were closed on Tuesdays, or closed on Wednesdays, or closed during the off-season, or closed for renovations, or just closed for no reason whatsoever. It was absurd. And I couldn't even go snorkeling in the bioluminescent bay because they couldn't do a trip for one person. Talk about the lame side to flying solo.

Welcome to Puerto Rico.

So my drive down the west coast was rather disappointing. Then I went to Ponce — finally hoping I'd have some fun — and it began POURING down rain. Actually, I should be fair — racing through Ponce soaking wet and splashing through puddles was actually pretty awesome. But then I wanted to go out dancing, consulted my Lonely Planet guidebook, found several clubs that were purportedly open, and got all dressed up, only to find out that — surprise, surprise — LP was wrong yet again. There are no clubs open in Ponce on Wednesdays; not a single one. So I spent the evening in my hotel room, finishing The Unbearable Lightness of Being and crying myself to sleep. Awesome vay-k!

A sidenote here: the Lonely Planet writers are so ecologically self-righteous. I mean, I'm as green as the next graduate from a liberal arts college in the northeast. But do they really have to be so high and mighty about it? "Yes, you may want to go see the bioluminescent bay in a motorboat, and here's their info…but just know that you're killing the environment when you go." Well, thanks a friggin’ lot, you pretentious assholes. In addition to hocking up bio-toxic fumes, I am now choking on the toxic mass of my own guilt. And you know, maybe if you gave me options that were actually OPEN, I wouldn't have to go environmentally HAYWIRE on this island's ASS.

Luckily, about halfway into the trip, I finally got some ying to my yang. The weather cleared up. I met some cool people. I went to San Juan, Bayamon, Vieques. I frolicked in the ocean. I spent way, way too much money… but I had fried codfish and yucca stuffed with crab and sushi and green plantains filled with lechon. And when I finally found a bioluminescent bay tour that permitted solitary travelers (sans motorboat, of course), I swam by moonlight in a bay where every stroke was like pushing through stardust.

Sigh.

I guess, all things considered, it wasn’t such a rough trip. Still...there were some invaluable life lessons to be learned.

I think I’d like to revise my second resolution.

NYR Numero Dos: Don’t go on vacations during hurricane season. Don’t stay in brothels. And Lonely Planet? You can go to hell.

Bliss arrives, and not a moment too soon.

More adventure: being blonde in Puerto Rico.

1 comment »

Rotors, Resolutions, and Child Abuse

Marcio, of Meineke, bears bad news

Bree Barton drives her Toyota Corolla, little suspecting what awaits her on a New Jersey highway and a repair shop.

By Bree Barton

Last night, I discovered a Word document entitled "NYR" on my computer. Curious, I double-clicked. Sure enough, there were my eight New Year's Resolutions for 2008 (I'm a sucker for themes), right where I left them. They included such jewels as "start some kind of regular workout routine" (ha) and "have one book written" (wellll, about that...)

Clearly, my lofty goals for 2008 followed the trajectory of most people's New Year's resolutions: they tanked.

Clearly, my lofty goals for 2008 followed the trajectory of most people's New Year's resolutions: they tanked. They went from resolute to dissolute -- some of them fell apart before I'd even finished singing Auld Lang Syne. By year's end, I was left demoralized, depressed, and exposed for what I truly am: a fraud. Even worse: I'm a fraud without a regular workout routine. O, such sorrow, such shame!

This year, I won't let the same thing happen again. For one thing, I'm simplifying my aspirations. Everyone else is downsizing, so I figured, why not? Maybe, with only three New Year's resolutions to keep track of, I can manage to not be such an abysmal failure.

In fact, the more I think about it, the more I think my resolutions for 2008 were all wrong. Maybe that's why I didn't keep them -- they weren't what I needed to be focusing on. Last year featured some genuine catastrophes, and they had nothing to do with treadmills and ellipticals (except that whole "Sarah Palin fans at the gym" bit . . . but there's no need to bring that up again).

And so, in honor of the New Year, I'm going to share my resolutions. Perhaps all of you valiant Cape Codders, with your Puritan sense of responsibility and your innate knowledge of oysters, can help hold me accountable.

In 2009, I've gotten smarter. I'm going to take those, er, "less than ideal" situations from last year into account when I make my new lineup. I think I'll call it: Bree's Three.

And so, in honor of the New Year, I'm going to share my resolutions. Perhaps all of you valiant Cape Codders, with your Puritan sense of responsibility and your innate knowledge of oysters, can help hold me accountable.

I'll deliver these in three sections, lest we all get overwhelmed. So, without further ado, here is the first installment of Bree's Three.

New Year's Resolution #1: Find dependable transportation.

This past September, as I made my way back from a writing workshop in New York, my car broke down on the side of the road. Actually, it broke down in the center of a road, when you consider that the damned New Jersey highways are split-laned. So I pulled over to what should have been the shoulder, but what was actually smack dab in the middle of two freaking highways. Luckily, the tow truck came before I was smashed to smithereens.

Naturally, it was 8 p.m. on a Sunday, so not a single car repair shop was open. So we deposited my car at a nearby Meineke and the tow truck driver was kind enough to take me to Newark. From there I was able to swing a train back to New York, and at 10:30 pm on a Sunday, I found myself back on the Brooklyn doorstep of my two friends who thought they'd gotten rid of me.

Now, a word about these friends. These guys are truly cream of the crop: funny, brilliant, thoughtful individuals who subscribe to The New Yorker and play Carcassone when they need to wind down. If you want to discuss Obama's agenda, they'll be totally game. If you want to grab wheat beers and sit around reading Kant and Schopenhauer, they'd be up for it. If you need a date to see Pina Bausch at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, these guys are the ones to call.

If you need someone who can troubleshoot about the inner workings of your Toyota Corolla that just shut down on a highway and is now sitting in a random Meineke in New Jersey, these guys are probably not the ones to call.

But if you need someone who can troubleshoot about the inner workings of your Toyota Corolla that just shut down on a highway and is now sitting in a random Meineke in New Jersey, these guys are probably not the ones to call.

So at my mom's suggestion, I called one of her friends in Texas instead, a self-proclaimed car guy. I described what my car did on the highway, and he said it sounded like it was a battery problem. In fact he was almost sure of it. He asked me if my friends knew how to put in a battery.

I put the phone down for a second. "Either of you guys know how to install a battery?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

They gave me a blank stare. "We could Google it," one of them said.

Well, so much for that.

In light of the situation, my mom's friend suggested that I get a battery myself at Wal-Mart for like 75 bucks and then take it to Meineke and have them put it in. That way, I would come in knowing the problem and the solution, and they'd be less likely to overcharge me. Besides, a battery problem was fixable. There was hope yet.

Of course issue #1 was that there wasn't a single Wal-mart in New York City. My ever politically conscious friends were proud to inform me of that fact. The equation was really quite simple: Wal-mart = SATAN. By necessity, we scratched Wal-Mart from our list of options, my friends went to bed, and at some point that night, I went to sleep in the fetal position on an unyielding leather couch.

The epic journey was about to commence.

I wake up on Monday morning. I prepare myself. I trudge all over Manhattan until, three subway rides, two wrong addresses, and lots of walking later, I find a Hess.

