Last Thursday, Sam, along with his coworker and her 11-year-old daughter, and I stood outside in the getting colder to see John Kerry in the Metrodome parking lot. I’m terrible at great masses and distances—so, uh, there were an awful lot of people, and we were awfully far away from the podium. Kerry delivered the familiar stump, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thrilled to hear it, at least what I could. We were so far back, we couldn’t hear Walter Mondale or Max Cleland at all—it was weird. It seemed less a matter of cranking the volume and more that we were just that far away. When people at the fore started a chant, it took seven or eight times until it tumbled back loud enough so we could hear it and fall in proper rhythm. Kerry carried better ’cause you know, he’s just so damn presidential. Minneapolis mayor RT Rybak was also loud enough; I’d never heard him speak before, and he sounds just like Tom Hanks. Since I couldn’t see him well enough to lose this impression (and whenever people raised their signs, which was all the time, the stage was eclipsed entirely), I went with the illusion woo-hoo! it’s Tom Hanks! Uh… yeah. Hee hee.
The best part was when I got home and uploaded my pictures. I knew they’d be a million-mile-away wretched and “neat” only in that it proved I was there (c.f. the giddy forty-something woman who fluttered her fingers before my face and squealed, “I touched his hand last spring!! I touched his hand! Hey, hey! What’s the difference between Vietnam and Iraq? Bush had a plan to get out of Vietnam!” …Hi. Wow. Okay.). But what I didn’t know was that in darkness enveloped by bright red, white and blue lights, flanked by a throng and awe, the Metrodome looks like a spaceship! Just look at it! Bwahahahahahaha! TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER. Yes, we will! RESISTANCE IS FUTILE. Hooray!
I know I’m not alone in looking forward to the campaign hoopla coming to a close. I’m not sap enough to give a crap about the polls, but the process is still a heavy one, and I want to put it down. I just hope it ends when it’s over. Rawr. Original, I know.
On Sunday I craved homemade soup. Paging through my earthy-new agey, hip and hippie cookbook of delicious-sounding but mostly too intimidating recipes, I stumbled across the simple and straightforward Spanish Potato Garlic Soup. It beckoned like a cartoon aroma. The ingredients were familiar and inexpensive, and cooking would warm up my apartment. Though I was essentially sold, the soup’s description and suggested accompanying ambiance tethered me to action through stupefaction and the awakened mystique of the cookbook copywriter:
What could be better than potatoes and onions in a steaming hot, garlicky red broth? Serve it in earthenware bowls. Let there be classical guitar music. Discuss passion and death.
–Moosewood Restaurant Low-Fat Favorites
Oh hell yes! It turned out rather tasty.
The other night I had a hard time falling asleep. When I finally dropped off, I dreamed I couldn’t sleep. Thoughts?