out for a ride on ocean drive

"if you haven't got anything nice to say about anybody, come sit next to me."

-- alice roosevelt longworth

a "don't even start with me if you're not sure you can finish it" look on her face. huge silver bobble on her right ring finger--cheroot cigarillo cinched between index and middle. too much red lipstick, but she, in her sensible shoes, bright blue head wrap and fur lined coat -- she can carry it. her huge earrings make her lipstick tame. i'd like to have the nads she must have--like brass.

i'm rushing home to vote. not because i want to. not because i care so much about who becomes mayor and who will be my personal councillor. no, it's because i made an elaborate show today at work of reading candidate platforms and voicing my opinion on the matter.

now, even though i want to continue milling around the mall and i'm too hot and uncomfortable to be rushing anywhere, here i am, dashing across the city to get to my ward to cast my ballot.

i'm not even a well-informed voter. i don't know the track records of these people. i don't really have any clue who is the most or least likely to keep their campaign promises. i have no idea if the scandal surrounding one of the most popular candidates is to be believed or dismissed. i really don't know jack. but i can't walk into work tomorrow not having thrown my hat in this three ring circus. the funny part is, for all my rush and bustle, i may be too late. but i'll never tell.

the old ukranian bubbies. except maybe old isn't really the word. three of them can't be much older than myself -- the fourth one is probably in her fifties but it's hard to say because they all have a worn look to them. i've seen this quartet on my bus of late. the older one is sitting next to me and i want to shout at her "the part of the seat i'm already in is not available for your ass!", squished as i am into the corner.

their scarves--the only sign of where they come from. the bright, ugly floral kerchiefs hugging their skulls.

born 1968-1976? chances are you don't feel successful enough. it doesn't matter what you're doing, how far you've come, how hard you've worked, how much you make, how many kids you have, how cool a partner you have--you just don't feel like you're cutting the mustard somehow.

it's a phenomenon i've witnessed so often in the past few years that it finally hit me i wasn't the only one feeling it. it's a topic that bears some thought--perhaps a survey. if i get around to this i think i'll find the results intriguing. and perhaps a little sad.