Seen off Pulaski in the parking lot of a former car wash. Frequently the site of similar odd political sentiments.



Also, while I think "The Right Change We Must Have" is grammatical, it sure is weird.

Mr. President-elect I am very disappointed in you. Dump that ass or get him to admit that his support of Prop 8 was wrong. It's not a deeply held religious belief—it's bigotry. I'm very happy he's been so active in fighting HIV and AIDS (in the usual half-assed, "hate the sin, love the sinner" way, it seems) and believes in fighting global warming, but if Warren considers it a Christian and American act to deny people their civil right to love and marry the person of their choice, and to have that relationship recognized by the government as a legal union with all attendant benefits, he's practicing no kind of Christianity or Americanism with which I'm familiar. And if he says he needs to stick with his beliefs because the Bible says so, tell him he also has to avoid lobster and wearing two different kinds of fabric. Otherwise we'll stone him to death.

And don't insult our intelligence by saying we need to reach out to the Bible-banging secret cross-burners. Come on, you're smarter than that.

Yeah, you're in. That's because we put you there, chum. Now work on living up to that saintly image we all have of you. I'm delighted to see you there instead of McCain, but if you go McCain lite, or even Clinton Jr., on us, we'll have a problem.

Before election: Outraged Republicans declare, "Obama is a radical socialist!"

After election: Outraged Liberals declare, "Obama is NOT a radical socialist!"

I mean, when he said he was a centrist, all you folks were listening, right?

The Clinton Puppetmasters theme is getting old too.

Ew, who thought up this one? Not really the type of word you want connected with your new administration.

This thing already looks like a relic to me. It resembles something you come across in a back closet of a building once used by Civil Defense, between the cartons of water purification tablets and Tang.



So, are we at "OBAMA" level now? Will it read, "CHILL THE FUCK OUT: I GOT THIS"?

Today, wanderingaengus talks about the feeling of pride African-Americans are experiencing right now, and ponders what his grandmother (an Irish Catholic) thought and felt when JFK was elected. It reminded me of what my mom told me. She said that when Kennedy won, my grandfather said, "We're no longer of Irish descent. We're Irish decent now!"

By the by, Joe Biden is our first Roman Catholic vice-president. Really. Great, now the pope will run the Senate!

Adam Nagourney began his piece in the New York Times this way:

Barack Hussein Obama was elected the 44th president of the United States on Tuesday...

I'm sure that's pro forma, but still. Funny!

Mike and I were a little stunned when we saw the line winding out the door of our usual polling place. In previous elections we usually arrived shortly after they opened the doors, and we ended up as voter #5 and #6—right behind four codgers who apparently woke up at 3 a.m. (the first voter today was a cute elderly lady who cheerfully announced to everyone, "I was the first! I was the first!" as she walked past us. We applauded her. We were delighted to run into our neighbors the Greenbergs (Mark Greenberg used to be a member of a favorite band of mine, The Coctails), whom we chatted with while waiting to vote. The Greenbergs brought along their three kids and we brought Nate, which is a pretty good idea if you have kids. They may not be able to vote, but they should have the opportunity to experience history first-hand.

As usual, I couldn't vote Si or No for every single judge without feeling like I was holding things up, but I think I got in all my NO votes on the corrupt and incompetent ones. Of course, I found time to fill in the little arrow beside the Barack Obama/Joseph Biden listing. It wasn't anticlimactic. It was a wonderful and liberating feeling. Anyone who thinks that casting your ballot is an anticlimax needs to take a breath and seriously appraise what's taking place today. Every vote is important.

Nah, I refuse to be coy.

Your vote for Barack Obama is incredibly important today. It's not just a vote for a good, decent, and intelligent man. It's not just an historical event and a refutation of 300 years of racism. It's a referendum on deciding whether this country will continue to dig itself further into a ditch, or strive be the greatest nation on earth we always claim it to be.










Okay, now for the hard-sell.

VOTE FOR BARACK OBAMA

OR NATE WILL CRY

First Durbin's daughter dies, then Obama's grandmother passes away.

Too much death lately.

I want to say that no matter what happens, here's something I never expected to see during this election:



While visiting my folks this weekend, I saw one of these on a truck in my hometown, a working-class/middle-class Chicago suburb that caught its share of escapees during the white flight era. As I've mentioned before, during the 1983 election when Harold Washington was elected mayor of Chicago, I overheard many an angry racial slur as Washington defeated his (white) opponent Bernard Epton. Hell, during most of my childhood, teenage years, and young adulthood I heard plenty of shit about "them."

Once, one of the Chicago Bears came to a carnival held at my grade school and signed autographs (I can't recall who, though I'm sure he wasn't an A-lister like Walter Payton). I didn't really care about sports even then, but I was dazzled at the thought of meeting a "celebrity" (also, one of the Honey Bears was also there, in full uniform, which appealed to another, newly awakened part of my 12-year-old self). I can't remember the Bear's name, but I do recall what happened next. Some guy, probably in his forties, stepped up and tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Why don't you ask him if he'll get off his ass and win one this year?"

