The tattoo guy lost the mayoral race, 464 votes to 2,021. I tried to tell him two weeks ago that his visibility sucked. No signs.

I went to the burrito shack to vote after work yesterday. Four thugs stood outside the restaurant, arms crossed, glaring at potential voters. They looked unhappy without their motorcycles and whiskey.

The leader stepped towards me as I left my car. His eyes darted furtively down the street where a small group of people stood chatting next to a squad car. He turned back to me as I tried to pass him and muttered "vote for Paul" and discreetly passed me a glossy little flyer.

I related my anger at the stubborn littering of my yard by Marilynn. He told me to go tell her myself, and pointed to the little picnic down the street.

I voted. I left. I wished the grunts luck and they waved goodbye. I saw one chuck a cigarette to the ground and brutally grind it out with his heel. They went back to glaring and I drove down towards Marilynn.

I didn't stop, but I did drive slowly to take in the scene. A young cop with slicked back hair leaned against his squad car. He grinned and tapped his nightstick against his leg. He seemed to enjoy the attention from the three women who sat in lawn chairs facing him.

They were distinguished by 80's perms, zippered fanny packs, Misty cigarettes, and enormous cottage cheese hips encased in purple spandex. I didn't see their feet but I suspect there were probably jelly sandals on them. Finally I understood why a guy who owns a tattoo parlor would run here. His competition was a rapidly fading Whitesnake groupie.

I wondered if Marilynn will be able to tear herself away from the Days Of Our Lives and Rocky Road long enough to run our little chode of land or if this'll be a rudderless ship. Oh well. At least she can anchor. 6:10 AM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm