Greta's Great Grains of Guidance

Greetings and salutations, readers! I'm about ready to jump for some joy up in here! I can't believe that someone actually has given me a forum to discuss my vast knowledge of all things life-related. I was actually surprised it didn't happen sooner, but I guess that's what happens when every newspaper on earth hires dirty whores for columnists (take that, Dear Margo, whoever the fuck you are!) So, thank you Jesse and Laurie for allowing me to share! Here we go! Don't forget that if you want me to answer your problems write me here: http://www.lunarium.com/advice/contact_greta.html

Dear Greta,

Apparently, several years ago I impregnated a woman. I thought I killed her in a rage, but it turns out that she gave birth to not one child but two. Twins! My boss says I have to turn them to the dark side, but I'd rather cut them both in half with my laser sword. In today's economy, how much is job security worth? My boss made me what I am but his wrinkly ass is getting on my nerves and I'd like to make a change.


Want To Cleave Kids And Go But Worried By Wall Street

Dear WTCKAGBWBWS,

Holy Balls! Looks like you won the Fuck Up of the Year contest! First of all, I know how you feel; Wall Street is just a big, fat, puss-oozing third nipple on the map of America! I mean, don’t ya know, I was at the grocer’s the other day and I just had to use a coupon for my name brand Brillo Pads (they just work so much better than that generic shit!) and that bitch, Jennifer, behind the counter just looked at me like I was dirtier than Lindsey Lohan’s firecrotch! And then she said to me, to Greta VanWinklestein, “Um, this is expired, m’am,” Can you believe that shit? So you know what I said to her? I said, “Little Miss Hot Shit, I know your momma and if you heard the filth comin’ right out of that pretty little pucker of yours, she’d slap you all the way to China!” And you know what? I never got to use that damned coupon!

So, my advice to you, mister, is to march straight up to your wrinkly boss and tell him what’s what. If you want to cleave your children with your fancy laser sword then go ahead and do it! Shit can rain on your boss, for all I care; and if he gives you trouble, use that fancy laser sword on him!

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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Dear Greta,


I sure hope you can help me because I don’t think my friends would understand! If a man farts on your entrée, does that mean you shouldn’t go down on him on the first date? I’m so confused!

Does Entrée Farting Mean Love?

Dear DEFML,

Oh honey, honey, honey. I’m so glad someone finally grew some nards and came out and asked me this. Now, you won’t find this in Miss Manners-Emily Post’s diary, I can guaran-fucking-tee that! Now see back in 1973, one Mr. Richard Dreyfuss pulled a similar stint with me. We were out on a lovely date when he slipped me some good old fashioned angel dust and don’t ya know, I was trippin’ balls all evening! And I did what every good Christian girl is not supposed to do; I went down. I went downtown. Get it? I went down to his Chinatown. And what do ya know? It was amazing. I mean, we had all types of orgasms.

So, here’s my advice to you, sweetiekins. Just do it. If you like him, then why not? I mean unless it’ just a really rank fart—you know, the kind that resonates in the back of your throat causing you to dry heave for thirty minutes. Also, you need to be thinking, How would I feel about a Dutch Oven? Because you know that if you get near a man that farts on your entrée, he’s going to pin you under his comforter and let a real big one rip and let you stew in it.

Truthfully yours,

Greta

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OMG Greta! I’m so glad I’ve found you! When you said you would give me truth or I can shove it in my pooper I KNEW you were the advice writer for me! Greta let me tell you that I am obsessed with BON JOVI. I just discovered his new music video “Living Like a Prayer” and I simply must must MUST smell him. I am obsessed with this man and his smell! How do you think I can recreate it? I want to make teddles, my teddy bear, smell like BON JOVI so I can sleep in his scent all night long and dream about him. Can you help me?


