In my opinion, Nazca blows and should be skipped entirely.

If you decide to ride a bus from Lima to Cusco, the bus will blast through the desert town of Nazca. Everybody is hot for Nazca because of the famous Nazca Lines. I´ve heard that if you take the airplane ride – for minimum US $50.00 – that the Nazca Lines are awesome. But I didn´t want to spend the dough . . . my fault, I realize . . .

The entire Nazca area is a tourist trap that is 100% set-up to promote the Nazca Lines, which are impressive, but in my opinion, a bad idea for building a successful economy around. And everything in town is carved with reproductions of the Lines . . . the monkey and the spider especially. Everything from the sidewalks in the town square to the endless trinkets like rocks, wallets, postcards, clothing . . . anything, you name it . . . will have that damn stylized monkey line drawing painted or stitched or etched into it.

And that´s it. There is nothing else going on in that town.

We arrived at 5AM just as dawn was breaking over the city. The bus dropped us off in a cloud of dust and sped very quickly away. Some guy approached us with a big smile and spoke great English. He offered us a reasonable hostel room and drove us there, too, whereupon we immediately crashed out. (Night bus rides are intense because you don´t get much rest. The tour guides know this and that´s when they strike – in the early morn about two seconds after you´ve stepped off the bus – when you are tired and at your weakest. More on this later.)

When we woke up, I realized that the glass piece above our hostel door was missing. It would have been easy for anyone to get into our room. It´s not uncommon for theft to happen in hostels. When I asked for another room, the management acted like I was asking for the moon and the stars. Then we refused to go on a tour and the clerk got very visibly upset with us. Not a good combo.

I carried my valubles with me all day long.

I had a naive idea that we could maybe hike out to the desert and walk the length of one of the formations . . . like maybe the spider. I thought that would be pretty cool. But we found out, luckily before we executed my plan, that a hike out to the lines will automatically land you in a Peruvian jail for a few years. I was dissappointed, but I understand the need for conservation. So, we decided to go to the ´viewing platform´ where supposedly, you can climb up 60´ above the desert floor and see a couple of the line formations. It was a JOKE.

The viewing platform is in the middle of a no-man´s land that resembles a moonscape. It´s desolate and fairly ugly, the PanAmerican Highway is three feet away with busses and oil tankers blasting past every few seconds. You climb to the top of this viewing platform . . . and . . . and . . . you see a stylized hand glyph and a tree glyph (I think). Both of these glyphs are so much less than impressive, not to mention about five feet square in size.

So, expect good ceviche (served with lot´s of attitude), old men fixing up rusting muscle cars (that was cool – they were putting Nissan engines into old Chevy´s), but don´t expect to see many awesome glyphs, unless you take a flight.

And of course, don´t go to Nazca expecting to see dancing horses.

In that post, I specifically mention that if the TD lasts more than three days, then you should seek medical help, because it´s NOT going to go away on it´s own. I had to use my own advice this past week.

And a quick word of warning should you become extremely gastronomically distressed while out there in the big, wide world – remember that it is KEY that you seek medical treatment in the country in which you were sickened. Never go home feeling ill in the belly and expect the Western Medical Establishment to be able to help you.

The  country in which you acquired the disease is accustomed to dealing with it on a daily basis. Most of the time, you can march down to the corner drugstore, tell the clerk your symptoms and they will prescribe the effective treatment for you on-the-spot.

Once, I made the mistake of drinking some bad water right before I got onto a plane bound from the jungle to LAX. When I got sick, I thought, ¨Great. I´m headed to my home city, where there are the best doctors in the world!¨

Wrong. The Western Medical Establishment is great for some things -  like if you´ve been in a car wreck or need to have your internal organs put back together. But hear me . . . most know nothing about effective treatment of parasites. Actually, with global travel becoming more commonplace, the instances of traveler´s coming home with nasty parasites is ever-increasing.