"Excuse me?" I said, always polite to adults.

"Come on, you know how they are," the guy said.

"Huh?" I asked.

"Why are you standing here anyway? He's black and you're white."

Aha.

A little freaked out, I said nothing and walked away from the guy, not getting my Bear or Honey Bear autograph. Creep

Later on in life, I worked a summer in a city job, cutting lawns, cleaning sewers, picking up roadkill, and such with other 18-year-olds who had the right connections. For my age and experience it was a great-paying gig, but man they kept us busy, sweaty, and sunburned. Occasionally, we'd hang out with the regular city workers, but mostly we were on our own. Once one of the career guys held a barbecue at his house and everyone was invited. I didn't go, but the following Monday I got an earful from another "kid" about how the guy bragged about his gun collection and had "running nigger" silhouette targets set up in his garage. My God.

Now do you see why I react so poorly to the pro-gun crowd, even though I love guns myself?

Was everyone a racist in my hometown? No. Some Oak Foresters were genuinely nice people who lived and let live. Others were not, and while some hid their inner klansman better that others, many felt perfectly comfortable expressing their opinions about "them" to me. When I started to talk back, they retreated into sullen silence. Eventually casual racism fell out of fashion—damn that restrictive political correctness—and former Chicago Democrats (a group already known for being okay with divvying up the city according to skin tone) began to vote Republican because Reagan, Bush, Sr., and Bush, Jr. promised lower taxes, tougher law enforcement, and the elimination of welfare. Got it? No more "welfare" (wink wink). In fact, they'd make sure that "welfare" stayed in its place.

So, anyway, I hope I made it clear how amazing it was to see that bumper sticker on Saturday. Not to harp, but it did, in fact, give me hope that we're leaving much of the above badness behind us. Nice design too. I might buy one of those shirts just to have it.

Elsewhere, other Republicans speak up. I'd say Gen. Powell has made a tremendous step toward redeeming himself.

Did I miss a widespread distribution of steroids and super soldier serum to all Obama supporters? Because I've been reading a number of pants-wetting accounts by McCain supporters talking about how frightened/angered/outraged they are by the pure ferocity of the Obama contingent. According to what I've been reading—and I know they wouldn't lie about something like this—Democrats have experienced a bizarre metamorphosis. Yes, the same party inhabited by pantywaist sissy nancy-boys so horrified at the thought of going to war with bin Laden and Saddam they fell to the ground, en masse, like so many weeping fainting goats*, now walk the streets, knuckles dragging along the ground, toting knobby clubs and seeking to slake their thirst for vandalism, violence, and Christian blood.

So far I've learned that I've been falling way behind on my natural propensity toward keying cars, besmirching the honor of Madame Palin with crude and lowly epithets, sexist and racist sloganeering, tearing up McCain/Palin signs, wailing on McCain canvassers and carving Blessed Lord Obama's name on their pure white flesh, and plotting my movements during the inevitable magnificent riot that will occur in Grant Park after The Holy One wins OR loses.

Seriously, did I miss my allotment of angry pills? Because I'm not seeing such behavior in either myself or any of my fellow Obama supporters. But gosh, I'd hate to think I might disappoint Charlie... I mean, Barack by failing to creepy-crawl into the establishment pigs' houses and ritualistically slaughter them so as to bring about our glorious Islamo-socialist Helter Skelter.

Maybe those McCain supporters were thinking of someone else. According to several LJ friends who have had their Obama signs removed or defaced, I'd say that's very likely.

*Unlike the many burly manly he-men of the Republican party who would have loved to show those Ay-rabs what-fer, but who could never find the Army/Navy/Marine/Air Force/National Guard recruitment office in their town.

In case anyone was wondering, the Horrorshow was a raving success. Twenty-four hour marathons lack drama if the subject isn't frozen into a block of ice, and sitting on your butt for a day looks positively restful beside the likes of month-long dance marathons, I suppose, but I promise you, I was pretty droopy by the end. I kept my promise. Even during snoozers like Suspiria and The Haunting I kept my eyes open and watched it all, raising about $2,365. I had no idea there was so much money in being a lay-about.

The event was free from drama—all the explosions, amputations, bitings, chainsawings, and chest-burstings took place on-screen only. I set up the iMac on the coffeetable in the front room, then brought the TV set down from the upstairs den (so as to let Mike and Nate sleep undisturbed by possible shouts of, "OH MY GOD!" and "EYUGGGGGHHH!!!", either from the actors or myself. My main source of nourishment was Chex mix, chips and salsa, and chopped vegetables and blue cheese dip. I bought a six-pack of Dr. Pepper and brewed a pot of coffee for later awakening medication. I began the marathon alone since Mike took Nate out to run a few errands. For anyone worried about such things, Nate was kept out of sight durng the course of the films. Not that it would mean much to him at nine months of age.