MUST SMELL MUSK

Dear MSM,

OMG? What is this shit? I’m not a nurse, I don’t know your cutesy little shorthand. Now, I must admit, I didn’t know who Mr. Jovi was at first, then I realized, he’s that cute man from that show Ally McBeal! Whatever happened to that show, by the way? My neighbor Saundra and I would watch it with a big bowl of Newman’s Popcorn. That man knows his corn! *Editor’s Note: Ms. Derwinklestein sends her condolences to the Newmans.*

Well, with the help of my nephew KYLE, I searched through the Internets and found that Mr. Jovi is from New Jersey and Italy! Tres exotic! So let’s brainstorm here: Italians, pizza, mozzarella cheese, tomato sauce, boots, Lamborginis, lasagna, meatball subs. Okay, so for the Italian part of him, you’ll need to find some tomato sauce and leather. Let us move on to New Jersey: trash, wet dog, hypodermic needles, broken condoms, funnel cakes. So for the New Jersey side you should find some old, sweaty socks and latex and maybe a dash of cinnamon. Ok, mix that up with some water and pour that into your finest glass jar and let it sit under a heat lamp for a month. After that month, you can douse your precious Teddles in Eau de Jovi!
Or, you could go to Kenneth Cole’s website, because apparently, Mr. Jovi has already created his own fragrance R.S.V.P. (Per Entertainment Tonight http://www.etonline.com/fashion/news/2007/01/38577/ )

Truthfully yours,


Greta
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Greta,

I hope it feels good to be out there, telling everyone what's best (just like you always do.) But we who know you know what you're really about. We know how you take and take and take and never give in return. It's just not RIGHT, Greta. The world can be your oyster and you can still SHARE it with somebody. I want my charlie cactus and I would really like my Byrds LPs. Maybe we could meet somewhere to talk it over, perhaps over breakfast at the usual place? I miss you.

- Daryl

Daryl,

Jesus cheeses! Readers, let me explain, I HAVE to put this letter here because Daryl will not let me ignore him! Once, he sent me a UPS package and inside was a dead bird and a note attached that said, “Wanna trade?” Are you shitting me, Daryl? A dead bird, really? I don’t even wanna know what he would trade for his Charlie Cactus. So here is the long and dry of it, Daryl, I will meet you at the usual place and I will bring your Byrds LP but I will be bringing some protection, you hear?

Your big sister,

Greta

P.S. Charlie Cactus is dead.

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Greeting Greta,


I rahul "paul" delnabi from reublic quatar. I find you on internets. Send me the sexy pictures plz. With the peanut butters, hello?

I don’t really know where to start with this one. I’m not really very fluent in foreigner. But I did make out peanut butter, which reminds me of a picture my niece sent me of her baby! So adorable, this kid. And he’s smarter than a whip. Or so I think he will be. Enjoy!

Down Homey Advice from Gary Greebles

Hello Putnam City!

How exciting! My assistant Susan informed me today that we are now being syndicated on the World Wide Web! I've always been excited about the web, ever since I read Charlotte's Web when I was in middle school. I only hope that I can be the wise, motherly spider to the people of the World that Charlotte was to that little girl in that darling, darling book! I love Charlotte's Web! Gary Recommends!

Things have been downright exciting here at the Pugilist. Susan brought in a cactus! It's so prickley! She tells me not to touch it but it's just so different - I've never felt such a spiney plant! I am running out of band-aids, but the novelty is impossible to resist. Ouch! I did it again. Ouch! Susan calls it our "love" cactus. I don't know about that, Susan (we are professional associates!), but it sure is adorable! And prickley, like I said! Gary Recommends!

Now, I had an exciting batch of letters this week. Some of them arrived by Electronic Mail! Can you guess which ones? Here's a hint - the ones with the little snaily looking guy (@) in them are from the Web! Why a snail? Don't ask Gary. My business is down homey business. I don't know what these city-folk do! Welp, on to the letters! Let me put on my advising hat! [And tie! - Susan]





Gary,

I have terrible body odor. My mother tells me it's because I eat too much cheese. Is that true?

- BO B NO?