I buy a battery for $95. Wal-mart would have been cheaper. But at least I know I paid that extra twenty bucks so that small children in Thailand didn't lose their appendages on the factory assembly line.

. . . although they probably did anyway.

Now we've made our way to issue #2: an issue of physics. I.e., Mass. Gravity. Long distances. Not a winning combination. The journey I'm about to make with a 15-pound battery in my arms and a purse on my shoulders goes something like this: five blocks to subway station. Stairs. Change to another subway line. More stairs. Walk through a train station to take Path train to Jersey. Lots and lots of stairs. Arrive in Newark. Walk .5 miles to Meineke. Finito.

I made it exactly one block.

Then I see this huge stack of garbage. As luck would have it, it's trash pick-up day in New York City. And there it is, leaning precariously on the side: a baby stroller. This will be my salvation! All hope is not lost.

Now, the thing about this baby stroller is, it's not exactly in the best shape. Let me be frank: this baby stroller looks like the crap's been beaten out of it. It is the most mangled baby stroller I have ever seen. It has three wheels and sharp prongs of metal poking out on all sides. If a real baby were to be riding in this baby stroller, the parents would be arrested on the spot for child abuse.

But, fortunately, there's not a real baby in this stroller. There's a freaking 15-pound battery peeking out of the soiled green fabric.

I can't even begin to describe the looks I garnered from real mothers pushing their real babies in strollers through New York City. They would look toward me, an unspoken bond of solidarity in their tender glance. Then their expression would quickly turn to one of curiosity, and closely on its heels . . . utter and undisguised aversion. And off I went, dodging looks both nasty and perplexed, jollily pushing my 3-wheeled stroller through the city, frequently getting hung up on bumps and curbs, with a big black battery where a baby should have been.

It was even worse in the subways. People looked at me like I was carrying a bomb.

By the time I finally made it to the Meineke in Newark with my baby-battery, I was sweating like a pig. In retrospect, the baby stroller might have actually made things more difficult. It certainly helped that I wasn't carrying the battery the whole way, but every time I came to a staircase, I'd have to jerk the damn stroller all the way down going CLANG CLANG CLANG. Once a policeman watched in utter incredulity as I yanked the clattering stroller down two flights of stairs; when I'd finally reached the bottom, he exclaimed, "Oh my god! I thought you had a baby in there!" Besides, the three-wheel predicament ended up being a huge hassle, and more than once I became lodged with my stroller in the door of the subway while a lot of pissed off New Yorkers gathered behind me and glared.

But I had my battery, and I'd gotten it to Meineke. I handed it over and asked them to put it in.

It was about to get a lot worse. A guy named Marcio came bearing the bad news: it wasn't the battery at all. It was the motor. My car motor had seized.

It was about to get a lot worse. A guy named Marcio came bearing the bad news: it wasn't the battery at all. It was the motor. My car motor had seized. If I bought a new motor, it would cost around $1,000, and that was without labor. Considering my little '96 Corolla with 209,000 miles only blue books at about $1,000-1,200, it just didn't make sense.

The whole situation was my fault, of course. The car had had an oil leak for forever, but for the last year and a half, I had faithfully filled it up with oil every few hundred miles. It was a stop-gap solution until I could afford to have the leak fixed. In fact I had just put oil in it the weekend before, but I guess the leak got worse and it started losing oil faster, unbeknownst to me. The guys at Meineke said it was bone-dry.

They weren't exactly sympathetic to my plight. They were all pissed that my unmovable car (it couldn't even be rolled because the gears were locked up) was blocking up space in their lot for a day. I had to listen to the patronizing head mechanic tell me, "You know, next time you have a car? You need to check the oil."

And it's like, I KNOW, asshole. I'm not that stupid. And it's not like this has been convenient for me, either.

So, after some frenzied grieving, I kissed my darling Toyota goodbye and sold it for scrap metal-for all of a hundred bucks and my license plates as mementos.

Naturally, I had no way to get back to the farm.

For once in my life, fate smiled down upon me:  there was an Enterprise down the street. So I rented a Ford Focus for a day. I was faced with two options: either buy another car immediately (imminently unaffordable), or move to a big city with public transportation (the farm where I was living was so remote, the nearest grocery stores was 8 miles away). Option 2 required filling it up with all my stuff, and moving my life. Like, instantaneously.

That's how I ended up at the Starbucks in Newark on Monday afternoon, frantically searching Craigslist for rooms to rent in NYC or DC, and/or used cars.

I chose option 1. Sitting at Starbucks, I discovered my destiny. I found an old clunker car for $1,000. A 1990 Honda Accord (which made me feel a little better). I met the guy. I bought it. The radio didn't work, the dashboard lights were out, and it was out of alignment. But it was wheels. I had averted certain disaster. The future was bright.

Fast forward to January 6th, 2009. One day ago. The Honda was in the shop for a week. When I picked it up yesterday afternoon, they told me that they couldn't fix the rotors . . . and they couldn't fix the alignment ... in fact they couldn't fix much of anything at all. Why? Because, according to the mechanic, it's so rusted, if they start doing any serious work on it, it'll more or less crack apart.

Sigh. That diagnosis still cost me 318 bucks.

And so, I reiterate: Resolution #1. Find dependable transportation. Or else I might be the one to crack apart.

Bree's car when it still existed.

5 comments »

Confessions of an Obama Volunteer

He changed America, and volunteering changed my life

After my first day of volunteering in Ohio on October 31^st--a long, 10-hour affair of door-to-door canvassing--I was heading back home when our Red Team leader said, in a kind of offhand manner, "Oh, and just so you know...you can't blog about any of this." 

President-elect Obama, wherever you are... I hope you don't mind that I'm writing about my volunteer experiences. I just wanted to say thank you for changing my life.

I stopped in the door. "Sorry, what was that?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Last I heard, they've asked the volunteers not to blog about anything."

I wanted to explain that, well, blogging is kind of what I do. That's part of the whole reason I decided to volunteer in the first place--so I'd have exciting adventures to chronicle on the World Wide Web. Before I started canvassing for Obama, the most stimulating political environment I'd been able to tap into was the local gym where women sweated out their love for Sarah Palin on adjacent treadmills. Fun.

The next few days in Akron were apt to be some of the most thrilling days of my life. And now I couldn't write about them? I wanted to cry. But instead, I nodded. "Okay," I said, feeling defeated. What could I do? If Obama didn't want me to blog, I wouldn't blog. Maybe the campaign was afraid that careless web-logging could be used against them in the eleventh hour. It's not like I'd say anything incriminating. The most shocking thing I had to report was when the 8-year-old grandson of a veteran phone-banker tried to stab his brother with a pair of scissors-and the blades weren't even that sharp.

I went to bed early that night. For the first time in my life, I didn't dress up for Halloween. I was exhausted, frustrated, beat down. Since I can't even talk about my experiences, I thought to myself, I sure hope this is worth it.

Four days later, November 4^th, was one of the greatest days of my life.

And finally, exactly one month later, I'm saying so.

Since Barack Obama is soon to be the 44^th President of the United States of America, I figure: what's the harm? Now we can talk about how it happened. And how I helped make history.

