I'm looking at the man in the mirror.

Something peculiar happens when people get out on artificial ice. A few nights ago, John and I were part of a handful of brave souls that took to the Rockefeller rink during one of those annoying rain spells you don't realize is saturating you to the core until suddenly your pants are soaked and people are laughing and pointing... or, wait, that's something else entirely...

There was the requisite gaggle of silly girls, the kind that completely baffled me in high school, who giggle loudly and make this giant scene, oblivious to the creeps who leer in the shadows at them.

There was the grumpy father and his 10 year old daughter, who toppled over with the swiftness of a general motors factory and got sort of put off by his daughter, who wouldn't stop laughing at her poor, clumsy pops, and so he just stayed put, watching her fly around the ring like a Quidditch player on speed, grumbling and wobbling some more.

And then there was the gang of be-pimpled skaters. Landsharks with mullets. Lanky, hulking, awkward teenage boys with earphones and cliche emblems of attitude on their jackets who zoomed around like no one else existed, zooming toward you and then skidding to a halt just as you were cringing with your eyes clamped tight, giving a voice-cracked "Huh huh," in a blade-made flurry of diced ice. Ducking and weaving between people who were already tottering around uncertainly. One-upping each other, sort of giving each other looks of, "Yeah man. Killer-ass triple lutz."

I don't know if there's a skating underbelly in NYC. After all, so many residents of that city are, like me, from places that don't even freeze over in the winter. But it seems that the other night in that space, people reverted to their more primitive social circles, with the alpha male reigning supreme as "Man in the Mirror" played loudly over the man-created ice.

Last night

I know that liberal bloggers everywhere are filling the internet today with elation. Tired elation, of course. With all the noise in the streets and the sheer exhilaration at the words "President-Elect Barack Obama," I didn't pass out until well after 2 in the morning. And I awoke with a smile on my face.

Walking to work this morning, there were people still cheering, holding up copies of the Globe while everyone else sort of lazily smiled back. I passed the McCain headquarters, down the street from the building where I have class, and it was dark and lifeless.

Last night, sitting in a Democrat-sponsored party at a bar downtown, when Obama mentioned Atlanta in his acceptance speech, I felt tears rolling down my cheeks all of a sudden, wishing that I could be there at Ebenezer. Even if Georgia turned a sort of pinkish red before the night was through, the shots of people in Atlanta going nuts with happiness made me so homesick. The guy next to me patted me on the shoulder. He was there with his husband and waiting nervously for news about Proposition 8 in California--"I don't know if we'll still be married tomorrow," he said. But for the moment, we were all celebrating.

I don't even care about the damn offensive message in the bottle from the other night. I feel all my anxiety and dread wiped away. After EIGHT YEARS of constant disappointment and anger... Even though I know that the changing of the guard won't get my mom a new job right away, or pay for my grandma's retirement, or pay for my cousins' massive health bills, it just feels good in this shocked stupor.

Kudos to the folks in Obama, Japan, too. Those cats look like they have some fun.

Message In a Bottle

No, I am not referring to the crappy Kevin Costner flick or the repetitious Police song.

Tonight on my commute home, a clanking sound moving down the train heralded the arrival of a rolled up piece of paper stuffed into a Budweiser All-American bottle. The guy next to me opened it up and there was a picture of Obama with the words "Donkey Punch" typed up in big letters. Horrible.

Casting off

John and I went to Piers Park in East Boston today, rubbing our hands with glee as we walked around a new area full of exploration potential. More working class and, perhaps, more interesting than places like Boston Common or Harvard Square. It was a spectacularly warm afternoon and we were headed to the harbor.

As we approached the park, ducking the planes flying close overhead, we could see an older man casting out his fishing line. Not into the sea, but into the field. Just a large, open, flat area and he's casting off with this look of gritty determination. John said that's good practice for fly fishing, so we walked on. Tooled around for a good 45 minutes. Marveled at "Noddle Island," a tribute to the many nationalities present in East Boston's history, etched in granite.

As we're making our way back to the subway, there he is. Still. Just casting off into the grassy deep. And I admit that something about that scene really resonated with me. In some ways, that's what school-related writing feels like lately. Sort of casting my line into the totally wrong place, where my hook won't catch anything. Like for all my determination, if nothing bites, maybe I'm in the wrong place. Maybe I'm completely insane and everyone around me knows it.

Or maybe I should just let go of my rod and lie down and enjoy the sun.

It's something to chew on at least.

The skys are green and the grass is blue?

Last night my friend Gabi and I headed out for a few pints in Central Square, when we were stopped in our tracks by bluegrass music trickling into our ears--like those little bugs from the Wrath of Khan, only more soothing!

Heading inside for a spell, we spent 20 minutes indulging in banjo, mandolin and fiddle, the delightfully simple yet profound lyrics. But just as I really thought I HAD been transported back to North Carolina or somewhere familiar, the lights went up and the bartender yelled, "Sarry ladies, we-ah closing up!" Without further ado, the musicians dropped their southern accents and packed up.

And you know what? The spirit of Dolly Parton that lives within us all died a little.

Watch and be amazed

Best combination ever?

Thank you, Tampa Bay

So, after a lazy weekend in Vermont--damn you, Green Mountain State and your irresistible foliage!--I am trying to get some work done, all too aware that I have class at 4. When what should appear in my inbox but a note from my design professor that class is canceled today because she has finally "caught the plague that is going around."

Hmm. Funny. And all this from a die-hard Sox fan, right after the Boston World Series choke-fest to the Rays this weekend... At any rate, it's lucky for me that I have an extra two hours now. But I wonder...

Thwarting the Incumbents

I finally got my absentee ballot today. A tingly sensation ran up through my fingertips as I filled in the oval (office) next to Barack Obama and Joe Biden's names. Let's just hope Mr. Jowly Face himself, Bob Barr, helps tip the scale in Georgia toward the Democrats this year (though we may be in for another run of this barf bag).

Then I realized that the rest of the ballot was littered with unopposed incumbents, mainly running for judge, with names I had never heard in my life.

And after a little Googling revealed that the majority of these candidates are people I wouldn't trust to not spit in my food, much less operate a gavel, I decided to write in my votes as an oh-so-subtle form of protest.

For those of you doing the same, here are the 2008 write-in "lesser of two evils" I am endorsing, in lieu of, oh, other democratic options.

1. Stephen Colbert (the obvious choice)
2. Batman (serving up justice with batarangs)
3. Nina Simone
4. Evo Morales (technically the president of Bolivia, but he's doing such a bang-up job there, why not come over occasionally to give Sonny Perdue a kick in the pants?)
5. Smallpox (in place of a particularly odious incumbent). At least you know where smallpox stands.

Rounding out the list were my cat, my mom, and Mother Teresa (YOUR mom, ho ho!)

So--good luck exercising your most underrated right as a citizen of this country. If you don't vote, you're a sucker.