Dear BO,

Unfortunately, dairy can cause your pores to secrete an odor-causing substance known as Pwep. Now, I don't want to gross you out, BO, but Pwep also comes out of your hiney when you toot! (When you "break wind" as the Red-Man says.) Pwep is known to build up on the walls and surfaces of our homes and vehicles. The only way to take care of it is with a good old fashioned feather duster! (They don't call them feather Pwepsters to avoid offending the gentler sex!) But make sure your duster has got real feathers on it - preferably from a large-beaked bird like an Ostrich! Whatever you do - don't settle for cheap plastic feathers made by the China-Man - they don't have the natural Pwep-removing power of an Ostrich, whatever the China-Men say!

So get that duster, BO, then rub it all over your body and soon that cow-like odor will be gone! You can eat all the cheese you like and ice cream too - just dust yourself after each and every meal for that fresh, Pwep-free feeling. And don't forget to dust where the sun don't shine!


From: Frankthetank@hotmail.com via Electronic Mail to Gary Greebles

Dear Gary,
Last night I got in a fight with my houseplant Saundra and kicked her. Now I feel terrible. How can I make it up to her?

Signed,
Franklin the furious fir abuser

Franky,

Thank you for having the courage to step forward to talk about this DANGEROUS problem. Anger is a drug, Franky - just like "uppers" and "downwards" and "the roofer" - and you can get hooked on it! We all have to do our best not to kick plants, and Saundra is a plant, Franky! A living, breathing, seeing, feeling plant that loves you and will sit patiently in a pot by your side and send you good planty vibes until your DYING DAY, Franky,or until it dies, whichever comes first. (I'm an advice-writer, not a sooth-seer! [Thank goodness! Get thee behind me, Satan! - Susan])

The best advice I can give you, Frank, is that when you feel that urge to kick, go outside and kick something with a more stalwart sense of self than a plant. Like a curb! Or little Johnny Owens, my paper boy! That pimply little pipsqueak could use a good kick in the seat-of-the-pants!



From: cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com via Electronic Mail to Gary Greebles

Gary,
I have a big problem! This weekend, I cat-sat for my big sister, I'll call her "Susie." Well, "Susie's" cat "Fuzzhead" doesn't get along with my cat "Snookles". I thought if I locked up "Fuzzhead" and "Snookles" in a closet together, they would get along. BIG mistake! My precious "Snookles" massacred "Fuzzhead" beyond belief! AND, my party dress for my sister "Susie's" son's Bar Mitzvah is covered in cat blood and urine! What do I do?!


Oh my goodness cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com - if that IS your real name *WINK* *LOL* *ROFL* 8-) >-p :) :q @ @ @ !! - you sent me my very first piece of Electronic Mail! I am so overwhelmed, but I will try to focus on your problem. Hmmm. This one's a toughy! Before I answer your question, though, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, I have to respond with a query of my own: what in a hoedown hootenanny is a Bar Mitzvah? Is it some sort of machine? I see the z in there, which makes me think perhaps it is an apparatus assembled in Europe [probably Belgium - Susan].

My advice, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, is to stop messing around with strange machines you don't understand! Who knows, maybe it was this so-called "Bar Mitzvah" (are you spelling that right?) that made the cats get so ornery with each-other in the first place! It sounds like this machine makes people (or at least kitty-cats) ANGRY, cowtownpartygirl@gmail.com, and there's plenty of anger in the world already! Just see my response to Frank, above, to get a sense of what I mean! That pinko kicked a plant when he could have kicked a teen!




Dear whatever your name is,

I've recently moved to your fine town because of my new job. I love it so much! The people are friendly and the rent is cheap. But I have one problem. I don't know what the hell anybody is saying. How can I learn to understand you? It's really starting to piss me off!

- What the F***?

Dear ****,

Whoa nelly! It looks like somebody has a problem with potty talk! Let's keep that language in the boys' locker room, where it belongs with all of the other Pwep!

