It's not a state secret that I've...

...had CFIDS (in many ways akin to MS) for the past 18 years and while I've published dozens of pieces for superb magazines and journals and am continuing to carve my first novel, I have long periods in which I'm nearly immobilized. I would be in public housing if not for the unwavering love and generosity of my family. And, of course, not everyone is so fortunate. No one in the greatest country on earth should have to risk losing everything because a few cells refuse to cooperate.

With regards to healthcare and insurance reform, most of us, particularly the president, knew this would be complex and arduous and, unquestionably, there are legitimate points of disagreement. What's disturbing and bizarre, though, is that there are scurrilous, racist fucks who oppose the president's plan with a vitriol rarely seen outside of combat units and prison yards. What's even more perverse is that they seem mostly lower-income and spottily educated, i.e. those without access to high quality, affordable health insurance and the group most likely to benefit from Obama's overhaul. Strange, but if history has taught us anything, it is unsurprising that some can hate so vehemently even when it is counter to their own self-interest and the safety of their families.

The White House just established a comprehensive web site unravelling fact from fiction as it applies to the myriad aspects of the president's proposed legislation. Wherever you stand on the issues, I suggest you give it a look:

http://www.whitehouse.gov/realitycheck/faq/?e=11&ref=myth1

At least it's not smack and, so far, I'm sober:

I've smoked maybe a dozen cigarettes in my life in totem, all of them in the summer of 1985 when my brother and I were wandering around London, Paris, and sundry parts of Greece. And largely because we were 18 and 16 respectively and wandering around London, Paris, and Greece. (Mom and Dad were on certain legs of the trip, but my brother and I were often a duo and it was spectacular for scads of reasons.)

Lately, however, and seemingly out of nowhere, I have been craving smokes recurringly. It could be a bizarre systemic reaction to my post-shingles recovery period, but mostly I think it's the stress of resuming sustained work on the novel. And how much of a writer cliche is that?

I'm not going to cave, obviously, particularly that, given the parameters of my compromised immunity, I'd last about a week and a half before my body cavity simply imploded. But I live roughly 50 yards from a temptation-laden convenience store and we have many rivers to cross until the final draft is complete.

So, I guess I'll be chewing through pencils (gross) or, more likely, start purchasing Juicy Fruit in bulk. And if anyone wants to make an oral sex joke, feel free, because you know I probably would if we were discussing you.

It's always something:

First off, well done, President Clinton. That was old school. And viewing the photos of Clinton and Al Gore hugging this morning on the New York Times' site (Gore employed the captured journalists) made me kind of teary.

Secondly, some people, apparently, just like to gripe: I've already read headlines saying Bill should do something "useful" instead, like run for mayor of New York City (what the hell, Daily Beast?) and the Huffington Post accused him of "upstaging" Hillary.

He just freed two U.S. journalists from a 12 year hard labor sentence in North Korea. And yes, obviously, many at the State Department, including Secretary Clinton, of course, played a crucial role in this minefield act of diplomacy. And I criticized President Clinton plenty during last year's primaries. But for fuck's sake, could certain folks climb off his ass for, like, a day and give credit where it is due?

I become amused when...

...a segment of atheists stake their position as adamantly as theists often do, as if they alone know with certainty as to lack of an omniscient deity.

At varying points in my life I have been a believer, an agnostic, and an atheist and for our purposes here, I'm not going to state what I currently embrace or why. (And, for the record, I have loved ones whose spiritual views run the entire gamut and back again.)

This seems axiomatic, but if history has taught us anything, it's that religion and spirituality and/or the lack thereof boil down to an educated guess. So I will never understand the vitriol on either side. Might as well argue about the superiority of yam fries versus onion rings. It's equally as objective and makes about as much sense.

I've written extensively about Henry Louis Gates on Facebook...

...but I'd like to add a few things here:

• About three years ago, Vanity Fair referred to the esteeemed Margaret Atwood as a "female novelist" and it took every ounce of self-control I had not to upend the magazine stands at the downtown Barnes and Noble, where I happened to encounter the absurd and offending phrase. She's a novelist. Period. In their lengthy and distinguished careers, I'll guarantee you no one described Kurt Vonnegut or Norman Mailer as "male novelists". Along these same lines, I find it infuriating each time Gates is referred to as some variation of a "preeminent African-American intellectual." Gates is one of America's finest and most prominent public intellectuals and, like Atwood, requires no qualifier.

