30 September 2002 ~

Jake had never been to a rally before. I don't know exactly HOW that's possible, as he's lived in Olympia, on and off, for a much longer time than I have. And if Oly's not partying, it's rallying. I don't know. Maybe some of these Oly-kids just get tied up and locked in closets or something. I mean, never going to a rally, yet living in Olympia, is like living in Iowa and never seeing corn.

It was about time for Jake to go to a rally.

He chose his cause from an Evergreen billboard stacked high with causes and pleas for roommates: Marijuana Legalization.

Now, as most of us here know, Helena doesn't smoke weed, and particularly not in the Northwest, where weed is not only classified as a narcotic, but also a hallucinogen, a stimulant, a tranquilizer, a study aid, and a radioactive substance. But that doesn't mean I'm not pro-legalization. See, if you legalize it, then your chances of getting other yucky stuff in your weed go down dramatically. I don't want my friends unknowingly smoking dog poop just because they wanted a joint. And if you legalize it, my friends are slightly less likely to be wandering around town in the middle of the night, desperately searching for somebody they know well enough to call a "hook-up."

So I accompanied Jake to his first rally.

Jake is not a stupid individual. Not by a long shot. Jake is incredibly intelligent, can tell you any damned thing you want to know about a variety of useless and meaningful things. On several occasions, Jake has startled me with some very profound ideas. But Jake has these moments of complete dumbassed-ness. Much like, for example, your friend and mine, Helena Thomas. No wonder Jake and I hang out.

We got to the rally. We listened to some people speaking: baby-rapers get three years in prison, pot-smokers get thirty... Jake was enthralled. I guess he didn't know that, like, at least a good 80% of Olympia is pro-legalization. Perhaps Jake was so enthralled that it brought on one of these moments of dumbassed-ness...

There was a lady with a dog sitting on the grass near us. The lady had a sign taped to her jacket that read: "Medical Marijuana Patient: Targetted By Law Enforcement," or something to that effect. Her dog was wearing a blue harness that read "service animal." The lady was clutching the dog. It was a very, very cute dog.

Jake decided to pet the cute dog. Jake likes dogs.

"Psst... Jake... you're not supposed to pet them without asking permission from the owner first..."

Jake looked at me as though I'd informed him he wasn't allowed to BREATHE without asking the lady's permission. "Why not!? It's just a cute dog! I pet dogs all the time! I never ask!"

"Because it's a SERVICE dog... See the harness?"

"A what?"

"A SERVICE dog... Like... a guide dog? For like, blind people, and people with other disabilities?"

Jake looked as if the Legalization People had informed him that pot does indeed render men impotent. Just this astonished, confused, heartbroken expression. You'd think he was six and got sent to bed without supper for doing something he had no idea was naughty. I guess I would have looked the same way if I'd just found out that certain cute dogs aren't to be petted.

"I thought... crap... I thought it was just like, a political thing, like service dog was something about pot legalization."

"You thought WHAT?"

"There were like, THREE dogs there that had that on them; I thought it was a protest or something... I didn't know service dogs were for... aw shit."

"No! It means the people they're with probably have glaucoma and use the dogs to get around, and the weed to help their glaucoma!"

"Oh CRAP!"

"Dude! Jake! It's okay! So you petted a dog you weren't supposed to pet! It's okay! It's not like you tried to give it a bone or anything!"

"...Or play fetch with it..."

"Here boy, go get the frisbee..."

"Want a milkbone?"

"And at least you didn't try to like, blow pot smoke in its face."

Heh heh heh!

Jake and I continued discussing the role of service dogs:

"Once," I stated, "I saw this program about a lady who had epilepsy really bad. So she had a service dog who would help her do things around the house. I guess she had real bad balance, and it was hard for her to get around sometimes. So the dog would do things like help her get her laundry out of the dryer, and things like that. He'd turn on the lights and things. Only, once, this lady was gonna have a really bad seizure, like a ten-minute one or something. And she was in the middle of a parking lot or something. So the dog KNEW this somehow, even though the woman didn't know. And the dog pushed over to a soft area and jumped on her to make her sit down, so that when she had the seizure, she didn't hit her head. And after that, the dog always knew, and would make sure the lady was in a safe place."

Jake pondered this.

I pondered it too.

"Wow."

"Yeah, I know, really."

"Wow."

A long pause, then Jake spoke, proudly: "My dog eats my spit."

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It's amazing the sorts of things you can learn at rallies.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Haven't been doing a damned thing with my life lately. Rather, I've been TRYING to do things, but nothing ever really gets done. I have an informal interview today for a job with the school's newspaper. I hope I get it. I think I'm enough of a nerd to present myself as someone who truly, truly loves proofreading. (Which I do... I mean, except in this journal... Fuck proofing this journal...)

Tomorrow starts bright and early with a meeting between myself and my co-tutor, and the class we're tutoring for. Then it's off to my own classes. I'm exhausted already.

* * * * * * * * * * *

New installment of my EchoSiberia column, coming soon (like, within the next few hours...) -- check often.

Love,
~Helena*

PS -- October 9th, Ralphie's coming to Evergreen... Er... uh... Ralph Nader, that is. I keep forgetting, nobody's supposed to know he's my secret boyfriend...