A Long Day's Journey Into Nyquil

I spent my first few days in Akron staving off sickness. I could feel it coming on-my throat was scratchy, I had a perpetual headache, and it was all compounded by the fact that I wasn't getting very much sleep. One day I drove to three different places trying to locate fresh-squeezed orange juice before my shift began. I was hence able to conclude that it is categorically impossible to find juice in Akron before 9 am.

Every time I parked my car somewhere, I was nearly positive that I would be robbed, since all of my worldly belongings were packed to the ceiling and quite visible. Tufts of clothing were sticking out everywhere, and random boots and papers. Not that I own much of value, anyway...but if you saw a medieval fairy costume bursting forth from a Lexmark printer, wouldn't you be sorely tempted to break the eighth commandment?

I didn't even wear the friggin' costume, anyway. The inside of my car dressed up for Halloween more than I did, damn it.

But imminent illness notwithstanding, I made do. I spent long hours canvassing the dilapidated streets of downtown Akron, streets by the names of "Amherst," "Harvard," and "Yale"--a tragic irony, since they bore little resemblance to the eponymous elitist institutions. Eviction signs littered the doors and crumbling steps led to eroding porches; everywhere the detritus of hard economic times.

In truth, though, I felt comfortable in these neighborhoods. I grew up in Dallas in the 80s when gang wars raged in the alley behind our house. I can handle beat-up front porches and their humble owners, people who are genuinely warm, friendly, and, conveniently, Obama supporters. I'll take them anyday over the trophy housewives who plaster McCain + Palin signs on their gas-guzzling SUVs before driving two blocks to get their nails done.

The magic of canvassing these streets was that I got to see a whole other side of the population. These people live in a very different world than my group of well-educated, well-meaning friends with their liberal arts degrees. The kids from Amherst College sit around, play board games, drink wine, and discuss the books we're reading. The people who live on Amherst Street don't always make enough money to buy milk for their kids. And the passion these people expressed, the belief they had in Obama as a leader who could bring about real and lasting change...it was incredible.

There were lighter moments too, of course. Once I approached a group of guys who eyed me carefully as I balanced my slippery stack of door hangers and brochures. "You better not be canvassing for McCain, girl," one of them said. "In this neighborhood, you gonna get yourself JUMPED."

I explained to him that, not to worry: I was on the right side.

I picked up a few fans, too, out on my solitary runs. Sadly, I had to explain to several enthusiastic patriots that, no, I was not running for office. "Well, if you ever need somebody to treat you right," said a fellow who introduced himself as D-Smooth, "you know where I live."

And I did, too. Had his address right there in my paperwork.

We volunteers went through three phases of the nationwide Get Out The Vote effort. Phase 1 and Phase 2 included knocking on doors, talking to people, leaving materials when no one was home. Then the day before November 4^th, Phase 3 ,we didn't knock, but just left specific information on where to vote.

Before I knew it, it was Election Day. And the real fun had yet to begin.

"Mom, the Line Manager had an accident!"

I awoke early. The house where I was staying-a beautiful, two-story affair with elegant art and a Grand piano-was quiet. I made myself a cup of tea. By 5:45 am I was at the neighborhood launch site to pick up my assortment of materials: two boxes of handouts, a 24-pack of waters, and a trash bag of bagels (literally). I had been slotted as a line manager for the day, meaning that my job was to make sure people waiting in line to vote stayed happy, enthusiastic, and, most importantly, stayed put. I was working at a polling location in downtown Akron, a senior and assisted living center.

I was the only line manager at this location, and somehow, as I struggled to balance all the materials as I climbed out of my personal-closet-on-wheels , I managed to lose my grip on the trash bag of bagels and spill them all out into the parking lot, while simultaneously dumping my tea down the front of my pants. "Great," I thought to myself. "It's 6 am, and I look like I peed myself." Thank god it was still dark.

A woman stooped to help me pick up a runaway bagel, and that's when I met my new friends for the day: a mother, her son, and a man and his wife. They set up shop with me, 100 feet away from the entrance to the polling location (a distance established by law). They weren't Obama volunteers, but were there to protest Issue 8. We started chatting and found we had a lot in common. I set up my Obama signs; they put up their "Vote No on Issue 8" signs. Slowly, the sun began to rise.

The polls opened at 6:30 am. There was no line, no mad rush. Things progressed pretty leisurely. The wife in our little party went to get Krispy Kreme donuts; when the box was empty, we used it for the bagels and arranged them tastefully (brushing off wayward pieces of grass in the meantime...but hey, it's organic!).

Around 10 am, two well-dressed women walked up to our signs and began taking them out of the ground. They didn't make any sort of announcement--just, started pulling them up out of the ground.

I walked up to them. "Hi," I said, trying my best to be cordial. "These are my signs. Is there a problem?"

"We work for the mayor," the blonde one said, with a brisk smile. "And he hasn't permitted any signs on the perimeter of this building except for that one." She pointed to the one large "Vote Yes for Issue 8" sign on the corner.

"Okay, thanks," I said.

Issue 8, by the way, was a new initiative to lease the city's water to an outside company in an effort to "raise scholarship money to preserve our children's future." What it actually meant, as my new friends explained to me, was that citizens would be paying twice as much for their utility bills; meanwhile, that scholarship money would go directly into the mayor's pocket.

When the women were gone, my friends called their supervisor. He was a short but fiery man. He came in his truck, and when he saw the signs lying on the ground in a heap, he was furious. He grabbed an "8 IS SEWAGE, BUT 9 IS FINE" sign, walked down the corner, and stuck it in the ground--directly in front of the mayor's "Vote Yes for Issue 8" sign. It was a brilliant act of defiance. We all stood there, a little awed.

"You didn't see that," he said, as he passed by us to get back into his truck.

Around 2 pm, one of the election integrity officials from inside--a friendly California lawyer who had flown in to Ohio to volunteer his time--came out to warn us to expect "Republicans in suits."

"We just got a call that they're complaining that the elections aren't fair," he explained to us. "So just know they might be coming."

We never saw Republicans in suits. But we did see a Republican in Wranglers. We didn't know he was a Republican until after he'd pulled up in his hefty truck and gone inside. Then we pieced it together--the McCain bumper stickers, the Wranglers. He was there for a while, watching the process. But he made no complaints.

Later on in the day, we gave a little boy one of our Obama signs. He held it against his smooth, dark face and waved it in the air. He was two, maybe, three at most. "If Obama wins," I thought to myself, "That little boy will grow up thinking it's the most natural thing in the world for a black man to be President of the United States." And a chill went through me.

Before I left that evening, all four family members laid their hands on me and prayed. "Please be with Bree on her journey back home," they said. "And let Barack Obama win this Election. Thank you, Jesus."

Thank you, indeed.

I stopped at a café for hot tea on the way home. As I was just about to place my order, one of the baristas pointed to a woman standing by the front door. "That woman is trying to figure out where to go to vote," he said. "I told her you might know.

It was 6:51. The polls closed at 7:00. We had nine minutes.

"Let's go!" I shouted, grabbing the woman by the arm. "We can make it!"

I threw the already jumbled mess of things from my front seat into my back seat in one fell swoop. I got the woman in my car. I got her to the library (which turned out to be just across the street).

She opened the door and looked at me. "Thank you," she said.

I smiled my response.