• In a nutshell, if Henry Louis Gates had been Bill Gates, the arrest never would have taken place.

• I thought Obama's beer summit was a fine idea and history would be soaked in far less blood if leaders at least attempted something analogous to this first.

• While I think the New York Times' Bob Herbert (long one of my favorite editorialists) is too hard on Obama's stance here, Herbert's current piece is otherwise spot on: http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/01/opinion/01herbert.html?emc=eta1

• Also, Toure's essay for The Daily Beast is particularly salient: http://www.thedailybeast.com/blogs-and-stories/2009-07-21/skips-racist-wakeup-call/

• It's worth mentioning that I can't know for a second what it's like to be a person of color, but I can empathize and extrapolate. However, in no way am I trying to appropriate anyone's cultural identities or maelstroms.

• This last point is wholly unrelated to Gates or any of the above topics, but more so than anything today, I miss my grandparents so deeply I can feel it in my bones. While it changes and, in some cases, lessens over time, all adults come to know that loss will always remain loss.
  

At the end of Seattle's 103 degree day, the warmest in the city's history:

After a lovely evening out at Star Trek (more on that next time) w/ my best friend and two of his friends, both of whom I've met before and find quite swell, I returned home to a sweltering abode and immediately disrobed.

Then the biggest moth maybe ever--seriously, this thing could be the subject of J.J. Abram's next film--flew into my goddamned hair and when I freaked and shooed it away, it made a beeline for my Marc Jacobs wool houndstooth coat hanging on the back of my bedroom door. I batted it away again and it landed on my mirror. When I returned with a paper towel to squelch its malevolence, it had flown away and now I can't find it.

So I'm faced with the prospect of trying to sleep in 88 degree weather knowing some kind of sentient dragon-type descendent is loose in what should be my sanctuary.

Right now I don't feel like fate's pawn so much as its bitch and/or fluffer.

You have won the battle, coif-hating, wool-craving moth, but sleep or no sleep, I will win the war.

Hey, you know what sucks harder than giving blowjobs for pocket change at bus stations?

When you've already had a fever for nineteen months and the temperature in your city is 90 degrees and is about to top 100.

Appropriate topics for discussion at my funeral: my genteel and ladylike phrasing; my tenacious and history-inspiring rack; and assembling in my forties a reasonable combination of anti-humidity haircare products.

Good night, God bless.

The more things change:

Yesterday was utterly delightful. My best friend took me to Golden Gardens (and he helped me navigate the sand while on my cane) and then we got sandwiches at Other Coast Cafe and laughed unabatedly and told ridiculous stories new and old and it was by far the best day of what has been a rather dicey summer.

Today, perhaps unsurprisingly, I was annihilated. I checked my email at 1 p.m. and while I have no recollection of closing my eyes or reclining, next thing I knew, it was 5:30 p.m. I rallied, threw on a rather jaunty ensemble (I'm sick, not dead), achingly traversed the four blocks up the hill to the grocery store, shopped, slowly navigated the downhill return path, unpacked my quarry, made dinner, and collapsed.

This is hardly the first time this has happened in the last 18 years and, almost certainly, it won't be the last. And, as I've oft-noted, my folks and my closest friends have been saints throughout this bout of shingles, which is now in its eleventh week. And I know I'm improving: even two weeks ago, it would have been inconceivable for me to retrieve my own groceries and subsequently prepare a meal.

Also, as I know in every particle of my being, there are thousands of worse illnesses to have. Out of the nearly seven billion individuals currently inhabiting the earth, I have one of the very best lives.

Still, there is something deeply saddening when, in one's physically worse phases, even joyful events, no matter how well-planned and measured, trigger massive symptom exacerbation.

So, I guess, once again, all we can really do is continue to eat (mostly) healthily, be grateful for those in our life and for our rather fortunate professional opportunities, rest, and hope tomorrow is a bit better.

And we are reminded again...

...that difficulties present themselves in a city where protracted discussion of amateur-level skiing and hiking passes for culture.

And this, perhaps, is what no one but other chronically ill or injured individuals understand: when every fiber of your being is begging to leave and yearning to belong, even for a tiny while, in your surroundings, you are stuck. And on your very good days, you are able to take a short walk and fold your laundry and write a bit.