My well-heeled US doctors put me through a continual battery of tests that came out negative, but I knew something was wrong. They told me I was crazy.  If you feel you have an intestinal parasite, it´s imperative that you become your own strongest advocate (even though you may not have alot of energy to do so). After six months of problematic doctor visits, I finally had a friend bring some meds back from abroad and that finally fixed it. My doctors, all the way from my general practitioner to gastroenterologist at Cedars-Sinai, were all well-meaning, but clueless.

This time, the problem got fixed with some meds from the drugstore. All for less than $10.00 US. My US medical file is about 2¨ thick from the time when I was sick before. I wonder how much all of that cost the insurance company. I certainly know it cost me a great deal in time, anxiety and sickness – let alone dollars. And they still weren´t able to fix it, diagnose it or listen to me, the patient. It was as though they were offended that I might be trying to diagnose myself.

Trust me, fix it in the country where you got sick.

We left the tourist-frequented area of Cusco and the Sacred Valley, only to discover a remote and wonderful area of Peru, where, for three days, we did not see any other gringos. Not one! It was kind of exciting.

They really like ice cream. A lot. The town motto is, “Town of eternal summer.” They’re not kidding. Immediately I began to search the local market for some flip-flops. My feet could no longer tolerate being cooped up – they wanted some sunshine and fresh air. I did get hammered with mosquito bites on my feet and ankles, but eh, that’s the price for letting my feet breathe.

The women, no matter what age, rock some chic fashion. There are a few Andean grandmother’s in Sacred Valley mountain garb, but most of the ladies wear short shorts or bold patterned dresses with high heels. I saw one lady walking through a construction zone on the street who had to be pushing 50 wearing a bright red, one-shoulder dress and stilettos in the blistering mid-afternoon sun. “Rock it, sister!” I thought to myself.

Quillabamba sits in the high jungle and is a export center for jungle fruits, honey and coffee, so it doesn’t depend so much on tourism like other Peruvian towns. Quillabamb-ites are high-tech and saavy and don’t seem to even notice tourists, and I like that. Hordes of children in Catholic school uniforms take over the streets at night – often with a cell phone in one hand and an ice cream cone in the other.

Check out La Esquina, it’s a coffee shop on the corner of the square. The. coffee. is. AMAZING!

As far as things to do – there’s really not much on the tourist circuit, but the vibe of the place coupled with the lack of things to do was exactly the chill getaway I was looking for. The market food is wonderful, plentiful and the fruit is insanely inexpensive and deliciously fresh. I sat at a stall and drank liter after liter of emolliente – a refreshing tea-like drink.

I’m sure if I tried real hard, that I would find that Quillabamba is the gateway to some sort of fabulous, out-of-the-way trek, but I specifically wasn’t looking. I do know that Quillabamba is the dry season launch point to Pongo de Mainique, but we were visiting just a touch too early for that excursion. We did find one little get-away that was amazing . . .

The reason I bring this point up today is that last week, Matt and I met a very distraught traveler. I´d been introduced to Sarah a few days earlier by some fellow acquaintences of hers.  The next time I saw her, she was alone and kind of wandering the streets in crisis – her face all teary and she was sort of panicked. The friends of hers that I knew had moved on, leaving her all alone in an unfamiliar place.  Travel often brings up all kinds of issues to deal with – fear, anxiety, isolation and sometimes just a general  funk due to being constantly on the move that I call ´traveler´s blues´.  Sarah was freaked out, alone and needed to be with other travelers.

If this happens to you when you are on the road . . . relax. Take a deep breath. Don´t put any pressure on yourself about having to do anything in particular. If you want to stay cuddled up in bed at the hostel for the entire day . . . then give yourself that luxury, no matter if you are leaving in two days or two months. Always, always, always be kind to yourself. Beautiful things await, great hikes are to be had, and gorgeous pictures to snap, but if too panicked to really enjoy any of it . . . then what´s the use?

And most of all . . . remember that the world and life itself is all in how you process it. If you think the world is shit and full of theives and dishonest people, then truly, you will attract only people who will try to take advantage. It is crucial to remember that while the world does have the occasional unscrupulous cab driver or tour guide, that a very large majority of people are helpful, friendly and kind. Remember that you are safe, and that the world will take care of you. Trust, but keep alert always.