She hasted in to the library. I looked at my car clock. It was 6:58. She'd made it.

Two minutes later, it was 7:00 pm. The polls were closed.

Now, we waited.

Ohio Goes Blue

We didn't have to wait long.

When I heard that Obama had won Pennsylvania, I was still at my host's house, getting dressed for a night of what I imagined to be anxious waiting. Since I had voted absentee in Pennsylvania, I leapt for joy. Then I danced around the kitchen using my hairdryer as a microphone.

When I heard that Obama had won Ohio, I was in my car driving to the Akron Victory Party. I got the news in a text from my boss that said, simply:

"OHIO!!!!!!! It's over.!!!"

I started laughing, shaking, crying...and speeding, apparently, as I IMMEDIATELY got pulled over by a police cruiser.

When he came to my window, I was beaming. He could have given me a $500 ticket and I don't think I would have cared. "I was probably speeding, wasn't I?" I said, laughing. "I'm here volunteering for Obama in Ohio, and I just heard we won it. I have no idea how fast I was going. To be honest with you, I've kind of lost my mind."

He didn't even take my insurance. He took my license, checked it out, and brought it back to me with nothing but a warning.

"Just be careful, okay?"

I was jubilant. "Did you vote today?"

He shook his head. "I did early voting."

"For Obama?" I said.

He smiled at me. "Well, of course."

I drove off, giddy with glee. Then I rolled down my window and screamed out "OBAMA!!!!!!" at the top of my lungs for the next 10 minutes as I cruised down the main strip. (It would take four days for my voice to come completely back.)

That night, as I stood in the hall watching the official announcement, I wept. I also texted people like crazy-all of my friends, in all our various parts of the country, were texting each other messages of hope, disbelief, and pure, unadulterated joy. My friend Teresa reported that people in DC had taken to the streets, honking their car horns, running wild and yelling. Bill in Virginia witnessed the same phenomenon. My uncle in Texas, who had told me I was going to hell for voting for Obama, texted to say, "Looks like I'M the one going for hell. Congratulations!" Brad in California opened a bottle of champagne. The world had gone half mad. All over, people were hugging, laughing, screaming, honking, yelling, hugging strangers in the streets and screaming. It still gives me chills to think about it. The country had come alive.

Barack Obama had won the Presidential Election. He had won Ohio. He had won Pennsylvania. I had helped--I had mattered. Never have I felt a part of something so great, so grand.

As I was driving home that night, awash in euphoria, I got this text from the Obama Campaign, one that they sent out to everyone on their nationwide contact list:

We just made history. All of this happened because you gave your time, talent and passion to this campaign. All of this happened because of you. Thanks, Barack

I will keep that message forever. For the next four years. For the next eight, with any luck. Until I can tell my children about the day Barack Obama was elected President. And the hours I spent walking, and talking, and forging my beliefs. Until the next day when apathy is vanquished, and the world wakes up and takes a chance on hope, on change, on promise.

Or until the day I lose my phone memory card. Whichever comes sooner.

President-elect Obama, wherever you are... I hope you don't mind that I'm writing about my volunteer experiences. I just wanted to say thank you for changing my life.

6 comments »

Cape Cod, Whassa Kwassa?

What is Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa?
As do so many things these days, it all started with an e-mail

By Bree Barton, Special for cctoday

When I first received the email from a CCToday editor, asking if I might be interested in writing a post about Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa, I was thoroughly confused.

I must here confess that I sometimes skim my e-mails on the initial read and, as such, often determine content through a sort of word association game. The game basically goes like this: I pick out pieces and try to string them together in my head, somewhat akin to children stringing popcorn and cranberries on a strand of twine for old-fashioned Christmas decorations. Unfortunately, the result is-much like the popcorn and cranberries-typically less dazzling than how you visualized it in your head. And then, the squirrels eat it.

What is Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa besides being ranked the 67^th best song of 2007 by Rolling Stone?

And so, my first reading of Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa was that it was some kind of New England twist on an African holiday. Either that, or a horrible misspelling.

Clearly, this sort of e-mail-reading is remarkably ineffective. But it's not like I'm the only one who indulges in the tactic. Googlemail has made a fortune off the art of skimming e-mails. They devised a brilliant marketing tool based on the concept; it's called "sponsored links." It's quite remarkable, really based on the content of the e-mail, and using what I can only imagine to be some kind of automated device that picks up on keywords, Gmail will provide you with a sampling of tailor-made links that relate (at least in theory) to what the person is emailing you about.

Here are the links that accompanied the initial email regarding Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa:

Cape Cod Wood Floors
Call Us for Quality, Custom Hardwood Flooring and Installation.

Cape Cod Oceanfront
3 Acres, New Constr Fab Design Absolute Seclusion, Epic Beauty

Trigger Email Marketing
Automate Your Email Campaigns By Sending Messages Based On Events

Easiest Receipt Scanning
Effortless Receipts and Business Cards - Scanned For You! Try Free

Centerville Chiropractic
In Pain? Call Today!

Where the hell IS Centerville?

I wasn't in pain, and I didn't call, that day or any other. Where the hell is Centerville, anyway? Obviously, Googlemail wasn't much help.

So, disillusioned by Gmail's inappropriate non-sequiturs, I began my quest in a world far, far beyond the domain of Googlemail.

...I went to Google.com instead. Four backspaces far, far beyond.

That's when my journey took me to Youtube. There was a video of this Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa. It seemed to be a song by a band called "Vampire Weekend." The video promised to answer all of my most pressing questions. So I clicked. And it started loading. I waited with bated breath.

And then my browser window closed.

Unperturbed, I reopened Internet Explorer and tried loading the video again. The same thing happened. It happened again, too, until I begin to question the integrity of Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.

Was it disrupting my firewall?

Was it pornography?

Had I been right in my first assumption, and the video was somehow an affront to the African-American people?

Was my name going to flash up on a list somewhere, like kids who check out Mein Kampf at the local library? Was I soon to be blacklisted for trying to access Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa?

Finally, I tried another link. The video loaded without complaint. And I watched it.

For a moment, I thought this was some kind of variant of the Rickroll - another guy with coiffed hair and a blue jean jacket, crooning on his guitar. But no - this was no Rick Astley. This was something new.

So what IS CCKK?

Any song that manages to weave in "Louis Vutton" by the second line (and "Benetton" makes an appearance later) is bound to earn my respect.

What is Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa? It's a song about love, labels, and Peter Gabriel. Apparently, Peter Gabriel himself has expressed interest in doing a cover, though he's not yet sure whether he would keep this part of the lyrics - "Peter Gabriel too" - or substitute something different. In a sense, having Peter Gabriel sing "Peter Gabriel too" would be the most logical, thematically appropriate thing in the world; still, it's getting a little meta for a pop song.

Also: any song that manages to weave in "Louis Vutton" by the second line (and "Benetton" makes an appearance later) is bound to earn my respect.

I'm not the only one who digs it - the song is all the rage. It's only Vampire Weekend's fourth single, but it was rated the 67^th best song of 2007 by Rolling Stone.

The lyrics are without pretense. Beds and sweaters all receive their due; in fact the song is rather tactile in nature. Linens. Sandy lawns. Mothers.

