Bronziversary

Aiming High
Originally uploaded by drp

There is no traditional gift for the 19th anniversary. The spenditary industrial complex, however, says that bronze is the appropriate gift. I kind of like that.

I celebrate December 1 as my survivorship anniversary. I can't actually remember the precise date when I was diagnosed, and family recollections vary, but it was right after Thanksgiving weekend, about a day after I was finally admitted to the hospital (my pediatrician did what they tell doctors to do, which is, on hearing hoofbeats, to think horses; they should append advice to check the atlas and make sure you're not on the savannah and surrounded by zebras). I also can't remember the date of my last treatment, which was April sometime, or the exact date when I went into remission. But in the dark and cold of the year, I give personal thanks for the things that were missing back then, like not being full of needles and a feeling of lurking doom, and being able to eat whatever I want. The emotional landscape is not entirely untinged with a bit of vengeful satisfaction—hah, cancer, we showed YOU—that will not surprise anyone who knows me personally.

And most years I forget; this is a busy season, there's lots to do that's more fun, and I've never run out to host a party. But this year, when bronze is appointed (and how much better than china for a celebration): hey, guys. It's good to be here.

Gettin' board

I know I've got at least a couple of ajedrez-playin' readers out there, so here's a link to a Spanish-language post inspired by a shot I took in Buenos Aires last year. I mentioned some time ago that Argentina's graffiti seemed in general to be more elegant and thought-provoking, not to mention funnier, than what DC usually gets, and Mariano has taken my photo a step further by quoting Jorge Luis Borges at it. For those of us whose Spanish vocab didn't include the terms for chess pieces, here's a translation of what he's quoting.

Fainting king, slanting bishop, fierce
queen, straightforward tower and cunning pawn
on the black and white path
searching and fighting their armed battle.
They ignore the player’s pointing hand
governs his destiny,
they ignore that a tamed severity
holds his will and day.
The player is himself a prisoner
(the sentence is Omar’s) of another board
of dark nights and light days.
God moves the player, and he, the chess piece.
Which God behind God begins the conspiracy
of dust and time and dream and agony?
Translated by Blanca Lista.

Baila, baila

The Silver Spring Thanksgiving Parade has an agreeably funky local feeling. I don't always go, because it's on a Saturday morning and I belong to the Church of the Sacred Lie-In, but when I have crawled out of bed in time I've enjoyed myself. You get the might-as-well-be anonymous councilmembers perched on the back of convertibles, marching bands from the various area schools and the Washington football team, assorted scout troops, and, eventually, Santa. It's cute but a little staid, or at least it used to be.

Because now, the Bolivian dance troupes have discovered the parade, and these days it's like Philly's Mummers Parade by way of the Andes, which is to say sparkly, jingly, and sometimes deeply strange. It can also occasion profound audience sympathy. Flying Lily mentioned the other day that her students were wearing shorts on a 13-degree day; is that better or worse than having to shimmy down the street in a miniskirt when it's 20 degrees with the windchill? Discuss.

After the parade, most of the girls wrapped heavy blankets around their waists. You wouldn't have known it to watch them dance, but they were definitely feeling the cold.

ETA: I eventually retreated into Nicaro, home of the dreaded Negroni debacle, for brunch second breakfast and general thawing out; the restaurant's huge window onto Georgia meant that I could enjoy the parade while restoring feeling to my fingers and toes, not to mention while narfing down an omelet full of asparagus and brie and, oh God, the free brunch offer of hot beignets with creme fraiche. AND they offer dessert after brunch. How can a poor girl stand such times and live?

Slave to the food meme

Ganked from MightyGodKing.com. Stuff I've tried is in bold.