So, Matt and I sat down on the cobblestone street with Sarah and listened to her cry. She was all inside her head, spinning in circles . . . upset about losing her camera, confused about obligations of being taken on ´tours´ that locals offered to her and yammering on and on about how she only had five days left in Peru and on one hand wanted to see ¨everything¨ yet was afraid to leave the hostel. Whoa.

I asked her if  she´d eaten yet that morning. She had not. Eating is important – especially if you are in an emotional and confused state. We fed her. Then we insisted she come with us on our hike. We couldn´t leave her there, crying in the street and completely freaked out. She came with us on our hike, and consequently the beauty of the day got her out of her head. I have not seen her since and most likely never will again.

Remember that if you are feeling down while on the road, there really are plenty of other travelers you can join for a day or two. Ask around at local hostels or join a networking group such as couchsurfing.com. Take a few deep breaths, go on a short hike, or if you need to, just spend the whole day laying around in bed. But mostly, just remember that the world is a good place. Trust in that fact and you will find that your woes will eventually slip away . . .

Do I think our problems as a country or as a society or as a . . . ahem . . . global village will be instantaneously eradicated? No.

My outlook on politics is generally fairly dismal. I really do believe that Obama will try as best he can to ‘fix things,’ but his hands are really kind of tied in many ways – first of all, the prior administration did everything possible to make ‘change’ really difficult. Secondly, the bigger problem is that Americans as a whole, I believe, are not truly ready to embrace the kind of change that needs to happen to make any difference anyway. Most of us are just still too comfortable and quite frankly, still very much asleep as far as some gigantic problems are concerned – problems that could very well inhibit our very existence.

Until we wake up and demand true change, status quo will continue it’s relentless march onward, simply re-naming itself on many levels as ‘change.’ We must not forget the power that we have as a people. We showed that power for the first time during the election. In droves, in communities, together as a force, we asked for something different – and we got it with a resounding ‘Yes, we can!’ But it’s imperative that we keep demanding – together – in a determined manner for exactly what we want. Otherwise we will keep allowing those politicians to silently stuff their pockets in the name of change while the planetary conditions continue to deteriorate.

As I said before, in the past, it’s been quite easy for me to fall into the media-made machine of fear and spiral down into realms of hopelessness when I think of things like Monsanto, factory farming, society’s mass acceptance of debt, war and the destruction of our living planet earth, which is the very organism that sustains us. So, I’m not gonna go there and begin harping on all of those depressing things today.

Today, I’m just another human being on this great big planet, walking down a muddy dirt road. I’m surrounded  by mamacitas on the street, selling plates of rice and vegetables for US 0.75 cents to passerby. There’s a guy on a bicycle with a home-made platform attached to the front. The wooden platform is overflowing with grapes and electrical equipment. He’s holding a microphone to his mouth. The loudspeaker blares his words, “Uvas! ‘Migas, uvas! Uvas!” Grapes, friends, grapes!

It may seem as though I’m ignoring this great day in history, but it’s the opposite. I’m acutely aware of the transition that’s happening today in my home country. I’m staying far, far away from media and television and internet new sites today. I’m instead focusing on this beautiful moment unfolding in front of me, because really, that’s all I’ve got. And whether you are awake or still dreaming the defunct American dream, that’s all you’ve really got too.

Be aware. Be not one of the cogs in the purposefully generated machine of fear. Wake up. Start really noticing these moments that are all around. Listen to your little voice that whispers inside. That loud one on the outside is doing nothing but propagating fear – exactly what is not needed.

And slowly, slowly, one by one as we wake from the collective nightmare, we can realize our power. Then and only then can true and lasting change transform this crazy world into a better place. Join me in the NEW dream where corporations don’t own the rights to life itself, where the world monetary system will not burden our children’s children, a place where genocide is dead and a time when our planet, our mother who sustains us, is healthy again.

Yes, we truly can – dream a new collective dream, that is.

These sorts of questions have plagued my existence the past eight months. About two months into my wacky cross-country journey this year, I began using the blender analogy. Take all of my possessions, put them in a giant blender and then spread them randomly across five non-contiguous states in the US and that’s pretty much been my mixed-up world for most of this year.

