L'enfer, c'est les autres, mais le plupart du temps, c'est moi.

Dramatis personae: Me and my friend E
E: What's up? Wanna tie one on tonite?
Me: Can't. I got some freelance.
E: What about tomorrow?
Me: Sure. [Looks at calendar.] Shit, it's World AIDS Day.
E: Hm.
Me: I suppose we could respectfully observe that in a bar.

I come from a small planet called Bitch Please

Last night I made one of the least inspired meals of my life. It was some sort of Midwestern Surprise Casserole with mushrooms, frozen spinach, cheddar cheese, and canned tuna. These were the last edible items in the kitchen and as such this casserole was the mealtime equivalent of drinking vermouth mixed with Dr. Pepper. (Although on the plus side I didn't call my exboyfriend from sophomore year of college at 3 am afterward.)

It tasted ~okay~. I paired it with a baby arugula salad, in an attempt to deflect the lowbrow nature of the meal overall. The casserole shrugged and laughed like one of Stephen King's evil clowns.

What Did Your Last Servant Die Of?

So, as it always happens when I go upstate to visit my mother, she ambushes me with some very unfun task that I need to do for her. These entreaties, delivered with equal parts gravitas and chardonnay, begin thus: "You know what you could do for me?"

They are often delivered just as I am packing up my things to go and have stuck my key in the ignition. They've ranged in the past from mounting bookshelves to hosing down all the patio furniture (a pointless effort, as my mother does not have a patio, but you never know, do you) to mowing the lawn (which I always refuse on the grounds that I do not know how; my father never let me near the lawnmower as a kid and I've never lived anyplace that has grass and besides, her lawnmower is dangerous--how many more fingers can our family afford to lose?) to, in this instance, cleaning out the gutters.

This time, however, she didn't wait until I'd gotten into my car; rather, she waited until I had cleaned every last Thanksgiving pot and dish, even using all 17 of her specially crafted dishwashing utensils (the topic of which I can't get into). "You know what you could do for me," she asked as I finished cauterizing my hands in the 280 degree dishwater.

"You mean, what I could do for you IN ADDITION TO all of this that I've just done?" I gestured dramatically to the stacks of clean dishes. (I am an ungrateful daughter.)

"The gutters. There's a ladder outside. Use rubber gloves."

So, I've never cleaned out gutters before but can I just say? that the stuff inside gutters is really cold and really slimy. At least I managed to partially conquer my fear of (relatively small) heights. N held the ladder for me. (He too was a trooper this weekend, as my mother repeatedly attempted to infect him with airborne viruses, constantly hugging him and coughing repeatedly into his face.) And also there are weird organisms in the gutters. Oh brave new world that has such people in it!

Also this weekend I managed to conquer my fear of losing (relatively small amounts of) money. Yes: I've learned how to play poker.

Agony, Thy Name is Aunt Linda

Jesus, I am in the throes of yet another terrible hangover brought on by a member of my family. And this ugly armchair is still in my office, mocking and threatening me by its mere presence.

The Monster Needs to Feed Again

How much will you love Rosita? Not as fucking much as I do.

[Via HereIType, who seems to be under the impression that I'm planning on joining her at law school one of these days. Sweetie, I {still} can't even figure out how to use OSX...tort reform will have to wait.]

Commodify Your Dissent

Ask Me How Much I Loathe Your Ugg Boots. [Via Mefi]

Also? This hurts. But I want it.

Please continue to hold

I've returned to work after my three-week vacation and am dealing with moving into a new office and using a new operating system. I'm hating OS X. Everything's so swooshy. And my new office, while bearing the advantages of not having to share it with anyone else, is drab and ugly and not a little bit scary. I need to exorcise the demons of its former inhabitant and also I have to get rid of a frightening, possessed armchair. Seriously, this armchair is like....having Gary Gilmore in my office. Someone is supposed to come get it tomorrow and then I will need to burn sage and sacrifice a goat.

Also I need some framed artwork.

Wish me luck!

Like a fat guy in a t-shirt doing all the singing

Go check out the video for "Movement" over at LCD Soundsystem's site.

That bitch got PMS!

Wow, I am listening to the new-ish Hot Snakes album, Audit in Progress, courtesy of Reeves. I can't believe I hestitated in buying it. As he said, "They play like a bunch of terminal cancer patients," and I can't really improve on that observation.