Now, asides from your potty-talkin', which could be causing you all kinds of problems in the friendly communication department of the grocery store of interpersonal relations, I will say that the Oklahoma twang can take quite a bit of getting used to! Whereinparts did you move here from, anywhoozle, leetle mizzy? (Ha!) Here at the Pugilist, we try to avoid writing with "local color" (especially with the advent of Electronic communications like Electronic Mail, which offer up our humble, down-homey typings to people in homes and trailers all over the free world!! [Praise Jesus! - Susan])

All I can suggest is that you tough it out. Go hang out at the Lonestar Steak House on Northeast Expressway for a couple days. Aw shuckazucks, maybe you should do a line dance or two as well! A few twirls and maybe a roll in the hayloft with a local boy if you're a girl, or with a girl if you're a boy (I didn't catch your gender, but we're not very flexible in these parts about the pecker and the bearded clam!) and you'll be mouthing off like a pugileesta in no time!





Dear Gary,

Once when I was just a little girl, i asked my mother "what will i be?" Will I be pretty, will i be rich? She never answered me. Can you help me out with this very important dilemma?

Why Does Mommy Hate Me?

Your momma doesn't hate you, Why Does Mommy Hate Me. She's just trying to avoid hurting your feelings! Chances are, your breasts just aren't big enough. There's nothing like a good old set of implants to spruce up an otherwise barren wasteland of a chest! [There ain't nothing sweeter than a good pair of peaches! - Susan]

Here in Oklahoma, we like our land flat, but not our women! So run, honey, don't walk, to the nearest plastic surgery depot and get yourself measured up! If you make 'em big enough, you'll catch you an oil tycoon in your cleavage in no time, just like a honey fly to a pile o' honey. And you'll not only be rich, Why Does Momma Hate Me?, but you'll have a bust that'll bust the dang eyes off all the boys at the Outback! Gary Recommends!


Welp my Pugilats, that's all I've got time for this month. Susan wants to give me a back rub. Maybe y'all can help Gary out with the protocol on this one! In today's modern workplace, is a back rub out of line? I am trying to keep up with the Electronic Age, but everything's so blinkey and shiney and it makes my eyes tired!

As the China-Man would say, Sigh-on-arra!

Gary Greebles

Welcome Gary & Greta

Great news!

We have added two new writers to the 435 Loop! Gary Greebles and Greta DerWinklestein!

Both run exceptional advice columns out of their regional papers. Gary specializes in down-homey wisdom, and if you need help in the love department (or are a celebrity) Greta is your gal!

Now, typically, we don't allow non-KC writers to participate in the loop, but when we read what Greta and Gary have to offer, we just couldn't resist! So from time to time, they'll be publishing the letters they receive, and their responses, here on the loop.

Both Gary and Greta are here to help. If you have an issue, don't be shy!