The moment I learned to laugh at the folly of it all was Memorial Day weekend in the Atlanta airport parking labyrinth.  I carried a soccer-ball-sized jumble of keys and couldn’t remember which car of the three in my rather loose custody that I’d parked in the lot. My own car was in storage in New Mexico and I had rental cars from both Texas and South Carolina. As we approached the lot number printed on my ticket, the bus driver said, “What kind of car?”

“I’m . . . um . . . , ” I consulted the mess of keys with a furrowed brow. “Not sure.”

“Huh, look at that,” the driver guffawed to the entire bus. “She don’t know which car she drove here! Wish I had that problem!” And we all laughed.

From then on, I stopped freaking out about misplaced items.  When I lost my contacts, I just wore my glasses, provided I could locate them, and if not, well, I just walked around blind and laughing. Then I decided that I didn’t really need my headlamp to be my woobie/security blanket any more, and I still haven’t found the darned thing. The voter registration is still in the ether somewhere too, but I was able to find my ID in time to vote, so no harm done. And my lucky spoon that’s traveled at least 10,000 miles? Seems I left it at home this last time, where I discovered it nestled in the silverware drawer upon my return. Lucky for the spoon, ’cause I’m sure I would have lost it somewhere between Tenn-Tucky and Holly Springs, Mississippi.

Although I made light of it, the blender of my life took a toll on me that I didn’t really notice until I got back to LA this past month. I’ve been wound up and overwhelmed because although all the stuff was suddenly in one place again, the blender had pureed everything into a smoothie of confusion. The power drill was found, but where was the charger? My one lonely Smart Wool sock was crying out for it’s long lost mate. I stopped wearing any sort of jewelry about two months ago, for fear that I’d lose some irreplaceable accessory.

The result was that I’ve been on edge and really didn’t even realize why until yesterday. I took a deep breath and came to my storage space/art studio in disguise. My goal? To deconstruct the blender. Two days of climbing ladders, sorting through dirt (yes, dirt) and dumping out about 10 banker’s boxes onto the floor and now I’ve gotten my flotsam of stuff whipped into recognizable and findable shape. Several trips to the Tabernacle Thrift Store and I’ve suddenly got less to worry about. The charger is found, the socks are reunited and tomorrow I plan to don some shiny things – at least one ring and a necklace.

I’ve regained that underlying sense of calm and ease that I lost somewhere on the road earlier in the year. Just in time too, because I’m leaving again very soon, destination to be announced in the coming weeks. And this time, I’m leaving with just my Italian army backpack.

So, I just got out of the acupuncturist’s office and I’m all zen and shit, ’cause I just got poked with needles in my feet, neck and third eye chakra in an attempt to de-stress-ify myself and I’m walking to the polls to vote for CHANGE. I did my research. Not only was I ecstatic about voting for the new president, but I also knew how I wanted to vote on every single California Proposition on the ballot. I had a cheat sheet with me just so I would get it right.

As I said before, this year I chose not to work the polls. When I do not work the polls, I am a bit of a polling-place watchdog because I know that most people are not familiar with polls, having never worked them and have no idea what to expect. And since I do know a bit about polling place law, I keep an eye out in an effort to keep the process as pure as possible – because when dealing with the public, you get all kinds of folks with all kinds of passions – especially during this election.

As I walked up to my polling place, a lady with an anti-Prop 8 t-shirt tried to give me a flyer endorsing a “no” vote on Proposition 8. For those living outside of California (or under a rock), Proposition 8 was a church sponsored measure to overturn the same-sex marriage law and to legally define a marriage as a union between one man and one woman. Of course, I’m not a bigoted asshole, so I already had plans on voting “no” on Prop 8. But I was afraid that the activist was within 100′ of a polling place, so I stopped to tell her that she needed to be outside of the 100′ range of the front door. She informed me that the yellow signs on the hill above where she stood marked the required 100′. I smiled, gave her a thumbs up and went on my merry-zen way.

