I have a huge bone to pick regarding touch screen voting. Really huge. Brontosaurian, in fact.

I have refused to use the computerized voting machines ever since they've been available in my Oakland, California precinct. I don't believe in rumored voting-machine manufacturers' conspiracy plots (although in the current rabid power grab we call democracy, such plots are at least theoretically possible and thus probably true). No, I don't fear a computerized coup d'etat. Rather, I am fundamentally opposed to a system of casting votes that does not rely on a paper trail of ballots that can be manually counted, manually recounted and independently verified by people who don't have to possess special programming skills in order to tabulate results.

I guess the new machines are supposed to count votes faster, but quick results are really not necessary. Let me say that again: there is no necessity for "fast food" balloting. The need for speed and accuracy in voting is not as important as accuracy alone. Accuracy is what it's all about. Where did this desire come from to have votes totaled in the time it takes to microwave a PopTart? 150 years ago, before computers, telephones or even the telegraph, it would take weeks - if not months - to count all the votes from across our vast pre-Internet continent. And, guess what? Everyone was fine with that! Nobody panicked. People just waited 'til the Pony Express guy showed up with newspapers from Back East to find out who won the presidency. It was okay. Really.

Today, the media's abhorrent mad scramble to be the first to accurately project winners, coupled with a uniquely-American "instant gratification" culture intent on having results N-O-freakin-W, have created a perceived "need". We actually think we can't live without these corruptible, fallible, and unverifiable technological terrors.

The result of our speed addiction is that the power and responsibility of counting votes is taken out of the hands of local officials - and their watchdogs - and put within the grasp of a few hundred employees of a handful of private sector companies. Our common fear of another Florida 2000 debacle - not to mention lobbying by Diebold and Accenture/Hart Intercivic and Sequoia Voting Systems, etc. (who happen to design, manufacture and program computer voting machines) - further pushes us toward an acceptance that technology can - and must - save us. Personally, I'd rather argue over the intent of a dimpled paper ballot, than blindly accept the public relations foxes at Diebold telling me everything's fine in democracy's henhouse.

And, yet we have options. For those who do not trust touch screen voting, there is always the existing absentee ballot system. So, why don't I vote that way? Why don't I stay home and fill in little bubbles while still in my pajamas? I could use the absentee voting system and be done with my mewlings and screechings, but I don't. I don't because by staying home and voting via U.S. Mail, my vote may be trackable and traceable and verifiable, but by not making some sort of public statement, I will be complicit in letting private industry take over ballot counting that by rights is the responsibility of the People.

So, last March I went to my local polling place to make a point. I didn't protest, or yell or impede or riot. I was much more subversive than that.

I voted.

And, here's what happened to me on at the polls...

1. I gave my name to the volunteer.

2. A second volunteer started to prepare a little magnetic card for me to vote with.

3. Annoyed at not being asked if I even WANTED to use the touch screen system (or even seeing a sign telling me that I could opt not to), I interrupted the automated process and asked for a provisional ballot. This is where the deer-in-the-headlights looks began.

4. Everything stopped.

5. Assuming I was some sort techno-weenie, the volunteers took turns telling me how easy it was to use computers. This was strange coming from septua- and octogenarians who probably don't even have email. Don't be afraid, they said. Everything will be okay. It began to remind me of the first time one of the bigger kids tried to get me to smoke pot.

6. I said in a polite and clear voice that I would really rather have a paper ballot.

7. The deer-in-the-headlights look was soon replaced by an uncomfortable, stare-at-your-hands-and-maybe-he'll-go-away silence. Mouths hung open. Eyes darted evasively.

8. Finally - as if in unison - they pointed and beckoned to their leader. "You'll have to talk to Bill," they told me.

9. At this point, Bill, the lead zombie, noticed the entropy caused by the system breakdown I was causing. He took a break from handing out "I voted. Did you?" stickers and came to deal with me one-on-one. He was wary, not sure what to expect from this subversive. My stubbornness was slowing down the process. I was flying in the face of efficiency. I was hobbling Bill's version of democracy. Tough.

