Vote Early And Often

Election-season is always most Intoxicating, with the whiff of Democracy perfuming the air much like the Springtime blossoms on a particularly gnarled Tree in the Park. There are few pleasures to compare to the Thrill of reasoned discourse; the colorful Pageantry of the bunting, posters, and beribboned straw Boater hats; and, above all, the heady electric Thrill of going down to the polling-place and pulling that Lever. With every Tug I give that rusty iron switch, I feel as if I were laying another Brick firmly into the solid brick Foundation of our Republic. It is a most Fulfilling, karmically Artistic gesture.

Primary season, in general, is but a mild Prelude to these charged Autumnal months, a political Hors d'oeuvre to whet the Appetite before one chooses the entrée. As there is rarely much of a Contest for my party's Nomination (the Bull Moose party), I generally pass Primary season in idle Anticipation of the headier politics to come as Election Day draws nearer. The debates are always more Pithy as the leaves begin to turn; this early in the Year, I normally spend my days leisurely ensuring that the Bunting I hang out my balcony Window is properly cleaned and Pressed.

But this season seems Different somehow. News of a closely contested Race reaches my ears Daily at the crackling center of Activity that is our News-room (well, the bags of pre-packaged Crackers my staff seems to live on make a crackling noise in any event). The thrust and Parry of finely-tuned smears, the delicate Imbroglios surrounding vaguely theoretical Economic Plans, the ever-present race for Funds, the ceaseless and passionately Heated disputes down at the Club over whatever campaign Minutiae are immortalized in the morning Papers: the Democratic primary has the very glossy Fervor of an autumnal Election season! And I with no elections to participate in for Months to come: It is more than a red-blooded American can bear!

It starts innocently enough in the News-room when Emmett stirs from his customary Resting-place on the Hearth to inquire whether the lads wish to order Luncheon. There is Dissension among the ranks concerning what to Purchase, and Emmett proposes to put the matter to a Vote! I leap forth with my walking-stick in the Air to eagerly cast my ballot for a Pizza-pie with Sausages and Peppers: a combination with potentially Disastrous consequences for my gastric constitution (not unlike voting for a Libertarian) but the very process of voting is Immensely satisfying. I must have More!

I dash out the door in an excited Daze, and my feet take me to the Tobacconist, where three gentlemen are debating the respective merits of Cavendish Long-cut and Framingham Shag tobacco.

"Gentlemen!" I cry out. "Let us put the matter to a Vote!"

Framingham Shag ekes out the Narrowest of victories, leading me to crave still More democratic indulgence. Quickly: to the Club, where we vote upon the best Golfer to hit the Scottish links! To the automobile- garage, there to vote upon optimal Tyre Pressure numbers! To the shoe-shine lad's station, to vote with several Passers-by on the precise shade of Brown to be desired in one's Footwear! I wander the town with reckless Abandon, voting hither and Yon: Yes! No! The gentleman with the Handlebar Moustache! Nineteen years Old! There is no End of decisions upon which one may Vote, if one has the proper Determination and a pad of Paper!

I end up home before my Hearth late in the evening, having voted no less than a hundred and forty Six different times on matters ranging from the Mundane to the truly Esoteric. It was, perhaps, a Self-Indulgent day of sorts. But the democratic Impulse is not unlike any Muscle of the body: if you don't use it, you risk Losing it. I am comfortable that, this day, I have done my bit in some small way.