Friday, February 29, 2008

Unfinished Story for Jeff

I am tired and stressed and have nothing left, so here is a prose poem I started writing for Jeff last year. It's a little personal -- be warned, relatives!

Ahem ...

Once upon a time I fell in love with you on a bridge. Or was it a dance floor, the smooth parquet humming above the generators of the store downstairs, and you sliding across it in your gold-toed socks? Was it when you twirled me on concrete against the backdrop of lower Manhattan and the insomniac lights of Wall Street? When does the story begin? We have had many beginnings, you and I, little paths we scuffed through the muck of that lust that first brought us together. Remember that first sleepless spring when we got stoned and made love and I sat up nights listening to the White Stripes and the Puerto Rican music drifting in from the street? I always say I’ve never seen you cry, but that day I left your apartment for good (we thought), I thought I saw tears threatening to rise, runoff from months of almost-happiness. Maybe those were mine.

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

Anatomy of a Wednesday: My Own Personal Dinner With Andre, but not dinner and not with anyone.

February 27 is, historically, an unlucky day for me. It started in 2002, when I was dumped by an old boyfriend, and was followed by a series of fights with Jeff, back in our tumultuous period. It took me most of the day to realize that today was my own personal Black Wednesday, but once I did, I decided to (un) scientifically document it.

8:00 am Alarm goes off; hit snooze.

8:10 am, 8:20 am Snooze goes off; hit snooze again.

8:30 am
Jeff beats me to the shower; I do half-assed crunches and push-ups on rug.

9:00 am Too late for shower; attempt to brush hair; end up looking like aboriginal French woman in Lost.

9:30 am
Man outside subway tells me B and Q trains aren’t running.

9:32 am He is lying. I just miss a Q train.

10:08 am
I pay for my coffee using quarters.

10:12 am Late for work! No one notices.

10:13 am Servers are down; cannot edit any of the pages for the current issue.

10:15 am
Also, all fonts have mysteriously gone missing from computer.

10:45 am Company-wide meeting. Forced to stand and smile for fifteen minutes.

11 am – 12:30 pm Various small, but disheartening, work encounters.

12:30 am
Trip to Whole Foods to get sushi and soup.

1:00 pm
Lunch disappointing – soup tastes funny. Browse gossip websites until eyes glaze over.

1:30 pm
Browse shoes online until screen glare begins to cause facial tic.

3:00 pm Still no server. Am given stack of expense reports – none of them filled out correctly – to enter into the budget.

3:05 pm While dating my signature, realize today is my unlucky day, which immediately casts a pall over the existing pall of the work day.

3:07 pm All of my coworkers are idiots who cannot add.

3:10 pm Consider probability of receiving Publishers Clearinghouse check; deep malaise sets in.

4:00 pm Consume 4 100-calorie packs of Oreo wafers in attempt to buoy mood.

4:10 pm Levels of seratonin not responsive to Oreo stimuli.

4:30 pm Sister calls me to see how “Doomsday” is going. I say fine, then decide to recap my day to check.

5:17 pm Finished list reveals Edward Hopper-esque day of vague unhappiness and boredom. Could be worse.

5:18 pm
Realize day is not over yet.

Decline of Civilization: Part One (for this blog; Part Infinity for the world)

I ... I don't ... I don't know what to say. Is USWeekly really the way to get the youth vote? A few weeks ago, Hillary lampooned herself in a sort of "Fashion Don'ts" photo essay:

I mean ... okay? I read USWeekly sometimes, but I also check and the New York Times like it's my job. Are there really people out there who are going to choose a president based on the ever-pressing Boxers or Briefs debate? I suppose it's commendable that the tabloids are dipping their toes into politics, but what does it say about their respect for their readers that they make no mention of the issues at all?

And Hillary! Barack! Stay away from those trash-mongers. I don't know about anybody else, but I hold out the faint hope that my president is not "Just Like Us!"-- I'd like to hope that s/he is a little bit better.

Tuesday, February 26, 2008

I only want to see him dancing in the Purple Rain. Purple Rain Puuuuurppppple Raaaaaaaaaiiiiiiiiiin (sorry)

You know you're getting old when your childhood idols start getting their hips replaced.

Holly GoHomely: The Oscars -- WTF?

I would find it totally amazing that millions of people around the world watch the Oscars every year, if I weren’t one of them. Every year, as I watch the same old red carpet parade, the same old endless pomp with so little circumstance, I wonder: What’s the point? For me, it’s all about nostalgia. What’s your excuse?

