A woman, a liberal woman no less, might soon be Speaker of the House. A chick. A brazen, mouthy, left-leaning wench from SF. What the fuck?

In Boston, in Massachusetts, in the state where I grew up, looks like there will now be a black dude, an African American man, ensconced in the govenor’s house. An Afri-fucking American in a state once know for Louise Day Hicks spewing utter bullshit in its name. And a Democrat for the first time in like 20 fucking years. Again, I say, what the fuck?

Near’s I can figure the end times are well nigh. Nigh. Fucking way nigh. End. Times. Fire. Brimstone. Make sure your insurance premiums are up-to-date.

Or, dare I hope for a better deal?

I voted early this morning (actually kind of last night). I had an absentee ballot, because there’s not enough registered voters in my ‘hood to keep a poll open. I filled it out at home, and dropped it off down the street on the way to work.

M., on the other hand, hasn’t changed his address. I’m pretty sure it’s ‘cuz he digs the fucked up place at which he votes. I wrote some shit about it before, how his polling place is a garage. A suburban fucking garage.
Some guy’s house.

I went with him a-polling and saw it for myself. Chaos worthy of, I dunno, Haiti, maybe? Maybe somewhere in Kabul. Nah, inspectors probably kept that shit out of the garage.

In San Jose, we got the tree-lined streets of cliched TV suburban-ness.

And, you got garages. AKA, polling places in the eighth largest economies in the world.

Like any garage, there’s a bunch of shit. And, like any third world polling place, the families gather round and vote together, people mill about among openly viewable ballots, and all is done under the watchful eye of portraits of important leaders. Leaders like Orville Redenbacher.

But, it’s Cali. It’s Silicon Valley. So, there’s ‘puters. Cutting edge technology, programmed by code monkeys across the world, or inexperiencedly and questionably at Diebold.

I was pretty psyched, M. got the magic Redenbacher screen.

I got nothing but the obvious. Vote. Vote because you can. Vote because all’s I want for Christmas is some semblance of a government of checks and balances.

Vote because how often do you get to repeat your name and spell it and repeat it and point to it for a retiree with a 12-inch ruler.

(For the shit I knew nothing about, I had a sound methodology for quick study. I looked up the rabid, frothing right-wingers and voted the opposite. Take the state supreme court judge who was taking the baby-killing wrath for not supporting an unproven, ill-conceived parental notification on abortion proposition. I checked my box next to good old, apparently rational Joyce Kennard. Thank you Mr. GOP!)

I’m praying to the special god that watches over Rev. Ted Haggard when he’s kicking back in a gay meth haze that at least the House might flip.

Ah, yeah. Um. Vote.

The post below, the one with clams in it, was supposed to be sent last night. But, I learned something new instead.

An apostrophe in your subject line fucks the mind of your computer. One apostrophe. Dumb computers. A simple “It’s” and it’s fucked.

I’m smarter than that. It takes two apostrophes to slow me down.

Here’s the restaurant we visited. It’s called “Old Port” just like the ‘hood in Portland, ME. There’s nautical charts of Maine’s islands on the wall and picnic tables. But, you know you ain’t in Maine, because everything is lacquered and California-cute and clean looking.

Aw well. The clams were good. They said it was a particularly tasty batch.

Another year with candy but no comers. Don’t know if it’s how our place is lit or maybe that we’re unknown, single folks. You know, you wouldn’t want us poisoning and razorblading and diddling and whatnot.

I think we will very likely move once M. figures out the swing of his new commute. Some place that the natives might call “mid-peninsula,” I think that might also be nearer some fault lines. Woohoo I feel the earth move.

Here’s hoping next year brings some fun little kiddies and cute outfits and shite.

Meanwhile, more candy for us. No problem really.

Rather than writing, I’m screwing around with Photoshop.

For now, I’m pretending that M. is a world traveler. Here he is in Boston and in Arizona’s Painted Desert.

While not obsessing about pictures of my self, I took pictures of other things this weekend.

There was an attempt to see the sunset in SF when I played hooky from work on Friday.

There was a sunset on Saturday over Palo Alto.

These guys might be gophers. Or some other cutesy kind of animal that’s just a rodent in its less than glamorous life.

This may or may not be a red-tailed hawk, as I couldn’t see it’s tail.

And, obviously, some kind of deer.

Whilst rummaging about seeking the “Blue Bird” pic from below, I found some other charmers from my youth.

Here’s where I apparently wanted to look like Mark David Chapman. What the fuck was wrong with me?

In this series, I apparently was about to do my Mt. Holyoke, Smith, Amherst, UMass tour with my lesbian band.

Here I’m convinced I’m just fucking ADORABLE. Although, I suspect it might be one of those moments when I am overly biased.