Waldo, typing furiously in his bath, gave me- the faithful assistant- the space to tell a story or two this evening.
When I was 12, the 1968 presidential election was around the corner as the school year began. I was for Nixon. My parents let me make my own choices, and that's the one I made.
I had a classmate whose dad was the county manager and therefore dependent on the Democratic majority on the county commission. So he was for Humphrey.
Both of us went down to our respective party headquarters to volunteer. At the Democratic headquarters, the club pols who had yet to be coaxed across the aisle by Jesse Helms four years later, told Joe to buzz off.
The county Republican Party HQ- then a hungry upstart rather than the reactionary, retain office at all costs party of Patrick McHenry and Sue Myrick- signed me up. I addressed envelopes and licked stamps and rang doorbells.
42 years later an 11-year-old whose mom died for want of health insurance, wanted to get involved in the health care reform debate. Here's what self-financing drug addict Casper Gutman- moobs barely restrained- had to say to him: fuck off, kid.
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