The following is blog by a Coma resident excerpted as a community service by Coma New Daily.

By Marybell Davis

Daddy Warbucks: Marybell my friend is looking for an office assistant at his law firm. How about you check it out? He said your ability to find out personal information using Google could really help his divorce practice.
Me: Daddy, I don’t need a job. I already have one. And it doesn’t pay.

Right now, this not-for-profit detective needs to figure out whether elections have consequences.

I recently read that but is it true? It’s definitely a mystery that needs to be solved.
I hate politics so instead of asking an old, fat person with a weird comb-over, I turned to a real expert on elections and their impacts: Ryan Seacrest.
Ryan understands democracy as started by the Greeks (who use too much onion and olive on everything). He understands that if you pay 99 cents each time you have to call in to vote and Coca-Cola and the Ford Fusion sponsor the election you can pick a clear winner.
But will that winner actually go on to do something?

The weird thing I’ve noticed is that it’s frequently the runner up who’s the real winner. Pay 99 cents for someone who wins and ends up working at the local county fair side stage or vote for the runner up who’s going to go places, like Elliot Yamin or Jennifer Hudson.
So I guess one consequence of an election is we get to find out who is going to win and go on to a great career as a barista. Hello, David Cook!

Another consequence is that someone is going to get my 99 cents per call–that can be more like 99 cents x 50 if I’ve had a wine cooler high ball. So who cares who got the free year supply of coke and a Ford Fusion because the clear winner is Ryan Seacrest. And unlike real elections, American Idol elections put a real painful hurt on my bank account.
Clearly, the mystery is no mystery at all — elections are all about money and bad decisions. The main consequence is that I need to learn to live with my bad choices.

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Sadie Cracker, Coma News Daily columnist

When I moved back to Coma it was for my kids, because I was alone, and also for my father Stan Bargemeyer who after losing my mother decided to intern at Coma News Daily.
My father and I don’t have a lot in common other than the fact that we have both lost a spouse. Sometimes we meet at Bear’s Biker Bar at night for a drink–he gets the decaf and I go for something a little stronger. We meet here because it’s a middle ground and it’s a place where he and I aren’t lost. Him in his mind and me in my grief.
Charlie, the Coma librarian, is standing on the makeshift stage. The Christmas lights are still up and there’s a tree behind him that’s lost a lot of it’s pine needles but still holds on to it’s twinkling lights.

Tonight Charlie sings “Landslide” which still gets to me. On the radio, Coma News Daily is reporting that the Town Council is proposing a new requirement that children wear helmets all the time for “safety purposes”.
“Time makes you bolder, children get older, I’m getting older too,” Charlie sings.
“That song isn’t written by Axl Rose.” Stan says.
“No Dad,” I say.
Dad’s memory goes sometimes. He’s on an Axl Rose kick right now and thinks the rocker is one of his neighbors.
He points at Charlie and says to me, “You’re a better singer.”
Charlie nods and keeps singing.
Dad smiles and holds my hand.
“Wish they would keep these kids safer these days,” he says.”We kept you so safe.”
And I laugh and think about the 10-mile bike rides and other activities I would do alone as a kid, and then I think about how I fear little Jimmy riding his bike alone and wonder what happened to this X’ed out generation where we fear everything.
“You are a much better mother than a singer,” Dad says. He looks at Charlie and yells, “She’s a much better singer.”
And Charlie stops playing mid-Landslide and says, “get up here and sing it, Sadie.”
I shake my head. I’m a mom. I’m alone. I’ve forgotten how to sing and play guitar.

“Get up there and sing it, Sadie. Don’t be afraid. Just like I taught you as a kid,”  Dad says and gives me kiss on the cheek.
So I stand. There’s only five people in the bar. I know them all and three of them are drunk. I walk up to the stage and Charlie hands me his guitar.

I turn around and the stage lights blind me. I see my father, who’s older now. Time has streaked his cheeks with heavy lines. I am sixteen again. I am wearing a too small Nirvana tee shirt. I am in a bar with my guitar. I am Debbie Harry. I am Joan Jett. I am. I am gonna rock this joint. I am.
I am older, too, and I don’t know what to play. My mind is blank. I don’t know what to sing.
“Just sing already.” a drunk biker yells.
“You got it, Sadie,” Charlie says.

I am Cyndi Lauper?
And so I strum the only thing that comes to mind ‘Time after Time,’ because that’s what I sing to the boys at night because I am not Debbie Harry anymore. These days I am just here to catch little people when they fall. Dad stands. He’s clapping. This is embarrassing.
Bear is behind the bar and he starts singing with me. Charlie walks up to the stage and stands beside me too.
“If you fall I will catch you, I will be waiting, Time after Time…”

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