It’s come to my attention that there is a huge hull-bubble-balloo regarding the Los Angeles county ballots in the presidential primary race. Here’s what I know:

All Non-Partisan voters were able to cast their vote for a presidential nominee from the Democratic ticket or the American Independent ticket. If you came through my polling place, and you were on the roster as Non-Partisan, you were told that you were also allowed to choose from the Democratic and American Independent tickets. All Non-Partisan voters were still given a Non-Partisan ballot and told to go to their voting booth of choice: Democratic, American Independent, Non-Partisan. We told everyone to very carefully read #6!

Number 6 was the infamous bubble question of - “do you want to be disenfranchised . . .” Appparently this bubble needed to be punched in order for the vote to count. I think this is too tricky for voters. If the Dems and the AI party opened up their tickets to NP voters, then let the floodgates open, with no hoops, tricks or confusion. It’s akin to being ‘kinda pregnant.’ You either are or you aren’t.

As one of the pollworkers, I’m not even sure which is correct - that if you are an NP voter and you wanted to vote as a Dem that you get a Dem ticket or if you still should have voted on an NP ticket and checked bubble #6. I voted on the Dem ticket (provisionally, I might add!) and there was no #6. So, that would mean that only the NP tickets had question #6, the question that you had to punch, which we’ve all agreed is redundant.

And, if it makes anyone feel any better, my vote probably ‘won’t count’ because I forgot that I am an NP voter and when I voted provisionally, I couldn’t remember how I was registered, so I voted on a Dem ticket.

Is my blood boiling that my vote ‘may not count?’ No, not so much as the mistake was a call to get my own politics in order . . . as in . . . know which party I’m affiliated with and go in to the polls a little better-informed. Maybe look-up ‘disenfranchised’ in the dictionary.

Am I annoyed with the continual shenanigans in our voting system? Yes! But I believe that community involvement can help foster awareness, which will lead to a better system. I consider this primary as practice. Let’s not get too agitated over the primary, fellow Angelino NP voters! Let’s all take this as a big lesson to open our eyes for whatever they try to pull over on us next time.

Also, I’ll say this: I don’t have a TV, nor do I listen to the radio, so I’m thankfully not sitting here being fed an AP story about “Bubble-gate” every hour on the hour.

If you can only remember one thing about voting, then remember this: One signature, one vote; that’s why you sign the roster.

Here’s a picture of the inspector of our precinct and another pollworker officially sealing the red ballot box after closing the polling place.

I was so wiped out, I slept nearly the entire day after the primaries, but I did have time to meet for coffee with a friend, who vocalized his reservations regarding the ability of pollworkers.

“The people running my polling place were lucky if they could put their teeth in,” my friend said. “There’s no way the vote is untainted, it’s scary, there’s so much room for error! These were little old ladies who need help putting on their pants in the morning and they are the ones handing out ballots??!” he snorted. From my work at a polling place, I can tell you first-hand that alot of voters automatically assume that the people running the polls are about 2 IQ points away from retardation.

And sadly, he’s probably correct. I’m sure that many people who sign up to work the polls are often elderly or . . . ahem . . challenged in some way. “Call the county - they never have enough help. They’d love to have more competent community leaders running their polling places,” I urged my friend, “get involved! Quit yer bitchin’!”

In addition to worries of pollworker competency, people also get really empassioned about whether their vote ‘counts.’ Especially if you bring up the word ‘provisional.’ It’s like a big, bad, ugly word. One friend of mine said, “Oh, they don’t count the provisional ballots. They just throw them in the trash.”

Well, I’ve got something to say about that and about the entire voting process. We had thirty provisional voters. Every time we give a provisional ballot to someone, we have to watch them to make sure that after they vote that they put their ballot in their matching provisional ballot envelope, before it is deposited into the ballot box. That’s because the provisional ballot envelope has the voter’s information written in on the front, including the ever-important signature as well as all the information necessary to confirm that the person whose ballot is inside that envelope is indeed a registered voter. Because remember, if someone votes provisionally, it’s because their name was not on the roster of registered voters.

So, how much does your vote count? Well, we had one of those thirty provisional voters sneak by us and drop his ballot, sans provisional info envelope, into the counting machine that tallies all the verified voters’ ballots. So, at the end of the night, we had 29 provisional ballots and 30 provisional voters. I know the name of the guy who mistakenly mis-cast his vote because we have to write down the first and last name of everyone who is a provisional voter. So, we had one ballot not verified, shuffled somewhere in the mix and no way to figure out which vote doesn’t count.

So now what happens? The precinct I worked for was one lil’ vote off, and after our long day, we were pretty happy with being one vote from perfection. Now here’s my question - who’s vote shall we dismiss?

1. Do not talk on your cell phone while giving your name to the Roster Clerk. This actually happened to me today. I said, “I will help you when you are finished with your call. Next?” And the guy got pissed off, asking, “Tell me where there’s a law?”

2. Do not huff and puff and crowd old people in line. Come on. That’s just wrong. They are old. Someday you will be too. Oddly enough, the rudest people tend to be middle-aged, between 40-55. I did not have this problem from our Venice youth.