Nosferatu started things off. It's a decadently regal film whose antagonist, Count Orlok, would look mighty goofy in the present day (Werner Herzog's and Willem Dafoe's portrayals bear this out), but retains a sense of menace in the scratchy, jittery medium of 80 year old film. On the other hand, tell me you wouldn't plotz if you saw this thing looking in your window.



I've never been able to fully appreciate silents, other than the classics like Metropolis, Nosferatu—I think it's partly the unfortunate tendency to back the films with either rink-dink piano or purposeless classical scores. It's distracting, and the music usually tends toward cliche (In the Hall of the Mountain King anyone?). Sometimes you'll find a nice print of a film like Pandora's Box, which offers tracks of the original score, period music, plus a modern one, if you're so inclined. Most of the silents released on DVD, however, seem to be done on the cheap, and thus the public domain closet is pilfered with little thought to ambience. Ah well. maybe I'll invest in the Kino Video version some day.

Nosferatu was followed by a personal obsession of mine, Frankenstein. It seems generally accepted among the critics that The Bride of Frankenstein is the artistically superior film of James Whale's two entries in the Frankenstein canon, and I'm not about to argue with them. I'd argue, however, that Frankenstein is the more genuine horror film. Bride is great fun, but the wink-wink humor and gay gags aren't as much fun on the second viewing. Also, the current idea that both movies are gay allegories (i.e., the outsider pursued by an angry mob) seems preposterous and counterproductive—unless gays actually want to be connected with a murdering flesh golem. Bride is all too ironic, self-aware, and above the suggestion that it's a lowly spookshow.

Frankenstein, conversely—if you're able to push aside 77 years of diminishment by Herman Munster and the Groovie Goolies—is still a shocker on some levels. Perhaps the Creature has lost his tang as a figure of horror because he's so finite. While extremely strong and resistant to damage, he is nothing more than a reanimated corpse of a man (correction, men). He's slow. It's obvious that anyone who's maintained a minimal level of cardiovascular training could easily outrun him. Save for the fact that he's a mass of dead flesh given life, he isn't supernatural, existing wholly within the physical plane. He's subject to damage from bullets, fire, drowning, and more. He falls into the fiend category of monsters, operating in the shadows and waiting till your back is turned, alone, and vulnerable. Despite the revulsion the other characters feel for him, despite the scars, bolts, dead flesh, and square-top head, he is both slightly more and slightly less than human. Maybe that's the key to his character.



Early on in the film it's suggested that acceptance and love from Doc Frankenstein might have made the Creature a more civilized being, but I doubt it. He's an aberration, through and through, right down to his "Abby Normal" brain. He resorts to violence far to quickly. One wonders who James Whale had in mind as the brain donor. If it came from a serial killer in the mode of, say, Ted Bundy, would we be so quick to understand and cuddle the big lug in his human form if we knew what he was capable of? Perhaps the Monster's exterior is a more honest representation of his interior. Perhaps that's what drives him into a rage when he first sees himself in a mirror. Bride throws this all away with the, admittedly, touching scene with the old hermit, which promises the reclamation of the Monster's soul(?), only to throw it all away when two hunters happen along and discover him. We want to boo the hunters for "ruining" everything, but when we honestly recall that the Monster (1) is a multiple murderer and (2) any defensive reaction on the part of whoever crosses his path is pretty understandable (imagine Michael Myers politely asking, "Hey! You gonna eat that?"—how would you react?), we see that he is what he is: a monster. (The original novel's Creature is a intelligent and erudite fellow who deserved better treatment. Whale's Creature is a retarded ape with a mile-wide homicidal streak.).

We moderns have become too sophisticated to react with gasps, sudden starts, or screams during Frankenstein, but if we pay attention we can still recognize what makes the monster so monstrous.

By the way, I believe you can still donate to the Obama campaign, if you're so inclined!

October 18, Noon to October 19, Noon

Dawwww!

Yet, upon reflection, the Palin doll makes me imagine a horror movie wherein some evil toymaker turns the VP candidate into a dolly. Her aides enter her office and find the doll sitting in her chair.

"Where's the governor?" says the campaign assistant. "She needs to avoid a group of reporters downstairs."

"I swear, she was just in here!" says her secretary.

"Pleeeeease! It's meeeeeee! I'm the governorrrrrr! Can't you hearrrrr meeeeeee?" the Sarah-doll tries to yell out. But she is only a doll and cannot speak! If felt and googly eyes could cry, they would.

Then the Zuni doll from Trilogy of Terror shows up and they have doll-sex, as only dolls can when there are no human beings around.

Yeah, that's right. I said doll-sex.

As an afterthought, high heels on a Cabbage Kid is fugged up.

...we continue to host Taste of Chicago, Bluesfest, Gospelfest, etc. without burning the city down each week.

Believe me, a cold November night saps the fight out of a lot of people. We get more deaths, injuries, shootings, robberies, and so forth during the average summer event.

Yeah, that right to freely assemble is just too darn dangerous.

Good sign: The killjoys are trying to piss on our parade.

Riots. Psh. We ain't the side crying out for blood, buddy.