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Obama is on teevee and now maybe I can believe this is for real. Honestly, I don’t even know how to feel this happy.

(please click this and then look at the baby tapir and rhino, the polar bears and the tiny frog, the pod of narwhals, too.)

1. Stop talking about politics for a moment or two.
2. Post a reasonably-sized picture of something pleasant, such as an adorable naked mole rat in a stormtrooper costume, a cloud in the shape of Ian McKellen, robot unicorns, anything cuddling anything else, etc. etc. Something that has NOTHING TO DO WITH POLITICS.
3. Include these instructions. 

My top two excuses for not going door-to-door or calling people and telling them to vote:

1. teetering on the edge of a cold and don’t think that showing coughing in their ears or front doors would provide much incentive to get them out of their warm home offices.
2. outside the sidewalk espresso sign was a giraffe leaning against a tree for Obama. Cute, but the plastic bag over its paper mache head was a little creepy. Signs and wonders.
3. superstition. I did that last time [#] and look how it turned out.

But hey, internet how about we do our little part to make sure this guy gets elected, OK?

While we’re at it, Washington Internetters, let’s all hope that a rising tide helps a certain Vampire Weekend fan wins in her tight race, too.

When I was tinkering with maps this afternoon [#], I was only trying to come up with a win that I could believe in. Something small, a little guarded, and, except for Omaha, not at all outlandish. But the distinct possibility of a big win is inspiring in a way that I hadn’t realized until maybe just tonight, listening to that Brendan Canning album [#] at the gym while newscasts flickered on flatscreens around the room.

Up until a few months ago, I didn’t think that Sad Grandpa Walnuts was entirely terrifying. His embarrassing and increasingly distasteful campaign aside, I still don’t think that he’s the worst of the bunch. So the thought of a decisive victory is tantalizing not for bragging rights, but for how a result including a bit of the south or a touch of the Rockies could say that it’s not just the coastal elites and our pals in the Great Lakes finally getting our way after so many dispiriting, soul crushing, and embarrassing years.

Though I wish I had been able to, I don’t know that I ever fully caught the stadium-sweep of pure infectious inspiration (blame a deep-seated preference for the pragmatic losers like Dean and Clinton). Out of fear of setting ourselves up for another awful disappointment, it is difficult to even consider the possibility of something seeming like a country agreeing to try a humane, competent, and fairminded course, but nevertheless, a peek at that out of the corner of one darting eye looks pretty good and maybe a little bit possible.

Possible enough, that is, to plan to get to the Showbox early. Just in case.

Friday night was Halloween and the last day of McLeod Residence.

It seems like forever ago that my flight back from CMJ was so late that I had to take my luggage and a cab directly from the airport to the Crocodile to see Islands. In the back bar (RIP, I think I miss that more than the club) after the show [flickr], running into the band and Buster and Lele turned into a trip across the street to to see the bare white walled space that would be transformed into a dream of an art gallery and clubhouse.

Just a few weeks and a couple sneak peeks later, I was walking down the hill with a dutch friend and champagne and whiskey in hand, pouring drinks to thirsty passersby from a fire escape while watching the Space Needle explode for the new year. There were a lot of slapfights, various trifectas (my second-favorite: “Hungry Like the Wolf” vs. “Since U Been Gone” vs. “Total Eclipse of the Heart”), lying on the floor (one time, it purred), spiced vodka from a card table with an blue bunny (head still intact) cash register. Later, a real bar, a red dress, a blue wig, a moose head, easter eggs. Bartending for jokes a year later. Fake names. Dissertation and birthday celebrations (two for me, one for an eight year old, one for a dog). Almost always, there was the joy of being a planning-averse introvert who could run into a wide range of new and old friends by chance on any given night. All of it often felt so effortless and perfect that the people who worked the hardest and put the most of themselves into it can’t be anything but underappreciated no matter how hard we try.

And, so the last day of the month arrived and we met in our costumes across the street (for me, cat ears and a tail because it was the most hilarious thing I could think of for under $10) for a few drinks and cut through the mob at the door. Drinks appeared. There must have been some dancing, skilled crowd navigation and then it was closing time. A few of us retrieved all the cans, bottles, and cups we could find while people were shuffled out. With little left to do but drop our pants for the photobooth, we headed unceremoniously out into the street, and haplessly wandered back alleys knocking on the wrong doors until we found the next hazy party.

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Aside from brunch, a grocery run, some work at a cafe (today), and an afternoon meeting (yesterday), I alternately slept and watched Mad Men through the rest of the weekend. The iTunes store is made for rainy Saturdays.