This is me writ­ing from Kate’s orthodontist’s office, say­ing hey, guess who over­slept this morn­ing? Open thread until when­ever I get it together.

For all your Russian-prostitute wardrobe needs. That’ll be 200 rubles, pazhalusta.

Our theme: “the end of the world.” Suzanne dresses a set.

Turni­palooza! Also, veg­e­tar­i­an­ism beck­ons when the hol­i­day main course is still breathing.

I favors a .45.

Late edit expla­na­tion: Alan said, “Brother Mouzone favors a Walther PPK380. Omar was the one car­ry­ing the .45. He said the Walther tends to jump in the hand.” What­ever. But I admit the error.

Is this a winter-is-coming thing, or an Obama-is-deploying-the-black-helicopters thing?

Zingerman’s is simul­ta­ne­ously thrilling and sort of insufferable.

I’m in Ann Arbor, doing online jour­nal­ism train­ing. About to eat roast beef. Carry on, all.

It’s Michi­gana­palooza, plus a pump­kin with Ele­phant Man’s Disease.

An embar­rass­ment of riches…

…and the dis­tant thun­der of frost. Ack! Mums!