By Stephen Witt
I was walking into Ralphs in Glendale yesterday when, to my surprise, I ran into my fellow political pundit, Stumpy Wagers, bothering anybody on their way to do some grocery shopping.
“Excuse me, sir… Excuse me, ma’am… but do you have a minute to sign this petition for a new proposition?”
“You’re a little late, aren’t you,” I said, “trying to get a proposition on the ballot the day before the election?”
“Maybe late for this election, but I’m getting a jump on the next one in two years.”
“But you’re a journalist, Stumpy. You’re supposed to be nonpartisan on these things. What you’re doing is advocacy.”
“Advocacy, schmadvocacy. There are 14 propositions on the statewide ballot this year, and I can’t keep up with them anymore. Every time I turn on my favorite streaming service, YouTube, social media or a digital news site, I’m bombarded with ads on these propositions. And half of them I don’t understand.”
“And that’s just statewide,” he added. “LA County voters have another 68 local measures. Sixty-eight, Witt!”
“You’ve got a point,” I said, taking the clipboard out of Stumpy’s hand and reading the petition. “Wait a minute here, Stumper. You want a proposition to end all propositions?”
“Exactly. One last proposition, and then we’re done. No more Yes on This, No on That. We elect people to make laws. Let them make the laws.”
“Stumpy, do you know who gave us propositions in the first place? Gov. Hiram Johnson, back in 1911. The whole idea was to let regular folks go around the railroad barons who owned Sacramento.”
“Well, the railroad barons have been replaced by whoever can afford the most TV ads,” Stumpy said. “The campaigns on this year’s propositions have raked in more than $636 million. You could buy a whole fleet of minor league baseball teams with that.”
“And speaking of railroads,” Stumpy went on, “voters passed a proposition back in 2008 for a high-speed train from San Francisco to LA, and someday San Diego. Eighteen years and billions of dollars later, the only high-speed way I know to get to the Bay is a Southwest boarding pass.”
“So your solution is to get rid of the one tool voters have when the Legislature won’t act?”
Stumpy scratched his head. “Okay, maybe not get rid of them entirely. Maybe just a limit. Five per ballot. First come, first served.”
“First come, first served? Like the deli counter?”
“Exactly like the deli counter. Take a number. If you’re No. 6, come back in two years.”
I handed him back the clipboard. I didn’t sign, but I’ll admit the man has a point. Somewhere between Hiram Johnson’s good intentions and the 30-second attack ad, direct democracy turned into a very expensive way to confuse voters.
“Where are you going?” Stumpy asked as I turned toward the store.
“To buy groceries. And tomorrow I’m going to vote. On all 14 of them, plus the local ones.”
“You’ll be in there all day,” he said.
“That’s the price of democracy, Stumpy.”
He was already back at it. “Excuse me, ma’am… do you have a minute?”
