I went to vote this afternoon. I had meant to vote an absentee ballot but didn’t get my request sent in on time and so I trundled down to my polling place. I have voted in every election, I’m pretty sure since I registered to vote in West Virginia which was 1986 or, perhaps, 1987. Today was the first time they ever gave me an “I Voted” sticker, but they sucked all the joy out of that.
They keep changing my precinct number — I switch back and forth between Cabell County Precinct 60A and Cabell County Precinct 60B. It has something to do with my last name being the middle of the alphabet.
Sure enough, they changed me again. I got a brand new Voter Registration Card a while back and I tucked it into my wallet for this day.
I walked into a mostly empty highschool gym. I went to 60A. I had to wait for the gentleman in front of me to get his ballot. They asked him for ID and he gave them what appeared to be a driver’s license. OK, fine. It’s my turn. I give them my brand, spanking new Voter Registration Card and they ask for me for photo ID.
Now that struck me wrong. I was pretty sure that my card was sufficient, but I’ve had a long day, I was cranky, and I had ID. I gave it to her.
When I got home, I checked the Secretary of State’s website for acceptable ID at the polls. It clearly states that my Voter Registration Card is sufficient.
I am tired of officious, self-important despots changing the rules to reflect their personal opinions. Or whatever it was that went on. She was clearly wrong. But so was I. I didn’t speak up. It was a long day. I was tired. I had photo ID.
I’m told that polling personnel go through training. I would think that proper identification would be a significant portion of that training. If they are screwing up something as basic as that, what else are they doing? I don’t give a rat’s ass if you think a photo ID should be required. That is not the law. Polling personnel don’t get to make the rules.
Yes, I’ve already sent email to the Secretary of State’s office and will fill out the complaint form as soon as I can convince my printer to print.
AND NOT ONE OF THEM WERE WEARING MASKS.
There are three graphics going around Facebook these days that cause me to pause and contemplate. They’re supposed to be funny and the originator probably didn’t intend them to provoke deep philosophical thoughts, but nonetheless.
The last few years have just been something. I remarked the other day that having the rug pulled out from under my feet every 30 seconds or so should feel normal; it should no longer surprise me or provoke nothing more than an off-hand comment of “here we go again.”
Still, I’m surprised, outraged, demoralized, saddened, defeated or whatever emotion the Lucy-with-the-football moment has provoked. This proves something although I’m not sure what. Perhaps it proves that finding contentment in chaos is pretty damned difficult, but I suspect that any of the Buddhists of my acquaintance could have told me that. I wouldn’t have argued with them either because I am having a right awful time with finding any contentment, much less holding on to it long enough to marvel at the positive aspects of chaos.
I tried to abolish the rest of July the other day, but folks celebrating a birthday this month were opposed. In truth, it’s not just been July that’s been a problem so it was a flawed idea – a no solution solution.
Right on schedule, at about the age of 30 or so, I noticed that I didn’t know one single normal person. In talking with other people, I gather this is a rite of passage. Young’uns get this idea from somewhere that at the appropriate calendar moment they will enter the great society of something called “grownups” and much of the drama of the playground, school hallway and sports fields will cease. Decisions will be thoughtful and correct. Maturity and right-thinking will be abound and between bouts of doing the right thing, flossing our teeth, paying our bills on time, and running well-ordered lives, the “grownups” will look around, take a gander at what’s not working and correct it.
Poppycock. This is probably the worst fairytale we tell our children. “Grownups” are nothing more than children without the qualities that make children such wonderful creatures. Worse, the quirks of childhood solidify into something heavy, dark and dreary. There is so much that we don’t outgrow. And some of what we do outgrow, perhaps we shouldn’t. How I would have loved the other day to stand up and shout “Liar, liar, pants on fire!” But grownups don’t do that. If we’ve been through enough classes, employee trainings, and CEU conferences, we might say something like “That’s not my understanding of what happened.”