It is my fondest hope that I return to the level of health and writerly output I was able to sustain from the end of '04 to the end of '07 because with all the words at my disposal, I cannot adequately convey how much I miss both.

And I fear that if I must engage in one more palid conversation about kayaking, I will swallow every pill in the house.

And with no access to Cortizone cream or Percocet:

It sounds like I'm being facetious, but I genuinely feel sorry for Olympia Snowe, Tim Pawlenty, Kay Bailey Hutchison, Peggy Noonan, Alex Castellanos, Christopher Buckley, Amy Holmes (whom I know, but that's a whole other story) and other highly intelligent and well-reasoned conservatives because it's no secret that, of late, their party has been hijacked by some terrifyingly doltish individuals. (Kind of like when the Democrats ran Mondale against Reagan in '84. I respect Fritz, but you have to wonder what the fuck anyone was thinking. As Dennis Miller put it at the time, back when he was still funny, "He got stomped like a narc at a biker rally. I almost tied him and I didn't even run.")

So, in the protracted fallout and endless detritus of the Republican's '08 campaign, the so-called "birthers" at the far right (and neurologically impaired) end of the party are now insisting President Obama is not a U.S. citizen. (Do they think Supreme Court Justice Roberts is in on the conspiracy? And that Bush and Cheney simply opted to look the other way?)

What the "birthers" are forgetting, perhaps as a result of their sequential lobotomies, is that John McCain was the only presidential candidate in post-colonial times who was not born in the U.S.: his father was stationed at a U.S. base in Panama and McCain was born in a hospital therein. The Democratic National Committee opted not to challenge the constitutionality of McCain's candidacy because his father served honorably, the hospital in question was on a U.S. base, and it would have been politically disastrous and yielded absolutely no practical gain.

Despite the fact President Obama's U.S. birth certificate has been produced repeatedly, along with his birth announcement in the local Hawaiian papers, the "birther" yahoos relentlessly persist.

My fondest hope? That each and every one develops an incurable case of shingles.

I've posted this elsewhere, but it bears repeating:

Say what you will about Dick Cheney, but by all accounts he loves his family and they love him. And while Saddam Hussein often had a fractious relationship with his oldest son, Uday, and jailed him at least once, they, along with the youngest son Qusay, presented a united front to the outside world. So how much of a cretinous toolbag does Joe Jackson have to be to be a worse father than Dick Cheney and Saddam Hussein? And why the hell doesn't Katherine sprinkle cyanide on his Cheerios?

Back in the saddle again. Sort of:

If you know me or if you read my Facebook page, you're aware that I developed a particularly acute case of shingles nine weeks ago and that, in many ways, it has derailed my summer thus far.

The good news, though (and I while I'm not superstitious, I can't help but touch wood as I write this) is that I'm incrementally improving and that, last week, I interviewed Lynn Shelton, the out-of-the-park talented writer/director of the new indie comedy, Humpday, for Nerve.

I'm extraordinarily fortunate because if my folks and TJ did not graciously volunteer to do my grocery shopping, errand running, et al, there is no way I could have taken on or completed the assignment. (It should be noted I pitched this feature before I developed shingles but it wasn't assigned until the eleventh hour. 'Twas ever thus in publishing and I'm neither surprised nor complaining.)

The feature went up on Friday and so far, the feedback has been quite good. I'm including the link and, also, my original intro that was edited for space reasons because I believe the maiden venture more accurately represents both Lynn and me.

And for the love of all that is holy, get your ass to a theater. Humpday is the rare film that makes you laugh and think in equal measure and, laudably, it eschews the edgy-for-the-sake-of-it dust that coats so many flicks of all genres.

