In the town I live in, there’s only one place to get the state-required voter ID. It’s way out beyond the end of the bus line, and its hours are inconvenient and unpredictable. Also, the IDs cost like $30; the people who passed the voter ID law obviously didn’t think that was a budget-breaker for anyone who MATTERED.
If you have difficulty getting a voter ID, here are some thoughts:
– Contact a church. (I wish I could say contact ANY church, but to be honest, if you look unconventional, and you don’t know which churches in your town are the progressive ones, look for a Unitarian church. I suspect most synagogues would be more helpful than most evangelical churches, but I don’t know that from personal experience.)
When I was a church secretary, if someone had called and said, “I want to register to vote, but I don’t have a car and I don’t have $30 for an ID,” I’m pretty sure our entire governing board would have been lining up to help you out.
In this part of the country, nuns are a good bet, too.
– Contact the local Democratic Party office.
– Contact a YMCA or a YWCA. Did you know that fighting racism is actually part of the Y’s charter? Pretty sure somebody in that office will be able to help you get the ID you need to register.
– Go to your town’s website and look for a pro-diversity organization – a Multicultural Awareness Center, something like that. Give them a call.
– Call your library reference desk and ask if they know of anyone who could help.
I don’t actually think this would help, but it would be interesting: Call the local office of your senators and your representative, and ask if they can help you get a voter ID. At least it might be entertaining to hear them sputter.
Unsure where this came from, if not the palsied hands of the good Lord himself.
Simple premise: Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” slipped from 45 to 33 rpm. Nothing more; no studio trickery, no trip hop drum breaks. The guitar lopes back in and around itself. The bass becomes elastic, hot rubber. The violin stabs become sustained cello lines. The backing choir’s split harmony rattles around, slinking ghostly into the corner. And most importantly, Parton’s once-frantic vocal is transformed from bubblegum country scrawl into something approximating field holler reverence.
bongdanceking 