1. Venison (not crazy about it)
2. Nettle tea (is it just me, or is this entry oddly specific?)
3. Huevos rancheros
4. Steak tartare (and its sinful Korean equivalent, yook hwe)
5. Crocodile
6. Black pudding (as well as morcilla, and to both of them I say: PLEH)
7. Cheese fondue
8. Carp
9. Borscht (what, are we godless people?)
10. Baba ghanoush
11. Calamari
12. Pho (hail, oh Vietnamese soup, and again I say thee hail)
13. PB&J sandwich
14. Aloo gobi
15. Hot dog from a street cart
16. Epoisses
17. Black truffle
18. Fruit wine made from something other than grapes
19. Steamed pork buns
20. Pistachio ice cream (best at the motherlode)
21. Heirloom tomatoes
22. Fresh wild berries (in their forms blue, straw, rasp, black, and salmon)
23. Foie gras
24. Rice and beans
25. Brawn, or head cheese
26. Raw Scotch Bonnet pepper
27. Dulce de leche (of which too much is never enough)
28. Oysters
29. Baklava
30. Bagna cauda
31. Wasabi peas
32. Clam chowder in a sourdough bowl
33. Salted lassi
34. Sauerkraut
35. Root beer float
36. Cognac with a fat cigar (on a particularly horrible day in December 1989, I made a vow never to smoke, so no cigars for me)
37. Clotted cream tea (thank you may I have another)
38. Vodka jelly/Jell-O
39. Gumbo
40. Oxtail
41. Curried goat
42. Whole insects (we're not counting accidentally inhaled ones, right?)
43. Phaal
44. Goat’s milk
45. Malt whisky from a bottle worth £60/$120 or more (BUT I AM OPEN TO OFFERS)
46. Fugu
47. Chicken tikka masala
48. Eel
49. Krispy Kreme original glazed doughnut
50. Sea urchin (I have limits, and this is one)
51. Prickly pear
52. Umeboshi
53. Abalone
54. Paneer
55. McDonald’s Big Mac Meal (cf. limits)
56. Spaetzle
57. Dirty gin martini
58. Beer above 8% ABV (hail the Brickskeller)
59. Poutine
60. Carob chips
61. S'mores (any two of the ingredients pair well, but squished all together, they leave me cold)
62. Sweetbreads
63. Kaolin (pica is for type and not diet)
64. Currywurst
65. Durian
66. Frogs' legs
67. Beignets, churros, elephant ears or funnel cake
68. Haggis
69. Fried plantain
70. Chitterlings, or andouillette (I'm not counting my addiction to down-home sopa de menudo)
71. Gazpacho
72. Caviar and blini (but of course)
73. Louche absinthe
74. Gjetost, or brunost (two esoteric cheeses on the list and no deep-fried candy bar? lame)
75. Roadkill (that's taking terroir a leetle too seriously)
76. Baijiu
77. Hostess Fruit Pie
78. Snail (officially not on my list of good foods)
79. Lapsang souchong
80. Bellini
81. Tom yum
82. Eggs Benedict
83. Pocky
84. Tasting menu at a three-Michelin-star restaurant (again, open to invitations)
85. Kobe beef
86. Hare
87. Goulash
88. Flowers
89. Horse (AGH!)
90. Criollo chocolate
91. Spam (on multiple occasions, which is some sort of quality-of-life indicator)
92. Soft shell crab
93. Rose harissa
94. Catfish
95. Mole poblano
96. Bagel and lox
97. Lobster Thermidor (lobster, bleargh)
98. Polenta
99. Jamaican Blue Mountain coffee
100. Snake (rattle, to be specific)

Ectomorphism ain't all it's cracked up to be

Gearing up for class on a chilly evening:

• Two-piece thermals.
• Fleece britches.
• Jeans over the britches, for the walk to the car.
• Wool socks.
• Chemical toe heaters (BEST THINGS EVAR).
• Paddock boots.
• Half-chaps (over the britches, after the jeans are off).
  
• Turtleneck.
• Fleece pullover.
• Fleece jacket.
• Down vest.
• Fingerless gloves.
• Riding gloves.
• Helmet.
  

Being able to ride without losing sensation in any bits or pieces: Worth the hassle.

Having Lear try to bite my shoulder and get nothing but a mouthful of synthetic fluff: Absolutely priceless.

Snippety-snap

A friend recently asked me why I don't post more pictures of the horses I talk so much about. There are several simple reasons.

• No flash. It be agin the rules at Rock Creek. For the most part, the horses at our very public facility would probably take camera flash in stride, but it takes just one freakout to make the others edgy (to say nothing of what it would do to the nerves of anyone having to deal with said large flailing animal). The barn and ring are dim, and these days it's dark outside when I arrive for class, so it's hard to get a natural-light shot.
• No angles. Assuming arguendum that there's enough light in the barn and the horse is standing still, you can shoot a no-flash pic and have it come out in focus, but it's beyond me to get a good angle on a horse on cross-ties in a narrow aisle.
• No hands. I've snuck glances in the ring's mirror and can confirm that Lear looks entirely adorable when he goes on the bit or floats over cavaletti. He's even kind of cute when he's at peak goony spasticness. But given his history of squirreling out over random things, when I'm working with him I try to keep both hands on the reins and all my attention on him.
• No skill. You get right down to it, a not-very-good photographer is a not-very-good photographer. I'm working on it, I promise.