See, when I was a young girl – nine, ten, eleven – the Oscars were magical. My family would sit on the couch and watch with giddy reverence, consuming coffee Haagen Dazs by the pint. I would hold my breath and squint my eyes when the winner was announced, so that as soon as I heard the name I could focus on only the winner’s little on-screen box. I didn’t want to see the losers react to their loss. I remember every win being a surprise – I wasn’t old enough to pore over the critics’ picks, as I do today.

Even the musical numbers were better then, weren’t they? Back when they went totally over-the-top on purpose, and looked like insane spectacles rather than amateur regional theater. Remember when Billy Crystal would ride in on a horse, or drop from the ceiling? It used to be a show, man. What happened? This year, my favorite part of the show (apart from Jon Stewart, who I actually think did a good job) were the little montages of past winners that played right before each category was announced. The only problem was they just illuminated how much more poignant, funny, surprising, and downright kick-ass everything used to be.

I mean, don’t get me wrong – I’ll always watch. Maybe that’s what makes the Oscars such a worldwide phenomenon. Anyone old enough to remember when they used to be great hopes that this year might just be the year that they are great again. But I think the Oscars need to loosen up. Here’s what I would do, if I was in charge:

1. Ban critics from releasing their predictions. More often than not, they all overlap, which makes it near impossible not to know who’s going to win.

2. Similarly, ban release of results from critics awards until after the show. Spoilers are no fun!

3. Hey, why not just fix it so that any critic or media mouthpiece who says the word “Oscar” prior to January gets smacked with a cartoon mallet?

4. Install mild electric shock buttons on the winners’ seats (Price Waterhouse Cooper would have to do this, as they are the only ones who know who will win before the show). I bet the reactions would be much more exciting.

5. Make it mandatory for the host to make a dramatic entrance, preferably involving animals.

6. Hire Broadway choreographers to stage the musical numbers. Also, ban the picking of fucking lame songs (I would be in charge of this).

7. Force all stylists to take LSD and wear eye patches before dressing their celebrity clients.

8. Limit the running time of the show to 3 hours – cut out the following: all montages EXCEPT the Death-O-Meter (I love that one); anyone from the Academy talking at all; animated presenters; all clips of the acting performances (they always choose ridiculous ones anyway, and the actors always make faces as if to say ‘Wow, I sucked!’); gratuitous reaction shots of Mickey Rooney.

Hopefully, if anyone from the Academy is reading this, the Oscars might just earn back their reputation next year. You’re welcome, in advance.

Monday, February 25, 2008

Open Letter to Girl on the Q Train

You. The one who pushed past me this morning before I had coffee. Separately I might have been able to stand: the gum chewing; the singing out loud and bobbing along with your iPod; the giant bag full of leafy greens from the food co-op that you have planted directly in my path. But all together? Oh, girl, do you want to get smacked? (It is a bad kind of Monday.)

Curmudgeon of the Week (oh, let's face it -- the month): Cristina

Cristina and I lived together junior year at Wesleyan, during which we spent many late nights bemoaning our lives over Party of Five, gin-and-tonics and Marlboro Reds. It speaks to Cristina's strength of character that even now, eight years later, having finished her first novel, she has never wavered in her delightfully cynical, curmudgeonly spirit while still enjoying heartwarming television shows. I quizzed my old friend on her pet peeves (toddlers!) and secret loves (Coach Taylor).

When did you first self-identify as a curmudgeon?

Before birth, actually. I was so uninterested in the outside world and all it had to offer that several days after my predicted birthday they had to tear me out via c-section. Little has changed--getting me to leave the womblike environs of my apartment requires roughly the same amount of effort.

Would other people call you one, or are you a secret curmudgeon?

There's no secret about it. My roommate, Saki, recently had to rewrite the email invitation to our house party because he felt my version was too "crotchety." He also accuses me of occasionally getting behind the wheel of what he refers to as the "belligerent bus" and driving it into people--friends, strangers, whomever--when I've had too much Jameson or just a crappy day. I referred to myself as an optimist once in front of some close friends of mine who openly laughed at me for about ten minutes. So, yeah, I think my secret is out.