The Kind of Crap Wiretappers Have to Listen to

      "Hey, girl, I just got your message! How was the big date?” Jennifer excitedly asked her friend Julie.
      “It was great. It was good. Tim’s a great guy!” Julie started to gush.
      “Oh that’s great! So, what is this whole terrorist thing then? By the sounds of your voicemail, I thought you were in bin Ladin’s cave!” Jennifer said.
      “I didn’t mean a real terrorist, just a kind of, like, a food terrorist.”
“Okay, you’re going to have to explain this. I’m not following!” Jennifer paused. “Wait a minute; does this mean you won’t want to double date?” She asked.
      “Well—“ Julie hesitated.
      “No! No, no, no, no! You do this every time!” Jennifer sounded upset and frustrated.
      “See—“ Julie started.
      “No. I won’t hear it. Food terrorist or not, you’re going on this double date! I’m tired of you always finding the little things and bitching about them.”
      “But—“
      “No buts! The last guy smelled strangely of baby powder. Before that you had the guy with the pink lunchbox and before that a serial rapist. You need to suck it up! Not every man is perfect.”
      “Well, the serial rapist was kinda sorta a bad thing.” Julie said.
      “Yeah, I can see your point there, but still, he had a great job and loved kids! You don’t find that everywhere!” Jennifer tried to convince her.
      “Will you at least hear me out on this one?” Julie sounded sad, like she didn’t call her best friend to get yelled at.
      “Fine, but I can already tell you what I’m going to say! A food terrorist doesn’t sound so bad, honestly!” Jennifer advised.
      “It’s okay, I just need to talk this out,” Julie said. “See, he picked me up in his fabulous car and then we went to this cute little Italian restaurant. And—“
      “What, did he fart on your entrée?” Jennifer interrupted.
      “Not quite,” Julie said. “Well, I ordered the chicken parmesan—“
      “Like usual!” the two girls said together.
      “And he ordered the chicken marsala,” Julie started back into her story only to be interrupted again.
      “Oh, God, he’s not a wino is he?” Jennifer said disgustingly.
      “I don’t really know,” She thought. “Why? Is that a bad thing?” Julie had never heard anything bad about wine lovers.
      “Oh, yeah! You know what they say about winos!”
      “No. Can I finish my story?” Julie was getting irritated.
      “Yeah, sure,” Jennifer felt bad. “Tiny penis,” she muttered.
      “Okay, so he got the chicken—wait, what about penises?”
      “Nothing, just wino’s have small wangs. Really, small wangs. The end.”
     “Really?”
      “Yeah, totally. Google that shit. Google don’t lie, baby!”
      “Oh, okay, I guess if Google says it,” Julie said, “Anyways, he ordered his dish and I ordered mine. And we were sharing a basket of bread. I ate that shit up.”
      “The bread is my favorite part of Italian restaurants,” Jennifer said.
      “Really? Mine are the Bellinis. They’re so good,”
      “Well, that’s because you’re a fucking lush,”
      “True,” Julie said. “So we’re sitting there under the beautiful candlelight and I’m wearing that gorgeous red dress—“
      “That you borrowed from me, by the way,”
      “Yes, I was wearing your gorgeous red dress, and he was telling me that I’m beautiful and blah, blah, blah. And I’m thinking that I’m totally going to go home with this guy when suddenly, out of nowhere—“
      “Oh, don’t say that, nothing is ever out of nowhere for you. You probably weren’t paying attention.”
      “No, I’m fairly certain that I was paying attention.” Julie sounded confident.
      “So, what happened?” Jennifer was curious.
      “Well, see the waitress brought over our food,” Julie started.
      “Did he hit on the waitress?” Jennifer interrupted again.
      “No, he—“
      “Did he talk with his mouth full?”
      “No, he did the strangest thing—“ Julie started to finish her sentence.
      “He farted on your entrée!” Jennifer exclaimed.
      “NO!” Julie shouted. “He did not fart on my entrée!” She said sternly.
      “Well, then I don’t know what you’re bitching about!” Jennifer sounded like she was going to give up.
      “If you would listen to me I’ll fucking tell you! Shit!” Most of Jennifer and Julie’s conversations ended up like this.
      “Jesus Christ, cuntmeister, just spit it out! Tell me what God-awful thing this poor boy did!”
      “He threw his food!” Julie said surprisingly.
      “Like, he threw his food at you?” Jennifer inquired.
      “No, like he was half way through his meal and he picked up his plate and threw it at the wall behind me!”
      “Just like that? Did he say anything?”
      “Yeah, he said, ‘I’m done.’ and threw his plate at the wall behind me! It was like a giant food bomb exploding in the interior of DeGiantes! It was awful! He is a terror, a holy food terror! I don’t know what happened! Suddenly there were mushrooms flying past my head! He’s, like, a food terrorist!”
      “Was he mad? Did you say something to anger him?” Jennifer sounded concerned.
      “No, I don’t think so. He was finished eating, I guess.” Julie sounded confused. “He just said it. He wasn’t mad sounding or happy sounding. He was just talking, like it’s normal to throw your food at a fucking wall.”
      After a brief moment of silence Jennifer said, “So, next week do you want to go on a double date?”
      “With Tim?!” Julie shrieked. “No way! I’m not getting kicked out of another restaurant.”
      “It’s not that bad. So he threw a little spaghetti. Big deal.”
      “They had to call security on us!” Julie was screaming.
      “I bet that’s never happened on a date before.” Jennifer snidely remarked.
      “He broke the owner’s favorite framed picture on the wall! She started to cry!”
      “So, you had a little adventure. It’ll be a story to tell your grandkids!”
      “Why me? Why do all the freaks like me?!” Julie started to cry.
      “No, it’s not you,” Jennifer sighed. “You have to kiss a lot of frogs to get to a prince.”
      “I know, I know,” Julie sniffled into the phone. “But why is everybody else finding princes? Where the fuck is mine?!”
      “How do you know Tim’s not a prince?”
      “He threw a fucking plate past my head! That’s how I know!” Julie started to shriek again.
      “That’s normal, everybody does it,” Jennifer lied.
      “No, they don’t!” Julie cried.
      “Yeah, sure, that’s why I can’t go back to Buca di Beppos.” Jennifer stated.
      “I thought it was because you fucked some waiter there,” Julie questioned.
      “Well, that and I threw a plate last time. And a glass. And my napkin.” Jennifer sounded convincing.
      “Oh, why didn’t you tell me?” Julie sounded sad.
      “Well, clearly, you would freak out!” Jennifer laughed.
      “So, really? You think Tim could be the one?” Julie started to cheer up again.
      “Yeah, definitely; he sounds smart, friendly, and certainly interesting.” Jennifer sounded like she was reading off of a script.
      “I guess it doesn’t hurt to give him another chance,” Julie forfeited.
      “Unless he hits you in the face with a plate of hot enchiladas,” Jennifer laughed.
      “Would he do that?” Julie panicked.
      “Nah,” Jennifer sounded annoyed and distracted.
      “I guess it’s not so strange. Lot’s of people throw things,” Julie told herself.
      “Yeah, sure. Look, don’t think about it anymore. Let’s set up a double date.” Jennifer said impatiently.
      “Okay, I guess that’ll be fine. It’s not too soon to double date is it?” Julie sounded concerned again.
      “NO!” Jennifer shouted. “Just call me when it’s set up,” Jennifer demanded.
      “Sure,” Julie said. “I’ll get started on it,”
      “Hey, someone’s on my other line,” Jennifer lied. “Can I call you back?”
      “Yeah, definitely,”
      “Okay, talk to you then,” Jennifer said.
      “Bye!”