The tune is simple, too, and rather catchy. The lyrics are without pretense. Beds and sweaters all receive their due; in fact the song is rather tactile in nature. Linens. Sandy lawns. Mothers. You can practically touch the smooth and soft.

The video draws an amusing dichotomy, I think, between the classic perception of the Cape Cod elite and the more vampiric, spiky-haired, black-eye-linered Gothic contingent. But the problem is, put either type next to the crashing waves of a Cape Cod beach (as they are in the video), and they still appear exactly as they are: young, enthusiastic, beautiful.

I miss the Atlantic Ocean. Landlocked in the center of Ohio, where I am volunteering in the final days before the election, I feel neither young, nor enthusiastic, nor beautiful. I feel tired.

At least now I've got a groovy new tune to accompany me as I canvass the dilapidated streets of downtown Akron. Hey - it's definitely better than a bastardized Kwanzaa.

You can't dance to Kwanzaa. But you can certainly do a little reggaeton rumba to Cape Cod Kwassa Kwassa.

Do you want to?

Oh, you know I do.

5 comments »

Red, White and Blue Moon

Doing the impossible

Two nights ago, I did the impossible. The unthinkable. The potentially hazardous to my health.

I infiltrated enemy ranks. That's right: I entered...the red zone.

As the first Presidential Debate loomed on the evening timetable, I bridged the partisan divide and attended two debate-watching events: one Republican, and one Democratic.

As you might imagine, I didn't have a thing to wear.

The Republican get-together was first. After thoroughly browsing JohnMccain.com (not the easiest site to navigate, in my opinion), I found the closest debate-watching event in a small town located 15 miles from my house, a town that, as I would discover later that evening, also happens to be the county seat for the local chapter of the KKK. After one wrong turn that landed me in the middle of a state park, I wound my way through the tortuous dark roads until I finally arrived, 45 minutes before the debate began.

The address led me to a two-story shingled home belonging to a Mr. F, located off the main street of a small town. As I lifted my fist to knock, I noticed an array of five stickers on the front door:

National Rifle Association.

North American Hunting Club.

U.S. Marine Corps.

U.S. Military: Proud to Serve.

American and Proud.

I couldn't help but smile. It's like this man's door was stumping for stereotypes.

"Come in," a faceless voice said from inside. So I did.

To my surprise, I was the only one there.

A man with a crew cut and a walking cane stood to greet me. He sized me up as I extended my hand. "I'm Bree," I said quickly, wondering if I was crossing some invisible line. I wasn't really a Republican. Was I supposed to fake it?

Slightly nervous, I babbled on. "I hate to stop and run, but I can't stay very long..." I trailed off. "There's another event I'm trying to catch tonight."

"That's fine," he said, nodding agreeably. "That's what most people have been doing-they just stop in to get their stuff and leave." He motioned to a table in the center of the room where a veritable pile of McCain paraphernalia lay. Pages, pamphlets, brochures, bumper stickers, round stickers, notepads-and of course, massive McCain yard signs. "Here," Mr. F said, hobbling to
the table and collecting a hefty pile. "Take some."

I took them in my hand, feeling slightly fraud-like. "Be right back," he said, "and don't mind the dog."

"Dog?" I hadn't seen a dog.

"Name's Cupcake," he said over his shoulder before disappearing into the bowels of his house.

I took the opportunity to analyze his living room. There were two bowls of potato chips on two wooden tables. Two televisions were nestled into the bookshelves, both set to CNN . There were even two fish tanks, identical in size and color, facing each other from opposite walls. It was like everything in the room had its duplicate. The effect was somewhat eerie.

Cupcake materialized from the kitchen. He wandered into the living room, a Beagle mutt with sad and baleful eyes. When I reached down to pet him, he winced and moved away.

"He was abused," said Mr. F, ambling slowly and carefully into the room. "Want to give me your email?"

We chatted for a few more minutes, Mr. F talking about some of the local Republican politicians and, when I commented on the medals in his glass case, his thirteen years of service as a Marine. He wrote out some information on a notepad.

Standing in his living room, hand poised over the chip bowl, I felt obliged to ask a question like a real Republican would do. "So. We gonna win?" I asked, my heart wiggling like Eggs Benedict.

"McCain'll take it," he said, without even looking up. "Some of the local guys might be closer, though."

In that moment, it occurred to me that half a country of McCain supporters are utterly confident that McCain will win. The other half are utterly certain it will go the other way. Obviously, one of the two groups is utterly wrong.

I helped myself to some candy before I made my way out. I'm pretty sure it was left over from Halloween.

As I closed his front door behind me, I noticed seven hot dogs roasting on the grill. Had Mr. F expected more guests? Maybe he'd envisioned watching the debate with others, reminiscing over his days in the first Gulf War and discussing our country's glorious future. I felt a twinge of sadness.

But I hurried on my way. Besides-the Democrats had free beer and chicken wings.

When I got to the inn where the Democrats were preparing to watch the debate, it was a lively crew. No liberal vegans here-on the contrary, there were several pitchers of beer and a heaping pile of spicy chicken wings. Very left wing.

"This is gonna be good," said a man as he stumbled toward a table, extending a shaky hand to touch the chandelier overhead. "Obama's ideas are just so...they're so perfect!"

I settled myself into a corner and turned on my laptop, preparing to take notes.

The moment the debate began, someone hit the lights and all 21 people crammed into the room fell silent. A mystical darkness fell over us as all eyes looked up at the television screen. You could have heard a bone crunch.

But it didn't take long for the whispers to begin. Midway through the first ten minutes, as both candidates struggled to answer Jim Lehrer's questions on the economy, a rippling groan of dissent went through the room.

"He's not answering the question," said a woman beside me, shaking her head in disgust at John McCain.

"And not only that, but the Republicans are refusing to sign!" another woman said, referring to the latest failed bailout deal.

The debate continued, and every once in a while, someone would pipe up, "Are you out of your god damn mind?" when McCain said something particularly ludicrous.

I typed away furiously, trying to capture everything I could. "The war has cost us 600 billion dollars and more than 4,000 lives," intoned Obama, "and yet Al Qaeda is stronger now than ever before." I couldn't help but marvel over the fact that, when I erred in my spelling of "Al Qaeda," Microsoft Word spell check was quick to offer me the correct alternative. What a testament to how much times have changed since 2001.

Around the time the phrase "fundamental difference" had been used for about the ninth time, I noticed my laptop was running out of juice. I took a furtive glance around the dark room and located the only open outlet-directly under the television.

There was only one thing to do: I got on my hands and knees, desperately trying not to attract attention to myself, and crawled toward the outlet with computer cord in hand, ever reverent to the almighty god of electrical current.

When I got there, I noticed one of the two sockets in the outlet was occupied by a black cord. I didn't think much of it as I thrust my laptop cord into the remaining socket.

Then suddenly, silence.

The room was strangely quiet and dark. I looked up. The television was off, completely powered down. 20 people emitted simultaneous groans and objections as my heartbeat ground to a screeching halt.

"Oh my god," I said, "did I do that?"

And sure enough, I had. I had unplugged the first Presidential Debate. I hadn't even unplugged it-I'd simply plugged my laptop in, and in so doing, disrupted the electrical current and turned off the Presidential Debate while 20 impassioned Democrats were watching with bated breath. And to make matters worse, it wouldn't go back on.

