Richard: So, who are you voting for, Kip?
Kip: I don't vote. Nor do I bake.
Richard: Don't you think it's dumb when smart people don't vote?
Kip: I mostly follow sports.
Richard: You must overhear certain things on the town square in Ft. Scott, though. What's the political climate down there?
Kip: Well, the fact is that we tend to vote for people that look like us. This year we like that grumpy old white man. What's his name? McBain?
Richard: Yeah, I imagine it's pretty Republican down there.
Kip: The people tend to favor heterosexual marriage and blowing shit up. Yes, I'd say it's Republican.
Richard: It makes he happy that the local idealists are baking for Barack, but I wish they'd pack up those rice-krispie treats and take the message outside town. I think they forget that the overwhelming Barack support around here actually ends at the Douglas County line.
Kip: At least they're not supporting Nader this year.
Richard: Good point. They're getting smarter with each election.
Kip: But they'll likely be so stoned when Election Day actually comes that they may well forget to vote. So what about your fellow Arkansans?
Richard: I witnessed some disturbing shit down there a few weeks back. I know a lot of people who have always been what my grandfather called "Yellow Dog Democrats," meaning that they'd vote for a yellow dog before they'd vote Republican. But yet it turns out that these people, especially the elderly churchgoing types, are not willing to vote for a black man. Yellow, maybe. But not black. And it does not bother them to say this. They just simply won't do it. So Barack's got to count on the "urban centers" of America to get him elected.
Kip: Like Joplin, Missouri?
Richard: No. Not like Joplin.
Dr. C: I'm hoping to go to the Democratic Convention in Denver. I keep hoping they'll ask me to speak there.
Kip: So should I vote for Barack, or not?
Richard: Yes, damn it! Yes!
This weekend at the Replay: L-Ville's finest Lounge spent at least three days with non-working taps, which were finally fixed in time for Sunday bluegrass...but with lukewarm ("cowboy-cold") beer. Richard said: "I expect this kind of shit at Quinton's, but not here." Still, Richard will forgive many things if the bluegrass is sweet enough, and luckily it was. During the show he encountered an ex-student, recently graduated, who told him she planned to spend at least a year "waiting tables and getting fucked up." I've taught them well, Richard mused. I have taught them very well indeed.