I was a straw-hat nincompoop
At the risk of revealing my political persuasion to the untrustworthy interwebs, I participated in my local Democratic caucus for the first time in my inauspicious voting career.
I am not sure prior to 2008 I could have explained to you exactly what a caucus was. Bad American! Go to your room! But I have set things right this time by taking my proper place in this handy chart, in the bottom-most, squashed looking rectangle that represents The People's Will:
After perusing the official documentation ostensibly explaining the caucus process, and nowhere finding details about what actually occurs onsite, I turned to a local blog for the rundown. According to this source, there'd be a couple of hastily scribbled, open-air votes made by people not required to show proof of voter registration or party affiliation, between which one might see heated, rambling 1-minute candidate endorsements from one's nutty neighbors. Sounded pretty scientific to me. Sign me up!
I reported to exactly the location you might expect for such an affair: a sneaker-scented junior high school gym with the pall of 25 years of adolescent angst hanging in the rapidly heating air as frantic, hope-seeking Obamaniacs packed themselves in. A stray Clinton supporter, I bravely slapped on a perky Hillary! sticker handed to me by a resolute-looking twelve year old boy. As I was soon to discover, this would not be our day.
Jittery crowds rushed the rickety cafeteria benches, swarming out any prayer of reading one's precinct number on modest little tri-fold placards. God help you if you came unarmed with this number in advance: a map containing only wiggly lines and no street names was taped on a far, inaccessible wall of the gym, with precinct numbers scribbled upon it in an unsteady hand.
Somehow I found my table, and located a strewn pile of half-completed signup sheets. OBAMA. OBAMA. OBAMA, they read. I furtively scribbled a rogue vote for CLINTON, and tossed my sheet back into the unattended stack, dubious of its fate.
Just then, a pasty boy-man MC in an oversized suit stood up on a table, and shouted into the din. He was completely inaudible over the cacophany of Starbucks-clutching hope-mongers, who heckled him to speak up. His voice eventually rose to a barely audible level, and he proceeded to issue confusing instructions regarding whether it was necessary to stay for the second vote.
Now, I seemed to recall reading that the purpose of the second vote was for a) those flip-floppers who allowed their carefully-considered candidate choice, recorded a scant 30 minutes ago, to be changed on a dime by pushy neighbors high on lattes, or b) if you wanted to ascend to the next level of the above-mentioned graphic as a precinct captain or uber delegate or some such matter. Neither situation applied in my case, and so, desperate for air not superheated by the lungs of hyper Democrats, I headed for the exit.
THE FUTURE BELONGS TO THOSE WHO PREPARE FOR IT TODAY, scolded Malcolm X from the grave, by way of an engraved stone staircase just outside. Comforting words for those of us who wriggled our way into the lowest rung of democracy on a cold Saturday afternoon, that is, until learning the next morning that one's candidate was trounced by a 70% margin statewide.
But it was still caucus day, and I had hope. I walked the two-block road home with my Hillary! sticker bravely affixed. "Clinton sucks!" shouted a slurring teen from the rolled-down window of a beater hatchback. Well, at least he didn't use her first name.
I am not sure prior to 2008 I could have explained to you exactly what a caucus was. Bad American! Go to your room! But I have set things right this time by taking my proper place in this handy chart, in the bottom-most, squashed looking rectangle that represents The People's Will:
After perusing the official documentation ostensibly explaining the caucus process, and nowhere finding details about what actually occurs onsite, I turned to a local blog for the rundown. According to this source, there'd be a couple of hastily scribbled, open-air votes made by people not required to show proof of voter registration or party affiliation, between which one might see heated, rambling 1-minute candidate endorsements from one's nutty neighbors. Sounded pretty scientific to me. Sign me up!
I reported to exactly the location you might expect for such an affair: a sneaker-scented junior high school gym with the pall of 25 years of adolescent angst hanging in the rapidly heating air as frantic, hope-seeking Obamaniacs packed themselves in. A stray Clinton supporter, I bravely slapped on a perky Hillary! sticker handed to me by a resolute-looking twelve year old boy. As I was soon to discover, this would not be our day.
Jittery crowds rushed the rickety cafeteria benches, swarming out any prayer of reading one's precinct number on modest little tri-fold placards. God help you if you came unarmed with this number in advance: a map containing only wiggly lines and no street names was taped on a far, inaccessible wall of the gym, with precinct numbers scribbled upon it in an unsteady hand.
Somehow I found my table, and located a strewn pile of half-completed signup sheets. OBAMA. OBAMA. OBAMA, they read. I furtively scribbled a rogue vote for CLINTON, and tossed my sheet back into the unattended stack, dubious of its fate.
Just then, a pasty boy-man MC in an oversized suit stood up on a table, and shouted into the din. He was completely inaudible over the cacophany of Starbucks-clutching hope-mongers, who heckled him to speak up. His voice eventually rose to a barely audible level, and he proceeded to issue confusing instructions regarding whether it was necessary to stay for the second vote.
Now, I seemed to recall reading that the purpose of the second vote was for a) those flip-floppers who allowed their carefully-considered candidate choice, recorded a scant 30 minutes ago, to be changed on a dime by pushy neighbors high on lattes, or b) if you wanted to ascend to the next level of the above-mentioned graphic as a precinct captain or uber delegate or some such matter. Neither situation applied in my case, and so, desperate for air not superheated by the lungs of hyper Democrats, I headed for the exit.
THE FUTURE BELONGS TO THOSE WHO PREPARE FOR IT TODAY, scolded Malcolm X from the grave, by way of an engraved stone staircase just outside. Comforting words for those of us who wriggled our way into the lowest rung of democracy on a cold Saturday afternoon, that is, until learning the next morning that one's candidate was trounced by a 70% margin statewide.
But it was still caucus day, and I had hope. I walked the two-block road home with my Hillary! sticker bravely affixed. "Clinton sucks!" shouted a slurring teen from the rolled-down window of a beater hatchback. Well, at least he didn't use her first name.
posted by Strikethru at
3:49 PM
2 Comments:
Notice how YOU are at the BOTTOM of that chart. And THEY are at the TOP.
You should be a libertarian. You could be at the top. Oh, actually, depending on the fervor of your particular brand of libertarianism, you could be the only one on the chart.
Something to think about.
Great job going to this event for your country, Tiny-Dog. I also went to mine, and it was exactly as you described.
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