Exquisite Corpse

I'm working on a larger piece at the moment, and it's not quite ready for the light of day. However, rules are rules, and I must publish something within a week of my precursor, the Chatty Bandit. So tonight, on my weekly date with my wife, we jointly wrote this poem in the exquisite corpse style over a cup of hot chocolate and a cup of tea, respectively. I'm not claiming it's good. However, it is, and so I publish it.

she stocked the closet
with piles of clothes
on shoulders and floors
and a boot
with a steel zipper
at least seven tattoos
that she found on TV
and reminded of moose in the road
a mother and her baby
both lumbering like giant wind-up toys
and elegant in the mist
the picture wondered
what would there be to see
next year, when the snows melt
we'll wander back
and pick the sugar-sweet onions
while a young girl from the country
asks if they have Arby's where you're from
of course. of course.
and my pretty pink tent
that colors everything inside pink
as if the film in your camera is too old
found four years later and
developed into something else
something you never expected
like a birthday present from your father
a necklace in an envelope
given through the mail
it arrived on the back of your
best man. He would play pool while
honky tonk favorites
rattled the banjos and pedal guitars
as if there were elephants in the room
ones you should introduce
your mom would like them
once she got to know their quirks
she found they were worth keeping in her closet.

[Bad] Poems For Your Week

Poetry. It's not hard, people. Put some intelligent words together, break the lines up--simple. When I mention this idea, "poets" scoff at me like I don't know what I'm talking about. I've read Emily Dickinson, I'm fairly sure I can do that shit. After repeated requests for me to "prove" myself (I still justify I don't need to prove any shit to your mom), I've decided to post a few of my more well known poems. Enjoy.