10. Bill was not unreasonable, it seemed. He recognized that he must allow me to vote the "old-fashioned" way if I so desired. His willingness to help was not the problem. The problem was: they were not set up for "old-fashioned" anymore. I was Fred Flintstone making an appearance on an episode of The Jetsons. And, Mr. Spacely was not amused.

11. Bill set about recreating an exact replica of a Stone Age polling place. He dug in a big cardboard box for provisional paper ballots. I noticed that there are only fifty or so on hand - far fewer than would be necessary if the power went out, or the computers crashed, or all the citizens in my precinct collectively woke up and demanded a paper trail in a democracy that was accountable to the people.

12. Bill dug in a small box for blue (or black) ball point pens. There were only two to be found. God forbid I were to use one and absently slip it into my pocket. I could disenfranchise fifty percent of the manual voters in my precinct.

13. I was given a ballot.

14. Then, I was sent to a corner where the old-fashioned collapsible voting tables were. These booths - two of them; one for me and a slightly-lower one for me if I were handicapped - were across the room from the "real" voting area. They might as well have put a dunce cap on my head and given me chalkboard erasers to clap together. I was voting in the Corner of Shame.

15. I started to vote at the provincial kiddie table while the tech-savvy grown-ups pointed and wondered what I'd done that was so wrong that I was sent to civic duty's equivalent of the principal's office.

16. I was interrupted once by Bill, who asked why I didn't want to vote on the computers. He was taking a poll to report to the higher-ups all the reasons people refused to vote the "real" way. I said - matter of factly, in a quiet voice - that I just didn't trust the machines. Bill held up his hands as if to fend off a blow. "Okay, okay," he said, scurrying away to avoid what he perceived as a conflict. Despite my docility, he looked concerned that this was all going to come to fisticuffs. I let him think that. Bill is probably seventy-five, if he's a day. I can take him.

17. I brought my completed ballot back to Bill. He quickly stuffed it into an envelope, and had me write on it my name, address, and phone number. I guess that was so they could call me later to make certain that I voted with a paper ballot of my own free will, but I like to imagine that envelope - with my damning signature - will be going into a file they're creating for me at the Office of Homeland Security. I can only hope.

18. I gave the envelope back to Bill. In exchange, he handed me an "I voted" sticker. It is an equitable trade. That little sticker went onto my jacket lapel. It was symbolic. That sticker was like a receipt, acknowledging that I had done my duty as a citizen of a free and democratic nation. That sticker was as important as the little stub they tear off the paper ballot and hand you before you put it in the voting box. It's a validation of my vote and my patriotism. And, that's all I was looking for: validation. Proof that my vote counted.

My adventure was over. I hoped I had made a difference by voting on tangible, verifiable paper. I wasn't just choosing a candidate or agreeing with a measure. I was a new kind of patriot, registering my disdain for technology's insidious creep into democracy.

After leaving the polling place, I got in my car and headed for work. About five minutes into my drive, I suddenly realized I had never been given the stub from my ballot. Nor had I received the stub from the ballot envelope. And, come to think of it, I didn't actually see Bill put my ballot in the voting box. In fact, I hadn't even SEEN a voting box at the precinct.

Now, somebody once said that the price of freedom is eternal vigilance. In my zeal to vote without a computer, I had completely forgotten to make certain my paper ballot had escaped tampering.

You live. You learn. You vote another day. But, damn, making certain your vote counts is hard work. And, attempts at eschewing the touch-screens makes it even harder. I guess that's the 21st century version of eternal vigilance.

Next November - for all our sakes - I hope I get it right.

Ross Turner is a patriot and troublemaker living in Oakland, California. He's also peeved as hell, and would prefer not to take it anymore.

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