But HS wasn't the only musical gem I was delighted to finally get my hands on yesterday. Finally, after years of searching Limewire, I have found it. And now, I'm giving it to you.

Cotex, by the illustrious, gone but not forgotten BWP. [NSFW]

At the gime

I watched Eric Nies do a modified Ministry of Silly Walks workout for about an hour. Lots of lunges, crabwalking, etc. I guess it's working for him, though no amount of aerobic activity is gonna make your hair grow back, Eric.

I followed a kid talking on his cell phone to his agent. "Who's the character? Okay. Okay. [pause] I have to what? No, I am not kissing a woman for this role. Nope. Sorry. No, I won't. No."

HIV Antibody Breakthrough?

The Advocate reports:

Researchers in France reported Tuesday that they've discovered a way in a laboratory setting to stimulate immune system antibodies to widely recognize and target HIV, the first time such a success has been achieved against a broad genetic range of the virus, Agence France-Presse reports....The French scientists focused their efforts on stimulating antibodies to target a tiny area of a surface protein that they say remains unchanged across the range of various HIV subtypes. The area is called CBD1 and is part of HIV's key gp41 protein.

More New Yorker Aggregation

I love me some Alan Gurganus. And this week's New Yorker features this new short story. It's about a roadside attraction in Florida.

It reminded me of the only family vacation I've ever taken that wasn't with my own family. It was spring break 1992, and I accompanied my best friend's family on their trip to Ft. Myers. It was me, my best friend, her little brother (both of whom still feature prominently in my life--I often go upstate to visit their baby and guns, respectively), and her parents. All in a Chevy Caprice. Although it was technically a nonstop drive, we did pay a visit to every single rest stop between Albany and the Florida border. To break up (or prolong) the monotony, I guess. A 24-hour car trip, stuck on the backseat hump, cruise control set on 60, with no pot. Picture it. St. Simon Stylites ain't got nothin' on me.

We stayed with Great Aunt Louise, whose two passions in life were Meister Brau and compaining about the bungee jumping industry that had sprung up on the beach. "They were supposed to be out of here a week ago Thursday! Can you get me another Meister Braaaah?"

She and I hit it off immediately because she liked the way I loaded the dishwasher. To this day, she still compliments me on that.

In between going to the overcrowded beach, we took little daytrips. Because unlike my family, this family liked to spend time together during vacation. So weird. Anyhow, the only place my friend and I wanted to go (and this was perhaps because it was the least appealing of all the local attractions) was Tom Gaskins' Cypress Knee Museum.

The lure was powerful and undefinable. It took a lot of cajoling, but after days of playing minigolf, visiting what could be the only vineyard in Florida, and going bowling after Easter Mass, the folks finally relented.

It was damned spectacular. The property had a decadent, Hills-Have-Eyes feel to it, and in addition to the cinderblock buildings devoted to the cyprus knees that resembled celebrities, there were also rickety wooden bridges that led into the swamp, where you could see both cyprus knees AND various wild animals in situ. And also, you could get attacked by really scary bees.

When we came back out of the woods, we found Tom Gaskins himself, wandering around the buildings barefoot, touching up spots where paint had begun to flake off. He was a cheery gentleman, bless his soul.

Apparently the museum is no more, which is a tragedy. I'm glad I had the opportunity to visit there that spring; as it is, the regret I feel alone in not buying a FT MYERS SPRING BREAK '92: HIV NEGATIVE! muscle tee nearly paralyzes me to this day.

So good it hurts!

Heh, this is from the back cover of the latest issue of Stay Free magazine, which is devoted to all things South-Central Brooklyn. In addition, they're also the lurvely people in charge of Monkeywire, the mailing list devoted to all things Monkey.

Peripherally related, this weekend I was informed of rumors that the proprietors of my favorite bar in LIC are republicans. They have a giantess baby. (Do repubs have bigger babies? This one is like a year and a half and looks old enough to drive.) I don't know what to do about this. I mean, on one hand, I can't support tyranny. On the other hand, they did give out free hotdogs all summer.

[Thanks, max.]