My piece with the estimable Ms. Shelton:

http://entertainment.nerve.com/2009/07/17/the-nerve-interview-humpday-director-lynn-shelton/

And my original intro:

Lynn Shelton, the 43 year-old writer/director of the new critically lauded indie comedy, Humpday, enters Seattle’s Neptune Coffee wearing a wool cap on one of the city’s on-again-off-again drizzling summer afternoons. A smash on the festival circuit, the pocket change budgeted Humpday explores events set loose when two straight college friends, the staid and married Ben (Mark Duplass) and the still peripatetic Andrew (Joshua Leonard), reconnect in their thirties and opt, on a dare of sorts, to have sex with one another in a locally sponsored amateur porn contest. (“It’s beyond gay!” Ben announces as they mull the idea at a wine-soaked party.) The film has just begun its nationwide rollout and Shelton is a bit tired, but gregarious. During the course of her career, she has jettisoned between Seattle and New York, making experimental films, music videos, acting in theater, and more recently, creating the singularly executed gems, We Go Way Back and My Effortless Brilliance, resulting in a “Someone to Watch Award” at the 2009 Independent Spirit Awards. Over a pot of tea, she holds forth on the contrasts between men and women with regards to homosexuality, her unwavering desire to create real characters in genuine human relationships, and the advantages and limitations of the “mumblecore” genre in which she’s often lumped. Erudite, insightful, and possessed of a sardonic wit, Shelton’s hat comes off and her laugh is infectious.

Indie lit and awesome good times:

I've been on de facto hiatus around these parts mostly because my novel has been eating my time like a cracked out piranha and, also, there has been the recurring tripwire of my health. I'm taking on deadlines again, though, and am about to resume posting here regularly.

If you're curious as to the latest:

My short story, "Defending Reggie" was featured in the lit journal Hobart's annual April Baseball Issue:

http://www.hobartpulp.com/website/april/dremousis09.html

My essay, "Tossers!" was recently Story of the Week at Smith Magazine:

http://www.smithmag.net/mylifesofar/story.php?did=58058

And my short piece, "No Such Luck" was accepted at Six Sentences, alongside work from Neil LaBute and sundry others whose work I value more than homemade lasagna:

http://sixsentences.blogspot.com/2009/04/no-such-luck.html

Scads more in the pipeline. Touch wood, all that. But first, time for the oft-mentioned mocha.

I think even Gloria Steinem and Jesus would agree with me here:

I've written before that, not only is it okay to call Ann Coutler a "cunt", it's not okay not to call her one.

And in case you needed one more reason:

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/01/05/ann-coulters-today-show-a_n_155393.html

But it'd be cool if I could leave the house for more than an hour tomorrow:

The past 72 hours have been punishing physically--I actually had to skip both New Year's Eve parties I'd been invited to--and while I'm in a really good mood, you know, fuck.

But yesterday I received the sweetest missive from someone saying how much she enjoys my work and today I received a different note from someone and he basically said the same thing.

It's incredibly gratifying for anyone to receive such rockin' feedback, but when you're lying flat in pain in a dark room, it's that much more so.

So I still think 2009 is off to a great start.

So far:

Little has gone as planned but it's been very fun nonetheless.

And that's as good a way as any to kick things off.

Five Things Worth Noting about 2008 before I Start Getting Ready to Head out the Door:

• On a national level, the main and perhaps only thing that went right was Barack Obama's election. But still: we fucking elected Barack Obama with 52% of the popular vote and an electoral landslide. So if only one thing had to go right, it was a great one, like receiving a single birthday gift but it's a townhouse in the West Village.

• Like all rational beings, I'm deeply saddened by the results of Proposition 8 in California. I'm certain that we'll see gay marriage legalized on a federal level in my lifetime because, eventually, our generation and those younger will ascend to the Supreme Court. I'm not trying to make sweeping generalizations, but on a statistical level, highly educated individuals in said age brackets, especially who also reside in metropolitan areas, favor the legalization of gay marriage. And that, of course, is the pool from which Supreme Court justices are drawn. So I believe that within the next twenty years, we'll see the gay marriage equivalent of Brown vs. Board of Education, i.e. SCOTUS will interpret the Constitution as giving equal rights to gays, straights, bisexuals, and transgenders and, as with Brown, a huge swath of the country still won't be ready for such a decision and there will be upheaval, but in time, most of the nation will become acclimated. Still, and I wish I could find the link but I can't, I agree with a recent Huffington Post essay from a gay male Baby Boomer: the past few decades have proven that a significant heap of folks of all stripes are ill-suited for marriage and the last thing we should do as a country is further romanticize it as an institution.

• If you already have a compromised immune system, say, from CFIDS, do not get pneumonia in January because it will fuck up the first nine months of your year. And just when you think it's done, it will gleefully fuck it up some more.
  