By the age of 50, most of us understand that “normal” is nothing but a dryer setting. But chances are pretty good that we’re angry about that truth. At least that’s my take when a statement purporting to state the norm is always met by a “but.” “But” is a result of the residual anger from learning the playground bullies are still bullies, the tattletale is still tattling and we’re still using rock, paper, scissors to solve problems.
Some of us embark on Sinatra’s “My Way” to navigate our lives. We’ve learned that the “grownups” aren’t, there is no “normal” and the Buddha is always killed on the road. We resolve to pilot our own ship, forge our destiny, march to our own drummer, yada yada yada. While we’re heaping those platitudes on the Chinette plate of our lives, we pass over Donne’s “No Man is an Island.” Perhaps we never had a teacher make us read that bit of wisdom.
No man is an island,
Entire of itself.
Each is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea,
Europe is the less.
As well as if a promontory were.
As well as if a manor of thine own
Or of thine friend’s were.
Each man’s death diminishes me,
For I am involved in mankind.
Therefore, send not to know
For whom the bell tolls,
It tolls for thee.
I’m not good at planning. I never have been, but like Charlie Brown, I continue to try. I set out from a to b with the simplest path in mind. I’m never very far when chaos reminds me I’m not an island and the rich, often rewarding, continent of my life is going to complicate the straight route I’ve planned.
I had plans for this weekend that were derailed before the first footstep. Before I could alter them appropriately, a tragedy unfolded killing folks I don’t know and I’m caught up in the tolling bells. While learning of that horror, I read of others and now Wordsworth’s “The world is too much with me” is complicating the hope of the Easy Way to prevail.
The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in Nature that is ours;
We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This Sea that bares her bosom to the moon;
The winds that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now like sleeping flowers,
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;
It moves us not.–Great God! I’d rather be
A pagan suckled in a creed outworn;
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea;
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathèd horn.
Someone I knew, who died a few months ago, used to go on a media fast once a year to celebrate his birthday. For thirty days, he partook of no television, newspapers, Internet. It sounded like a fine idea, but I don’t have the self-discipline to effect such a total block. Periodically, I’ll declare a media fast lite where I refuse all but the lightest forms of media entertainment ignoring politics and the mayhem of what we call “news.”
Is finding contentment in chaos achieved by blinders? Maybe? Is it necessary to allow my senses to be assaulted by the mayhem with only literature as a bandage?
And why is it that I think if I could only restore order to my home, I could find some equanimity? I know this last thing to be true, because it’s worked so many times before. Is it because by controlling what I can, I buy into that childish myth that when I’m a grownup I’ll have the power to right wrongs?
Liar, liar, pants on fire.
I’m off to self-delude.
While I sometimes do not agree with the way we use our Armed Forces troops, I support the troops. Similarly, I’m whole-heartedly appreciative of and grateful to the workers of Appalachian Power who’ve had a hell of a couple of weeks getting (most of us) back up and running after the Derecho and subsequent storms, however. . .
Since corporations are people (and possibly boards, commissions, etc. etc., are too) and today is Bastille Day, it’s time for guillotines.
Appalachian Power’s customers have seen a rate increase of 50% over the past four years. That increase might be more palatable to me if the reliability of my service was not declining more and more with each rate increase. Significantly. For the month prior to the Derecho, my service went out long enough EVERY DAY to necessitate the re-setting of clocks. It’s become a routine, I return home and, starting in the kitchen, begin setting clocks. Over the course of the past four years, a routine rain storm will leave me without power overnight or for several hours during the day about once a month. Every day, several times a day, day in and day out, my power flickers. I have lost many appliances, small and not so small, to the frequent flickerings/outages resulting in power surges.
The Derecho was historic and I appreciate that. However, the U.S. Department of Energy has noted that, on average, it takes Appalachian Power four times longer to repair outages in West Virginia than the national average. On the surface of things, one would attribute the difference to our state’s terrain and rural nature. Well, Donald E. Walker, a technical analyst for the PSC looked into that factor. He noted in a report that in comparison to areas of New York with similar terrain and similar instances of power outages, the reliability factor in West Virginia was below the norm. Specifically, he said, “Other states with comparable operating conditions to those found in West Virginia reflect similar statistics found in the New York performance report,” Walker wrote. “It is therefore reasonable to expect utilities in our state to achieve the more stringent reliability index targets recommended by staff.”