Top 10 list of things you hate

1. The mother teaching her toddler to climb stairs in the subway station at rush hour.
2. The people who refuse to move to the middle of the subway car and make more room, or refuse to step out of the way of people entering and exiting the train.
3. A blatant disregard for correct grammar and spelling.
4. The multicolor spinning beach ball of death that appears on the screen when my laptop freezes.
5. The people in my neighborhood who refuse to clean up after their dogs, forcing me to navigate an obstacle course of dogshit every time I venture outside my apartment.
6. The New York Post.
7. Mercury in retrograde.
8. Hangovers.
9. Listening to my guy friends discuss whether a girl is "hot" or simply "cute" or neither of those things.
10. Shiftlessness.

You are on trial for murder. Who did you kill, and why?

The person at NBC responsible for canceling Friday Night Lights.

If you could blight one thing from the earth forever, what would it be?


Curmudgeon (living or dead, historical or contemporary) you most identify with?

These days I think it's Rhett Miller, the lead singer of rock/country band the Old 97's. See such albums as "Wreck Your Life" and such songs as "Valium Waltz" for irrefutable proof that this man is my soulmate, and the sooner he realizes this and leaves his supermodel wife for me, the better off we'll all be.

Favorite curse word/phrase?

Sweet Jesus Christ on a cross!

Thursday, February 21, 2008

Letter from Barack

I donated to the Obama campaign, and this is an excerpt from the "personal letter" I received:

--- Forwarded Message ---
From: Barack Obama
Subject: Major news

Una --

We learned something extraordinary since I wrote to you last night...

We've crunched all the numbers and discovered that we are within striking distance of something historic: one million people donating to this campaign...

Think about that ... nearly one million people taking ownership of this movement, five dollars or twenty-five dollars at a time...

Unlike Senator Clinton or Senator McCain, we haven't taken a dime from Washington lobbyists or special interest PACs. Our campaign is responsible to no one but the people...

Will you make a matching donation now to make it happen?

...But even though the odds were stacked against them, they discovered that by coming together with one voice, they could no longer be ignored.

...We knew it wouldn't be easy.

But if we can do this, we're not just going to win an election. We're going to change our country.

Thank you so much,


Here, though, is the letter I read:

--- Forwarded Message ---
From: Barack Obama
Subject: Major news

Una --

I wrote to you last night.

[I]'ve crunched all the numbers and discovered that [I love you].

Think about that ... [your] twenty-five dollars has shaken [me].

Unlike Senator Clinton or Senator McCain, [you are not old and preachy].

Will you [call me] now to make it happen?

Even though the odds [are] stacked against [us], by coming together with one voice, we [can] no longer be ignored.

We knew it wouldn't be easy.

But if we can do this, we're not just going to win an election. We're going to [run away together].




Wednesday, February 20, 2008

HollyGoHomely: Sputum and Lost

I've been sick since Sunday, hence the bloglessness. Once a year I get a terrible bronchial infection that makes me sound like I am attempting to birth a psychotic tree frog from my throat. Also I become one of those people who is forced to spit (or -- sput! Since it's sputum I'm spitting! Ha!) on the sidewalk. Anyway, I'll spare you the details. The point is, I'm sick. And, as a result, I've been getting my "Lost" on.

"Lost" is one of those shows that I've always meant to watch but never had the time (I'm looking at you next, "The L Word," "The Wire," and "Curb Your Enthusiasm"). I watched the very first episode back in 2004, but as soon as it veered into sci-fi territory, I was kind of eh, so I turned it off. Stick a bunch of people on an island and watch them go crazy = cool. Have an invisible monster chasing after them = not cool. In my book, at least. I've always hated it when the paranormal enters into a perfectly good set-up. I'd take a crazed human killer over an alien any day of the week (but please warn me first, universe. Thanks!)

Turns out, though, millions of viewers aren't wrong -- "Lost" is good! It's not perfect (not many shows are) and you have to suspend some major disbelief at first (spoiler: over 50 people survive a fiery, high-speed plane crash with barely a scratch), but the writers are smart. Each character's story is richly layered and somehow intertwined with the stories of their fellow castaways, and I get the feeling that anything I'm like eh about will ultimately be explained. Also, every episode has what Jeff and I now call a "snap" moment -- a very satisfying and sudden "reveal" or plot twist that makes us go "Snap!" (Jeff sometimes takes a more Marcel Marceau approach and simply snaps his fingers.)

So there you go. That's been the last four days of my life. Sputum and "Lost". Not just a catchy title.

