History in the Making

This post was sent to me in the form of an email from my aunt, who grew up in Jim Crow Alabama.


TODAY, I CAST A HISTORIC VOTE!

I received a text messages this morning that said "the hands that picked cotton, will be the hands that choose a president". I was overcome with emotion for my hands picked cotton, and my hands will choose a president.

I, a former sharecropper from Alabama! I, who farmed with 11 brothers and sisters. I, who came to Louisville to escape being told in no uncertain terms what to do and when to do it. I, who dreamed of a better life for my children! I, a person who sat in the back of the bus with my mom because we could not sit up front. I, who went to a two room elementary school house! I, who rode the segregated school bus to the segregated school in the city passing many schools that were in walking distance. I, who dreamed of education, only from the newspaper ads that were wrapped in the things mom brought home after working at the owners home. I, who could not enter the owners' home through the front door-even to work. I, who could not get water when I was thirsty because I had to drink from the "Colored fountainI". I, who was told by the owner of our place, that if I left, the only job I could find would be working in someones kitchen. I, whose brother borrowed $25 so I could ride a train to Louisville alone at 16 years of age.

I, who stand on the shoulders of so many who came before me, cast a historic vote today! This vote was cast for my mother-Mae Willie, my grandmother- Mollie, my great-grandmother- Classie, and the many who never dared to dream of this day.

TODAY, I CAST A HISTORIC VOTE!

Carrie Peterson

Kiki the Stripper

Could it finally be that the bizarre, lurching, pratfall prone, many headed monster of a McCain Palin campaign might be finally eating itself alive? I'm not even referring to the back alley knife fighting being played out in dueling media leaks from the highest levels of the McCain campaign. I'll leave the "she's a whackjob" vs. "she's a rising star who's been improperly managed" discussion for some other time.

What I'm having trouble digesting is the "Joe the Plumber Red State Tour." With no discernable sense of irony, John MacCain and Sarah Palin are doing shout outs to people at their rallies based on occupation. Every day, multiple times a day, they are pointing to different people at their rallies and calling them out by name and occupation. There's Tito the Builder, Nan the Realtor, Tim the Pediatrician, in addition to the obligatory shout out to the now infamous Joe the Plumber. What I want to hear are either shout-outs to real people actually helped by the Reverse Robinhood strategy of the last 30 years or, alternatively, those mightily damaged by the economy. I'm waiting to hear the John MacCain and Sarah Palin recognize Stephan the Hedgefund Manager, Rick the Slum Landlord, or Gregor the Oligarch. While we're at it, I wouldn't mind hearing from Coco the Crackhead, Bob the Builder, Harry the Homeless, Kiki the Stripper, Alicia the Unemployed, and Thomas the Train. Until then, MacCain/Palin aren't speaking my language.

Mothball Uncle Festus Now

Watching the parade of grimaces, winces, eye rolls, smirks and snorts play out across John McCain's face during last night's debate, was like watching someone in the midst of a full out Tourette's episode. More and more John McCain reminds me of Great Uncle Festus (GUF). I suspect everyone has one. You know the really ancient, embittered elderly bachelor uncle, who smells like eau de cat pee and mothballs.

Great Uncle Festus is only brought out a few times a year, not because he lives so far away, but because that's about as often as anyone can stand to see him. Every year, despite numerous lectures, GUF launches into a tirade about the last great war, "D**n Hippies," and the good old days, when you could buy a Baby Ruth for a nickel. Well at least I can say this about him, GUF provides some fairly predictable entertainment, especially if you're into tragicomedy. He always leaves the kids' table in stiches.

Do I really need to say it out loud? Okay, I'll be the one to say it. It's time to put Uncle Festus on mothballs...now.

McCain Has Obama Right Where He Wants Him

According to John McCain, despite being 9 points down in the polls, at the helm of an increasingly schizophrenic campaign, not to mention the recent McCain/Palin Haterpalooza style rallies, which frankly put the Frankenstein villagers to shame, he now, finally, has Obama right where he wants him.

Doesn't it stand to reason that McCain would be even happier, if he were 30 points down in the polls? Let's do everything we can to make McCain as happy as possible!

Curious Sidebar:

According to the McCain logic, I'm not really woefully underemployed with no social life to speak of; it's more like I'm maximumly optimized for strategic uptics in my economic portfolio!

Yeah, Me!!!!

Barack Obama Stole My Puppy

In recent days, the increasingly erratic McCain campaign has begun to recycle shop-worn smears about Barrack Obama's alleged connections to Dr.Evil and the Legion of Doom that first surfaced during the hard fought Democratic primary season. The central proposition raised by the Hottie and the Nottie is that we don't really know enough about this fellow with the funny name and the shady past.


As an enthusiastic Obama supporter (multiple $ donor, phone bank and swing-state canvasser), my first reaction was to immediately dimiss these accusations as ludicrous. But then I decided to reexamine some troubling events from my recent and not so recent past. This blog is the result.


The title of this blog comes from one of the most traumatic events of my formative years. When I was twelve years old, I found a puppy. Not just any puppy, mind you, but the cleverest, happiest dog that I have ever had the fortune to meet. I loved animals of every kind, but dogs best of all, and in the way of twelve year olds, I had my life all mapped out. I was going to be a veteranarian, so that I could dedicate my life to the four-footed among us.


For a girl whose favorite books were Old Yeller, Sounder, and Where the Red Fern Grows, finding that puppy was like a gift straight from Heaven. I took that puppy to the vet, played with her constantly, and fretted over her like a worried mother hen. No dog was more loved, and no dog was ever a better friend.


One day when my mother was away, a stranger came to the door. He asked if I had found a puppy. As a properly brought up young lady, I answered yes and opened the door to let the puppy out. The man reached down and picked up my dog. He claimed she was his and turned to walk away. My puppy struggled and yelped in his arms, trying to get to me. Despite my entreaties, begging him to wait until my mother came home, the hard-faced stranger silently stowed my puppy into his car and drove away. I collapsed in the driveway, completely undone. To this day, I still feel such a wash of sadness over the loss of that puppy and can hardly believe the cruelty of that grown man, who never even thanked me for the care of his dog.


And it is only now with the help of professionals that I recognize and can say with absolute certainty that the cruel stranger was Barack Obama. What this means for my continued advocacy of the Obama campaign, I simply cannot say. But now that I have found these newly discovered memories, I urge my fellow Americans to examine their lives for similar encounters with Barack Obama.


For example, did Barack Obama steal your 8th-grade girlfriend, cut in front of you in line at Starbucks, slip you any pot filled brownies just before finals, or embark on a profanity laced tirade at your local PTA meeting? In your responses, I urge you not to be constrained by the false limits of truth, reason, the space-time continuum or commonly accepted historic accounts of events.

America, I want, no, NEED to hear your stories.


"Barack Obama, I wish I knew how to quit you."


P.S. I'll be collecting the best entries and sending them along to the McCain campaign to be used in their upcoming rockumentary, Obama The Impaler.