The next thirty seconds were the longest thirty seconds of my life. I jimmied, I unplugged, and I replugged, all the while offering profuse apologies to the rest of the room. I blew on the socket. I shook it. I pounded it furiously with my fist. Silently, I cursed it. I also noticed the sooty burn marks around each of the sockets. Oh, god.

Somehow, it came back on. I was so very thankful, so very thankful that I crawled out of the room with my laptop in hand.

Obama and McCain talked about Iraq next, or so I heard. By that point, I was at the bar, cowering in shame over a Blue Moon and actively avoiding a roomful of perturbed Democrats. I even made a new friend, a guy who'd completed two tours in Iraq. It cost him 60 percent of his hearing in his right ear and most of the ligament in his shoulder. It cost him his faith in our President, too.

Obviously, I didn't exactly succeed at watching the debates. And quite frankly, I'm not sure the debates succeeded, either.

I still haven't unloaded my car. For two days, I've been driving around with a McCain yard sign in my back seat. Right next to it, an Obama sign rests contentedly on the plush burgundy fabric.

I wonder what the neighbors think.

4 comments »

Work Out with your Jerk Out

Sarah Palin is making me lose weight

Last night at the gym, I was thwarted in my attempts at calisthenics by a woman wearing bright red lipstick and too-tight shorts. She wasn't hogging the ellipticals, didn't chat my ear off while I was trying for a treadmill-induced trance, and chose not to scowl at my frenetic workout pace like other patrons do. Oh, no. Much worse: she commandeered the remote control.

At my small and unassuming gym, there are only two televisions, and a scant one of these faces the general direction of the cardio machines. This TV has typically achieved some sort of stasis by the time I arrive around 7 pm. But last night, one woman embarked on an epic journey to find just the right channel to float her boat. The problem for the rest of us was: she couldn't find it.

This was no ordinary channel surf. Just when I thought she had settled comfortably into an episode of Scrubs or Hannah Montana, she began her maniacal flipping yet again. For 17 minutes-timed by my elliptical's ever-handy dashboard-this woman continued to surf through channels like she was on the Association of Surfing Professionals World Tour.

Unfortunately for me, my only hope of sustaining an extended workout session is to bombard myself with every possible kind of mental distraction. An hour at the gym means going on sensory overload. Ideally, I have rap music blasting through my iPod speakers, a superficial magazine in front of me, and a fast-paced program on the TV set (with captions, of course). Only then can I engage in a 600-calorie burn-although it remains to be seen if obsequious Precor and its sycophantic calorie display can really be trusted.

When channels are flashing by at the speed of light, however, achieving the necessary level of distraction is utterly impossible. Luckily, after 17 minutes of a grueling, unmitigated session on my machine, the woman made her final decision. What did she choose? The SciFi Channel.

Now, it's not that I have anything against the SciFi Channel per se. As a child, I was an unabashed Trekkie, basking in the glories of TNG and secretly crushing on Wesley Crusher. But as an adult sweating my ass off on an unforgiving elliptical, watching grown men marvel over a yeti's foot just isn't going to cut it.

It's not like it's my first frustration at the gym. Usually when I arrive, the TV is set to Fox News, and inevitably, Sarah Palin is featured prominently in at least one story every 25 minutes. Sarah Palin has an interview! Sarah Palin has a pregnant daughter! Sarah Palin has trendy glasses! Through the din of Jamie Foxx and Kanye crooning "She a golddigga," I can sometimes hear the women on adjacent ellipticals cooing, "Isn't she great?"

The result is that I find myself getting viscerally angry as I pump my arms and legs faster and faster and my heart rate spikes to the 194-203 range. At least one thing can be said for Sarah Palin: she's making me lose weight.

So it was only natural that yesterday evening, I was faced with a life-altering decision. It struck me at the very core of my being, dredged up from years of pandering to two very disparate sides of myself. It could be summed up in one simple question: Sarah Palin, or yeti's feet?

Trembling slightly, dizzied by the knowledge of what I had to do, I made my choice.

I chose neither.

Instead, I leapt from my machine and made a mad dash for the remote as soon as the offending woman released it from her clutches. I flipped to CNN. I watched a silent John McCain's captions talk about service.

By the time I returned to my elliptical all of six seconds later, it had reset to "zero."

Remarkable, isn't it? How easy it is to halt progress.

3 comments »

Transient Travesties

Was it okay to pee here?

Yesterday, upon driving out of our nation's capital, I was privy to a series of bizarre and unnatural events. These events took the form of sightings, the kind of inexplicable roadside wonders that make my many hours in the car worthwhile. It's the cow-shaped shoe store in Texas; the "Greenway Creek RV Park" listed as Exit 32's sole attraction in West Virginia; the collection of carved wooden beavers in Ontario. Yesterday evening, it all began at the Food Mart on Wisconsin Avenue.

Enervated after four days of minimal sleep on a series of couches (some more receptive than others), I was pondering my current emotional state at every red light when I noticed my gas light was on. So I swung into a dingy station with "Food Mart" barely perceptible on its façade. There was nothing remarkable about the building-in fact it was rather tired and worn looking-but the $3.53/gallon gas caught my eye. So I filled my tank and proceeded inside to pay.

The Food Mart was remarkably devoid of food. It was pretty much devoid of everything. It was one room, approximately ten by fifteen feet, occupied by one man behind a makeshift counter. A dilapidated cash register rested disconsolately on the side, and buckets of paint lay askew amidst piles of junk on the floor. Three of the four walls were painted, each a different color-one was tangerine, another cobalt blue, and the last was a dazzling shade of lavender. The final wall, a dingy and uninspiring white, was home to three large black doors, all knob-less, and all closed.

As the man took my money, I began to wonder if this were the site of a future game show, or possibly a brothel owned by a madam who understood the innate appeal of warm paint tones. I asked if there were a bathroom.

"Yes," the man said, and pointed to the door on the far left. Then he nodded to the second door. "That is man's," he said, in well-intentioned but broken English.

I couldn't contain my curiosity. "And that one?" I asked, pointing to the mysterious third door.

He shook his head and smiled. "That's for other," he said. Though I was tempted to ask if he meant other things or other sexes, I decided to let it lie. Instead, I pushed open my own designated door, expecting the worse.

The door swung open to reveal a spacious room bathed in bright white light. The tiles were spotless, a dazzling shade of ivory. A burnished bronze mirror adorned the far wall, ornately carved and larger than my entire body. The counter was spotless, with flecks of chocolate, beige, and cream blended seamlessly into the smooth marble. From the ceiling hung a two-tier chandelier, with dangling crystals of amber and amethyst and quartz. Tendrils of cast iron leaves wound their way around each of the glass candles, and a matching light cast a pale pink glow onto the adjacent wall.

Surrounded by such opulence, I felt suddenly uncomfortable. Was it okay to pee here?

I made a stalwart attempt. Though the commode, gleaming proudly in untarnished porcelain, seemed rather out of place, all was in good working order. It helped that the toilet paper holder had a bright green tag that read, "Try my silent mechanism." I did. And I heard nothing. So I suppose it worked.

