On September 11, 2001 – Primary Day – I walked from my North Brooklyn apartment to the school that was my polling place to cast my vote. As I approached, I saw the children pressed up against the windows watching the black smoke mass above the carnage of the World Trade Center. I signed myself in, dripping tears, and although I knew the election would be canceled, I entered the booth and I voted because I was honestly afraid I may never have the opportunity to do so again.

As I left the building, I saw the smoke rise across the river and knew that I was watching a smokescreen rise for a regime that had little respect for the democratic process, and that this horrific crime would be used to grant legitimacy to an appointed leader and his ideologue cronies. This regime, who’d been awarded power by eliminating votes and through a Supreme Court decision that – unique in our history – both had no precedent and set no precedent - would make this abomination into their opportunity. I knew, before I’d ever heard Bush utter the word “trifecta,” before I ever read of the PNAC’s craving for a “Pearl Harbor type event,” I knew this day’s grief would be used to make drastic changes in our country and I was afraid. I remember thinking that whoever had orchestrated this attack had the power to destroy lives and property but not the power to destroy Democracy – that could only be done from within.

So I voted, knowing that it wouldn’t count and not knowing if my vote would ever count again.

Like all of us, in the coming weeks, moths and years I watched our leaders use the most extreme fear tactics to bully Americans into believing it was crucial to the War on Terror to give up rights, to give up privacy, and to embrace torture and preemptive invasions of countries that had never attacked us. Like many of us, I became more politically active, researching, writing, networking, organizing, protesting and working up to the 2004 election. I believed that our democracy still had enough working parts that our voices might be heard and we might possibly be able to begin to make reparations.

2004 was disappointing on so many levels. How can a party claim to represent the people when it benefits most by not counting us? Widely reported incidents of voter purges, voter suppression, intimidation and tricks, along with many votes being keyed into machines with proprietary software and no paper trail, did not improve my confidence that election results were real. Still, Bush claimed “mandate” and he and his junta continued to hack away at the American dream in stubborn pursuit of New World Order and personal profits.

It’s been a long 8 years.

Despite pre-election day polling, with the McCain/Palin campaign submitting to the same subversive forces that have so severely undermined our election process, how can we win? We need to come out and vote in such tremendous numbers that Republican operatives can’t possibly purge, suppress or reverse enough votes to tip the balance. We need to arrive at our polling places in such unprecedented masses that a McCain/Palin victory would be completely implausible. We need to deliver on such a massive scale that we become tamper-proof. We need to be undeniable.

When we do this, and Barack Obama becomes President of the United Stated, then we truly will have hope. We will being to repair the great damage that has been done and finally begin to move forward. I don’t think that Barack Obama is perfect and I don’t think he has a magic cure for all that ails us. But I do think that he is ours. He’s where he is now because we put him there. We’ve already voted in the one way we know still works - through unprecedented financial contributions. The bulk of Obama’s campaign contributions have some from individuals giving $200 or less. Barack Obama is where he is now because we put him there. We are his life’s blood and he will be accountable to us.

When we wake up from this long nightmare, there will be so much work to do. I know we’re anxious to do it. Let’s keep up this great momentum and make sure we have the opportunity.

One of our cats died this weekend. We had 3 cats, Jones, Elliot and Beverly. Elliot and Beverly were twin brothers, each with some birth defects that we've struggled with for years. Elliot went down into our basement on Friday night and wouldn't come up. We brought him food and water and he wouldn't eat. On Saturday Morning my son (who will be 3 next week) and I went down to see him. He still hadn't moved. My son pet him and Elliot meowed at us and we went upstairs.

A little while later my husband went down to see him. He came back upstairs and told us he was gone.

It's not actually legal to bury your own pet, but we decided to do so anyway. We dug a hole in our yard and put Elliot in. We let our son see. We told him, "Elliot's body stopped working so his energy had to go someplace where we won't be able to see him.

My son said, "Bye Bye Elliot."

We buried him and I asked my son if he understood what happened. He said he didn't know, so I said that he was old and sick and his body finally died, so we said bye bye and buried him.

The next day, I was calling Elliot's brother Beverly, but I accidentally called Elliot instead. My son said, "No, No Mama. Remember. Elliot died."

I was very glad that my son understood. We loved Elliot, but it was time for him to go. If he had gone on any longer, we would have had to have him put down. I think having him die naturally at home was a good thing for my son to witness. Death is hard to explain but important to understand. I think this has been a good first experience for my son.

My son fawns over the other cats and asks about them a little more than usual. Beverly will probably go within the next couple of years, but I think Jones will live a long, long time. She's 10, but she looks and acts like a very young cat and she's very happy.

For you David Cronenberg fans out there, it's weird to have a boy cat named Beverly without his twin Elliot there.

