Travis LaFrance
At Home in the Halls of Power

Yes on Women's Lib

So far I've only missed the speeches of two presidents and one vice-president. This was beyond my control. While the action was happening at the Fleet Center, I was still straightening out my credentials from my home/office here in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and inadvertently missed the train to Boston.

You might think that this Polish neighborhood is a strange home for an author of my stature--certainly with my book advances and the like, I could afford to live in a place where English is a first language. Let me assure that I moved to Greenpoint for its European sophistication: tubes of kielbasa hanging in the butcher shops, vats of sauerkraut, the occasional drunk face-down on a park bench in McGoldrick Square babbling in his mother tongue. Travis LaFrance lives the Bohemian life.

As an example, let me share a brief encounter I had at the neighborhood laundromat while waiting for word from the DNC. As I pulled my clothes from the dryer, a young Polish lass asked me in her hesitant English if she could use the machine. I answered yes, and even pointed out benevolently that there were a few minutes remaining from my quarters. As I retreated to the folding table, I noted with satisfaction that American fashion had been good to this blossom. No more than 20 years of age, she wore a pair of men's pajamas rolled over at the waistband and a snug halter top revealing a tanned belly button with a ring through it. I studied her, contemplating how she epitomized concepts the multiculturism and women's liberation that make me so proud to be a Democrat.

Just then a tiny piece of fabric hopped from the girls' hands and landed in the basket next to her. I looked closer: it seemed to be a lacy black underthing of the slimmest dimensions. Ah, what finer emblem of an immigrant girl's Americanization than a sexy butt thong! But then I realized with dismay that the girl wasn't aware she'd dropped the thing. I was presented with an ethical dilemma. If I alerted her, she might unfairly suspect me of peeping. If I said nothing, the lonely strip of lace might never be reunited with its mistress.

Finally I put right over pride, and I approached the girl, picked up her thong and handed to her. She gave me a curious glare. She sang out in her native language, and within moments I was surrounded by hulking young Poles with shaved heads and soccer jerseys. Although we shared no language, their raised voices and furious gesticulating made it clear that they appreciated my assisting their sister or cousin or girlfriend. One of the fellows gave me a stout yet good-natured slap on the back, while another did me the honor of toting my laundry bag out the door and depositing it in the street with a rough-hewn old-world directness that I sometimes feel is lacking from my countrymen.

And I hurried out of there, proud of my country, and proud to be heading to Boston to celebrate my country. Needless to say my deft charm employed in the laundromat with this vixen will get me far with the she-bloggers in Boston. Perhaps I'll run into Wonkette and Washingtonienne who would surely appreciate the steady hand of a Man of Letters to guide them in their literary pursuits.

Boston, here I come!