When I rode in Canada this summer, the guide, Pierre, often walked beside his horse if there wasn't a trot or canter coming up. Eventually we learned that it was safe to drop our stirrups when he was on the ground; it is for that reason alone that my patellar tendons still flex.

I never had the Latin

This is a shameless ganking from Neil Gaiman's site, for which he'll probably forgive me. Back when they were childless and full of good intentions, the parentals decided that they weren't going to have a TV until their children were set in the readin' way. Their plan succeeded to an almost alarming extent, considering that I can and sometimes do spend five minutes wandering around to find something that I can read while I brush my teeth. That's not a healthy fondness for the written word, there, that's a sickness.

But anyway, the lack of TV meant that we ended up listening to radio plays instead, which sounds so wholesome that I'm not sure how to disabuse anyone of the notion, except that some of the Halloween stuff on "The Big Broadcast" freaked my little wits out ("The Thing on the Fourble Board" petrified me, and I don't even know what a fourble board is). For a while I wanted to be an insurance investigator, because "Johnny Dollar" made it sound so glamorously noir. Oh, and the radio version of "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy"? That warps the young mind a treat. The only program I remember not liking was the "Star Wars" series, which did terrible things to movies Seesterperson and I had seen and enjoyed.

It is equally disconcerting to find that some of our very most favorite shows, "Beyond the Fringe" and "The Goon Show," are available in video. Anathema! Anathema! Well, not really. But a little.

Ephemera

Back when I was in college, I got a small grant to do pretty much whatever I pleased for a summer, which is how I came to spend six weeks in the Alaskan taiga, swatting terrier-sized mosquitos and learning the basics of field archaeology among the mortal remains of Dishkakat (or, variously, Dishkaket), a small Gold Rush town. Rule one of rural Alaskan field school: Put mosquito netting up around the latrine before you do anything else, because skeeters on the nethers sounds funny until it's happening to you. No, wait, that's rule two—rule one is to be all kinds of Emily Post to your campmates, because many of them are carrying rifles, and six weeks is a lot of time for resentments to build up.

Anyroo, that was many moons ago, but I'm pretty sure that these are photos of the building in whose ruins I spent many hours, troweling away the years in my one-meter square. Our crew of twelve found a silver coin (probably a Liberty dollar, but worn almost smooth), a clock's hour hand, decorative metalwork from a rifle stock, part of a compass, half a bottle of some sort of hooch, and a pair of black stockings jammed into the space between two of the logs remaining in the wall. Mostly we found dirt.

The town, which was built on the site of a Native seasonal fishing camp, wasn't a great success in the Gold Rush, and it was abandoned by the end of World War I. By the time our class arrived, most of the buildings were just lumps among the trees; this one was a slightly bigger set of lumps, since the bottom two or three logs were left in place. Rule three: When in doubt, assume that the town's biggest building is the bar.

It was those chimes, they drove me mad, they went ding ding

Things Lear did in honor of the full moon:

• Chewed on his reins while we waited for the ring to open. He looks very pleased with himself when he gets the leathers in his teeth. The fact that his big pink tongue sticks out a little as he does, giving him a goofy smugness that his two IQ points don't merit, makes it harder to for me to get too worked up about it. Lear: The Horse Who Flossed.
  
• Pricked his ears warily at the gate end of the ring and seemed vaguely let down that there was nothing scary there. All the deer that usually hang out down there making faces at us are celebrating the rut by running out onto the Beltway and causing huge traffic jams. Aw, no spooking for him.
  