Anyway, Elliot was a good cat. He loved to have his belly rubbed and he was very easy-going. Bye Bye Elliot.

OK--This is supposed to be funny. I know we all know it's wrong, but we've all done it at least once. I just coaxed my child out of our hallway and into our apartment with a freezer pop--and this song came flooding forth. I hope you enjoy it.

Bribery is a mom's best friend!

We moms are taught to raise our kids
with loving, clear discipline,
but when I'm tired and baby's wired
I just have to give in.

A two-year-old boy might be a pain in the ass,
but bribery in a mom's best friend.
Time-out may be grand but it's not instantaneous--
when your kids a brat, ice cream works in 2 seconds flat.

Moms grow old as kids grow bold
and we all lose our will in the end.
But suckers and ice-pops--
some sugar makes fits stop.
Bribery is a mom's best friend.

...Breyers ... Hershey's...
Talk to me, Baskin Robin, tell me all about it!

There may come a time when you just want to spank him
but bribery is a mom's best friend.
He won't come inside and you just want to yank him
his antics won't stop
'til you give him a lolly-pop.

He's your jewel when his tummy's full
but his mood will soon start to descend,
Instead of being shook he is given a cookie.
Bribery is a mom's best friend.

I've heard of some moms who are strict and consistent
but bribery in a mom's best friend,
I think that those moms must have inhuman patience--
it's a better plan to keep your purse full of marzipan.

Time rolls on and your ideals have gone
and you just cannot do what you planned,
whether tired or lazy,
when your kids go crazy,
Bribery... Bribery...
- I don't mean carrots -
but Bribery is a mom's best friend.

Thanks for the good vibes over the past several days of my trial. The jury ruled that both drivers were at fault and the insurance company finally offered us a settlement. It's over.

We had the choice to go on and seek a jury award for damages, which would most likely been far in excess of the amount for which the defendants were insured. However, I did not want to take anyone's personal money. The only reason we went to trial is because the insurance company had refused to settle.

When the settlement was offered after the verdict this afternoon, my lawyer and I stepped out to discuss it. When we went back inside and my lawyer announced that I was taking the settlement because I understood that a further award would be paid from the defendants' personal assets and I did not want to do that to them, the parents of the girl who hit me started crying. The mother came over and thanked me. It was very humbling to be thanked by someone you'd taken to court. I told her I was sorry I had to put her through all this. She said she understood. At the very close o the proceedings we were holding hands.

I am so grateful that I will never have to testify about this again and I can let the details fade.

And I am so grateful for your support through all of this.

Thanks Lounge Pals!

Her love has been like a pie. When her son was born, it was all for him. He took every piece, and there really was none left for anyone else. She remembers being so surprised, so amazed. She knew chemistry was a big deal, but she never knew how chemical love could be. She thought love was so much more.

And maybe love was so much more. She couldn't feel it, but didn't it carry her through that first year with her relationships intact? She couldn't feel it, but it held her marriage together, and kept her from giving away her cats.

And now, her love is not like a pie anymore. It's back to being that miracle thing where the more you give, the more you have...which makes complications so possible.

Why would a person who loves her husband write a letter to an ex-lover? Why would she indulge her feelings of unresolved business? She knows that loving someone else doesn't mean she loves her husband any less. But she risks hurting him. What's to gain? What could possibly be gained that's worth risking his heart?

She does not want to have an affair. She wants to go back in time, and make something right between herself and a man who had been the love of her life. She wants to correct a dishonesty. She wants to go back in time and have her heart broken the right way, so that it can heal the right way.

Right now her love is a crooked finger. Is that good enough for her husband?

But is it a crooked finger? It wasn't really a pie when she it felt it was a pie. Why would it be a crooked finger? The crooked finger is her thinking.

Love is invisible. Love is a body without a body--Wallace Steven's empty sleeve fluttering, Rilke standing on fishes.

I hope she will trust.

EDIT: tiny change to above prose

I have to go back to work, so I'll check in later. Just posted this dream I had last night in another post. Wondered if anyone wanted to take a stab at it.


I dreamed I was a man on vacation in a beautiful town in Wisconsin where everyone was a vegetarian. I was lured away by a beautiful woman who wanted to take me out for a hamburger. We arrived in an ugly, dirty town in this hamburger shack. While I was eating I was accosted by the woman's brother who was also her lover, and his thug friends. They sprayed spray paint in my eyes and cut up my face with a pocket knife.

I finally have an MP3 online. It took me long enough. I'll be putting up some more soon. Please check me out:

http://www.myspace.com/renebouhardanddavid...

My friend David and I both play guitar, I sing and write most of our songs.

And check out my husband too:

http://www.myspace.com/wormsmeat

Thanks!

