Things were great here; I just wish the rest of the country would've followed suit, and my condolences to those members living in places where it didn't happen.
WI did good at a state level.
My state did ok. Dean Heller R kept a seat he was appointed to earlier. When they called it it was close, less then 1.5 points per our friends at Fox. On a local level some Ron Paul types voted to get rid of our town board and let the county take over our town, not a great idea. It lost by less then 40 votes. (I keep hearing different numbers, they are all under 40) We also voted not to raise our fuel tax by .03 a gallon.
Clark County (Las Vegas) had the unions bussing people in to vote. Those union workers had to be picked up and led like sheed to the polls. I'm sure the poll workers started to get the munchies from the smell of second hand marijuana smoke. :rofl:
The union officials were checking the list, like Santa Claus, and checking it twice to make sure everyone had voted, those that did not, were paid a house call.
One voter they grabbed when she was still in her bath tub, giving her a free ride to the polls:
(http://www.fooducate.com/blog/wp-content/media/cheetos-girl-in-bath.jpg)
First, a middle-aged caucasian women comes to the door in her slippers. Her husband isn't home, but she assures Rangel both of them will be at the polls tomorrow, voting for Obama.
Three-doors down an African-American male answers. He lives with his mother.
"Do you work?" Rangel asks him.
"No," he responds timidly.
"Then please make sure it's the first thing you do tomorrow," she says. "And take your mother with you."
Rangel likes to start with a simple questions like if they have a job. That way, she says, the person can start mentally planning their day with voting in mind.
http://www.neontommy.com/news/2012/11/nevada-unions-make-final-push-mobilize-voters
“I’m so happy you’re still going,†the neighbor’s wife said to me after the caretaker left.
She was just then finishing up whatever she was doing to the turkeys, which I’m to put into the oven beginning circa 4:00 in the morning. And then about the time I’m heading to town to the primitiveless Thanksgiving dinner, her husband will be here picking it up for their own dinner.
“But I have a problem with it,†I admitted. “All these people old enough to be my parents, give or take a few years either way. They’re almost exact contemporaries of my parents, and seeing them as they are now, it gets discombobulating.â€
“How so?†she asked.
I can’t explain it, I said; there’s no way I can articulate what really bothers me about it, only that it bothers me greatly, causing enormous internal convulsions.
“As you know, my father died when I was 17, and he was 59. And then the next year, my mother died when I was 18, and she was 54. When a person dies, one’s image, one’s perception, of them is frozen, petrified, in the mind, as they aren’t going to get any older.
“Now, 59 and 54 isn’t young, but it isn’t old either.
“All my adult life, I’ve seen my parents as they were then.
“I can’t possibly imagine them as being ancient; no way.
“It used to freak me, when meeting the parents of college classmates and roommates--of course, years after college--who were about my parents’ age, and how old they were.
“My parents using a cane or a walker or sitting in a wheelchair; my parents absent-minded and forgetful; my parents in old age? No way. Despite all the mental gymnastics, I can’t see it, I can’t imagine it. There’s a ’block’ somewhere.
“Oddly, it’s the same at the other end of the spectrum, when running into a high-school classmate of my younger brother. My younger brother died when he was 17, and I was 19, and there’s that ’picture’ of how he was then; it’s never changed, because I never saw him grow any older.
“And then I run into one of his classmates, now middle-aged, maybe pot-bellied, maybe balding, and in some cases a recent grandparent.
“No way; this can’t be somebody who was once a child with, a playmate with, a classmate with, my younger brother. No way in Hell can I imagine my younger brother being like them, if he’d lived.
“It’s dispiriting, it’s melancholy, how that happens. I can’t explain what it is or why it is, only that it makes me feel very disheartened, that such happens to people. On the outside, I handle it okay, but I’m always in a funk for several days afterwards.â€
Then deciding I’d probably become even more incoherent about the issue, I quickly changed the subject, asking the neighbor’s wife why I was going to be cooking two turkeys.
But barely had I begun to ask the question when her cellular telephone rang, and she had to take off.
- - - - - - - - - -
--okay, this is the end of this narrative, in which things aren't turning out the way I'd hoped they would; a new one starts after the primitiveless Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow