Ann
R. Kist
 I
have a friend I've known for decades. Smart
guy, great sense of the absurd, good to
his daughter, also a freelance artist like
myself.
He won't vote, and never has, that I know
of.
He says it's because the fix is in, that
it doesn't matter who you vote for, that
they're all criminals, that he's an anarchist,
or that his vote won't make a difference.
In years
past
he may have had a valid point regarding
that last item, at least as it affects
local state
politics.
There's so much fundamentalist red-neckery
in this vast Texas countryside that for
the past two decades it has overwhelmed
the Democratic preference among the major
cities. (I don't consider Fort Worth a
major city, which dependably leans red.
There's something wrong with those people.)
This year, though, it's different. Senator
Wendy Davis trails that corrupt weasel,
Greg Abbott, by only a few points in the
governor's race, mostly because she's a
great candidate but also due to Texas's
burgeoning Hispanic population.
Without any doubt my friend's
vote could honestly make a difference,
and it'd be a big one as he has trouble
getting good health care and Davis has already said
she would expand the Medicaid side
of
the ACA. His vote could literally
be good for his own health, but he still
won't enter the booth and pull the lever.
Thoughts of pushing my "anarchist" pal
under a bus occurs to me every voting
cycle
but
that
would mean one less vote for Democrats
in this state (mine) so the voting process
benefits him indirectly whether he knows
it or not.
You matter. So don't wait until
your friends toss you under a bus. Get
registered
and
vote.
Now THERE'S a slogan!
----------
This past weekend a local
used-book establishment held a MASSIVE
sale here in Dallas. It
could easily have been called "The
Million Book Sale." I, of course,
wallowed in ecstasy amongst the selections
but my happiest moments were spent rooting
through the humor section. I found it odd
that could I buy all the
"Bloom
County"
titles I could
eat... but not one "Calvin & Hobbes".
This says something about the legacy of
all
three titles.
My absolute treasure was a fat, 75-year-old
hardback called "The Master
Book of Humorous Illustrations", by
Leewin B. Williams, 400 pages of the finest
monkeyshines
and
tomfoolery a traveling salesman could hope
for. Most of the entries are quite
long but here's a short example of pre-war
japes:
"Daddy, may I have a dime?" asked
little Georgie.
Dad obliged, with a smile.
"This time, you won't make me give
it back after the company's gone, will
you Daddy?" was
little Georgie's loud remark.
I'm in heaven.
P.S., if you curious Google books has a
copy of this book in their library but
won't allow me to link to it, but you can
find it
near the top of the results at
this Google link.
------------
On the health front,
I'm not so much conquering my pericarditis
as becoming
accustomed to the ever-fading symptoms.
I still feel my heart occasionally caroming
around
in my chest but I know it's because an
infected pericardium probably has all the
dryer-fresh softness of an Armenian stevedore's
day-old beard and even something as rugged
as heart muscle sometimes gets fed
up and goes "Gross!
Gross! Gross!" after ricocheting off
that rough surface all day. At the very
least I'm sleeping much better and, as
you can see, I'm feeling well enough to
add color to the 'toon. It's a start.
=Lefty=
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