P.S. Will find out sometime this week about the job. The ED said he had to check my references, meet with the VP and MAKE A DECISION! Ahhhh!

EDIT: 2 songs now!!!!

Checking in with your pals...


Answering the Daily Questions...


Celebrating the Birthdays...


and the Milestones and Anniversaries...


Winning the booty...


All in one fun thread!

I hardly ever shout in the Lounge. Please forgive me.

The recent thread about miscarriage got me thinking about the baby I lost because of the car accident. I searched for my mom's thread about it in the Lounge and was reading all your wonderful, kind thoughts.

http://www.democraticunderground.com/discu...

When I was in the hospital, my mom would print out Lounge posts and bring them to me. Then when she went back home to Florida, she'd read your posts to me over the phone.

I am blessed with wonderful friends and family, and I had many people there for me during that time.

But there's just something so special about all of you. I don't know if you'll ever understand how much you helped me.

So thank you again.

Much Love,

Rene

The Language

Locate I
love you some-
where in

teeth and
eyes, bite
it but

take care not
to hurt, you
want so

much so
little. Words
say everything.

I
love you
again,

then what
is emptiness
for. To
fill, fill.
I heard words
and words full
of holes
aching. Speech
is a mouth.

Robert Creely

***

Moving Forward

The deep parts of my life pour onward,
as if the river shores were opening out.
It seems that things are more like me now,
That I can see farther into paintings.
I feel closer to what language can't reach.
With my senses, as with birds, I climb
into the windy heaven, out of the oak,
in the ponds broken off from the sky
my falling sinks, as if standing on fishes.

Rainer Maria Rilke

***

What was read at your wedding? Or, what poetry do you remember from a wedding or commitment ceremony that moved you?

Any other M.A.T.C.O.M. classics anyone else care to add?

I want to share some of my experiences working in bars and clubs in New York City as a bartender, waitress, manager, and as a performer before the ban on smoking. And I want to share some of my experiences as an ex-smoker. It's true, I've been caught up in a really puerile discussion on smoking in the workplace over in GD. But my aim is not to drag the argument over here. I just want to talk personally about my own experience, and I don't think that thread is the place to do it.

I started smoking cigarettes in college. When I first started, I actually promised myself I'd quit by the time I was 30 because I knew how stupid it was, and I knew it couldn't go on forever. But I liked it. It helped me stay awake. It helped me write papers. It gave me an excuse to just sit and stare out the window for a minute, or sit out on the porch and do nothing. It went well with drinking; it went well with smoking pot; it went well with acid. It felt good. I loved it.

And I hated it. It smelled. It made me wake up tired. It was expensive. It was impossible to keep away all the moochers, even when I switched to Lucky Strike Unfiltered. It made it hard for me to run, to play softball, to walk up and down stairs. It made me feel like a chump.

I tried to quit many times. I quit for long stretches. Then something would happen and I'd be back to 2 packs a day in a snap.

I worked my way through college waiting tables. Then I traveled around the country and supported myself by working in bars and restaurants, as a waitress, a bartender, a hostess, a manager, and also as a musician.

When I moved to New York City, my service industry experience was way more valuable than my degree, and I continued to work, primarily as a bartender, and also as a performer in New York bars and clubs.

Even with my experience, the job market was tight. It was hard to find a job, and even harder to find a good job, in a good place with a steady clientele of decent tippers. It's a hard way to make a living.

Of course, most bartenders work without any benefits. No health insurance, no life insurance, no 401K. And your paycheck is really just a mechanism for taxing you on your tips. But if you can find a good spot, you can make $200-$300 a night, sometimes more. And once you get a gig like that, you don't want to let it go.

I continued to struggle with smoking. It was very hard to quit, being surrounded by smokers and cigarettes all the time. It wasn't just because of the temptation, but because each time I would try to quit, I'd become more sensitive to the second-hand smoke, and it would make me sicker and sicker. I would start smoking again to desensitize myself, so the environment wouldn't make me feel ill.

Then after a while, I'd try to quit again. I'd make it a few days, a few weeks, a few months. But still, each time, working in the smokey environment became harder and harder.

Some of clubs where I performed as a musician did not allow smoking in the performance space, but many of the bars where I played had the stage right in the same area as the bar. It became more and more difficult, and more and more painful--choking, coughing, literally vomiting--to perform in theses smokey bars, But I needed work. I needed exposure. I couldn't turn down a gig.

I would come home, after a day and night of struggling not to smoke, but still my hair would smell like smoke, my clothes, my skin, my sweat. At one point, I hadn't smoked in my apartment for 3 months, still the whole place wreaked of cigarette stench.