However, Appalachian Power’s and the other utilities’ proposals for increasing the reliability of service in our state didn’t impress. Ken Ward, Jr. wrote:
Officials from the PSC staff and the Consumer Advocate Division are concerned that plans proposed by the industry will do little to improve the reliability of West Virginia’s electrical system.
Last month, PSC staff warned commissioners that utility proposals would simply require companies “to complete work which was neglected for the past 10 years.”
Appalachian Power is not the first utility, nor do I suspect it to be the last, to rape and pillage West Virginia. (And I don’t use those loaded words lightly.)
Verizon’s neglect of the communication system left West Virginia with sub-par telephone service and even worse broadband. Frontier bought a pig in a poke and I won’t be surprised when they throw their hands up in the air and close shop. After my hissy fit with good, old Ken, my phone service is stellar which proves it can be done (and could have been done), if more people had more hissy fits. Guillotines, I tell you.
During my 6 days without power following a storm which followed the Derecho, I had a lot of time to cogitate and bitch. I absolutely out did myself. I did not bitch about the power outage, per se, I bitched about what I was reading all over the web. I can’t prove it, so it’s anecdotal at best, but the citizenry of West Virginia in online forums, media comment sections, Facebook, Twitter and other social media sites were reporting that the out-of-state electrical workers that rode in here on their white horses to help restore us our normal state of unreliability expressed surprise at how poorly the lines and the right-aways were maintained. I’m not surprised, are you? If West Virginia were anywhere near the national norm, I would have been 2 days without power, not 6.
And for this privilege, I’m paying 50% more than I was 4 years ago and 4 years ago I was paying more than I was in the four year period prior to that and on and on and on. My service continues to degrade.
Even Senator Manchin, who I really don’t like, managed to get his head out of his, ahem, long enough to speechify about how the U.S. should not be spending money on the electrical infrastructure in Afghanistan when West Virginia is falling apart at the seams. We’ll leave for another time my thoughts on what part Manchin and the rest of the coal-crazy robber baron politicians have played in the not-so-benign neglect of West Virginia’s infrastructure.
In another peachy editorial in the Charleston Gazette, I learned that last fall Appalachian Power’s parent company gave $1 million to a “social welfare organization” that denies being a lobbying organization. Take a gander:
What is it called when AEP seeks limited government for its subsidiaries? Limits on the government that enacts and enforces environmental regulations? The government that reviews and enforces workplace safety? The government that evaluates rate increase requests? The government that reviews how companies respond during power outages?
If AEP is concerned about our social welfare, is it not reasonable to expect they’d want the people of West Virginia to be up and running after a power outage at least as soon as the folks in upstate New York? They’re not concerned about our social welfare, you say? I’d say your right. And to that, I say, “Guillotines, damn it.”
And with any luck I’ll be able to post this before my power goes out again. It’s been up and down like a yo-yo today. For no apparent reason — just like all the days before the Derecho. I’m a little crazed these days. There’s been way too much life happening and it’s not going to take much for my transformer to blow. If you read or hear about some hillbilly woman with a homemade guillotine taking hostages, I’d appreciate a bail fund as the Derecho pretty much left me without much in the way of surplus funds.
So, before I could publish this, AEP came rambling up my hill to respond to my earlier service ticket. I had quite a talk with the cutie driving the truck. I told him my power woes. He assured me he’d heard it all before. He assessed the problem. The right-away needs serious work. He was dubious that a work order would ever be placed. He said, “I’m not telling you this, but you need to file a complaint with the Public Service Commission.” I told him that I routinely file complaints and to-date it’s not done one jot of good. We talked some more, he allowed as to how there were some forms and whatnot he could submit that might get them moving. Old Ken at Frontier surprised me, so maybe I’m wrong in not feeling optimistic that this will be repaired any time soon.