I voted early this morning (actually kind of last night). I had an absentee ballot, because there’s not enough registered voters in my ‘hood to keep a poll open. I filled it out at home, and dropped it off down the street on the way to work.

M., on the other hand, hasn’t changed his address. I’m pretty sure it’s ‘cuz he digs the fucked up place at which he votes. I wrote some shit about it before, how his polling place is a garage. A suburban fucking garage.
Some guy’s house.

I went with him a-polling and saw it for myself. Chaos worthy of, I dunno, Haiti, maybe? Maybe somewhere in Kabul. Nah, inspectors probably kept that shit out of the garage.

In San Jose, we got the tree-lined streets of cliched TV suburban-ness.

And, you got garages. AKA, polling places in the eighth largest economies in the world.

Like any garage, there’s a bunch of shit. And, like any third world polling place, the families gather round and vote together, people mill about among openly viewable ballots, and all is done under the watchful eye of portraits of important leaders. Leaders like Orville Redenbacher.

But, it’s Cali. It’s Silicon Valley. So, there’s ‘puters. Cutting edge technology, programmed by code monkeys across the world, or inexperiencedly and questionably at Diebold.

I was pretty psyched, M. got the magic Redenbacher screen.