I enjoy voting.

There was an amusing bit in the West Coast edition of the New York Times this morning. I was sipping iced black tea at Starbuck's and laughed bubbles into my drink when I read how a campaigning Bill Simon introduced himself to a patron outside an In n' Out Burger, saying, "Hi, I'm Bill Simon, and I'm running for governor." To which the patron replied, something to the effect of, "Me, too." And then he asked his companion, "What about you, Jim? You running for governor?" And Jim said, "Sure, I am."

Sure, part of me felt sorry for Bill Simon, perhaps the only legitimate name that would be on the would-be ballot. And part of me felt sorry for me, being resident of a state that occasionally makes such a laughing stock of itself. And part of me felt sorry for the people who argue that this is a great idea and applaud the power of the people. (What a bunch of maroons.) But mostly, I just thought how much I will savor my jaunt to the ballot box, where I will receive my keen "I voted!" sticker and promptly affix it to my outerwear. No one likes voting more than Mary Forrest. You can take that to the bank and inform the clerks of it.