Let's hear it for Caitlin Flanagan, journalistic comfort woman

Last week's issue of the New Yorker* contained a lovely little excoriation of parent-to-be consumerism written by none other than my favorite harridan and yours, Caitlin Flanagan. Of course it's not online, so I can't point you toward her 2,500 choicest words of opprobrium, but some other babied folks have inneresting stuff to say about it. Skarlet says:

The de rigeur item in my neighborhood these days is a pram from the Silver Cross line. (Also mentioned in the article, by the way). Silver cross actually has two lines, the "lifestyle line" and the "heritage line." These things cost thousands of dollars and the new mommies nearly go nuts at the coffeeshop trying to keep an eye on their spawn and their pricey stroller at the same time. These strollers cost more than my car is worth. It's completely insane. Here's the thing: the babies really, really don't seem to care.

It's stunning really. Do folks really purchase strollers that cost 2 grand? Wait. No, I don't want to know. If you're interested in reading the article, you can have my copy as soon as I choose a little present to myself: I can't decide between the Basque beret or the wrinkle-free travel sundress that also doubles as a sleep sack.

*Yes, I've only just read it. For me, the Onion headline "Stack Of Unread New Yorkers Celebrates One-Year Anniversary" hit rather close to home.

Give 'em enough rope

[Scene: Two people are measuring speaker wire.]

N: Is there enough speaker wire to go all the way around the top of the door?

Me: Um, sure.

N: You sure? OK, hold it there. [Gets out pliers, snips.]

[Characters begin stripping wire and attaching seemingly-useless-but-we-paid-ten-bucks-so-we-might-as-well-use-em gold tipped conductor thingies to the ends. N mounts ladder and begins to string wire around the door.]

Me: Uh oh.

N: I thought you said there was enough wire!

Me: Whoever said that was wrong.

Party Over Here Ain't Shit Over There

Setting up the new speakers last night proved to be so taxing that we fell asleep around 9 pm. Weak. So that means I was awake at 8 this Sunday morning with little to do other than read the Times. I was, of course, faced with this article: A Literary Life Born of Brutality.

I love hoaxes. They remind me simultaneously that humanity isn't as bad as I think it is and that, on the other hand, people are assholes. Two of my favorites are the cases of Anthony Godby-Johnson and Kaycee Nicole.

And I very much consider JT LeRoy to be a hoax. Sure, maybe someone exists named JT LeRoy. Maybe "he" is even the person in those photos. But no one has ever offered any proof that a) he is the person who wrote Sarah and the Heart is Deceitful... (both of which I enjoyed, incidentally) or that b) anything those stories is true. And yet folks wanna believe in him so bad that they overlook the fact that most of LeRoy's biggest proponents haven't even met him. Now that he's in the Styles section of the Times, I believe even less that he exists. No one featured in the Styles section is real, as we all know.

Speaking of hoaxes, I'm really enjoying We Eat So Many Shrimp, which is waaaay better than the erstwhile Some Blogs Are Better than Others.

I Just Wanna Make Some Eardrums BLEEEEEED

Some evil being has switched my next-door neighbors, the formerly quiet and kind elderly couple, with a large and everchanging assortment of adolescents. They pound on the front door to be let in, and then they slam it behind them. Then they stomp down the hallway and turn a stereo on whose speakers are either really freakin' loud or are pointed directly at our shared wall.

The music goes on all day. It starts at 7 am. I don't care if I am already awake at 7 am; I do not want to hear the subwoofer-only version of some janky-ass Hot 97 crap that early. And it continues throughout the day.

Please don't assume I'm being rockist, either. No. The noise that comes through the plaster and cinderblock is the crap that teenagers of substandard taste and intelligence listen to because they were raised by equally substandard wolf-parents.

I'm actually a little concerned about what happened to my old neighbors--what if they're being held hostage by the band of feral children who've taken over their apartment? I envision a Faginesque character who periodically stops by to dole out gin and yell at them for not playing their ghastly music loud enough. "That Ciara's noot gunna plae etself, innit? Turrrn et up o' yeel get na'mo gruuuuel!"

Anyhow. I tried pounding on the wall. I called the landlord yesterday--admittedly an act of cowardice--to complain about the noise. I doubt the landlord will do anything.

So what are we doing on this sunny, cold Saturday? We are going to Best Buy to get bigger speakers. I don't think these little fuckers know who they're dealing with. Prepare for Dolly Parton's Greatest Hits nonstop, shitheads. Two can play this game.

Who are the people in your neighborhood?

Yes, the wildlife was amazing and the scenery beautiful in Costa Rica. But the people, though not as uniformly *beautiful*, per se, were a lot of fun too.

The Brits we met were the most fun, given their fondness for drinking, Premier League, and the Office.