Tuesday, February 19, 2008

Yes She Can?

I know I'm already biased, but could the Hillary viral videos be any gayer? I think no.

Thursday, February 14, 2008

Happy V Day!


Tuesday, February 12, 2008

Manna from Inbox

I just received the following email:

Hey Negro,
I just sent you your shoes. Grand total was $49 bucks. I'll either
get a paypal account or find something online I want for that price.
Hope you're well man. Miss our wild times

I mean, WOW. That is like the BEST wrong email ever, right? It makes me want to write a short story or something.

I'm not even emailing the guy back to tell him he sent it to the wrong person. This may be the only time anyone ever calls me "Negro" and I want it to last.

Memories of Thin Mints Gone By

My co-worker's niece is at the office right now selling Girl Scout cookies. She is making a killing because A) She is adorable, and B) they are Girl Scout cookies. They're like crack rocks; the sell themselves. They're especially crack-like to adults who are too young to have kids of their own, because when was the last time you got to buy Girl Scout cookies? Supply and demand, people.

I was -- as you have perhaps already surmised based on my general misanthropy and aversion to selling anything of any kind -- never a Girl Scout, but in elementary school we were forced to do an annual candy sale twice a year: once right before the winter holidays and once right before easter (I remember that delicious peanut butter-filled bunnies were a top seller). I was -- and still am -- a very laissez-faire kind of salesgirl. When I had my short-lived lemonade stand on Block Island in 1989, I only begrudgingly made a sign that said "Lemonade"; I preferred to blend in with the side of the road, figuring that thirsty people would come to me. I didn't want to actually convince anyone to buy anything. So with the candy sale, I adopted a truly passive (sort of ... cheating) method: I sent my parents into work with the order forms and let them do my selling for me. Since my parents were in senior positions at their offices, their co-workers tended to buy a lot, and I would send in my orders and collect my prize (inevitably something electronic and crappily-made, although once I did win a giant container of Tootise Rolls), basically for doing nothing.

I would love to end on a note of "look how much I've learned and changed", but the truth is if I had to sell anything today I would probably do the exact same thing. I'll do anything for Tootsie Rolls.

Monday, February 11, 2008


Apologies in advance that this month's entries may be photo-heavy and text-deficient. We're closing three issues one after the other and I am so very tired.

Anyway, my friend Alex forwarded me this James Dean-y pic of Jeff from college, acting in a student film. Id'n he cute?

That is all.

Saturday, February 9, 2008

My Dad in the News

The Financial Times of London profiled my father today, and as a proud daughter I wanted to share. The image should be big enough to read if you click on it ...

For those who don't know him, don't judge based on the title ... it's not his money he's spending. I am not, despite what my credit card balance would have you believe, a trust fund brat.

Friday, February 8, 2008

One thing I relish about my job is that, from time to time, I get to say extremely weird sentences, such as ....

On Monday I will be waiting by the phone for Ludacris to call me. Details to follow.

One Size Up, One Step Back

You know what pisses me off? How hard it is for women to feel good about their bodies. I could go on and on and on here and get all Lifetime movie-of-the-week with my personal body demons, but instead I'm just gonna lay this morning down for ya (think of it as an account of one small battle in a very long war):

I've been feeling pretty good lately. Good in a jiggle-in-front-of-the-mirror and think I'm sexy kind of way. Good in a never-touch-the-scale, never-count-a-calorie kind of way. But then I put on a pair of pants this morning -- having left them at the dry cleaners for ... ahem .. three months after getting them hemmed back in November -- and they wouldn't fit. They squished my thighs and barely buttoned over my pelvis, leaving an overflow of flesh along the top. The end result was uncomfortable and unattractive. And those stupid fucking pants made me stop feeling good! Why do a stupid fucking pair of pants have so much power?

Maybe this is my penance for forgetting to pick up my dry cleaning ...

Thursday, February 7, 2008

Wish I Was Here ...

... but watching CSI reruns in my bathrobe is cool, too.

I am #52 most powerful

The social networking/time-sucking site Facebook is many things. It is addictive (as my sister said when I joined at the ripe old age of 27, "you will find yourself at 1 in the morning looking at pictures of your high school classmate's dog and you won't know why"). It is fun (I have documented my Mafia addiction on this very blog). But, as I found out today, it's also kind of a bitch.

