It was a lazy Tuesday night and I was sitting at the bar at the DoubeTree watching a ballgame on TV while nursing a Rum and Coke, with ice. A stranger sat down next to me and soon the conversation turned to local politics. My plan was to stay out of this election, but with a familiar Forestville twang he stated, “This election needs an ombudsman.” I paused before finishing my drink and responded in the affirmative with, “Yeah.”
The stranger seemed satisfied and tossing some bar nuts down his throat, he was off to bother someone else. I took to my journal with a Faber No. 2 pencil and putting lead to paper wrote, “Time to write a Roman a clef, perhaps?”
At the moment the 2018 election was beyond my ken so my attention diverted back to the game. In an effort to remain consistent, I ordered another Rum and Coke, with ice.
Monday July 9
Another day, another mailing arrives. “Jesus! I swear one more of these and I’m going to be checking into a mental health facility. These bullet point screeds are bright, colorful and say nothing,” I railed aloud to the workmen at the house.
Tuesday July 30
Scouring the Bristol Press for local election news, I felt like King Arthur searching the Holy Land in vain for the Grail. The newspaper is littered with arrests but no policy pieces, no debates and no Letters to the Editor. I am a few weeks into this and need a door of egress.
Friday August 17
On a clear night, I was in a home located in the Peoples Republic of Chippens Hill attending a Republican fundraiser with about 70 people. No one can understand the sheer horror I experienced during this visit. Chants of Trump, Trump Trump!, echoed threw the home, out the replacement windows and into the Farmington Valley.
Madness surrounded me. There was a man in the corner reenacting Trump’s Inaugural Address, and the small group surrounding him was spellbound. On the other side of the room, another man was reciting President Ford’s 1976 convention speech. No one was paying attention to him.
There were readings from the Necronomicon, backwards singing priests, and the exchange of sacred fluids. That was before the appetizers! I smiled and said little fearing I would have been chased like the Frankenstein monster with pitchforks and torches.
Saturday September 1
I was invited to an outdoor party held by the Democrats on Federal Hill. The invitation was written in Sanskrit on vintage paper. Arriving late, I observed in my journal, “An idyllic neighborhood ladened with sidewalks and trees, which probably change colors in the fall too. A liberal paradise.”
The talk at lunch was of “sun salutations, yoga mats, Hybrid cars, I love what you have done with your hair and guacamole.” A thought was given to visiting a thrift store later, but that discussion ceases once the pâté was brought out.
At one point during this fête, the Democrats round themselves up and everyone holds hands to celebrate this communal circle jerk.
I scarfed down the guacamole and the pâté and planned my escape because I could not handle the cream cheese and kimchee that was coming from the kitchen. Before returning to the safety of Forestville though, I drove myself to Bristol Hospital to have my stomach pumped.
Tuesday October 23
Did I have a stomach flu or was I just upset watching Henri Martin at the debate?
Thursday November 1
This election has been boring so it could use some good old-fashioned voter suppression to fire things up. I wonder, do the Republican candidates (Cara, Whit and Henri) watch with envious eyes what is happening in Georgia? Yeah, that was a cheap shot, I know. I aim to do better.
Saturday November 3
Elections are like Viet-effing-nam, man! It is the Fog of War and once you are in you can’t get out. However, through the fog, I see a light at the end of the tunnel and it is Wednesday, November 7th, 2018.