Then some crotchety, bitter, older woman on the verge of being elderly stomped up in line behind me. She was withered, her mouth set in a perpetual sneer,  with bleach-blond hair and a nose so crooked that she could have drowned had it been raining too hard. The only reason I noticed her was because after she got in line behind me, she began yelling toward the anti-Prop 8 woman on the street. I felt, and still feel, like I may have jumped the gun a lil’ bit and maybe have been too over-zealous about my self-appointed polling watchdog duties. But did I hear the tone in the older woman’s voice coupled with the angry sneer and then the words came out of her mouth.

“No, you have to listen to me,” she shouted at the anti-Prop 8 activist who was standing where she legally had to be, on the sidewalk, over 100′ away. I was NOT going to listen to this angry woman have any sort of screaming match over this issue, not while I was in line and not within that god-damned 100′ of pure voter safe haven. No, not on my watch,  I didn’t care if this insidious woman was my neighbor or not. Besides, hey, isn’t this Venice, California, the sanctuary of freak-dom?

“You know what?” I said to the sneering, screaming, finger-pointing woman. “If you want to have a conversation with her,” I pointed toward the anti-Prop 8 lady on the street, “then by law you have to do it on the other side of these yellow signs.”

The screaming lady turned to me and said, “You have a real attitude, you know that?” My zen began to melt. I guess I pointed my finger in her face when I repeated the mandate, “You have to go speak to her from over there,” I said. “Because right now you are within 100′ of a polling place and I don’t want to hear it.”

“You need to get your finger out of my face.” The old biddy shouted at me. She got within inches of my face, definitely violating my personal space and repeated her plan of attack on me. “You have to listen to me . . .”

I cut her off, because yeah, I have an Annatude all right and I don’t have to do anything, least of all listen to her nonsense. “Actually, I refuse to listen to you.” I said.

She countered with a furied stutter. “C-c-an I just . . . ask you one-one question. God, you have real attitude, you know that?” She looked like she wanted to spit, she was so angry.

“I do not wish to have a conversation with you.” I said, and turned my back. And thankfully, those zen-melted words were enough to keep her quiet or else it could have gotten real ugly, real quick because I was for-real angry. And people in line all around the two of us were dead silent. No one dared speak to or look at either one of us the entire time. The line wasn’t very long, but the 15 minute wait seemed like hours to me. The crazy lady left the line more than once, mumbling to herself, each time asking the lady behind her if she’d hold her place in line.

Each time she returned, much to my dismay, she claimed her rightful place in line, right behind me. I couldn’t believe how different this line was than the other precinct down the street. I went to the incorrect polling place earlier in the morning and was met by hordes of cheerful people with wide grins who were as ecstatic about voting as I. We all merrily chirped about the fact that together, we were all about to make history.

This polling place experience was turning out so much differently. Much to my chagrin, she would be right there in line behind me, potentially listening as I gave my name and address to the roster clerk. And because we live in the same precinct, she was more than likely a neighbor of mine. As soon as I gave the clerk my name and address, I kept an open ear in order to hear hers. (And you know what? I found out where that bitch lives. And I caught her last name too. She’s a couple of streets over.)

So, I voted. Right as I started my monthly cramps. Right as some guy who was next in line for an open booth answered his cell phone and said in a booming authoritative kind of voice, “Oh, I can’t talk. I’m in line next to vote,”  and proceeded to negotiate some sort of business deal over the phone for what seemed like a fucking eternity. I glared at him as I stabbed the ballot with my inky stylus, re-read the questions so I would make no mistakes, and felt another cramp in my lower belly. Ahhh, it made so much more sense now as to my state of mind!

When I exited my precinct polling place, the bitchy ole blonde was nowhere to be found, thankfully. But I did approach the anti-Prop 8 lady for a little bit of gossip. “Hey,” I said, “I’m sorry I started any shit with that crazy old woman. I just didn’t want to hear her heckle you.” I should mention that at this point I still wasn’t sure if I was just an off-the-wall, crazed PMS-ing troublemaker or if I had any reason to be justified in my poll line actions.

“It’s OK,” the anti-Prop 8 lady smiled. She knew exactly who I was talking about. “Someone told me that while she voted, she mumbled, ‘Jesus is watching me vote right now.”

