Half a month gone. No sleep. Up all night on the couch watching the horror unfold on CNN. War. Rumors of War. Pestilence. (Anthrax — the disease, not the band.) The George W. Song — “We will not tire. We will not falter. We will not fail.” Or something like that. But he’s no Jesse Jackson, is he? No rhythm. Silly white boy. Silly white girl, me, dreaming about white powder in envelopes. Stocking up on water and canned tuna. Radio at work tuned to NPR instead of Top 40. Waiting for the danger. Can you feel it? A breathless expectancy in the air — almost a wish — for something to happen here. Something to fight against. Bush says we can fight by “flying and buying.” Well, that won’t get my credit cards paid off. Guess I’m not a patriot.
By the way, the votes on my hair color are in. It was a close race. Exit polls showed older constituents to be conservative, as expected, voting for no more dye jobs. Fortunately, there are more young people in my district, the majority voting in favor of the new color. There was one write-in vote for red with blonde chunks. The rest of the minority preferred blonde.
Stay tuned for further additions to my little home here in the ether. A karaoke lounge in the works, and many other surprises. Hopefully not all tragedy and fear.