Our vote counts for less than ever in 1990s America. In my column a couple of weeks ago, which appeared the day before midterm elections, I refrained from making such an observation.

I figured, “Why offer Americans yet another excuse not to vote?” Already, we are mystifyingly complacent with a system that clearly isn’t working to further our best interests.

Yes, I’m done crowing about the election of “the body.” I’m back on the subject of “corpulent corporate oinkers,” Orwell’s allegorical pigs in the flesh.

On a few unforgettable occasions, I have witnessed violations of our democratic system that I would’ve thought impossible.

The pigs have gotten quite brazen, these days.

In this “Land of the Free and Home of the Brave,” I’ve mostly lived in two places: Arizona and California.

In both of these great states, I’ve seen Lady Liberty bent over the Liberty Bell and given the flagpole in rather rough fashion.

On each occasion, “we the people” squawked about it, horrified at what was happening. On each occasion our squawks fell on on deaf ears. Our government didn’t turn out to be of, by, or for the people.

I bring the following story to you because what transpired was hardly limited to geographical location. The following example is representative of something that I perceive as a national trend.

Which takes us to Imperial Beach, Calif. in 1990: a very small, tightly knit community, composed of residents and their privately-owned small businesses.

The “little people” ran the self-sufficient little town (or so they thought). Jan owned “My Little Cafe” after Linda sold it to her in 1987. The cafe changed hands every few years; it seemed everyone in I.B. had spent some time as the proprietor of the small beachside restaurant. Previous owner, Michael, now had a little gift shop on Imperial Drive.

Cindy’s brother worked at Gary’s Autobody. I don’t remember if Gary ever owned the cafe.

I only lived there for little over a year, but I came to know I.B. well. Shortly after arriving, I knew the names of several people in the community.

There aren’t a lot of places in America where that happens anymore.

Imperial Beach struck me as sort of a beachtown Mayberry, with one exception: substitute “moonshine” with “crystal meth.” (OK, so Otis was a lot skinnier.)

During the summer of 1990, real estate developers came to I.B. from “up north.” These heavy hitters wanted to build several highrise hotels, as they had done up in Coronado. It would be “good for the local economy,” they promised (thinking of their own bank accounts).

When they moved in, they would bring Starbuck’s, Chevron, 7-11, Jiffy-Lube, Waldenbooks, and the Red Lobster with them. Obviously, this didn’t bode well for Jan, Michael, Gary, or dozens of other residents of I.B.

The bland, generic face of corporate America would be stamped over the individual, if quaint, faces of Imperial Beach.

Surely, some of you reading this have seen similar developments.

The “strip mall” trend is a national one, hardly restricted to Imperial Beach.

All across America, Mom and Pop are out on their ear, replaced by the familiar logos of franchises we know all too well.

The residents of I.B. protested. With growing respect for these people, I saw something rare in America, at least in recent decades: average citizens became activists in their own cause.

Piling into station wagons and vans, we became regulars at town council meetings.

We spoke out. Some of us even gave carefully prepared presentations which earned thoughtful responses from our town council.

In the end, these protests earned Imperial Beach residents the right to vote about the future of their town.

The vote was nearly unanimous: No new highrise hotels!

Developers, please take your business elsewhere, because we don’t want it! You cannot know the feeling of triumph and pride that I had during these events.

Triumph, that we had won in our cause, defeating the “evil” real-estate developers, and pride that we lived in a country where people are given the power to affect events which determine the course of their lives.

Alas, poor Yorick, imagine how “chopfallen” OUR expressions when we learned of a second vote held on the matter, a vote that had been taken completely out of our hands!

Somewhere in Northern California, people were voting to “improve the economic development of Imperial Beach!”

Oblivious to our battle, our victory, the real estate developers had found a way to do what they were going to do anyway. Money talks.

Where were our gibes, our gambols, our songs, our flashes of merriment now? Along with Bob’s Big Boy and Lady Liberty, they are stretched out on the cold, hard grave.