3. In fact, do not huff and puff at all.

4. Yes, there is only one Roster clerk. Do not pester the other Clerks in an attempt to jump ahead in the line. You must wait your turn in line. Everyone is busy. Relax. Having one Roster Clerk (person who checks you in) is one of the measures that helps to keep the vote correct and fair. Don’t be impatient.

5. Do be nice, it makes our day when people smile. The pollworkers have a long day, from 6AM til 9:30PM. They might be living on shitty coffee and doughnuts and potato chips and no bathroom breaks in a cold auditorium. The job gives a small stipend, like $60 for the day or something. We’re not there for the dough, folks . . . We’re there so you can exercise your right to vote. Or rock your vote, if you must.

6. Don’t hang out for an uncomfortably long time. One of the many things I love about working the polls is meeting my neighbors, truly! But please - know when to go home. Don’t try to chat up the pollworkers. There was a creepy lady today who would not leave. I wouldn’t look her in the eye and so thankfully she didn’t engage me. Finally she waddled her orange pant-suited self right outta the gymnasium.

7. Do bring cute five-year-olds. I said, “Hello! How are you, lil’ man?” to the cutest little kid. And I swear he full-on winked a perfect wink at me, with absolutely no hesitation. Made my night!

8. If you have to vote provisionally because you don’t have it together and you are only vaguely sure of where you might maybe could be listed as having a last address and you aren’t on my roster, then don’t make a scene. Vote provisionally. Every vote counts.

9. Know that there is little training for pollworkers. Understand they are doing the best they can, especially early in the morning. Don’t be argumentative about the process. We’ve got booklets. And a cell phone . . . and a . . . hey, just don’t get in our faces, K?

10. If you must drone on and on regarding some issue over which I have no control, like parking or crowd management, please do it with the inspector in the middle of the auditorium, and not in my roster line. This is for the benefit of your neighbors who are all around you, voting, so they can see how much of an ass you are.

Why am I up before the sunrise when I am gloriously unemployed for the next two weeks? Well, it’s Super Tuesday . . . am I am working the polls today in Venice.

So come on down . . . VOTE! People will roll in via wheelchair, blades and skateboards. I worked the polls about a year and a half ago when the democrats took the house back over. I figured that because it’s California and everybody knows how the California vote will turn out that numbers showing at the polls would be low. But, we were busy all day long.

The other pollworkers had been working that precinct for years and said that turnout was unusually high. This was encouraging for me, someone who never used to care about our political system. And that day, I did become someone who cares about our political system. For a variety of reasons, but mostly, to be informed and to be part of the process. Small change leads to big change. Not only in the political system, but in one’s self.

And the people . . . I met people who live in my town. I even ran into one guy who I used to vaguely know from Nashville. We had no idea we lived in the same town again. I met voters who had just turned 18 and I was the one handing them their ballots for the first time. The precinct manager pulled me aside and spoke to me for a very long time, telling me that I should apply for a Fulbright Scholarship and giving me advice about it. Later, he introduced me to a community leader of a non-profit that deals with something I’m passionate about.

So, I’m excited I’m working the polls again. Maybe I’ll get to be the one who gives out the little “I Voted” stickers today . . . .

For one of the first blog posts on gear, I figure we begin with the basics . . . and a good solid back-pack is an absolute necessity. These days there are lots of choices on backpacks and lots of places to purchase one as well as lots of hype and technological advice on why one expensive model is better than another. Let me first say that I’ve never done anything the traditional way, and so of course, why should the acquisition of a backpack be any different?

(Here’s me and my pack on my friend Kate’s kitchen floor last month in Nashville during the Heartland Roadtrip.)

I think I must have priced packs out many years ago at all the typical places . . . REI, A16 and department stores. It’s my belief that things are not manufactured as well as a few decades ago, so I headed down to my local army surplus store when it was time to get a good pack. They had an entire room full of army issue packs with dozens of colors and styles. Some were old and bulky; heavy and clumsy. I kept looking and eventually found exactly what I needed.

There are lots of things to think about when purchasing a backpack for being on the road. Ask yourself some of the following questions: Where am I going? What types of environments? How often will I use this piece of equipment? How much do I want to pay? Is it comfortable? Safe? How well is it made? A lesser question to ask is: Will it fit all my stuff? As a part-time vagabond, this is a lesser question in my opinion because your answer as a part-time vagabond should always be that you want to travel light. Besides, if the pack is made the right way and you’re traveling light enough, this will never be a relevant question.

I actually have two different retro army-issue packs, which I use for different kinds of trips. Today’s topic is the Italian Army backpack. This gem is the lighter and smaller of the two. I use it mostly on shorter trips where I don’t expect buckets of rain. It cost $25.00 when I picked it up five years ago. I’ve used it extensively since in a variety of environments from snow to desert to forest settings and the thing does not show any signs of wear and tear! It was made to last forever and since it’s vintage, it is not made of synthetic materials. As I’ve said before, I’ve never purchased a fancy bag from a sporting goods store, but compared to mine, which is woven and thick - yet still light - the ones at the outdoor stores are cheap and flimsy.