There were some managerial changes at the bar where I'd worked for many years, so I took a job at another bar--and I was damed lucky to find this job. It was at The Knitting Factory--one of the places I'd played as a musician. Some New Yorkers may know it. It has 4 bars. 2 on the main floor, one in the basement, and one in the sub-basement.

I worked in the one in the sub-basement. It was a small room with zero ventilation, and would be packed night after night with everyone smoking.

It made me so sick, and so run down. My friends wondered if I had Chronic Fatigue Syndrome or something. I was still struggling not to smoke, myself. Yet I was getting sicker and sicker, and coming home night after night with the stink all over me--all over everything. It was an absolute fucking nightmare.

But I couldn't find a job anywhere else, and I couldn't go back to my other bar. I'd dedicated over 10 years to the service industry. I had nothing else on my resume. I had to pay rent. I had to pay rent in New York City. I was screwed.

This was one of the darkest, worst times in my life. And it was because of smoking and being forced by my economic situation to work in an environment that was constantly packed with smokers.

Eventually, I took a job as a shipping clerk in a wholesale warehouse in fucking Long Island City for $9/hour just to get out of that place.

And then I was lucky enough to find an opening in a community center, and began a new career as a non-profit development professional.

But it wasn't as easy as just making a choice. It wasn't like I could just walk out any time. It wasn't as if I could just quit if I didn't like it. I felt forced. I was economically forced to endure unsafe, unhealthy working conditions for years. It was painful. It was disgusting. And it blackened my life.

Anyway, I am now the Director of Development for a breast cancer organization, and I quit smoking over 7 years ago. It's easy to surmise that I support bans on smoking in public, and I do sincerely see it as a workers health and safety issue, and I'm not just blowing smoke up anybody's ass.

Thanks so much for the space to share.

EDIT: I couldn't get through it without a typo.

I know this is TMI for a lot of you. But it's pretty wild. I kept wondering if I would be able to re-lactate if I were trapped in New Orleans or the area, with no food and water and nothing to give my baby. And I kept worrying about and visualizing all those hungry babies.

Well, I ended up re-lactating. So I guess that answers that question. Pretty weird, huh? My son was weaned almost 6 months ago.

If I'd gone down there, I probably could have fed someone else's kid.

In 1781, Luke Collingwood, captain of the Zong, threw 131 live people overboard chained leg to leg and hand to hand in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. The Zong was a slave ship. The people thrown overboard were sick and discarded to protect the crew and remaining "cargo." The result was a somewhat famous insurance claim.

In 1819, 39 Africans were cast asea from La Rodeur for the same reason.

And there's the notorious, Amistad.

We don't actually have to physically throw them overboard anymore. We call them people, sometimes, some of us; we don't call them cargo or property. Sometimes we call them labor, if they're lucky. Some of us call them the poor. Some of us say things like, "All third generation welfare women should be spayed." Some of us say things like. "Why should my tax dollars buy twinkies and cola for some fat, lazy girl who had kids just so she could get on food-stamps?"

But we don't actually have to throw them overboard, we don't consciously have to kill them. The machinery that we have created with our values and our investments, does that for us. It's not a conspiracy. There's no one to blame.

Tonight, someone on television asked the question, "Would the government's response to the victims of Katrina been better if the people concerned were rich and white?" On another local network someone asked, "Did race make a difference, did class--" Flip. "No," my husband said, "It was just bad planning."

"It's not just bad planning. It's planning that reflects the values of our institutions. We weren't invested in protecting New Orleans, because we don't--as a society--invest in the poor. Our society invests in things that have a high yield of return for those who control the investments. Why invest in the levees? Why invest in the schools? Why invest in the poor?" I asked my husband.

"Because they are the workers, the foundation, the coal..."

"But there aren't enough jobs. There aren't enough resources. Didn't the slave ships throw people overboard if there wasn't enough food and water for the whole cargo? Or if they became ill and threatened the overall investment?

"There are white people who are out of work. That's why the red cross wasn't allowed into New Orleans."

But it's not so direct as on the Zong. It's endemic. It's inwrought. It's systematic.

We can't do better because we aren't prepared to do better because we aren't invested to do better, because those who would make such investments have failed to direct our controllers.

The ray of light is in history. The story of the Amistad ended in revolt.

EDIT: typo

Thank god I had water and milk for him to drink.
Thank god I had a fresh clean diaper to put on him.
Thank god I had a safe, dry place to sing him a song.
Thank god I had a clean, safe crib where I could put him down to sleep.

Thank god my baby is healthy. Thank god my baby is not in danger.

And dear god-goddess-creative-energy-universe-force-power-string-theory-magical-mystery-love-unseen-beyond-language-hope, please be with all the mommies tonight, and all the daddies tonight, and all the babies who are thirsty, hungry, scared, lost, desperate, please bring them relief. Please keep them safe, be with them and bring them what they need.