The last time I saw the inside of a voting booth I was living in Columbia. Years and years ago. Pre-9-11. And even though I didn’t explode on contact with the machinery of consensus reality as I feared I might, I decided not to run the risk of it again.
The irony of my recent professional involvement with South Carolina politics, therefore, should be obvious.
Similarly, anyone familiar with my sad lack of fashion sense and my borderline homeless grooming aesthetic is excused in advance for thinking it odd that I’m helping a modeling agency reinvent its brand.
In these things, I’m like the oyster whose proxies go places he wouldn’t go in person. Except that I don’t die in the process. Although I suppose that I am kind of gray and squishy inside.