The Italians we met chastised me for not knowing Italian.

The Ticos we met were unfailingly kind and laid-back.

As for the Americans. In Alajuela, we met a cranky midwesterner who described San Jose as a toilet (while our Tico bartender chopped pineapple with a machete only a few feet away) and his southern gadabout traveling companion, who was fond of those lightweight traveling vests that have 47 pockets on them.

In Montezuma, we met a young woman who'd moved there after spending 6 months working on the Kerry campaign. She looked as though she would burst into tears at any moment. In Quepos, we met a naturopath, an acupuncturist, a hypnotist, and a contract killer* for the government who was accompanied by a Colombian prostitute named Monica who didn't understand English. Or maybe she was pretending. If I found myself with a 55-y-o 350-lb married john, I'd be all about the NO PEEKEE INGLEE too.

Though, to his credit, he was the most interesting person we met. He wanted desperately to spend time with us. I think he was tired of paying for companionship he couldn't talk to. I think it's odd that he didn't speak any Spanish, given that he seemed to spend a lot of time in Central and South America. He told us he'd just been in Caracas, "observing" the election for the "embassy."

He invited us to have dinner with him and Monica. We kept hemming and hawing about it, and chose instead to play pool in an American bar in downtown Quepos where we were overjoyed to hear "Hey Ya" after a week of nothing but Phil Collins and Expose. Yes, it had gotten that bad.

I feel bad now about not eating dinner with him, because he did seem lonely. And I bet he would have had entertaining (if true) stories to tell us. He might've even picked up the tab at the restaurant, but I feared that if he *didn't* offer to do so we'd be dealt a serious blow to our vacay budget. Clearly the man knew how to eat. Though maybe he'd have taught us how to kill someone with a church key or something. Ah well.

Finally, while we didn't really *meet* anyone in San Jose, we did exchange pleasantries with this guy and two friends in the lobby of the hotel. One of them had just been robbed of her passport. She was cheerful enough. I peered at them for a second, knowing that I recognized the redhead from somewhere. "You guys aren't from NYC, are you?"

"No, Hollywood."

"Oh, you just looked familiar."

[Oddly enough, this is generally the exchange I have with anyone I suspect is a celebrity. Yeah, stick it to 'em with that New Yorker insouciance. Tweak those hotshot Hollywood noses! Who tha FUCK are you, asshole? Nyaaah!

In this case, however, I honestly did think I recognized them from Greenpoint or something. It was a few minutes later that I realized who it was.]

We flew home with a number of aging frat boys who wore curved-brim ballcaps and t-shirts from bars in Montana they'd never been to.

Then, faster than we expected, we were back in NYC, where everyone looked like someone just shot their dog.
*I'm only guessing. Maybe he was just an...enforcer of some kind.

Raise Boys and Girls the Same Way

Hmm, could Jenny Holzer be the culprit?

From the Beer Halls of Montezuma

After staying overnight outside of San Jose, we went to Montezuma, a town full of expats, hippies, drunks, and dogs situated right on the beach.

A few observations on Costa Rica

Before I bore you all with my travelogue I have a few things I want to get out of the way.

First of all, in my admittedly limited experience, Costa Rica is an absolutely wonderful place. Every day was better than the last. We were sad to leave. I just wanted to get that out of the way.

Ok. So. In Costa Rica, the roads are not as uniformly horrible as the guidebooks indicate, though the food *is* generally uninspiring no matter where you go. But where the roads are bad, they're very, very bad. Our car ride from the airport at Tambor to the town of Montezuma was rather harrowing. The road that brings you there is positioned roughly an 80 degree angle, and at the bottom of the hill, a giant gulf appears every time it rains. I expected the car to start tumbling ass over teakettle. I have newfound appreciation for the Jesus bar.

One of the things the guidebooks neglect to mention is the matter of toilet paper. I hope I'm not breaking some international pact by bringing it up. See, in Costa Rica, you can't put it in the toilet after you've used it. You put it in the garbage can (which is hopefully) next to the toilet. If you're not someone who gives much thought to the color, texture, and consistency of your shit, you will become so after a week.

Speaking of shitting, a fun fact: I barely did any of it. Yes, I of the sensitive stomach spent a week in Central America and pooped twice. Toward the end of the trip I was making a concerted effort to consume all the tap water and unwashed fruit I could. I blame the rice.