It pains me to say that all of those Christian people are at home smiling right now, patting themselves on the back, because although as a country we all have a victory in the White House, Prop 8 did in fact pass in California with a razor-thin margin.

I still can’t believe that crazy old woman is my neighbor and I still can’t believe that she thinks that Jesus was watching her vote, sitting on his cloud, halo on his head and smiling down at her. And most of all, I honestly can’t believe I got so bent out of shape by the entire incident.

I remember how it felt four years ago when Bush got re-elected. My boyfriend and I buried ourselves underneath the bed covers and cried. Like so many others we knew, we swore (but kinda didn’t really mean it) that we were moving to Canada. Then we actually called Canada. We got a recorded message from the government of Canada explaining that they were too swamped with requests. Then I remember just being thoroughly depressed and uncomfortable and angry.

I remember eight years ago when Bush first got elected. I volunteered helping to set up all the event barricades in Nashville for what we all just knew was going to be Al Gore’s victory party. I just remember how dejected and defeated we all felt as the horror unfolded – like a balloon that has a slow leak. The UN-reality of the situation hit so hard that everyone was stone silent. I remember one of my friends crying and wringing her hands and saying, “This is soooo bad. Do you all know how bad this is? We’re fucked! We’re really, really fucked.”

And at the time, I really had no idea what she was talking about. But, as I came to realize, she was oh so right.

So, now, I’m nervous. I usually volunteer to work at my local polling place on election day, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sign up this time. I’d rather be out and about in the public arena when I wake up in the morning, watching the media outlets tell the sensational tale in their biased manner. I want to be ready for anything instead of feeling like I just got sucker-punched. Again. This time I at least want to be able to brace myself.

Honestly, like many of you, I’m sitting here thinking, “Will Virginia be the new Ohio or Florida?” I hope not. I fear the ground work for that kind of debacle has already been laid.

Most of all, just get out there and vote. Please. I really do care who you vote for in the end, but I’m not going to get preachy about it. Just vote. Please. I also encourage you to ask to see the roster at your polling place late in the afternoon or early evening. This way, you can see who has not come out to vote yet and you can go knock on the doors of your neighbors who haven’t voted yet, and urge them to do so or help them if they need a ride or other assistance.

And for goodness sake, please be nice to those poll workers. They essentially are volunteers who work a 14-hour day and might get some coffee and donuts for their trouble, but they are too busy to eat anyway. Be compassionate, please.

We know the best Feng Shui masters in all of Los Angeles. We exchange both plant cuttings and hair color advice. We sup wine and eat exotic Thai from down the street on china plates that we’ve inherited from our grandmothers. The hiring and firing of plumbers, fine chocolates, adrenal fatigue and the best way to gracefully quit a job are topics of late. To meet with my friends over tea after being gone so long is comforting, but there is, at least with me, a pervasive air of unsettledness and restlessness.

I really try to suppress the desire throw rocks at the annoying kids down the street or howl at the yuppie assholes to walk away from the Pink Berry, back slowly away from the hundred-dollar t-shirt store and get the fuck off my unfortunately-ever-more-gentrified Venice sidewalks. I try not to focus on Wal-Mart, the economy, the election – all of it encapsulated within an unending media circus that just gets me more and more distracted and annoyed and cranky and feeling all helpless and well . . . part of the manipulated, depressed sheeple (part sheep, part people) faction of society.

It’s my goal to put that angst into some other more responsible, creative and gratifying outlets. So forgive me that I’ve been gone from blogging for a few weeks. I’ve just really not been too much fun to be around. I’ve been giving myself an AnnaTude adjustment.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I take a big sigh and get all overwhelmed with catching up on all the dumb life stuff awaiting me now that I’ve returned home. Boring shit like doctors, the vet and taxes.

Yesterday I was at my favorite thrift store in Venice, The Bible Tabernacle Thrift Store, donating stuff back to them that I’ve carted out of there over the years. I was so happy to see that they were still in business and still had the same funky style even though the grungy ole beer store next to them has been remodeled into Lincoln Ave Fine Wines and a Whole Foods megaplex has taken over the defunct Big Lots space in the stripmall down the street.

