It's campaign season, so you expect to be somewhat inconvenienced from time to time by the democratic process, such as it is.  From fliers in your mailbox to a robocall or two, local elections are a kind of pageant of petty ambition, where people too much like yourself to sympathize with express a desperate desire to do a thankless job for you.  The more thankless, the more desperate the desire, and vice versa. I find all politicians suspicious, but the localer they are the more mysterious their motives are to me.

As for the race for Ward 6 Alderman, it's perky young professional Rebekah Gewirtz (the incumbent) versus local crank Jim Campano — in some respects, then, you could say it's Somerville versus Slummerville.  Gewirtz is a transplant from Rhode Island who says: "I decided to run because I’ve really enjoyed being a Ward 6 Alderman. Both personally and professionally, I’ve gotten a lot out of it."  Well, good for you, girlfriend!

Campano is an old-school ethnic, a refugee from the West End (the Boston neighborhood of 20,000 that was wiped off the map in the late '50s in the name of "urban renewal"), who says: "When you start talking about throwing Molotov cocktails, they assume that you did it." (Campano denies any wrongdoing.)

Tight race.

One of the residents of the orphanage is apparently a friend of or is trying to get into the pants of the incumbent, who you'd think by the campaign she's running was in the fight of her life to retain her seat. Thus we have a lawn sign, fliers on the fridge, and the house is suddenly abuzz with "activism."

I am pro-sleeping with the incumbent, no question.  I've looked at her website, and she definitely rocks out in a pant suit.  The fact that no one has accused her of arson is also a big plus.  Molotov cocktails have given way to appletinis among modern-day "Progressives."  But personally I have not felt energized enough by the race to do any meet-and-greets or coffee klatsches.   

Lucky for me the candidates are reaching out.  I discovered a note from one in an excitable script in my mailbox yesterday afternoon...


Now, two things Ms. Gewirtz obviously doesn't know about me: (1) not a big fan of deciphering chicken-scratch — and this little number took me about three hours; and (2) not really interested in my housemates' politics.  If they want to get into your pants, that's between you guys.  Otherwise, politics is like religion.  You use it when you need it.  

Regarding (1): I am sure Olale Mrzz, or whomever penned this note, is an adorable little old person who's all fired up for his or her candidate. But the fact that Gewirtz is forcing her obviously cripplingly arthritic volunteers to painstakingly compose and pen these "personal" notes does not reflect as kindly on her as she might think.

In regards to (2): You "gather" I "live in a house full of Rebekah supporters," do you?  And you're thanking me for...?  My housemates' support?  Or do you think we vote in a bloc?  I know the house looks like the perfect place for a cult, but we're not quite there yet. (I'm workin' on it — don't rush me.)

For the record, I don't cast my vote based on my parents', siblings', friends' or lovers' votes — and those are people I respect (sort of, or some of them some of the time, at least) — much less the bunch of knuckleheads I happen to share a crashpad with. If you really want to know, I actually cast my vote based on the Magic 8 Ball.  ("Outlook not so good" Rebekah, but I'll shake it again before November 3rd.) 

Whatever method you use, the very last person who has any right to assume anything about your vote is the politician campaigning for it.   

Sometimes the political doesn't justify such a personalized note.  Still, I have to admit it's better than a molotov cocktail.