Last year I worked on a film shoot where we had a mock-up liquor store scene. So, the show purchased several thousands of dollars’ worth of two buck chuck and King Cobra Malt Liquor in addition to having multiple liquor distributors pitch in truckloads of freebies for product placement.

After the show ended and the liquor store set was struck, all the good liquor went home with various crew members. No one ever called accounting . . . no, I’m not holding a grudge about that . . .  However, later I found that no one wanted the cases of King Cobra (or the chuck). Ain’t these people never hear’d o’ malt licka? Anyway, the set decorator was just going to throw the stuff away . . . and that’s when I had an idea!

I took all the chuck and any cases of old, hot beer that I could find and gave it away to my friends. I also took all the King Cobra home. And I saved it til the night of the next full moon. Then I put it all in the freezer for about 45 minutes, til it was nice and frosty. Then I went outside to take a peek onto the night time streets of my lovely Venice ghetto ‘hood, where, sure enough, there were crack dealers and prositutes galore. During the summer, there is alot going on out there and for some reason, the street activity picques even more during times of the full moon. So I thought I’d help out.

I brought the King Cobra outside, lined the street corner with it’s frostiness and left it sitting there for all to enjoy. I checked an hour later. No malt liquor on the sidewalk. Music pumped up a notch in the hood. Hookers dancin’ in the streets. This is how we roll in Venice.

Jetting into LA last Friday, hours after quitting my job in Albuquerque, I needed a weekend ‘home’ in LA and didn’t even know it. Every moment was GOLDEN. Here are but a few highlights:

1. Running up Washington Blvd, the heaviness of the salty ocean air hits me like an old friend.

2. The door man at Hinano didn’t need my ID; he said, “Girl, where you been? I know them blue eyes. Get yo’ ass in there!”

3. Group hug after group hug from my Venice peeps while I caught a 3BB (three beer buzz).

4. 15-mile solo oceanside mid-afternoon bike ride on my yellow Schwinn, which I miss very much.

5. Riding my bike on Speedway in Venice just after sunset and running into at least 7 close friends within 5 minutes. That’s more than 1 friend per minute!

6. Being fed tri-tip and Austrailian wine at Theory with yet another group of awesome friends.

7. Dog-piling the couch to watch Lawrence of Arabia.

8. Being woken up at 4AM by a herd of drunks who landed near my couch.

9. The shenanigan at Barnes & Noble.

10. Taking a nap at my Mar Vista art studio.

Last night, my friend Stu and I were having a bit of late, post-dinner conversation for my last evening in Venice.

“I’m gonna have to look up your blog. Read the stories. Because I know I’m in some of them!” he said with a big grin.

“But, not necessarily,” I told him. “the ‘really good stuff’ doesn’t make the blog. That’s the material for my books!”

So just imagine what’s NOT making it up here. Ah, ya’ll will know soon enough. I’m sequestering myself inside a kiva in Albuquerque in the coming months, all with the intention of doing some serious writing. Don’t worry - I’ll change the names/identifying characteristics of all guilty parties.

OK, but since I’ve told you about Stu, here’s a picture of us causing trouble several years ago, one night during an episode of the Santa Ana winds. That’s one of the stories too good to make the blog. Coming soon to you in another format.

I’ve been getting up early every morning with sunrise. A new Anna. But yesterday morning, I kept waaay hunkered down beneath the covers, even though my plan was to get up early and do laundry. I’m forever looking for an excuse to not do my chores, but this was not a reason for sleeping in that I welcomed.

I was awakened this morning at 5 AM by the sound of a good ole-fashioned gunfight in my charming Venice alley. The alley, let’s face it, is only a late-night haven for hookers and crack-smokin’. I don’t mind that my neighborhood is a little rough; it has helped to slow down the gentrification process, but I will admit that I don’t think the idea of bullets flying down my streets is fun, romantic or good in any way.

I always say with pride that I’d rather have the crack-heads walking around my corner than the little yuppie lady with the yappy dog. It’s all fun and good to say that until something sobering like this happens. I’ve seen bodies in the street here, a few years ago. It’s not pretty. I don’t feel personally at risk, per se, but it’s sad to get in your car at daybreak and see a dead guy in the next intersection reflecting back at you from the rear view mirror.

