Ellie Chun

I am in a severe moral quandary, people.

Our state of Illinois enjoys that time-honored political tradition of the primary system, and as such, when you go to vote in primary elections, there's that awkwardly undemocratic moment of having to declare your political party affiliation before several strangers serving as election judges, so that you can be provided with the appropriate ballot.

Whether you're a centrist like myself or not, if you want to vote in the primary, you've got to pick a party.

I took the Republican ballot.

Before I'm made a pariah by my fellow artists, let me explain my rationale: I'm sort of a libertarian, basically meaning I like fiscal conservatism and social liberalism. While this may sound like a load of hooey, it's really just me saying I'm an issue voter. Like most reasonable people in this country.

So, when I walked into my Chicago voting precinct, I had a certain point of view in mind. Namely, this city is Democratic by a massive majority. I thought that those folks can take care of themselves, they know what they want. I said to myself, "Hey, I can help make sure some crazy Focus On The Family Republican doesn't beat a Log Cabin Republican."

And, despite the shocked reactions from the Democrat election judges and the obvious surprise from the otherwise bored Republican judge that she actually had something to do, I took my ballot and meandered over to the booth, looked over the scant number of Republican nominees (many positions had no candidates at all) and punched the holes that seemed appropriate.

Flash forward to present day. I have a big envelope waiting in my mailbox from the Chicago Board of Elections. I open it. Within is a manila application of some kind, and this letter:

Um...what?

So...I would be representing the Republican party as a judge at my voting precinct. But I'm not a Republican. I'm not a Democrat either. But, I do believe in democracy and fairness and judging and all that stuff. So...I should do this?

...and I'm a poor actor. I also lease apartments as my day job. The apartment leasing market: not so hot the first week of November. Could use a little extra scratch...

But this is civic DUTY we're talking about here, what does money have to do with it?! This is akin to jury duty, right? I should do this. Moderate the parties. Checks and balances. I'm not a Republican, but I'm an actor right? I can look out for their interests for a day.

I mean, the way he puts it in the letter, it's sort of sad, right? These poor, inner-city Republicans with a shortage of judges. I should make sure they're taken care of.

...or should I?

Will people I know see me there wearing my Republican Election Judge badge? What if some big-shot theatre person walks in there and sees that and never hires me again? I mean, he probably wouldn't have hired me anyway, but he would actually have a reason not to!

I've never been presented with a situation like this, nor felt the need to place so many thought ellipses! I don't know how I should proceed with it. If I should even proceed at all. I'll probably let it sit on my coffee table. Or I could even be sabotaging the possibility by writing about it. Who knows. I certainly don't.

My girlfriend is a pretty left leaning person so you can imagine where her loyalties lie.

But my father would be so proud...he's a member of the NRA now...he listens to Rush Limbaugh....

Wait a damn minute. That's who I'd be representing? Dittoheads' interests? Oh HELL no, nevermind all that then. No way I'm gonna sit there as a figurehead for xenophobic, homophobic, bigoted jerks...

But if I don't, then I'll represent no one. And nothing.

Is it better to represent something with reprehensible elements than nothing at all? Let's be honest, there are some bad folks on the far left who are trying to ruin this place for us as well. Political correctness, litigious ACLU garbage, and nativity scene protests certainly move us in the wrong direction too.

I'm making this far too complicated, I think. I'm not that morally defined a person, really. I've never been terribly religious. I play devil's advocate more than I play the devil. What's the big deal? Such a simple decision, really:

Do I want $170 or don't I?

Hrm.

I DO.

...but I could probably live without it.

We'll see. I'm sort of exhausted running myself around something that really just boils down to whether I feel like doing it.

I'll put this on the shelf for now. Save the ethical wrangling for something that really counts.

Lynn Cohn-Pajou or Dr. Finn Gersnum, D.D.S.

When people think of me, generally the first descriptions that come to mind DO NOT include the following:

*Sex Machine

*Contortionist

*Olympic and World 200m Butterfly Record-Holder

*Humanitarian

I did make an attempt recently, mind you, to change one of these things.  And no, I do not have any business relationships with Koreans and my last name is not "Phelps" (I do, however, have extraordinary hip flexibility).  

My boss recently asked me if I wanted to be involved with a "Make Your Mark" event, essentially the corporate coffee version of tax-deductible volunteer work.  I had always gathered that such events involved doing some Habitat for Humanity-type home-building or refurbishing; mainly some kind of honest day's work for a "needy" family or some such organization that helps "needy" families.  While conjuring up images of myself wearing a tool-belt wielding an enormous steel mallet, I heartily agreed to be a part of it.

"Good," she said.  "It's going to be over at the Lincoln Park Zoo."

Oh.

"What kind of...work is it?" I replied.

"I think it's, like, manning an arts and crafts table or something."

Oh.

The next Tuesday I arrived half-an-hour late to the main pavilion at the zoo to find several "partners" from the corporate coffee house a few blocks up the street from mine and two "partners" from my store, along with a few zoo staffers.  There were many pairs of scissors and hole-punchers strewn about a plastic utility table which was, at least, in the shade.  

I tried to make the best of it.  

"So guys, what are we doing today?" I declared with faux enthusiasm.    

One of the zoo people answered: "Oh, are you another person from (name of national coffee chain)?  Great!  We're making jaguar masks!"

Oh.

"Why don't you grab a pair of scissors?"

The picture began to come together: one person was cutting out heavy card-stock kitten faces, while another X-acto knifed the eye and mouth holes, while still another hole-punched the black and white faces and tied on elastic string.  At the far side were Rubbermaid bins filled to the brim with oft-used crayons. 

"We've got to get a good set of these together before the next camp group shows up!"

For the next three-and-a-half hours I sat in the midst of dozens of children and their inexplicably off-work Lincoln Park parents while feverishly slicing generic baby feline masks.  The "jaguar" term was used in loose affiliation with the flippantly declared "South America Day" at the zoo, which did not necessarily accredit the activity (though there was a fairly decent Flamenco band with the according Flamenco dancers to serenade/distract us).  

I think I neglected to say at the beginning that there are two other things that I don't usually hear to describe me: 

*Dr. Spock Protege

*New/Old Money

Or any kind of money, really...except maybe "Dead Money" at the poker table.  

After the last of the tap-tap-tapping from the Flamenco dancers, and the applause from the two-dozen or so in the "crowd," the actually pleasant LPZ employee directed us to tidy up.  She thanked us for our help in preparing for the next day: "South America Day 2: The South Goes North."  

I kept waiting for the "...and go get yourselves a free lunch from the concessions with this voucher!" part of the speech, but that strangely didn't happen.  They didn't even have those awesome animal-shaped fries of my youth...just overpriced pommes frites.  As I walked toward Lincoln Park West and my store (where I was closing that night), I felt as if I were still holding that pair of scissors.  I caressed my right index finger with my right thumb...no feeling in one spot.

It is three days later.  While better, the sensitivity on that portion of my finger is "light" at best.  I'm sure I'd still be aching from swinging a huge piece of metal through a door or something, but at least I'd have been able to SWING A HUGE PIECE OF METAL THROUGH A DOOR.  And, well, maybe a family crying and hugging me, thanking me for my devotion to helping people, and asking me if I wanted to be their swaddled child's godfather.  

Instead, I get a numb finger.  You know what?  Fuck corporate responsibility.

I'm never "helping" anyone again.