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Published: Sep 16, 2005 01:41 PM
Mon - November 1, 2004
Winter Of Our Discontent
With so many candidates and
clauses vying for my attention, I wonder: Is there such a thing as Voter's
Block?
With
only a few hours left before the polls open, one thought dominates my
homeland-loving, terrorist-hating, human-rights abiding brain: Is this election
over
yet?
We had more visits from political operatives than from trick-or-treaters this weekend. Eight calls from campaigns, 12 flyers tossed on the porch, and four personal visits by volunteers eager to get out the vote for their candidates. One of those fellows was so eager to spread the good word that he actually entered our backyard when no one answered the front door.
This didn't have the salutary effect he had anticipated.
If it's this bad in California, what must it be like elsewhere? Forget vampires, werewolves, and Frankenstein's monster; I can't imagine a scarier Halloween scenario than being an independent voter at home tonight in Ohio. You'd have to beat off political zombies with a stick. I wonder: Would Karl Rove's minions run from a flaming torch or would it simply provoke them to relate the President's stance on terrorism? (Mr. Bush is opposed).
There's a fine line between vigorous campaigning and just plain stalking. Candidates who crossed that line this year with overfunded, gushily exhuberant pitches for my vote can sleep soundly tonight knowing that it belongs to someone else.
(Query to tomorrow's winners: Should we stay up late expecting invitations to a fireside chat next month to discuss how important our issues remain to you? I thought not.)
I heard on the radio last week that the major political parties have assembled teams of more than 10,000 lawyers to challenge voting irregularities in the presidential election. With polls consistently showing a divided electorate, a close election seems certain. So party leaders take note: If you plan to count hanging chads again, I am voting for Ralph Nader tomorrow—as many times as the election irregularities will allow.
It's one thing to undermine faith in another party's candidate; quite another, to undermine faith in a nation's political system. I can't think of anything more harmful than casting doubt on this country's electoral process at a time when citizens are bitterly divided by fear of terrorism at home and concern about war abroad. If you've got a beef with the process, change the process. But in the meantime, keep your lawyers' noses to the grindstone, not the ballot box, or I assure you that I will vote against your candidates without exception for at least the next six years.
Frankly, an opportunity to vote a straight ticket would be a relief at this point. It's hard to believe that we've had more than 200 years of elections in this country and still can't provide enough information for the average voter to feel competent making choices. For example, the 2004 ballot requires me to declare new members of the San Mateo County Board of Harbor Commissioners when nothing in my voter pamphlet explains what the post involves, let alone why six people are campaigning for it. (I've decided to vote for the three candidates whose personal statements mentioned familiarity with water. This seems like a safe bet).
As much as I loathe having too little information, having too much can be even worse. In California, we'll put propositions to a popular vote if they can garner as many signatures of support as would fit comfortably on a get well card. This means that tomorrow I'll have to wade through 16 state and six county measures—a half dozen of which totally contradict each other.
I repeat: Is this election over yet?
We had more visits from political operatives than from trick-or-treaters this weekend. Eight calls from campaigns, 12 flyers tossed on the porch, and four personal visits by volunteers eager to get out the vote for their candidates. One of those fellows was so eager to spread the good word that he actually entered our backyard when no one answered the front door.
This didn't have the salutary effect he had anticipated.
If it's this bad in California, what must it be like elsewhere? Forget vampires, werewolves, and Frankenstein's monster; I can't imagine a scarier Halloween scenario than being an independent voter at home tonight in Ohio. You'd have to beat off political zombies with a stick. I wonder: Would Karl Rove's minions run from a flaming torch or would it simply provoke them to relate the President's stance on terrorism? (Mr. Bush is opposed).
There's a fine line between vigorous campaigning and just plain stalking. Candidates who crossed that line this year with overfunded, gushily exhuberant pitches for my vote can sleep soundly tonight knowing that it belongs to someone else.
(Query to tomorrow's winners: Should we stay up late expecting invitations to a fireside chat next month to discuss how important our issues remain to you? I thought not.)
I heard on the radio last week that the major political parties have assembled teams of more than 10,000 lawyers to challenge voting irregularities in the presidential election. With polls consistently showing a divided electorate, a close election seems certain. So party leaders take note: If you plan to count hanging chads again, I am voting for Ralph Nader tomorrow—as many times as the election irregularities will allow.
It's one thing to undermine faith in another party's candidate; quite another, to undermine faith in a nation's political system. I can't think of anything more harmful than casting doubt on this country's electoral process at a time when citizens are bitterly divided by fear of terrorism at home and concern about war abroad. If you've got a beef with the process, change the process. But in the meantime, keep your lawyers' noses to the grindstone, not the ballot box, or I assure you that I will vote against your candidates without exception for at least the next six years.
Frankly, an opportunity to vote a straight ticket would be a relief at this point. It's hard to believe that we've had more than 200 years of elections in this country and still can't provide enough information for the average voter to feel competent making choices. For example, the 2004 ballot requires me to declare new members of the San Mateo County Board of Harbor Commissioners when nothing in my voter pamphlet explains what the post involves, let alone why six people are campaigning for it. (I've decided to vote for the three candidates whose personal statements mentioned familiarity with water. This seems like a safe bet).
As much as I loathe having too little information, having too much can be even worse. In California, we'll put propositions to a popular vote if they can garner as many signatures of support as would fit comfortably on a get well card. This means that tomorrow I'll have to wade through 16 state and six county measures—a half dozen of which totally contradict each other.
I repeat: Is this election over yet?