I Saw the Sign
So for today’s long-delayed Moose post, I’m showin’ ya some regular ole street posters that a graphic designer gathered from around his neighborhood, redesigned, and then replaced in his community. He maintained the messages, but jazzed ‘em up a bit. Public art, where the medium is the message. Way cool!
Also (potentially) cool is that I have my own story about jazzy re-styled posters, as a thematic, essay-esque accompaniment to this artistic showcase. Here goes. You coming? Good.
I’ve never had any inclination to govern. But when I started going (stir-)crazy senior year, I decided to place a bid for high school office.
The action wasn’t actually fueled by leadership ambition. It certainly wasn’t “for college.” And it DEFINITELY wasn’t to enact any sort of change in our venerable educational institution.
Nay – it was for a far simpler, stupider reason: to make posters.
After years of seeing our tiled walls plastered with bad puns, bad photos, embarrassing spelling errors, and the most egregious of sloppy magic marker-ing (FOR SHAME), it one day hit me that this niche of severely unprofessional, irritatingly indulgent, rarely original, cloyingly self-promotional student marketing was not just for the select few who wanted to duke out their choices for school-event DJs (which, despite only going to one Homecoming dance for about 20 minutes—and mostly for irony!!!—I deliberated with certainty was in fact a moot point, as the mix-masters likely just siphoned mainstream school-bus-favorite Z100 and piped it out of jumbo speakers into our linoleumed cafeteria). Anyone with guts and poster board could make a run for it.
It turned out that printer paper also worked fine.
With nothing else to do after school (I may or may not have had homework, that, in quite un-Allison fashion, I may or may not have completed – recall my mention in paragraph one of going crazy), I set to work.
This was in the days before Google Image (think back – way back – to the end of the 20th century), so finding wacky pictures to adorn my silly little signs took considerably more effort. I went to actual websites (heeey, Geocities) to pick out pics of RuPaul, Little House on the Prairie, Squeaky Fromme, Hawaii Five-O, The Noozles, and The Snorks. I scanned in vintage lenticular postcards of 1960s Barbie and friends. I even made some grade-school-level quasi-abstract art in Microsoft Paint (how quaint!).
Lest you be scratching yr noggie right now over how these images might correlate to high school government, I realize I have neglected to mention what position I was running for, and it is a major plot point in this story. So, I will tell you. Random rep.
Anyway, I heard it through the grapevine that, this year, they would also be upping the representation “for the people.” Once the results for the regular slots were tabulated, the newly chosen student govvies would meet up in their dedicated clubhouse (a small private room near the aforementioned linoleumed cafeteria), whip out a registry of all of the students in the class, and call out two numbers. The first proclaimed number was the page. The second, the entry on the list of that particular page. And thusly, our inaugural random rep would be appointed.
I may need to clarify that, yes, random rep really does mean a randomly selected representative. And random really does mean beyond your control. Running for this position was like lobbying to win the lotto, or asking certain sperm to help create you.
To me, this odd (and against-the-odds) scenario represented not inevitable disappointment, but guaranteed absurdity, and all without a hit to my self-esteem. I literally had nothing to lose (or—for that matter—win). For the first time in a class-wide popularity contest, rejection was not an option. I could be fearless.
For one, I even went so far as to adopt my own nihilistic catchphrase for the job: “Vote Allison for Random Rep – Because Your Vote Doesn’t Count.” Unfortunately, even though the principal saw how, indeed, one’s vote (or non-vote) for an un-runnable, arbitrarily-selected position bore no consequence, he still insisted I take it down, so as not to invoke apathy among the student body regarding the democratic process—or, God forbid, anarchy.
The principal wasn’t the only one who was a little puzzled. Nobody really seemed to get it. Which—on top of my being allowed to showcase bizarre imagery in conjunction with a bullshit message—was maybe the greatest coup of all.
Meanwhile, the biggest surprise was when several of my peers showed their support—not for my goofy gag, but for my alleged candidacy. “I’ll vote for you!” they’d assure me. “But you can’t,” I’d reply. “I’m not really on the ballot.” To which a number promised, “Don’t worry, I’ll write you in.”
My run for random rep was the first (but not last) time I’d throw my hat into an election, and, despite my complete disinterest in actually holding office or throwing hats, I confess that a certain campaign fever took over. By which I mean I got a giant kick seeing what (granted, benign) ridiculousness I was getting away with.
Election day came and went, and, lo and behold, I did not climb aboard the civic participation train.
But a few days later, I bumped into one of our elected class officials, who offered me his sympathy for my “loss.”
Elected Class Official: I’m really sorry you didn’t get random rep. I know how much you wanted it.
Allison: No, it’s OK. I mean, it’s random. The chances of my getting picked were 1 in…300? I don’t know. I can’t do math. The point is that I was not counting on winning.
ECO: Yeah, but, you wanted to win.
Allison: Actually, and no offense to this most honorable of extracurricular distinctions that I TOTALLY respect, but, um, I kinda just wanted to…um…make posters…?
ECO: Yeah, I know, we LOVED your posters! You made so many of them—really put in an effort. We’re really sorry you weren’t picked.
After I got over thinking this kid was a stinkin’ idiot, I reviewed his statements once more. He had never shown himself to give a shit about me previously, so his contrition gave me pause.
I wondered, if he was expressing so much remorse, did this mean there had actually been a for-real discussion about selecting me? (Even though this would have very obviously gone against the sacred principle of randomness upon which the position was created—thus desecrating the very dignity and purpose of the supposedly “everyman” selection. HEATHENS. All of them. Government clearly cannot be trusted.)
I imagined all the arguments they’d volleyed back and forth when making this very important, and somewhat insane, deliberation:
- She’s crazy
- She’ll never wake up early enough for our morning meetings
- She hates this place
- She doesn’t give a shit about “the issues”
- Sometimes she exhibits halitosis from an unfortunate nasal drip
- She’s always making dirty jokes
- She’s crazy
- No, I mean, really crazy
- She gives good head
But aside from that last one (no one at my school would know this, and more importantly, if they said so, they’d be dead wrong), all of these assessments would be totally correct.
And so, unwanted power still ungraspable, I accepted defeat honorably, and without protest.
