Tuesday, November 02, 2004 · posted at 10:37 PM
Free Pizza and Town Hall Meeting Fridays

Cumulus nimbus hovering over my head. The black cloud. Was that a drop?
      - Lorelai, Gilmore Girls, "You Jump, I Jump, Jack"


Today is Election Day and marks my voting debut.

Various disillusionments sprung from this year's election, but in an effort to maintain the tone of this blog, I'm going to focus on a cosmetic one. I echo anachronic's question of this manner - Is it common knowledge that polling places are often synonymous with "location to store your cars, bikes, and other modes of transportation"? By that, I mean the garage of Mr. and Mrs. Neighbors-Next-Door.

Rather than the large recreation rooms and centers I always see during election coverage on tv, I voted in the two-car garage of a family with a minivan, two point five kids and a golden retriever (minus the white picket fence - that's against community development regulations). I picked San Diego's next mayor in an IKEA-lit 342 sq-foot room next to a bicycle pump and underneath a foam swimming noodle.

I guess considering the nation's proclivity toward mixing church and state, I should just be glad that I got to vote in a location free from religious paraphernalia.

Rewind. I had heard the rumors of voting in a garage once the voter registration cards started hitting mailboxes... but even then I read "garage" and thought "warehouse, deserted storage facility," not four-bedroom single family house at the end of the cul-de-sac.

It was as though they had just taken their Costco folding table and turned it into voter check-in central. I swear I could see the remnants of the Labor Day potato salad on that thing. Prom queen elections have been more elaborate than this.

The "polls" consisted of cardboard folding displays illuminated by book lights. When you're walking up the driveway, the polling place looked like an overgrown science fair with 3-sided poster boards. Where were the baking soda volcanoes and the potato-powered clocks?

The idea of protecting the privacy of one's vote is good… the execution not so much. I'm not going to liken the polls to sardines, but the spacing of the polls afforded as much privacy as the "stand behind here" sign at the pharmacy between the instructions for your Levitra medication and the hearing-abled patrons behind you.

And because I couldn't get the ballot box to eat my ballot, I all but pulled it out of the secrecy folder. The paper ballot falls neatly into the cardboard box beneath the electronic scanner… but where does the actual vote go? Electronic signals are sent to satellites that report back to the precinct? Electronic counters are taken in armored transport to city hall?

I think I need to volunteer in the next election, if only to crack the mysteries of who gets to house and man these little subsets of decision making. Seriously, what are the regulations for these little polling places? I showed up with registration card in hand and three forms of ID… only the former was necessary to get a coveted ballot. I think I heard the guy behind me say he had his roommate's registration card. And the junk in someone's garage might be subconsciously influencing voting a certain way. I wonder if I could get a grant to study the effects of surfboards on partisan choice.

Talk about disconcerting - the idea that the nation's leaders are being picked at overgrown bake sales (3 cookies for 25 cents). I can only imagine what the polling places in middle America (the blood clot of the nation) are like. I'm going absentee ballot next time.

Choose or lose. Or choose and still lose. At least Puff Daddy won't kill me (I'll wait for government policies to do that).

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