03 November 2010

Practical Politics

(Democratic Frontrunner Ed Muskie self-destructs in New Hampshire, 1972. Photo NBC.)

I voted first in line at the Culpeper Gardens polling station and got the first part of my civic duties out of the way. There was going to be a long stretch between them this Election Day.

The polling station was not particularly crowded, and after getting through the ritual of the rest of the morning, had a good business meeting. Then the afternoon sort of crawled along, trying to stay abreast of the e-mail stream and make some sort of progress on all the rest of the issues.

The election was in the background, of course, with the radio yammering, but the cargo bombs still troubled me, and the sectarian bombings in Iraq left me with the feeling that the last decade, domestic and foreign, had been a colossal mistake.

The sad adventure overseas is not going to end well, I thought, as I made preparations for my remarks to the Big Pink Annual Meeting at the Unitarian-Universalist Church across Route 50.

That is subject to further contemplation, since I may have been hit by The Voodoo after the confrontation with the little Creole guy who parades his tight Speedo around the pool to the dismay of the ladies.

I guess the transition to Fall has not obviated the political maneuverings of the summer. The Creole is an irritating little fellow. Someone- presumably one of the women he attempts to charm, one by one with his male parts so prominently on display, wrote a letter about his conduct under the outside shower, the one in which his Continental sensibilities permits him to pull the fabric of the little swimsuit away from his buttocks and coyly display them to the rest of us.

It became personal when he influenced the Weasel, the young lawyer who was appointed to the Condo Board, to ban smoking on the pool deck. It was done in a parliamentary maneuver conducted as "new business" and unannounced in the monthly meeting agenda.

The deal was done a month after the pool rules for Calendar 2010 were posted for public comment- just three days before Memorial Day, and with no appeal possible to the Board until the June meeting, or nearly a third into the pool season.

The little Creole was quite proud of himself, preening on the concrete and hitting on all and sundry women on the new lounges.

I did the right thing, having learned the practical politics of Big Pink. I started a petition, collected a couple dozen signatures, presented it to the Board at the June meeting and secured a small smoking area back by the grill.

The Creole was incensed, and though open rioting did not erupt, as it did during the legendary Revolt of the Grandmas in '09, resentment simmered through the season.

There were several other long-standing issues about the realignment of the Board. Lynn had to resign as Secretary, due to family commitments that I fully understand. That left an open seat, but the word is that The Weasel intends to wed and resign his position, a development which should have opened another slot for the annual election, was kept quiet, apparently with the intent that the Board could appoint someone of their choosing to the vacancy after the election.

I don't really care, but I don't like parliamentary sneakery, like the smoking ban. Mrs. Hitler wanted me to raise the issue so she could comment. She sits on the Finance Committee, and did not think it appropriate for herself to take the point on the matter. Insider information.

Anyway, I had stopped at Willow after work with a co-worker who has some issues and then proceeded direct to the meeting. I sat in the back and listened to Wulfgang’s speech after the meeting was called to order.

This has been an interesting year for the Board and particularly for Wulfgang. He is an interesting guy, tall and regal, and he has stared down corporate giants big and small to get what he wants for free. Home Depot caved in for a full kitchen remodeling project that he refused to officially accept so many times that the Depot finally had to walk away unpaid. Or the room dividers that the poor Korean vendor gave up on.

The latest is the big stare-down with the Board over the puddle of water  on his balcony, which he escalated into the Great Tape Recording conflict, in which he appeared at each meeting of the Board with a tape recorder and a directional microphone.

He tried hard to look like a moderate this year, clad in a neat three-piece suit, and was not as hysterical as he was in his campaign speech last year when he attacked Dick, the long-standing vice president of the board and nearly reduced him to tears.
The similarity to Ed Muskie’s breakdown outside the Manchester Union offices in the 1972 presidential primary.  Muskie ended his long public service that day, and whether it was melting snow or tears, it didn’t matter a bit, any more than Dick’s emotional response to Wulfgang’s accusations of personal Big Pink conflict of interest with his service and real estate practice.
This year, Wulfgang spoke for only a few minutes and left time for questions, so I could not resist rising to ask about his balcony's water retention problems and the long campaign to get all the rest of us to fix it at our expense, and whether that was something we could expect to continue if he was elected.

Anyway, that led to an insurrection after the speech by the nice lady I was going to vote for, since 007 had withdrawn to avoid triangulating the electorate, and stymie Wulfgang's attempt to make the Board as an elected member.

007 is openly gay, I think, though that was not a campaign issue this year. Wulfgang is too, almost certainly, though that is hardly a campaign issue. All the other rainbow residents in the building keep their distance from him, since the consensus it that Wulfie and his tactics of intimidation against the Board, or anyone who gets in his way, give homosexuality a bad name.

Anyway, someone else from the floor rose to protest the fact that the ballots contained a space directing voting members to write in not only the candidate they were voting for, but also their name and unit.

I don't care, although that means that Doc theoretically could know whether I voted for her husband John, which I did, but the secret ballot seems to have a long history here in America, and on principle, that got me pretty riled up. I took the opportunity to rise and ask the question that Mrs. Hitler had begged me to ask.

Already reeling from the clear mistake in requiring the electorate to identify their votes by name, I veered into the History of America and the sanctity of the ballot box. My remarks apparently set off the little Creole, who rose, out of order, and began a long and bitter ad hominem attack against me.

There is not a lot in life that surprises me anymore, but the vehemence of his attack left me mildly astonished. The little man fulminated in his heavily accented English, announcing bitterly (among other things) that I was a un-American monster who blew smoke at children at the pool.

I like kids, as you know, and have helped raise a couple of them. The blood in my veins that had been flowing nicely went to the boil.

There was an pause in the rhythm of the meeting as people demanded new ballots that did not contain their personal information, the Creole continued to rail against me. I handed my ballot- the one with my name still boldly printed on it- to Mrs. Hitler to turn in for me and strode over to where the Creole was waving his hands in the air.

I am pretty much over being a Navy Captain, but I will confess that the persona still lurks within me, and this was a personal affront that was uncivil and undemocratic.

I know, I know, but it felt so right. I continued right through the civil separation distance and arrived with my nose a few inches away from his, and told him to shut the fuck up.

He raised his hands, wondering if he would be foolish enough to try to hit me. Instead, he cried out: "Push me! You push me!"

I contemplated the fleeting satisfaction I would gain from bouncing him off the wall of the multi-purpose room. It would have felt good for a nano-second, but the consequences would be significant. Common sense blessedly came to me, and I had to satisfy myself with telling him he was an evil old dwarf. I turned on my heel, collected my coat, and walked home.

The perils of the male plumbing in late middle age had me up shortly after three, and I padded to the kitchen after visiting the bathroom.

I knew things were not going well when I got there and my stockinged feet began to squish on the tribal rug. Squish?

Oh, shit.

It took an hour or so to soak up the mess and soil all the towels, including the guest ones, and eventually discover the source of the water.

The feed line to the ice-maker on the fridge had chosen that night to fail, and I think I have it under control, but the contents of the kitchen counters are now piled around me on the dining room table, and rather than the Joint Staff Af-Pak task force meeting this morning, I think I will be dealing with the plumber and the large appliance department at Sears.

Could it be Voodoo?

I understand there was another election yesterday, too, but I couldn't deal with that. At least I didn’t cry.

Copyright 2010 Vic Socotra
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