There's an application called "Compare Your Friends" that randomly pops up pictures of your Facebook friends and asks you who is the better X,Y, and Z. I decided against using this app, as it reminded me all too painfully of the great Slam Book craze of the early '90s. But just because I don't use it doesn't mean it can't get me!

Behold, an email I received today from Facebook:

Here is what your friends think about...

... your strengths:

#1 best dinner companion
#1 best companion on a desert island
#2 best singer

... your weaknesses:

#52 most powerful
#52 best room-mate

(#number represents your ranking among your friends in certain category)

Look, I mean, that's not too harsh. It's even kind of complimentary. I am the #1 best companion, both for dinner AND on a desert island! But then it felt compelled to tell me that in some places, I was falling in the polls:

Other social news

Changes in your ranks:
1 place down, now #3 best friend
1 place down, now #3 best shopping companion
1 place d! own, now #4 most entertaining
1 place down, now #5 funniest
3 places down, now #5 most fashionable

Who the fuck is fucking up my humor/entertainment ranking??? I wouldn't even care if I didn't know. Damn you Facebook. You are, at heart, a bitchy eighth grade girl clutching a Lisa Frank Trapperkepper.

Tuesday, February 5, 2008

And they say the youth don't care about the election: live blogging Super Tuesday returns

Morning-After Disclaimer: I was passionately intoxicated when I wrote this. I don't actually hate the elderly OR consider everyone over 65 to be senile. I apologize to anyone who might be offended by my ageism. However, I am keeping the blog entry as is. Read on with caution.

Betsy: im stuck at Fing work
i want to go bBE with the newscasters!!!
me: no, they suck
all are very condescending to youth voters
the 65+ group is voting more than the under-30s. i say we should have a vote based on how much longer we have to live ;)
obama doing fine, but old people and women voting clinton
Betsy: haha
we'll get them when they die
yeah we have shit jobs and they do nothing
of course they vote more
me: also so many young people registered to vote too late
fucking geriatrics. also they are using up all the social security!!!
Betsy: plus we're voting on damn provisionals
me: i am drunk bythe way
Betsy: hahahaha
me: keep yelling at TV "fuck YOU New York"
Betsy: cant they lie down and die and let us vote
its our world to live in
me: i know! they are too old to vote. stay home! i am going to write a NY times op-ed called "septuagenarians should not be allowed to vote because they are senile" by Una LaMarche. they keep saying how hillary won NY which has 280 delegates but the STUPID BITCHES dont mention that delegates are divided proportionally (i am talking to you Katie Couric)
Betsy: oy
me: sorry I get misogynistic when ive had too much whiskey. dlegates right now 536 to 444 so not too bad
Betsy: oooh
i needed a del count
stupid work!!!!
when can i leave!!!!
me: well i will probably fall asleep on my couch cursing diane sawyer

Oh, P.S.

I will be watching American Idol and getting drunk before watching poll results at 9. If anyone wants to join in, come on down. If you don't already know where I live then I probably don't want you coming over, until we're better acquainted. Sorry.

Thoughts on Voting

I voted today at P.S. 80, on the corner or St. Marks and Underhill in Prospect Heights. I've always felt that voting in elementary school gymnasiums lends a kind of levity to the whole process, and my experience today was no exception. As I stood in the line for district 43 (five times as long as any other district's lines -- why does that always seem to happen?), I looked around at inspirational sayings stenciled on the walls: "It's not whether you win or lose, it's how you play the game;" "If at first you don't succeed, try try again" (Ross Perot's slogan?); and, my personal favorite, "Just Do It" (meant, I guess, to be powerful but also likely the exhausted refrain of teachers the world over). I felt all democratic as I stood amongst iPod shuffling hipsters, septuagenarians, and stroller-bearing stay-at-home dads of all ages and races. I listened to the almost violent clanging of the voting lever, watching the little green lights go on as each person cast his or her vote. Always the judgmental curmudgeon, I found myself glaring at certain people who I felt sure, based on their clothes and general demeanors, were Hillary supporters, or -- so much worse! -- republicans. I was getting cranky after 15 minutes of line-standing coupled with oppressive steam heat when the PA system crackled to life. It was the school's principal, welcoming the students to school (half an hour late). She gave some standard announcements and then said, "As you all know, February is Black History Month, so to celebrate I am going to share with you the words of Reverend Jesse Jackson, speaking in 1984 at the Democratic National Convention." And then she read:

Our flag is red, white and blue, but our nation is a rainbow -- red, yellow, brown, black and white. America is not like a blanket -- one piece of unbroken cloth, the same color, the same texture, the same size. America is more like a quilt: many patches, many pieces, many colors, many sizes, all woven and held together by a common thread.