• Spooked at the nongate end of the ring when someone honked a car horn. I stayed on, class continued, boring boring. (Later, Pat told a story about a fall several years ago that she doesn't remember. "I called my husband on my cell and said, 'Do we have a horse?' He said that I did and wanted to know why was I asking. 'Because I'm standing in the middle of a park wearing riding clothes, but there's no horse anywhere.' I couldn't even call 911, because I didn't really know where I was. Apparently I did find my way back to the barn, where I walked up to a volunteer and said, 'So they tell me I own a horse. Would you mind telling me which one?' The first thing I remember is seeing my husband standing in front of QC's stall." I think my helmet religion just held a tent revival.)
• Tried unsuccessfully to stealth up on the bag of horse treats Pat had brought. After class, when given one of same, he mouthed it carefully and then dropped it to the ground. What the hell, pony? Did you just want the thrill of chasing a stationary bag of sweets?
  
• Dove into his dinner bucket and rattled it so emphatically that grain sprayed halfway across the aisle. Yeah, that'll show those other horses who's boss. When he do stare, see how the subject quakes.

Armistice

Veterans Day is not just American, so this isn't entirely appropriate, but I leap on any excuse to quote Richard Wilbur. From "For Music."

Mourn for the dead who died for this country,
Whose minds went dark at the edge of a field,
In the muck of a trench, on the beachhead sand,
In a blast amidships, a burst in the air.
What did they think of before they forgot us?
In the blink of time before they forgot us?
The glare and whiskey of Saturday evening?
The drone or lilt of their family voices?
The bend of a trout-stream? A fresh-made bed?
The sound of a lathe, or the scent of sawdust?
The mouth of a woman? A prayer? Who knows?
Let us not force them to speak in chorus,
These men diverse in their names and faces
Who lived in a land where a life could be chosen.
Say that they mattered, alive and after;
That they gave us time to become what we could.

*

Grieve for the ways in which we betrayed them,
How we robbed their graves of a reason to die;
The tribes pushed west, and the treaties broken,
The image of God on the auction block,
The immigrant scorned, and the striker beaten,
The vote denied to liberty's daughters.
From all that has shamed us, what can we salvage?
Be proud at least that we know we were wrong,
That we need not lie, that our books are open.
Praise to this land for our power to change it,
To confess our misdoings, to mend what we can,
To learn what we mean and to make it the law,
To become what we said we were going to be.
Praise to our peoples, who came as strangers,
Who more and more have been shaped into one
Like a great statue brought over in pieces,
Its hammered copper bolted together,
Anchored by rods in the continent's rock,
With a core of iron, and a torch atop it.
Praise to this land that its most oppressed
Have marched in peace from the dark of the past
To speak in our time, and in Washington's shadow,
Their invincible hope to be be free at last—

Lord God Almighty, free
At last to cast their shackles down
And wear the common crown
Of liberté, of liberty.

Who Eats Free at Ben's

Who Eats Free at Ben's
Originally uploaded by thedoublepeace

DC locals will get a kick out of this: Ben's Chili Bowl has updated their who-eats-free policy to reflect the changing demographics of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Is this the terrible first step toward state control of the means of production of chili dogs? Only time will tell.

Main screen turn on

Heeeey, MightyGodKing.com is back up, resurrected after having been slashdotted into oblivion by BoingBoing's link to the posts on retitled SFF favorites (posts the first, second, and third). This is a good complement to learning that our new president-elect is himself something of a nerd, and if the story about him responding to someone saying the magic words "all your base are belong to us" by quirking an eyebrow and asking, "What you say?" is true, a lot of the interwebs may swoon dead away. MGK also has a good review of Nation up, in which the writer says much more eloquently what I have tried to say about the book.

At riding this week, I was reunited with the inimitable Cappi. After a few weeks with Lear, Cappi feels like those kindergarten water fountains; you can't believe that anything that small was ever comfortable. But a few minutes' work is all it takes to get readjusted, and it is a relief not to be constantly nervous of strong teeth. The barn is debating Lear's future: He's unpredictable enough that he can't be used for any of the lower-level students, and he's nippy enough to keep even the more relaxed riders on their toes all the time. I'd like to hear that they'd found a dedicated skilled customer to take him, but that remains to be seen. Anyroo, the Capster and I had fun being back together. He now does shoulders-in beautifully and offers the promise of an easier haunches-in, as well as doing the pretty leg-yields he mastered months ago. Apparently smart and flexible is a pretty good combo for this sort of work. After class, he was distracted from the promise of dinner by Calamari, the newest barn cat; he seems fascinated by her, though she still walks wide of all of the horses when she can. Eventually I look to find her curled up on Jackson's back, but right now she's more interested in the mice. Work before love, huh?