In a state of stupefied bemusement, I continued my journey home, ruminating over how the hell the clearly economically depressed Food Mart had a bathroom straight out of Fannie Mae's corporate headquarters. I was beleaguered by questions. How did it get there? Was it some kind of fluke? Or did the owners of Food Mart decide that, if they couldn't have real food and consistent wall colors, they should at least let their customers pee in luxury?

As dusk fell, I continued driving, immersed in deep and troubled thought. That is, until I saw a massive red billboard that jolted me out of my stupor.

BE SURE YOUR SIN

--the sign said, in bold block letters--

WILL FIND YOU OUT.

Damn, I thought. They know.

Suddenly, Food Mart's incongruous bathroom was totally inconsequential. For the next hour, all I could do was mentally catalogue my recent sins to try and figure out which sin would find me out. And how would it do so? Considering the USPS can't even find where I live, it didn't seem likely that my sin was going to succeed in tracking me down-unless that certain sin had GPS. Of course this necessitated an additional catalogue of all the sins that might have GPS capacity. Which sins were mobile? Which were adept with new technology? And which were more like invalids who eat pot roast and watch Matlock reruns?

My mind was still spinning in potentially techno-savvy sins when I saw yet another mind-blowing sign. By this point I was in Pennsylvania, and the billboard was advertising a new waterpark up ahead. An image of an Egyptian bedecked in thick black kohl smiled down at me, inviting me to take the next exit and head on down to "Pharoah's Phortress."

Like a flash, my bounty hunter sins didn't matter anymore. My mind was immediately filled with savory images of extirpation. My mission was now simple: destroy Pharoah's Phortress by whatever means possible. Or at very least, destroy that sign. As an English major and lover of language, I am ashamed. Ashamed of the people responsible for naming the waterpark. Ashamed of I-476 North for allowing that billboard to tarnish its innocent shoulder. Ashamed of America for producing people who turn to their kids in the backseat after mile number 890 of their cross-country road trip and say, "Hey, doesn't Pharoah's Phortress sound like fun?" To which their kids reply, "Yeah, Dad!"--and then go back to drawing crayon pictures of pharoah's phortresses and king's kastles and celtic cubmarines.

Now, lest I be misunderstood: it's not that I don't approve of alliteration. I can't get enough of the stuff--hell, as Bree Barton, it's practically my birthright. But "Pharoah's Phortress" is a blight on the face of the earth. It is the Eleventh Plague. It makes me want to crawl holeheartedly into a whole. I wish more business owners in charge of creating clever names for their organizations would try their own silent mechanisms, instead of polluting the world with their linguistic abominations.

It also reminds me of the time in college when I titled one of my philosophy papers "Phallacious Freud."

Dear god. My sin has found me out.

2 comments »

Stop, Shop, Surrender

Getting your faith restored at the grocery store

We live in an age of crumbling faiths. Everywhere I look, beliefs are battered and belittled - belief in God, belief in human goodness, belief in public transportation. Even faith in our presidential candidates is wavering - just today I received an email informing me that my beloved Barack Obama (and I quote), "IS a muslim and IS a racist and this is a fulfillment of the 911 threat that was just the beginning." My God, why hast thou forsaken me (and my preferred political candidate)?

Amidst these trying times, I am happy to say that this evening, I experienced a restoration of faith in one of the most fundamental institutions of modern society: the grocery store.

First of all, in an era when the echoes of far-off bombs and gunfire resonate through my withered conscience, I long for the sweet, serene sounds of simpler times. Tonight, while shopping for shallots, I find myself inexplicably drawn to the vegetable and fruit section. There, enraptured in an alternate universe, I nuzzle the organic carrots as a mechanized Mother Nature sprays a soft mist of hygienic H20 and serenades her vegetative wards with midi thunder sounds. That's right - in today's supermarkets, tumultuous audio storms are invoked for the benefit of the zucchini and beets. Oh ye, bard of broccoli, let thine sweet symphony seduce my singed senses!

After I satiate my tastes in fresh produce, I move on to the rest of my grocery list. Alas, there is no crème fraîche. But I eschew bitterness in lieu of tolerant understanding. Let the plebeians devour their Half and Half; I will not lose heart! (There is no lemon thyme, either, and no halibut. Even the "Ethnic Foods" aisle is a bust. Grocerial segregation? Nay - not at Stop & Shop, surely. But I digress.)
I only catch the words "nicest," "sex," and "construction." God only knows what that means.

At long last, I clothe myself in pretenses of economic security and prepare to pay for my indulgences. Because of my deep-seated inability to relinquish control, I select the self check-out line. As it turns out, my choice is richly rewarded.

There is a brilliant feature on the "do it yourself" checkout lines involving an automated voice. If you have, say, neglected to weigh and catalog your fruits in the produce section, you are given a second chance at checkout. The automated voice extends an olive branch of mercy and understanding. First you must enter the product number, and then, as if by magic, the oracle speaks. Ever the stereotypical woman, she wants to communicate with you.

"Please place your muffins on the belt," the voice chides in monotone, like a knowing lover. "Place your muffins on the belt."

So I place my muffins on the belt. Then the mysterious voice gets even more familiar.

"How many bananas do you have?" Um, one. One banana. "Please place your banana on the belt."

Okay. As I nervously place my banana on the belt, I can't help but eavesdrop on the chorus of neighboring commands.

"Please place your avocado on the belt."

"Please place your melons on the belt."

"How many kiwis do you have? Please place your kiwis on the belt."

Suddenly, I am seized by an uncontrollable fit of laughter. I cannot contain myself - I am possessed by the thought of countless adjacent customers placing their bananas, muffins,  melons, and god knows what else on the belt. It's ridiculous. This virtual woman has no shame.

As I roll my cart out into the parking lot, I am still chuckling. I hardly notice the kiwi man's truck as it pulls up beside me.

"Hey, muffin girl," he calls. I look up mid-chortle. "Can I have your number?" he drawls out his window.

I think he's drunk, but I'm in too good a mood to care. I cheerily explain that I don't do dates, but thanks anyway.

He responds in a tangled mass of supplication, but I only catch the words "nicest," "sex," and "construction." God only knows what that means.

I wave, and he drives away. I unload my groceries - now broadcast to the world - and keep giggling as I shift into first gear.

Thank you, Stop & Shop, for renewing my faith in humanity. And if the offer still stands...my muffins are yours for the taking.

11 comments »

Zeus Strikes the Penurious

Birds sing for everyone else
Me they s*** on

Sometimes in this languid life, the gods speak to me. It's usually in the little things: the crisp brush of wind against my cheek, a glorious storm, the gentle braying of a sheep. Often the messages are so small, so minute, that I hardly recognize them as they shimmer by, little wisps of ephemeral missives that vanish like bubbles when poked. But on beauteous and rare occasions, the voice is so vividly clear that I cannot help but be still, and listen, and know.

A bird had just s*** on my face. The couple had seen the bird s*** on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had s*** on my face. Most of the s*** was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.Like when a bird sh** on my face.

When I say a bird shat on my face, I am not lisping in hypertext. A bird did not sit on my face. A bird s*** on my face. To clear up any lingering uncertainty, let me be blunt: from the rectum of a small and impertinent bird came excrement onto my upturned, unsuspecting upper lip.

