A thunderstorm rolled through around 6 a.m., maybe earlier. Shook the house, woke us all. Alan, who sleeps with a clear conscience every night of his life, drifted back under. Kate, the early riser discombobulated by the time change, got up and went downstairs for some surreptitious television. Me, I opened the Jim Harrison book on the nightstand and read a couple of chapters. It’s a funny one, and I chuckled a lot.
I started thinking what life will be like after tomorrow, and hoped it would be like this morning — a storm followed by the pleasant sound of rain on the window, a good book and less time at the computer. That’s the best I can wish for, you Republican assholes.
Maybe the mood is catching. The NYT says John McCain is winding up the campaign in a jocular mood, telling Henny Youngman jokes. Henny Youngman jokes, yes. I’m middle-aged, and Henny Youngman was already on the golden-oldie circuit when I was growing up. Everything I know about him I learned from JoodyB’s husband, who spent senior year at Ohio University slumped in a chair in The Post newsroom, telling Henny Youngman jokes: “They’re a real fastidious couple. She’s fast, he’s hideous.” “A man goes to a psychiatrist. The doctor says, ‘You’re crazy.’ The man says, ‘I want a second opinion!’ ‘Okay, you’re ugly too!'”
Which is not to say Henny Youngman isn’t funny. It’s just that this campaign has been so awful all I can think is what the reaction would be if Barack Obama sat on his plane telling Richard Pryor jokes.
One thing I’ll sort of miss: Checking fivethirtyeight every day, and sort of regretting I paid so little attention to statistics, etc., during my formal education. How can a person stay interested in this stuff day after day? Probably by crunching subsets of numbers like the cellphone effect. Fascinating.
Let this be the last (very tall, equal parts amusing/cringe-inducing) word on the election. Although I’m sure it won’t be.
Because there’s this, too:
Don’t let that be the last word.
Let’s talk about cooking today, eh? I made Betty Rosbottom’s cider-roasted chicken last night, along with mashed potatoes and sauteed Swiss chard. For dessert, a crumb-topped apple pie made with Northern Spies. If you don’t think that’s a fine repast, well, then you’re my daughter, who did her usual pick-and-gag over everything but the pie. No, not everything. I would have had to splatter her brains with a shotgun to even get her to consider the chard. What sort of mutant child doesn’t like mashed potatoes, I ask? WHAT SORT OF CHILD?!? Mine.
Of course, you guys can talk about anything you want. And probably will.