Finally, the music: Costa Rica is apparently where the 80s go to die. If you have a hankering for some Nu Shooz or Rick Astley, I cannot recommend visiting Costa Rica high enough. I am almost certain that the music is an effort to appease tourists, however, an informal poll of our neighbors at the bars suggested that this noble attempt fell short of its intent.

After 6 days of keyboards and computerized handclaps, I was ecstatic to hear a live John Fogerty record.

Tomorrow Night at KGB Bar

Hey, tomorrow night at KGB Bar my talented friend and sister-in-crazy-ethnic-hair Jennifer Traig will be reading from her memoir, Devil in the Details. (She is also the author of Judaikitsch and will be bringing along various tchotchkes proffered by her dear mother.) I'm certainly going, and you should too.

And they're up!

Here's the photos from Costa Rica. You will notice certain lapses. For example, we took very few photos in Montezuma. This is because we were drunk.

El Desdichado Returns

Hi everyone. I'm back. I've got pictures. And stories. But first I must go through a careful delousing process. More later.

Bitter?

An e-mail that showed up yesterday:

How am I? Well, lets just say I am glad I live in NY, the greatest city on earth. Only 16% for Bush. I did not sleep at all Election Night, I was in shock. But after getting over it and reading the reasons, I do not think anyone can stop the Right Wing machine.

I think it is here for a long time. No Democrat is going to get elected. So I say, Fuck the poor uneducated religious idiots. Gay men are rich, educated, do not need abortions or have children to educate. We have health insurance and are not unemployed. Our mobile homes are not in need of hurricane repairs.

Go head, privatize social security. I want MY money, every fucking dime. You won't see me eating cat food at 65. And I say, run the deficit up as high as you want. Give me the biggest tax cut ever, I NEED it.

I want all of my money just for me, not sharing one fucking cent with the stupid poor shits in West Virginia. Work in a fucking coal mine, I do not care. Or Wal-Mart for the lowest minimum wage in the nation. And when you get sick, just fucking die. If you cannot afford health care or drugs, too fucking bad. I can! Go ask God to cure you. And ban gay marriage, I do not need it anyway. I can suck all the cock I want right here in NYC.

So thats how I feel. We will see who gets the last laugh now. I am looking out for only ME. And I am sure the Republicans will make sure I am WELL taken care of. Oh, and send all of the poor white trash soldiers overseas to protect me. After all, I am paying their salaries.

World War II nostalgia

The last few years I’ve been reading a lot about World War II and the Cold War. I’m currently reading Robert Wilson’s The Company of Strangers, some pretty well-written schlock with excellent plot pacing, a high level of historical accuracy, and even a romantic subplot. It’s pretty good stuff.

But it didn’t occur to me until last night that there might be a subconscious reason for all this: nostalgia for a time when Americans believed in freedom and Germans were fascists. What a nice, quaint idea that is.

We've really impressed 'em this time

Damn.

The Day stupidity came home to roost

Yesterday was a holiday for me, planned in hopes of enjoying it, but with fears of hating it. So we know how that went. I woke up and my head was pounding, having turned to the whiskey as the news turned worse. I wasn’t holding out any hope when I went to sleep. But in the morning I couldn’t even turn on the television or look at the Internet. I couldn’t cure my hangover with sleep, because I couldn’t sleep anymore. So I had some breakfast, put on last night’s dirty clothes, and walked over to the DMV to get a new driver’s license. After all, waiting in line couldn’t possibly make the day any worse. In fact, there was something comforting in just sitting there, brain unable to wrap itself around the central unspeakable fact. Devoid of any thoughts, I just looked at the screen and waited for them to call my number.

It wasn’t until I’d turned in my old, expired Mississippi driver’s license—that photo of a stranger with a horrible haircut—and posed for a new photo, that I started to feel good about it. Started to feel, that except for my familial connections, I’d severed the last, vestigial remnant of that place I was born in, that place which has now exported it’s madness, paranoia, and hatred to the rest of America.

There are people I love there; but good riddance to Mississippi, with its fake outrage, its real hatred, and its misplaced fear. To hell with it. I’ll never live there again. Brooklyn’s the only place I’ve ever been that felt like home.

I even like the DMV.

Ouch!

I just read this quote from TBogg on Tom Tomorrow's blog:

"I look at the big map and all of the red in flyover country and I feel like I've been locked in a room with the slow learners. "

Hey, some of us here are on your side, pal. Or we were, until you said that.

