Big Day.
The people who read this blog are of the passionate voting ilk, so I needn’t give an earnest celebrity-esque nudge to anyone about voting. Who am I to encourage people to get out there and vote, considering I am quaking in fear at the prospect of sweating through a serpentine long line with Devil Baby by my side? I just hope whoever is behind me is willing to let me back in line a hundred times when I have to dart away to keep her from hightailing it out the door or behind the curtains and doesn’t mind a bit of two-year-old thrashing and screaming. I’ve got my pockets filled with Smarties and Starbursts, Nerds and Tootsie Pops, but if I have to wait for more than half an hour, it’s gonna be a bloodbath. Heavenly Father, if I do this, please don’t let it be all for naught.
And now a little excerpt from an essay about undecided voters by one of my heroes, David Sedaris. This appeared in the November 4 New Yorker Issue.
I look at these people and can’t quite believe that they exist. Are they professional actors? I wonder. Or are they simply laymen who want a lot of attention?
To put them in perspective, I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”
To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.