John, the unassuming guy who runs the Tabernacle, perked up when he saw me walk in the store. “I haven’t seen you in wow, how long has it been . . . ? Did you have a good time on your journey?” he asked.

“Well,” I replied, “It’s been wonderful and tough sometimes, too . . . but in the end it was everything a good journey is supposed to be.” Then a smile crept across my face again. And it hasn’t left yet.

Then I realize I’ve been on the road for a solid year. One entire year! And I’m smiling still and grateful, because it has been an exciting year and I am living a dream.

McCain’s campaign posted ads this morning claiming McCain’s victory in this evening’s upcoming presidential debate. What??!

It’s been interesting being on the road during the pre-election time. I don’t know what Kentuckians are thinking because we didn’t talk too much about any kind of politics. Those folks are just trying to keep food on their tables mostly. I saw disturbing signs of economic turmoil out in the country – restaurants slashing their operating hours, unemployment, fuel unavailability – all in an isolated area without alot of money or prospects to begin with. They do, however, really like tractors and Jesus. So, I bet I know how the voting will go – at least for those who will vote, and you can bet that many will not.

Texas, where our current village idiot in the White House is from, actually has a broad base of Obama support – at least in Austin where I’m staying, so that’s nice to see.

In Illinois, the heart of Obama’s campaign, my grandma said, “Hey, how do you like our upcoming lady vice president?” I just grumbled a response and she followed with a surly reply of “Well, then I just won’t talk about how I’m voting.”

As my friends and I sat around last night drinking beer and living the good life and seriously discussing the crumbling economy, someone piped in that the bailout is basically the current regime’s plan to spend all of the upcoming administration’s funding before they have a chance to use it. That made sense to me. Someone else suggested that since Congress wants to bail out America with $700 billion, that they could just cut a check to every single American. I think that’s a nice idea.

If you’d like to read quite possibly the only instance of The Onion newspaper telling the truth about something, check out their editorial expose on Palin. Lots of laughs, but unfortunately, it is all indeed true.

All of you folks who joked four years ago about jetting to Canada – did you ever think it could possibly get any worse? I thankfully don’t watch the idiot box  TV, but every once in awhile I’m in a room with it and this morning I heard a reputable news channel playing in the background and the circus and sensationalism sounded more theatrical than a movie trailer – because my dears, that is exactly what it is. Oh, what we are being sold.

Yes, there are real problems with our economy. The enormous growth we’ve seen in the past decade plus has been built upon a hollow foundation. A market will always correct itself. Problem is, our growth was way too fast to ever be sustainable. Kinda like every facet of what’s happening on our planet. The current trend of humanity is to think in a linear way, ever wanting to grow and expand, never thinking of the circular nature of things. Kind of like the whole concept of when you pick flowers, you never pick them all, you leave some behind to re-establish the population for the next time you gather. Well, not only have we picked every single flower, but we also have over-extended the credit of many years of flower-picking, if you get my metaphor.

I have a real bad feeling in my stomach these days. A feeling that in one year, two years, twenty years . . . who knows . . . that the truth will come out and it will stink even more than Enron . . . and that the pockets of many on the top of this giant pyramid scheme will be fattened yet again at the expense of everyone else.

And so it goes. Status quo. We’re all still kinda fat and mostly happy, and this is enough to keep us hooked in to allowing them to do . . . whatever . . . they . . . want. And the Republicans basically think/believe/want to bring about the second coming of Christ. Seriously, it’s part of their version of Manifest Destiny.

So, I say in the spirit of my friend Kurt Vonnegut, let’s go ahead and let the excrement hit the air conditioning. Because one of these upcoming days, it’s going to anyway, so let’s see how we all can deal with hard stuff . . . ’cause I sit and listen to my grandma (yeah, the one who’s voting badly) talk about growing up during the Great Depression. We don’t know what hard times are. I don’t want to see them per se, but I’d really like to see more Americans with the testicular fortitude to see beyond what we’re being sold and to do something about it instead of simply allowing the circus to perpetuate.