Even in our fractured state, all of us count and fit somewhere. We have proven that we can survive without each other. But we have not proven that we can win and make progress without each other. We must come together.

She finished by saying, "Remember that what we do today will make a difference tomorrow."

I'm not sure if she could have chosen a better passage to read on a day that will decide so much in the coming election and over the coming years in America. I'm not sure if the kids got the underlying message. But, twenty-three years later Jackson's words have only gained power and relevance, and hearing those words as I waited in line to cast my (however small, however hopeful) vote made me feel incredibly lucky, as though some higher power knew that I had been feeling disillusioned and decided to perk me up. A friend of mine put it best when she said today that she'd gladly cast a vote for Hillary in the general election, but "it will be with cynicism and and a sense of inevitable continued national decline". I too have worries that Hillary, however well-meaning, will not bring about much change in the way politics run in this country. I truly believe that Obama is the kind of politician who comes around once in a generation. I and my other not-quite-Gen-X, not-quite-Gen-Y friends feel that he is our .... savior, for lack of a better word. He is our hope. We feel like if we miss him this time, we may never get another like him. And I feel scared to watch the primary returns tonight. I feel scared that Hillary will emerge victorious and that my great hope will fade to disappointed acceptance. But hearing that principal speak those eerily prescient words made me feel that all hope is not lost, that the message of unity, hope, and change has been around for a long time and will not die if Obama fails to take the oath of office in January. The message remains, and it will only grow stronger, and louder, with the passing years. Someday I hope I am around to see it find a majority voice.

Finally, because I'm getting a little sappy, I think that any person who does not vote should get a hard kick in the ass, from me personally. It makes me so angry when people don't vote that I have to watch American Idol just to anesthetize my brain. True story.

Monday, February 4, 2008

Only in New York, part infinity

Last night, after a morose Super Bowl viewing (Jeff and his friend Mike are Pats fans), we clambered onto an A train at 81st Street. On the floor, feet from where we sat down, was a take-out soda cup filled with yellow liquid. No top.

"I hope that's not urine!" I said cheerfully.

"It's either that, beer, or ... Mountain Dew?" Mike said. On the subway, though, the general rule is: when in doubt, it's pee.

We could barely carry on a conversation, so transfixed were we by the cup that, despite the wrenching twists and turns, did not runneth over. Then a woman got on the train. She sat down right next to the cup, looked down, and nonchalantly picked it up with thumb and forefinger to move it under the seat.

Only in New York are people so tired that they will touch probable urine just to sit down.

Sunday, February 3, 2008

Yes We Can

I was born in the last months of the Carter administration. Reagan was elected when I was six months old. I was eight when Bush won the White House over Dukakis -- I still remember the election-night party my parents threw, a group of grown-ups crowded around our TV, the anxiety palpable. In '92 I was twelve. My mom had a crush on Bill Clinton, and when he won there was celebration in our house like I had never seen. I've never seen it since. I cast my first vote for Al Gore, on an absentee ballot sent from college in Connecticut (we all know how that turned out). Four years later I tried hard to get excited about Kerry. I braved the crush of voters in my former elementary school and proudly pulled the voting box lever for the first time. Early exit polls fostered hope, but later that night they were dashed, and we wondered how we could have ended up with such a bland and uninspiring candidate -- his wife, the sassy Heinz ketchup widow, would have made a better one.

I'm twenty seven years old, and I have yet to believe that my vote makes a difference. But back in 2004, when I watched a young senate candidate from Illinois make the keynote speech at the DNC, I was deeply moved. I felt, for the first time, that I was watching a true leader, someone who belonged not on the Cspan ticker or Total Request Live, but on the newsreels in the Library of Congress, alongside FDR, Dr. King, and JFK. That night gave me hope, and I have hope still. I hope that when I cast my vote on Tuesday I will make a change. I hope that come November, history is made. I hope that whoever takes the oath of office takes this country in a new direction. I hope that no one loses hope that change is possible.

Whether or not you support Obama, I hope you all vote on Tuesday. And no matter who you support, I hope you watch the video below. It gave me chills. It made me realize how much I miss what I've never had -- the chance to be a part of a great movement in American history. I hope this is my time.

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