Given the past several deepsicks updates and subsequent discussions, the past several months of my real-life tuning in, fully intellectually engaged and emotionally invested ’cause I care so much and want so much positive things for the nation and world, I suppose a few words are in order. Enough time has passed to suggest thought-out, something more coherent than rage and panic, more forward-thinking than the thick depression that descended November 2 and 3. But it hasn’t happened yet. I refuse to give my country—America the beautiful genius fuck-up—a eulogy, but the bright side won’t show itself and compromise has become another word for submission.

Election Day was fun, for all it was worth and it was worth a lot. Premature exit polls catapulting Kerry ahead had me beaming, before hating women and gays became the prime impetus to engage in political matters (instead of stuff like, ya know, health care, the economy, social security and the widening theaters of war ["theater" of war—how... entertaining]). That night my brother Sam took me to the Democrat brouhaha at the Hilton in downtown Minneapolis. I was skeptical—I definitely wanted to go but figured it, well, for important people. People not me. Sam convinced me otherwise. It was swank and freewheeling, crawling with starry-eyed folk, camera crews, kids with balloons, business suits, booze, hippies, students, grandmas, hip hop hope and punks with mohawks. I felt like a rockstar and roared with the rest when states turned blue on the gigantic projection screens, weaving through the throng of grins and prayers to see what I could see, and I saw expectation. Optimism. Community. Hope.

The best part?—being stopped every fifteen feet by people scrambling toward my brother and trapping him in massive embraces, remembrance and well-wishing. Having worked for Wellstone and a few progressive nonprofits, Sam has gotten around, knows and is known, and I don’t need people to squeeze the life from him to know he’s awesome, widely appreciated and wildly intelligent, respected and loved, but I never see him in this element. Curious how you can grow up with someone, live in the same city, interact at least a few times weekly yet know so little—find yourself surprised and agleam in another’s glow. (Aw, shucks—I love ya, Sam. )

As the night wore on, the euphoria waned. You know the rest.

As feared, my birthday on the third was awful. Last weekend cheered me up a bit, having gone to NoDak to visit family. Friday I saw Marilyn Manson, his first time in Fargo, in what amounted to a high school reunion for me—much fun was had seeing old comrades. My Minneapolis mates can be wacky, for sure, but tend toward understatement, at least subtlety—I forget how much fun it is (and how much good it does me) to be in the company of friends who routinely yell at strangers. I even saw Epich! (who enjoys modest fame in the depths of lasting still.) He is doing well. : ) From the concert I took with me broken ears, scores of bruises and Jenna from Omaha, who hitched a ride to the concert after her engine exploded outside of Fergus Falls. After a day of frantic calling, she decided to junk her vehicle and spent the remainder of the weekend immersed in my bizarre family life. Huzzah! Early Sunday morning I bid farewell at the Greyhound station and inherited until further notice the contents of her dead car. Now I have a down comforter, an atlas and swords.

Speaking of sharp stuff, for my birthday I got a nice kitchen knife—the knicest nife I’ve ever used. I feel like a professional, a real chef or killer—no longer must I saw my tomatoes or… er, nevermind.

The City of Saint Paul has a job opening for a zookeeper. I’m not qualified, but wouldn’t that be fun? Animals and science and kids and stuff?

For those who haven’t heard Fake‘s Erie Dam set, you should get it while it’s hot. And trust, this will never not be hot, but it might not be hosted for long. Get it! Now! Faster!