Poem 1

Red scissors,
Blue stamps,
The way you look at me gives me cramps,
Eye cramps,
Leg cramps,
Heart cramps.
Fuck you.

Poem 2

I shampoo my hair
With shamp-ooo
I wash my face
With face wa-ssh
I eat Pringles
With my left haaa-nd
I strangle hoes
With piano wi-reeeee
This is my story
Of my glory
The greatest woman
To eat Pringles
And strangle hoes
With clean hair
And fresh skin.

Poem 3

Barbeque hands.
They are sticky for my chicken.
One lick
Two licks
I’m still covered.
Red fingerprints
Plague my space
Three licks
Four licks
No visible sauce is left.
Why am I still sticky?
Barbeque hands
Barbeque hands
No one wants to come out and play

With my barbeque hands.
What about you,
Jam hands?
Everyone wants to play with your
Grapeness.
No one wants my tang.

Poem 4

I felt it last night
When you smiled at me.
I felt it after dinner
When you told me I look beautiful.
I felt it during the walk
When you grabbed my hand.
I felt it at the end of the night
When you kissed me goodbye.
Jesus Christ,
I have to poop.

Poem 5

Your chef hat is sexy.
Your hard hat is sexy.
Your bonnet is sexy.
I like hats
They make me sing
They make me wanna call out your name.
But I like vests more.
So deal with it.

SUCK IT, CRITICS.

Gallatin IV

The words sounded alien, like something out of Star Trek or a comic book. But Gallatin IV was the name of a voting district in North Kansas City only ten miles from where I lived. I stood in front of our next house. It was pale green and sat in the center of a cul-de-sac. All the houses around me were shades of olive or beige. The cloudy sky made the colors vivid. It looked like it should have rained hours ago. It was about three o'clock, and the neighborhood was almost deserted. There were no leaves on the young trees planted in the yards. I wore a black fall jacket. I was too cold without it, but too warm with it, and so I was sweating a little in the breeze.

It was election day, 2004. I had taken the day off to volunteer for an organization that targeted unreliable democratic voters and tried to get them to the polls. I had never volunteered before, but I couldn't stand the war. I felt that I already hadn't done enough, that I hadn't really protested, that I had been complicit in a horrible mistake. I didn't think I had any power, but the gesture needed to be made. I was like a kid throwing sand at the waves about to crush his sand castle.

Considering how little distance I'd traveled from home, I felt very out of place. I couldn't understand how anyone could live somewhere without trees or sidewalks. The subdivision must have been built in the 1980s. I'm from the northeast. I grew up in houses from the early part of the 20th century, in neighborhoods where no two houses were alike, where the streets all met at right angles with names that weren't variations on the same developer's theme. We had little town centers with shops that weren't in strip malls. I had sought out a neighborhood like that in Kansas City, too. I lived in Volker, a glorious mess of houses from the 10s adjacent to awful, horrid apartment buildings crammed in during the 1960s or 70s, when the zoning must have changed. The people who live where I live are as mottled as the streets.

The car idled behind me. A white civic. Bob and Elizabeth sat inside. Elizabeth, whose curly hair seemed to reflect the coiled drive within her, had instigated. She had polled our work group looking for volunteers. She sought out people she knew were like-minded. She knew all the right things to say. If you debated her, you didn't stand a chance. Bob was different. He could spot the downsides and upsides in anything. He believed in complexity and in the importance of not simplifying things. He sought well chosen words, and he encouraged debate. He wanted people to make their own, informed choices. When he spoke to the people of Gallatin IV, the people who for some reason weren't at work, maybe because it was too hard for them to face the world every day, or on this day, I felt like it was hard for him to connect. He was just too much for them. Elizabeth had no trouble making her pitch, though I think people agreed with her sometimes just to get her to go away. I was somewhere in the middle. I could see all of the complexity that Bob could, but I couldn't face it. I couldn't analyze it and come out with an answer I was comfortable with. And unlike Elizabeth, I couldn't really support Kerry. I couldn't see how he'd get us out of Iraq, and I didn't think it was right to withdraw before things stabilized. But Bush had started this mess, and I was frightened to see what he could do in four more years. So I came along, but I thanked my lucky stars when my houses said "Kerry," which they usually did, because I was off the hook.