In totally unrelated news, hey! The NYT namechecks Seesterperson's former derby league! And WJLA runs a great piece called, "Friends, Family Set Sights on Your Couch for Inaugural Week." For the record, I have a sofabed that would sleep two friendly people or one tall sprawly person, and by-reservation-only hardwood floors are also available. I'll shove the paperwork and books aside, but I can't promise more in the housework department.

And now for something completely different

Photocred to JackZodiac

A rare year, in that I had and executed a costume idea, mostly in honor of the Zodiacs' willingness to host a fantastic party. Scrubs and hat were from a local costume chain; the vampy claws were an impulse buy in RiteAid. They looked cool but drove me nuts the entire night. Mental note: no acrylics for this witch. They get in the way when you're trying to go through a box of Christopher Elbow truffles like locusts through the seven-year harvest.

Letting our breath out and our hair down

I had planned to spend part of the evening in Virginia, where BK was hosting a watch party, and then to cruise up to 5*j's for a Silver Spring bash. But the best-laid plans went gang awry when Virginia's numbers were tighter than expected; the idea of getting on the train or into a cab (driving was, hic, not an option) and being cut off from a constant feed of TV and interweb news was terrifying. So I ended up sitting with BK and friends, flipping between MSNBC, CNN, and the Daily Show, while BK himself loaded and reloaded FiveThirtyEight and the CNN.com state and county pages as we asked demanded ("Give us the Prince William returns!" "No, but Arlington first!" "Wait wait wait, is Indiana really turning blue? The home of the Klan, THAT Indiana?"). We got more and more hopped up on drinks, sugar, and numbers, and then Jon Stewart, a fellow W&M graduate, announced that Virginia was being called for Obama. And then he said, "We would like to announce that now, as of 11 PM, Barack Obama is America's next president."

A pause that seemed long, and then there was a clamor for CNN and MSNBC, BK flipping on the Ode to Joy at volume 11, and from there on all I really remember is a welter of shouting and crying and an incoherent burst of toasts that wiped out a bottle of excellent German mead in the name of "the 21st century!" "the America we dreamed of!" "everything we worked for!" and hugs and yet more tears. Oh, and Obama-logo cupcakes.

But eventually you've got to get home, and Metro was closed, and come to find out, free cabs were in very short supply. I ended up shepherding a trio of German schoolteachers onto a downtown-bound bus, assuring them that it would take them to within walking distance of their hotel. They had come for a week to see the election, and they seemed a little disappointed at the lack of celebration in the streets of Arlington. I figured DC doesn't really party and that the earlier televised festivities had already broken up.

Hah. We heard the first screaming whoops as we rolled through Georgetown, and Dupont from K Street north was the best party I've ever seen in this self-conscious city. People high-fived and cheered anyone who smiled; cars honked incessantly in a triple beat as their passengers screamed and waved flags out windows or sunroofs or off the backs of pick-ups; chants broke out as people passed one another on the sidewalks; fireworks exploded over Adams Morgan and U Street. The teachers hugged me warmly when they found their hotel; "Congratulations," said one. "We feel it is a privilege to be here tonight." The driver of the bus I eventually caught heading home wouldn't take fares; his passengers, packed together hip to hip, laughed and cheered, hugging one another over jolts in the road or chattering as the last of the buzz gave way to incoherent fatigue. I staggered through my door around 3 AM, happy and exhausted.

I mean, I dunno about you guys, but I had a hell of a night.

Ye ballot if caft

I voted, of course. The polling place was run by a much larger—and younger—group of volunteers than in the past, and they were cheerfully efficient, but the sheer number of people meant that the line was an hour and a half long. The woman in front of me met up with her husband as he was leaving; apparently, turning up when the polls opened meant a two-hour wait. Ouch.

Although my district is about as liberal as it's possible to get, the feeling in the line was not really woohoo-party in spite of the promising numbers. People weren't talking about the candidates, or talking much at all; it was as though this was a lull before the nervous watching of the teebee returns. One pair of women, probably first-timers, stumbled out laughing and crying as they hugged, but most people emerged looking calm or smiling just a little. The poll workers checked the line occasionally to find anyone who might have trouble waiting without a seat; Voter Protection Act volunteers did a circuit to provide the numbers and URLs to use if there were problems; a single guy in an Obama shirt came by to offer Democratic sample ballots. That was the extent of the excitement. The rest of the time, you'd have thought we'd been taking queuing lessons from the British.