If it weren't for the particular course of events leading up to the incident, I wouldn't attribute this to divine intervention. After all, millions of people get s*** on every day, literally and figuratively. In all likelihood, the gods or God or "the higher power" (if you're in AA) have very little to do with it. But my bird-s***-on-face experience came with a particularly poignant moral lesson attached. It was no coincidence, no arbitrary cosmic occurrence, and certainly no gentle nudging from the big guy above. There was nothing subtle about it; the whole method was very (pardon the pun) in-your-face. It was a blatant wake-up call, a more environmentally conscious and cost-effective alternative to a burning bush.

We've all heard that God will "smite the faithless" and "burn the wicked" and so on. There's a whole assortment of action-packed mandates for all those poor, unfortunately-adjectived souls. Well here's one you may not have heard: God will birds*** the penurious.

I was walking out of the Boston bus station with a slice of sizzling pizza in hand, suitcase trailing behind me. What a lovely day, I thought, enjoying the warm sea breeze on my skin. Sauntering into a seductive sliver of sunshine, I nestled myself on a park bench to munch my vegetarian delight in pleasant solitude.

No sooner had I sat down than a couple approached me. They were young-not much older than I-and the man was semi-supporting the woman's weight. She looked unwell and distracted, her disheveled hair pulled back into an oily ponytail. They were both dressed in ill-fitting flannel shirts. He held her hand tightly, and she gripped his to the bone.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he said, stopping in front of me. "I'm trying to get my girlfriend home to Springfield on a bus. Do you have $4.80 you could spare us?"

For a moment I experienced a dichotomous tug in my chest. $4.80 wasn't that much-I had a few bucks, right? She really did look sick, and he seemed so earnest...

But then I remembered the last time I'd given money to someone who asked for it. A woman had begged me for a few dollars to buy food, and after I'd emptied my pockets, I continued across the street for a bowl of soup. From the restaurant's window I watched as the woman walked directly into a liquor store and emerged with a brown paper bag in hand. I nearly choked on my clam chowder. At that moment, I swore I would never give money to a beggar again.

That was it: I was going to stick to my guns. I would say no. I swallowed my heart and looked the man straight in the eye.

"I'm sorry," I said, trying to master a chilly nonchalance in my voice. "I'd like to help you, but a woman cheated me a few years ago and I promised myself I wouldn't give money to anyone again."

As I was pronouncing my edict, I had the most curious sensation. It wasn't that I felt free, or even that I was consumed by guilt. Rather, the sensation was physical: it was warm and wet.

The expression on the man's face was undergoing a strange transformation, too. Before he had looked beseeching; now he looked mildly horrified. I felt a pang of regret. I must have truly offended him. So much so that he and his girlfriend were slowly backing away, continuing to gape at me as if I were some kind of cruel and merciless Medusa.

Strange, I thought to myself. I feel like part of my pizza is on my face.

I reached up to try and wipe away what I thought was a wayward piece of cheese or tomato on my upper lip. But upon examining my fingers, they came back covered in sabulous green gloop. What's green on my pizza? I mused. I didn't order pesto.

And then I knew.

A bird had just s*** on my face. The couple had seen the bird s*** on my face. They knew before I knew that a bird had s*** on my face. Most of the s*** was still sitting on my face, resting contentedly on my upper lip. I had no napkin. How mortifying.

My appetite vanished quite suddenly. I smeared the rest of the mess from my face onto the top of the pizza box and chucked the whole ensemble into the nearest trashcan. I tried to think about not throwing up.

I am a stingy and parsimonious bitch, I realized with sudden immediacy. And I am being punished for it.

Next time someone asks for money, I think I'll give it. Nothing like a little birds*** to bring generosity back with a splat.

13 comments »

Wellfleet's beached schooner a hoax

Eastham tree fort used for January prank
Bobby Roberts admits role in ruse

To the utter amazement of residents Cape-wide, an Eastham man has come forward to confess his part in a hoax perpetrated in late January. The alleged 19-century schooner that washed ashore Newcomb Hollow Beach in Wellfleet was actually nothing more than old scraps of wood from a backyard tree fort.

Bobby Robert's Eastham Tree Fort was disassembled to resemble a wrecked, 18th-century schooner fetched up on that Wellfleet Beach in January. cc2day photoBobby Roberts, 26, released a statement to authorities yesterday afternoon. "I was starting to feel really guilty," Roberts said. "And besides, I missed my fort."

As a child, Roberts played on an elaborate tree fort constructed by his great-grandfather Rob Roberts more than seventy years ago. But one night last October, as Bobby sat with childhood friend Josh Bugiardo staring at the latticework of oak planks and timbers, they decided to take the wood in a different direction.

Four months preparation

In his formal statement, Roberts describes the night the hoax was conceived. "We were hangin' out in the fort, smokin' a little [censored], and my buddy was like, 'Dude, let's make a boat.' And I was like, 'To sail in?' And he's all, 'No, man. For the lies to sail in.' And I was like, "Wicked, bro." That's when the whole thing got started."

What followed were four grueling months of preparation. Both men enrolled in basic carpentry classes, bought a handsaw and other tools, and made frequent trips to the library. The Eastham Library records show that Roberts checked out two books: How to Hoax like a Hotshot and 19th Century Shipbuilding for Dummies.

"I should have known they were up to something," said Berta, Roberts's mother. When asked if she meant because her son was constructing a fifty-foot schooner skeleton in her backyard, she shook her head. "It wasn't that. It's when he asked to borrow my library card. Bobby's never been much of a reader."

The Eastham Library records show that Roberts checked out two books: How to Hoax like a Hotshot and 19th Century Shipbuilding for Dummies.Local historians are dumbfounded at how a 26-year-old bartender who works days at Willy's Gym could build an incredibly convincing replica of a wrecked schooner and ultimately pull off a hoax of this magnitude. Roberts himself was quick to acknowledge the challenges he faced.

"It wasn't all easy. Some things were really hard – like finding the wood pegs to hold it all together. They just don't make those things anymore!" Roberts paused for a moment. "Getting it down to the beach was kind of hard, too."

The Cape Cod National Seashore and other interested organizations have not yet pressed charges, but a long and arduous legal battle is expected to ensue. Yet for Cape residents, the tragedy runs deeper than merely bureaucratic.  Something historically rich and mysterious has been reduced to the banal, and people feel cheated. This revelation also calls into question previous discoveries of wreckage that were thought to be significant. Will these prove to be nothing more than hoaxes as well?

When asked if he felt his actions have undermined the rich maritime history of Cape Cod, Roberts vehemently disagreed.

"I'm recreating a legend. I'm making history ..."
    - Bobby Roberts[Expletive] no!" he said heatedly. "I'm recreating a legend. I'm making history, dammit." After a brief moment of reflection, he added, "And it's so boring in the winter. There was nothing else to do."

4C's professor Yadloof inspired Roberts

Five years ago Roberts was enrolled for a semester at Cape Cod Community College, and he credits his initial interest in old ships to his former professor, Russian art historian L. Yadsloof. "Yaddy – that's what we used to call him – always encouraged us to make history, and to make art," Roberts said with a wistful smile. "I don't care what happens to me now: I think I did both."

Professor Lirpa Yadsloof could not be reached for comment. His assistant was quick to apologize, explaining "Today's his busiest day."

11 comments »