I covered my head with pillows after hearing one shot whiz past my house. Then the sound of a close-by gun retaliating from another direction causes me alarm . . . it’s close enough that I can tell one shooter is facing east and the other west. In fact, my bedroom sounds like it’s right in the middle of the whole mess. Then dead quiet. Then I hear the sirens. Mind you, it’s 5 AM - (historically right around the time when Venice gunfights usually break out)!! And just when I thought I should be hearing helicopters, sure enough, I hear a low . . . whop, whop, whop . . . right on cue. I bury my head further. That chopper is gonna be circling my house, I just know it.

And then I hear something I have never heard before . . . voices. Close voices of people moving around outside, on the other side of a simple cinder block and lattice wall that separates my little piece of Venice heaven from the ‘hood. The next apartment over butts right up against the back of my place, with just a narrow, two feet at the most, space between. It’s gated and never used. But I heard whispers, cracking metal and voices moving behind my house. The voices keep moving past as the helicopter noise gets closer.

I go back to sleep. There were media trucks and cops and lots and lots of my African American neighbors at the community center today. One of the last flop-houses, the one directly across from the community center, was torn down last week. Like the end of an era. I’m just wondering - where do all the poor people go at the end of this land grab? No easy solutions. And the gunfire really disrupts the inherent symbiosis of an artsy-rough-cool neighborhood like mine, making all sides empassioned and uneasy.

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 . . . .

In an earlier post today, I made reference to a saxophone. That’s because I was thinking about this saxophone player I know from around the Venice ‘hood who always rides his skateboard barefoot while playing his sax. He cruises through town bringing a sense of peace with him. And sometimes you can be out near the beach in the twilight when the cold and the fog and the wind kicks up enough to send you home . . . and then from the mist, you hear the peal of a saxophone moving through the boardwalk. I hadn’t seen him in probably a year or more.

Today is sunshiney and windy. I just got back from a quick skate and I’m rolling down the boardwalk, the wind pushing me fast. I look up into the people ahead and my eyes rest on a glint of sun coming off of a stationary . . . saxophone! No way . . . I’m thinking, and grind my stopper into the cement to slow down and sure enough, it’s my old friend the barefoot skateboarding saxophone player who I’d just been thinking of today!

Venice has wide storm drains on every corner. It’s quite easy to accidentally drop things into their depths. Fortunately, if you drop something in the Venice storm drain, whether it’s skateboard or cell phone, bong or crack pipe, surfboard or dog . . . there is help out there.

A few months ago, my friend Frenchie came over. I pull up around dusk via Schwinn bicycle to witness the typical sort of arrival that my best friend is known for. Her car is parked slightly askew on the street. Doors open. Hazard lights flashing. She’s standing on the sidewalk in high-heeled boots, cell phone in hand, two LAPD officers blocking the intersection and “non-chalantly” – ahem! – salivating near her as though she is a Bavarian cream filled éclair that’s been dunked once in coffee.

I really thought something was wrong at first . . .

The big emergency? Her cell phone fell into the storm drain. She had flagged down an LAPD squad car and taken command of an officer’s cell phone. Give Archimedes a lever and a good vantage point and the Greek mathematician claimed he could move the globe. Give my friend Frenchie a cell phone and good reception and in her own way, she too can move the globe. I thought she’d never see her phone again. I was wrong.

After about twenty minutes, a huge truck about as long as the city block and reminiscent of a Star Wars Sandcrawler lumbers toward us. Two little guys in orange jumpsuits hop out. One of them pops the heavy manhole cover off with a little bitty tool that is not unlike a garden hoe. The other disappears into the storm drain and retrieves her phone. She takes it with a smile, notices the red message light blinking and says to the man with her syrupy Southern accent, “Thank you, sugar, for rescuing my messages!”

So, the next time your car stereo face plummets into the concrete depths or if some how your saxophone skids into the abyss of the street corners of Venice, don’t fret. Know that free help is available and dispatched quickly to the scene. There’s no need to panic or call your cell phone that’s sitting down there on the dark ledge, just out of arm’s reach. Call the men in the orange jumpsuits. They are professionals. They’ve got a giant truck. They know what to do.