After I voted, the guy handing out stickers looked at me reproachfully. "Voting is a happy time; why you lookin' so down?" I hadn't realized I looked sad; I was just trying to process the mundanity of voting with the history involved in this election, and it was making me a little sniffly. "Aw," he said, "First time voting?" No, I said, but the first time I'd been so happy to vote for someone, naming no names. He smiled. "Good feeling, isn't it."

I walked past the line on the way out. It was down to an hour and a quarter.

A final word on one of my many crushes

Nate Silver is one of the wonkiest dudes ever to be claimed as everyone's internet boyfriend. I wasn't going to say anything else about him, but, well, there's another resolution down the pipes. Damn, way to quote appropriately.

For the organizers, the volunteers, every damn brave last one of you:

That he which hath no stomach to this fight,
Let him depart; his passport shall be made,
And crowns for convoy put into his purse;
We would not die in that man's company
That fears his fellowship to die with us.
This day is call'd the feast of Crispian.
He that outlives this day, and comes safe home,
Will stand a tip-toe when this day is nam'd,
And rouse him at the name of Crispian.
He that shall live this day, and see old age,
Will yearly on the vigil feast his neighbours,
And say 'To-morrow is Saint Crispian.'
Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars,
And say 'These wounds I had on Crispian's day.'
Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot,
But he'll remember, with advantages,
What feats he did that day. Then shall our names,
Familiar in his mouth as household words-
Harry the King, Bedford and Exeter,
Warwick and Talbot, Salisbury and Gloucester-
Be in their flowing cups freshly rememb'red.
This story shall the good man teach his son;
And Crispin Crispian shall ne'er go by,
From this day to the ending of the world,
But we in it shall be remembered-
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,
This day shall gentle his condition;
And gentlemen in England now-a-bed
Shall think themselves accurs'd they were not here,
And hold their manhoods cheap whiles any speaks
That fought with us upon Saint Crispin's day.

-- William Shakespeare, Henry the DXXXVIII

One more dawn, one more day

Maryland my Maryland doesn't have early voting; even if it did, I'd hate to miss being at My Official Polling Site (a church hall that smells like the ghosts of casseroles and play-doh, as well-used halls tend to do) to see everyone come out. There's never been much of a line, at least not when I've gone in after work; this is the first year when I plan to go early, the better to flaunt a "Yo voté" sticker all day, and man, if there's ever going to be a crowd, it'll be tomorrow. Although we're not remotely a swing state, there has been huge volunteer turnout over the last few months, most of it focused on reaching people in Virginia and Pennsylvania. Tomorrow, the work will be closer to home, as people switch to helping out in their own districts: A computer-wiz neighbor is planning to serve as an election judge "because I know how to hack a Diebold machine and can tell when someone else is doing it" (yikes, thanks, and please keep the white hat secured in the morally upright position), while several of my coworkers will be out ferrying voters of all descriptions to the polls or working on site. And everybody is making plans to get to the voting sites, read our books in long lines if we must, get checked off the rosters, solemnly/joyfully fill in our choices, double- and triple-check our ballots, collect our stickers—which are redeemable for booze, coffee, doughnuts, and sex toys—and head back out past the lines with great big grins on our faces for reasons other than the aforementioned commercial blandishments.

In conclusion, also, and such as, this is just to say: VOTE. Or else your penis will fall off.

[ETA: Dammit, there is nothing to say about Obama's grandmother dying the day before the election, except that I am glad he took the time to see her. The family is asking that donations be given to any charity or organization dedicated to curing cancer. Do that, if it moves you, and be sure to hug your people, whoever they may be.]

Allons-y

Here's an elegant bit of elegaic geekdom wot I am posting not just because David Tennant is pretty but also because he's been a fantastic Doctor. Christopher Eccleston left some big shoes to fill, but Tennant made it look easy.




I will post photos from last night's Halloween entertainment later, though I regret in advance not having been able to get reaction shots of the two guys in front of us in line at Giant. Apparently in the Dominican Republic you don't often see a giant Tigger and a witch in green scrubs buying booze and talking stats. It seems a shame that that would be the case, but no doubt they've got their own expected times and places for becostumed wonkerie.