I hopped up the flight of concrete steps to the front door of this olive house and rang the glowing doorbell. Nobody came. The place looked deserted. I waited a few minutes, then left a packet containing a map to the polling place and info on identity requirements, etc. I ran back down to the car, hopped in the back seat and shut the door, but I didn't bother putting on my seat belt. Bob already had the next place picked out. He held a map, a clipboard and a pen in his hands.

Even though we were going door-to-door, we had to drive. It seemed like we had about one target per five blocks. Did that mean that there weren't many democrats in this part of town, or were the rest of them just more reliable? Or was I just seeing the physical manifestation of the reality of American Elections, that only about a third of the people actually vote, with half of those going to either side? All I knew for sure was I was hungry and a little carsick. We left the subdivision and turned on to one of the main surface roads. After a few blocks, Elizabeth pulled up at our next stop.

This house was light blue. It had a white SUV in the drive, and a glass outer door covered with a grate. As I got out of the car, traffic continued to whiz behind me on the two lane road. I felt like a kid on Halloween approaching a house with an ambiguous number of lights on. Did that one porch bulb mean I was welcome, or was I about to get shouted at? I grabbed my pile of papers from the back seat, shut the car door, and started towards the steps. The glass door was closed, but the wooden door behind it was open: odd on a such a dreary day, especially since no breeze was getting through that glass.

I rang the bell. I could see a TV inside, but it was off. A woman came to the door, and I could immediately tell that she had been crying. Her cheeks were puffy, and her eyes were red. "I'm sorry," I said, as she opened the door. "Yes?" she said, wiping her eyes. "I was just here to see if you'd had the chance to vote," I replied, already backing away towards the stairs. "No, I don't think I'm going to do that," she said, her voice breaking, "it's been a bad day." "It's OK," I said, "just take care of yourself." She closed the door, and I went back to the waiting car.

We worked for a few more hours. It was strangely exhausting. I had spent the whole day in the car, climbing stairs here and there, mostly to arrive at empty homes. Finally, we went to a Panera to get some food. I sat down and ate two bagels: an everything with cream cheese, and a cinnamon raisin with nothing on it. I didn't have the stomach for anything more complicated. Elizabeth typed feverishly on her laptop, and Bob sat reading the paper, occasionally commenting on something that caught his eye. Apparently Bush had been leading in Missouri for some time. The Kerry campaign had abandoned the state two weeks earlier. I laid my head on the table and looked at the space under my arms. By my count, I had probably gotten three voters to the polls. I didn't understand how this was supposed to work.

That night, I sat in the Uptown Theater with the rest of the volunteers as we watched the election results come in. It didn't look good. Larry King was saying CNN would have called the election already if it hadn't been for the fiasco in 2000, when Gore won the popular vote but lost the Electoral College.

The Uptown was dark and cavernous. The only real light came from the TV projection. People's voices echoed upwards and bounced back down from the ceiling and alcoves. But as the night wore on, we stopped talking to one-another. We began to dissolve. Suddenly there were fewer people around me, then fewer still. Soon I was one of maybe twenty people in a theater built to seat 2,300. I decided to go home.

I drove down 39th street towards my house, stopping at the stark intersection at Southwest Trafficway to wait for a red light. I didn't have the radio on. I prayed, though I'm not religious.

The next day, at work, nothing was said. Bob was on a conference call. Elizabeth wasn't around. Maybe she called in sick. The sky was still gray, and it still hadn't rained. I sat in the break room by the windows and looked out at the tops of the trees. I sipped a cup of tea. The room was quiet and the air was still. People came and went to get coffee, to wash their hands. I heard the refrigerator kick on. Out the window, the green of the trees was vivid and bold, but I was still on the streets of Gallatin IV, wondering where I was.