Eating Arugula for Halloween

The scene was rockin', all were digging the sounds
Igor on chains, backed by his baying hounds
The Coffin-Bangers were about to arrive
With their vocal group, "The Crypt-Kicker Five"
Monster Mash - Bobby "Boris" Pickett and The Crypt-Kickers

Walking around the hood looking for an image to grace my Halloween entry, the scariest thing I could find has absolutely nothing to do with Halloween. Or does it? Can you really imagine anything scarier than living here?

I’m thinking the upstairs Obama supporters are palling around with terrorists 24/7, rockin’ out to Barbra Streisand and Lil Wayne, and crunching their arugula salads and slurping their lattes, very loudly. Meanwhile the McCainers downstairs are probably entertaining Joe Six Pack, Joe the Plumber, Tito the Builder and Bubba the Bigot, (the GOP’s own version of The Village People), blasting Hank Williams, Jr. and Kid Rock on the Hi-Fi, (no that’s not a typo), and all of ‘em taking turns slow dancing with a Bible Belt Barbie (you know who that is) blow-up doll. It’s as close to hell as either household could live without getting singed.

Predictably Mr. McCain Supporter slithered out of his lair and asked me to stop taking photos. I lied. Told him I was photographing the pitiful little scarecrow he had leaning against a tree, (so pathetic you can’t even see it here), the one that resembles what McCain himself is probably going to look like after he gets the stuffing knocked out of him next Tuesday, for a photo essay on Halloween décor for the Westside Weekly. He didn’t buy it. The way he carried on you’d have thought I was going to post his address in my blog, thereby inciting the denizens of our predominately arugula eating, latte drinking community to storm his house, (like the mob in Frankenstein), smash his picture window, and steal his Obama/Palin sign. (That would be in the 800 block of 4th Street, on the NW corner of 4th and La Jolla. Bring your own torch.)

In the interest of full disclosure, I eat arugula with the best of them and, as for latte, let’s just say I forever abandoned any idea of moving back to the old hometown when Starbucks posted their hit list back in July and the only one in the town was marked for closure. Frankly, when I die I don’t much care if I go to heaven or hell, as long as there is a Starbucks at the airport when I get off the plane. You get the idea.

What’s more, I’m a card carrying member of so many so-called left wing liberal organizations, that the only campaign calls I get, robo or otherwise, are from the side of any given issue I’m most likely to agree with. Not that it matters. At this point they’re totally wasting their time. I’ve already voted. Absentee ballot. Done. Finished. And, quite frankly, I can’t imagine such calls doing any good anyway at this point in time. I mean seriously, who in their right mind is still “undecided?”

I’m with David Sedaris (one of my most favorite satirists) who says in last week’s New Yorker:

I think of being on an airplane. The flight attendant comes down the aisle with her food cart and, eventually, parks it beside my seat. “Can I interest you in the chicken?” she asks. “Or would you prefer the platter of shit with bits of broken glass in it?”

To be undecided in this election is to pause for a moment and then ask how the chicken is cooked.

I wish I’d said that.

I did a little dialing for Obama myself a couple of Sunday afternoons last month. My motives were pure and my intentions honest, but I quickly discovered I wasn’t cut out for the job. While my heart was in the right place, the words threatening to come out of my mouth most decidedly were not.

First of all 90% of the people you call aren’t going to answer when they see a number they don’t recognize on their caller ID. Most of those who do are either going to hang up as soon as you identify yourself, scream obscenities in your ear, or pretend you have a wrong number. (“I’m no longer at this number,” being my favorite.)

Then there are the inevitable Republican voters. Our script directed us to thank them for their time, encourage them to vote anyway and politely hang up. For the life of me, I could not bring myself to encourage one of those morons to vote. “Stay home, have a beer, fire up the bong, screw the wife/husband/girlfriend/boyfriend/neighbor/cat/dog/whatever turns you on. But whatever you do, do not vote. It’s pointless. Your one measly little vote won’t mean shit. Save the gas. It’s going to continue to go up no matter what you do, and since your candidate’s a stone sure loser anyway why waste money driving to the polls. And by the way, I just talked to your sister. She’s voting for Obama.”

Finally you get the trolls who demur that they’re still undecided. At this point I’m supposed to ask them what issues might be the sticking points, but why bother? The way I figure it, they’re either lying or eight innings short of a baseball game. “Let me make it simple for you. You’ve got one party running two totally adequate, rational, and seemingly decent, (if inevitably flawed, as are we all), human beings. The other party has a demonstrably ill-tempered, decrepit warmonger running with a whacked out Christian Dominionist Twinkie who thinks Turkistan is some kind of rug. What’s to decide? And a happy Halloween to you too.”

I went home, sent a generous check to the Obama campaign as an alternate, albeit less personal and satisfying, way of doing my part, and poured a glass of California Chardonney to wash down my arugula sandwich.

Some chocolate might help too. But no recipe in this post. Until the election’s over I’m concentrating on finishing off all the leftover Halloween candy. It’s here, it’s stale, and it’s unhealthy, not unlike the junk food diet the Republicans have been force-feeding us for the past 8 years. Enough already.

Next Tuesday if things go my way, I promise you the best damn chocolate cake recipe I know. Stay tuned.