Trish and I got our ballots in the mail Thursday. I was, as usual, in a hurry, and, as usual, late, didn’t have time to fill it out, but I was going to Port Townsend; so, I checked out the drop box at the Jefferson County courthouse. Looked pretty secure, set in a parking lot next to the box for dropping off tax payments. I didn’t see an armed guard, but didn’t see any armed militia dudes, either, so, yeah; come Monday… our votes will be in.
It’s not that I don’t trust the mail. I always have. Always did; ever since (late 1950s) I sent in cereal box tops for some sort of sure-to-be disappointing toy (allow six weeks for delivery- What?). In the late 1960s I sent in film I’d shot (or my friends had, at my request), super-8 millimeter moving images of my friends and I (mostly me) on surf adventures and escapades. I can’t remember if I had to pay for the developing, got a free roll, or the other way around.
I love the U.S. Postal Service. In a small town, our Post Office is where you run into folks, be that good, bad, or awkward. We’ve had a box in Quilcene, Surf Route 101, Washington, for 42 years. Love USPS, but even if I wasn’t aware of the Trump donor given the position of head of the postal service, tasked, evidently, with screwing it up; not for voting; not this time.
ANYWAY, I would really rather write about surf and surfing and surfers and such, but it’s a weekend, there may or may not be a swell, there are definitely surfers and surf enthusiasts and surf fans and surf entourage members heading out. HERE’S why possible swells show up more often on weekends- PRAYER.
SO, if you’re out in the water or hanging on the beach talking about ‘this one time, back at surf camp…’ I won’t be there. So, more waves for you and yours. “Good luck,” I always say; let’s just agree to believe I mean it.
IT IS A SACRED RIGHT, the right to vote, a secret ballot for the candidate of one’s choosing. Not arguing the ‘choosing’ part, and I don’t want to necessarily sway your decision, but, right now, I’m CONFIDIN’, I am casting my vote (dropping it carefully into the better-be-secure lock box) for Cool Cat… (rhymes with ‘confidin’). Yeah, and Harris, too.
OH, WAIT, hope you weren’t kept in suspense, there’s no way I’d select Lord of the Flys Mister Pence. AND, even though his smile’s delightful and he’s so pleasingly plump, I feel ill every time I’m subjected to… belch, burp… Fuck it, you know who.
AND, WAIT, probably because I am pissed and whiny about having to work (mostly because it’s not raining, partially because it’s iffy, surf-wise, and it’s a weekend, partially because I do, historically, whine when I can’t go surfing), I want to mention I keep imagining how long D Trump would last in a contentious lineup (as most lineups, increasingly, are) before someone calls him out for getting in the way and just plain sucking.
“Hey, you see that last wave; surfed it bigly; ‘uge air, endless bottom turn; some say it’s the biggest bottom ever; so, huh? Oh, you missed it? Even better. Ask Hannity, ask Graham; Bill Barr; that hot babe we’re getting situated; they’ll tell you… I’m the best, I’m the best; yea, me!”
NOVEMBER 3rd is too long to wait. VOTE!
As far as waves; as, again, I always (whimper, whine) say, “Next Time!” BUT, for this critical election, THIS TIME!