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.