My comfort and safety ratings could not be higher, either. First, it’s ergonomic, fitting solidly against one’s back, as though a part of your back; it doesn’t jostle around. It has adjustable straps and all metal hardware. Metal hardware will always be more durable than consumer-grade plastic and if you are going anywhere fun or doing anything amazing, you will hopefully push the limits of your pack - and the weakest points are the plastic. Once a clip or loop is broken or missing, travel can become annoying, slow and literally open the floodgate for lost items. Or you might have to carry things in your hands. This is bad. You should always be hands-free while on the road.

The pack is constructed of a thick weave, which is helpful for safety. It is not uncommon in a third world country for someone to try to slit your pack with a knife, while you are unaware. Thin synthetic fibers, while advertised as strong, are an easy target for sharp knives and razor blades. I actually once witnessed a backpacker with chicken wire wrapped around her high-tech pack. How uncomfortable/annoying would that be?

And it’s color is helpful, too. Being army green, I mix in with a crowd more. If it were pink, it might be cute and all, but it would tend to make me more of a target. Somehow the army green generally sends out a don’t-fuck-with-me AnnaTude to those I don’t want in my sphere. One more note, however, on color - research where you are going. If you are heading to a place experiencing war, you may not want to take an army-issue pack, unless you’ve gone to measures to make it look civilian-owned.

Other features I like about my Italian Army backpack are the expandable sides - you can cram an amazing amount of stuff in there. The ties are helpful, too. The inside bottom is lined with thick clear plastic to keep the contents dry. The pack has several attachment points, one on the top and two on the bottom. It’s generally not a good idea to have drink cups and things like that dangling off your pack as these items tend to get snagged outdoors on tree limbs and on little old ladies’ head’s in airplanes. Attachment points are good, however, for a raincoat to cover your pack in the rain (top attachment point) or to lash a sleeping bag to (bottom attachment points).

Will it fit all my stuff? There’s the question . . . . I will be blogging about this more in the future. For now, all I’ll say is, I’ll bet you need alot less to get you where you are going than you might think. And you’ll have a better time with less. Some people on the road will try to have contests with one another like how many fingers does it take to hold your pack? Those who can hold their packs with their pinky win it all!!

I’m setting off for ABQ in fourteen days.

Today I realize that this is not a very long time. By now, I’ve uprooted and headed out and been on the road so much and so many times, that fourteen days seems like an eternity. And still, the next fourteen days will fly by . . . it’s times like this when it seems I’m sliding down a giant rope, feeling every moment whizz by fully. And having an awareness that the end of the rope is coming - and quickly, yet focusing on and enjoying fully the wind in my hair and the rush of velocity.

Which means - I’m not slowing down while I’m still here . . . I’ll fit in as much skating, hiking, time with friends and leisurely naptime as I possibly can right down to the last morning. And then - poof! The rope ends and the free fall begins. Once you get over the fact that your arms aren’t wrapped around the rope anymore, the free fall is no longer scary . . . it’s the next adventure!

A couple of years ago, I burned some of my art for the first time. Before that moment, I’d held onto the flurry of those wrinkled drawings from art school for years. Hording them - allowing one pile to rot under my bed and another to bleed and fester in the damp dark mildew behind the couch. And then, suddenly . . . it was just time.

I stood in front of the burn barrel, leafing through my disheveled drawings meticulously, purposefully, carefully peeling the papers apart, separating the ones that are folded into one another. I select the first few and begin to put them to flame, finally ready to see them consumed in a bright flicker-flash of warmth and light. Orange reflects off the faces huddled near. A girl I don’t know says, “Aren’t you going to pass those around first?”

There were all kinds of different people at the little Long Beach gathering we had in our friend’s back yard that night. Everyone was doing their own thing. Someone strummed a guitar, a quiet girl in the corner rolled joint after expert joint. I had to ask her if she was Canadian. Her answer is ‘no.’ One group of friends play bongos. Others pop the tops off another round of cold beer. And me . . . I’m burning my art.

Why burning my art? Because it was time. Because the last name signed to the stuff was different in 1999; not my own. Because I don’t have to give a reason, that’s why I burn my art. Mostly I burn it so that the flow can move through me again.

I explain to everyone that this stuff doesn’t have to burn, it just needs a different home. One girl takes my self-portrait line drawing. Someone else takes the chalk still life of the sphere and the green cup.

When I try to chuck the 2-D design project of the flapping birds into the cylinder, the flames flare as if to collect the paper, now backlit in orange. But then at the last second, a tiny gust of air pushed in and the paper wrenched free on its own, a narrow escape. And the pencil drawing of the birds fluttered unscathed to the ground. I held it for awhile, deciding to toss it in last. After everything is passed around again, the birds are once again held to the flames. Then, suddenly, our host decides he wants to keep that one.

The old must be destroyed so that the new energy can come to be.
As I burn my art, I take time to notice the painstaking time detail and effort on the part of the artist. And I tell myself, “Remember this. Get inspired. Rebuild from the ashes.” And so the beat goes on.