I've spent the last week or so studiously avoiding my absentee ballot for California's June 5 primary election, which, like most political documents in the Golden State, is best consumed with a side of Vicodin.
When I broke down last night and finally cracked the thing, I immediately felt my aversion justified. Despite being home to one of every eight Americans, we Californians will once again have no meaningful say in choosing a presidential nominee; The GOP has failed to find a notable candidate to run against Dianne Feinstein for the U.S. Senate, despite the fact that she is 78 years old, has been in office for 20 years, and has some considerable ethical baggage; My congressional district -- previously represented by the laudable Dana Rohrabacher -- has now been redrawn to make Henry Waxman our new representative (I've already emigrated from Waxman's district once in the past); And our ballot initiatives are the usual pablum: a cosmetic alteration to legislative term limits and a punitive tax aimed at smokers (of which I am one of five remaining in the state).
Amidst this electoral carnage, however, there was one bright spot: Running for one of the judgeships on the Los Angeles County Superior Court is none other than Ricochet's own Joe Escalante.
Hopefully, Joe already assumes that he has earned my support. But he should also know that he's earned my thanks. Filling out this year's ballot just got a lot more tolerable.