Where was it?  More extensive musings to follow.

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Moments when you want to laugh out loud on the job:

“What the hell’s the deal?  So you go out to a bar and have two drinks.  And then you get pulled over by a cop for speeding and the next thing you know my son’s got a DUI.  And they didn’t even cite him for speeding.  I mean seriously — wtf?  Screw MADD, I’m a mother for drunk drivers.”

The son in question?  Older than yours truly.

Needless to say, Mom was a fox.  As in like Stacy’s mom-type foxiness. 

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I tried not to care, really.  I tried my durnedest not to give a fat rat’s ass about the primary.

But then the good folks at TPM pointed out something that was actually kindasorta interesting, and in fact sort of a conundrum, having to do with open primaries: 

See, open primaries are a funny thing.  These are elections where, no matter what party you “register with,” on the day you show up at the polls you can vote in whatever primary you want to.  This occurs in some states, but not in California, though the does idea get batted around quite a bit.*  Among the other practical effects of open primaries, they probably dilute partisan loyalty (the value of which depends entirely on (i) the particular moment in history, and (ii) one’s own partisan position).  But on a theoretical level, they can also illuminate some of the fascinating ways in which various forms of identify overlap with partisanship. So, for instance, how might we explain the following little puzzle:

In states with open primaries, a certain number (usually less than 10%) of the population “cross-files” — which is to say, they vote in the “wrong” primary.  Normally this is difficult to detect, unless you catch it with savvy polling.  Just who are these people, and why are they cross-filing?

In Missouri, for instance, Republicans voting in the Democratic primary (6% of the total votes) supported Obama 75-25.

In Ohio (9% of the total votes), it broke 50-50.

In Mississippi, on the other hand, Republicans voting in the Democratic primary (12% of the total votes) supported Clinton 75-25.

I suppose there’s some kind of story here, and I’m halfway tempted to try and puzzle it out.  But then I recall how comforting it is not to give a shit.

UPDATE:

So last night (Thursday 3/13) I took an informal poll (n of 2) and the consensus on this question (honest, I’m trying not to care) is that it’s a combination of;
a.) moderate Republicans (e.g., Missouri)
b.) that plus working-class white Democrats (otherwise known as “Reagan Democrats) in Ohio, who see in Barack Obama the dreaded specter of affirmative action.  The problem with this explanation, of course, is that it was in fact Hillary’s husband who flushed Ohio down the shitter with NAFTA.
c.) Jasper and his crew concluding that they’d take anything — including a woman openly referred to as the Anti-Christ — over a black man.

Not exactly satisfactory, or for that matter parsimonious, explanations.  Oh well.  Back to reading about what the going rate on call-girls is.  God love you, SF Chronicle, for being absolutely shameless.

*An example from real life: when I voted in the California primary, the woman behind me in line got really really pissed over the fact that she “she couldn’t vote for her candidate,” who happened to be Barack Obama.  The precinct staff had to explain — quite calmly and professionally, I thought — that, because she was registered with another party (in her case, Peace and Freedom), she had to vote in that primary.  She then demanded that they re-register her as a Democrat.  They explained (again quite professionally) that they would be happy to do so, but that had no bearing on that day’s election — the deadline for registering was some weeks prior.  I don’t know if she voted or not.  IMHO this is what comes of NCLF and the elimination of civics classes in the public schools.

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So, one of the advantages(?!?) of workin’ fo’ da man (or rather, arbeiten fur den mann) is that I have twice now been assigned to take a class in a particularly tetchy data management program.  Which one, might you ask?  Let’s just say that when I was told I had to learn this particular program, I thought I was going to come away from it with more, ahem, “cheek, impudence, mouthiness.”  As if I needed to be encouraged, right?

Anywho, the main advantage to this exercise in ear-sharpening is that the classes take place in the fourth floor of the Galleria.  The aerie, in fact.  No windows, though — the classroom backs onto the freeway.

“Oh, the places you’ll go!” right?

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So you remember my cousin?  The one that youstabee married to the abusive alcoholic Pentecostal divinity student?  That one?

I just got word that she recently appeared in a performace of “Les Monologues du Vagin.”

God bless you, Eve Ensler, for your liberating words.

In other news, who knew that “vagina” in French was masculine? 

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So I attended a “new music” concert last night, a performance by a Bay Area choral group with which my brother was once involved. The performance didn’t involve atonality, per se, but there was a whole lotta chromaticism and dissonance going on.  In classic Protestant fashion, I came away feeling improved by the experience.

I also had nearly to laugh out loud, at the following conjunction of experiences:

#1) on the way to help set up for the reception, da partner and I dropped in at Weatherstone’s to give Old Soul’s new location a spin.  The results were, not surprisingly, delicious.  I must confess I also like what they’ve done with the space: closed off one door, added window box seating, taken out the old gelato/sandwich counter and just in general made the place a lot “loftier” and more spare.  Plus, you know, a fresh coat of paint really does do wonders.

But that’s not really l’amusement.  As I stood in line, I started pontificating sotto voce to the partner about how the space, plus the fabulous coffee, plus the uber-hipster ahead of us in line (vandyke, peacoat, ponytail, black boots, very pale) and his three tall, skinny, bespoke friends (forming, if you will, a tall dark conspiracy) were nothing if not evidence that Sacramento was (yay!) approaching the point at which one could dimly perceive the penumbra of Mission-like coolness in the air. 

10 minutes later I was hoisted on my own petard when it was revealed that the man in the peacoat and his three handsome friends were members of the chorus.  I “dimly perceive” a lesson in here someplace, but I’m not sure where…

#2) The featured composer was a gentleman with whom I went to grad school (his last name sounds sorta like something you measure radiation with).  I don’t think he knew me, but I distinctly remember a performance of his, which did involve atonality (including the use of a fork to play the piano.  Don’t ask.  It wasn’t pretty.  I was not improved.).  Though I must admit that this time around it was his compositions that led to my feeling edumacated.  It probably had something to do with the quite excellent intro he gave to the piece, providing exactly the kind of deconstruction that the poorly-educated-in-music-but-grandly-overeducated-in-other-things (i.e., myself) needed in order to know what the hell was going on.

#3.) Mid-way through the pre-performance lasagna feed — my folks, da partner, an uncle and myself had committed to providing food for the assembled as an inducement to their making the long trek up I-80 — a gentleman with shoulder-length brown hair, dressed in black (of course), came up to me and said “is your last name _____?”

It was someone with whom I went to nerd camp, back in seventh grade. 

Yes, because my world really is that small.  When sociologists theorize about “social closure” and the advantages of cultural capital for network boundary-making, it is precisely this sort of thing of which they speak.  I go to a new music concert once a year (which, by the way, costs me a mere $20; what’s the going price of Kings tix these days, hmmm?), and run into two people I know, one of whom flew in from Australia for the performance, and the second of whom I haven’t seen in twenty years.

Chuckles, meet Bizarro.  Bizarro, meet Chuckles.

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No such luck.  Maybe next month?   By then I might even (gasp!) have moved into a permanent position with “a large government bureaucracy.”

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