Here's my best idea

I just studied the exit poll data on CNN. If you look at women's votes - we voted for Democrats almost every time.

So the solution is not for Democrats to move to Canada. Sorry, guys, the answer is to kill y'all.

Dangerously yours,
Tizzie

Some things a freedom fighter should know

Exactly.

Four more years!

Of venality, stupidity, and lies. Enjoy it! It's gonna be great!

Holy shit!

America has spoken. And it is dumb.

Election Update #6: Near drunk!

You know what you should go read? The Columbia Journalism Review Campaign Desk. It’s the shiznit.

Wolf Blitzer is screaming at me.

But we need more beer!

But seriously

So in relation to the high turnout, Lou says, “Democracy is certainly working tonight” and smiles like everything is right in the world.

But it’s not and it won’t be, even if George Bush isn’t in charge of it. My bills will still be too damned high. People on the corner will still piss on my stoop and beg for money. Most people will still be poor but some will be stinking rich. Americans and a lot of other people will still be getting shot at. My tax dollars will still pay for it.

But when talk turns to politics maybe we won’t be so embarrassed around our European friends, no? And that’s good.

But Lou is wrong. That more people are participating in the democratic process doesn’t necessarily mean it’s working. Can you really call it democracy when you walk into the voting booth and choose between The Fascist and The Void, winner take all?

I voted for a platform I didn’t believe in today, because it was the best of the worst available options.

But at the very least, it’s a good thing to dispose of tyrants.

Election Update #3: One down

Back at the election HQ. First tallboy cracked.

Faux News is running stories about the rain in Ohio (praying?). John Gibson has a guest on who, shockingly, has even worse hair than Gibson himself.

The people on CNN are much prettier. Lou Dobbs has Carlson and Begala on and some guy in a sweater vest. Okay the sweater vest guy is ugly. Carlson is made of wax. They all totally suck ass. Dobbs needs to stick with trade policy. Carlson and Begala need to crawl back into the cave of shame Jon Stewart put them in.

Mmm, beer.

Election Update #2: Prediction time!

Whoops.

Election Update #1: Fraud!

According to trusted sources, most voting seems to be taking place at city public schools. Yet most school age and even high school kids aren’t even old enough to vote! If they wanted more people to vote, don’t you think they’d put the polling places where the voters are? Like, say, at office buildings maybe? Is this just a typical Republican dirty trick to suppress the vote, or something darker? More as this story develops…

Stick with Reeves and Tizzie for up-to-the-minute election coverage

Sure, you could rely on the same old "informed opinions" you get from people like Josh Marshall or the Bull Moose or the New Donkey, but why would you, when you could get the best uninformed opinions from us? In fact, stick with us through tomorrow for up-to-the-second hungover election fallout coverage from Reeves, who'll be monitoring it all from his high-tech media headquarters somewhere in Brooklyn.

Oh, and if anybody's looking for an election party in Brooklyn (with FREE BEER), I know of one which will definitely include drunken people falling down. So if the tension's just too much, and you need a drink, give a shout.

Tizzie, Alias Reeves

Just to confuse y'all, this is Tizzie posting as Reeves because, well, because I can, dammit.

And while all of you are worrying about getting rid of Bush, us Kentucky Democrats are trying to elect a pig as the mayor of Rabbit Hash, and get rid of one of the nastiest men I've ever had the horror of meeting, Jim Bunning.

Bunning's race has gotten some national attention because some generous souls thought his "erratic behavior", (like calling his 40-year-old Italian bachelor opponent a 'limpwrist' and saying he looked like one of Saddam's sons) was a sign that he has Alzheimers.

Alzheimers, my ass. His "behavior" is the result of the fact that he's a mean old bastard.

So keep your fingers crossed on this one, if you've got any fingers to spare.

Some things are better left undead.

Halloween seemed subdued this weekend. Expecting at least a modest turnout at one of my normal watering holes last night, we found about five people, no costumes, no wild dancing, or drug-snorting, or anything else of the sort. Maybe it was quiet because, with the election tomorrow, we have a surplus of real, shake-in-your-boots, clammy-handed terror and don’t so much need those ghosts and goblins this year. At least, that’s my theory. Whatever, it’s a way better theory than the alternative: that everybody else was having the time of their lives and forgot to tell me.

But fear not, for one brave, injury-riddled Mississippian took the future of the country into his own hands yesterday and saved us all.