• The last three months of 2008 were pretty damned lively, though, and it's been great, among other things, to congregate with my tribe at arts events, get to parties and shows again, frolic with certain cherished individuals, and go for decent-sized walks almost everyday. Cage door, please stay open.

• The novel is really starting to seem like a novel. I'm not done, obviously, but it's more statue than rock now, and while it still grinds at me constantly and occupies most of my waking thoughts and often my dreams, fuck it: this is what I signed on for and I feel blessed and proud.

Here's to health, joy, love, sex, triumph, and custard bismarcks for all of us in 2009! Best to you and yours!

Or at least the next round of doughnuts at Top Pot:

My best friend and I were discussing something yesterday and he wasn't sure if my conclusion was accurate and then today it turned out I was spot on.

As most sentient adults know, so much of life is varying shades of gray, and unless you're weighing the pros and cons of, say, infanticide, most issues are rarely "right" and "wrong" in a strictly binary sense.

Yet that accurately sums up the current matter and now I wish I'd bet him a thousand dollars or litter box duty for a month.

My Facebook Status Updates from the Evening of November 3rd until the Present that More or Less Bring Us up to Date for Our Purposes Here:

Litsa dedicates John Lennon's "How Do You Sleep?" to Joe Lieberman. Nov. 3, 8:34 p.m.

Litsa has donated her status to remind everyone to vote for Barack Obama today. Donate your status: http://causes.com/election/26596992?m=ad1fd51 b. Nov. 4, 12:30 a.m.

Litsa reminds you to vote TODAY. Find your polling location now: http://apps.facebook.com/obama. Nov. 4, 6:10 a.m.

Litsa decrees that if any state botches things a la Florida, she will personally ear-flick each of its citizens. Nov. 4, 9:00 a.m.

Litsa wonders if Mitt Romney feels like a horse's ass after spending 44 million of his own cash, coming in 3rd behind Huckabee, and still not getting tapped for V.P. Nov. 4, 1:39 pm.

Litsa high fives Massachusetts and New Jersey and thinks, Hey, South Carolina and Kentucky, that was really uncool. Nov. 4, 5:01 p.m.

Litsa wants to make out w/ Pennsylvania. Nov. 4, 5:41 p.m.

Litsa is thrilled Kay Hagan trounced Elizabeth Dole. Who's "godless" now, old lady? Nov. 4, 6:19 p.m.

Litsa does not want to hang out w/ white, Southern, rural voters anytime soon. Nov. 4, 6:34 p.m.

Litsa will share her cookies, forever, w/ Ohio. (O-fucking-hio!!!!) Nov. 4, 6:37 p.m.

Litsa 's whole neighborhood is cheering and she's literally crying she's so happy. Nov. 4, 8:01 p.m.

Litsa 's neighborhood is still partying; it's made national and local news and she can hear the news copters overhead. Nov. 4, 11:17 p.m.

Litsa 's friend just brought over beer folks are handing out in the streets. Signing off! Nov. 5, 12:18 a.m.

Litsa is enjoying her order of hope with a side of change. Nov. 5, 9:32 a.m.

Litsa was touched to hear her uncle in Greece called her folks this morning to congratulate them on Obama's election. Nov. 5, 10:11 p.m.

Litsa heard Rahm Emanuel shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. Nov. 6, 12:02 p.m.

Litsa thinks, now that the election is over, everyone might want to give it a rest with the "Hussein" thing. Nov. 6, 8:56 p.m

Litsa 's new short story, "Pizza Day", is on Monkeybicycle now: http://monkeybicycle.net/archive/Dremousis/pi zza.html. Nov. 7, 11:00 a.m.

Litsa isn't trying to be facetious but is really curious what Bill Clinton will do in his spare time now that the election is over. Nov. 9, 7:53 p.m.

Litsa hopes that, after Obama issues a new executive order overturning W's stem cell policy, he gets someone to bake her some tasty blueberry scones. Nov. 10. 11:27 a.m.

Litsa is pretty sure her neighbor's dogwalker is grappling w/ demonic possession. Or maybe high-grade lead poisoning. Nov. 10, 12:56 p.m.

Litsa has concluded there is no downside to steak fajitas. Nov. 11, 7:59 p.m.

Litsa thinks that if Aztec Camera had launched today instead of 25 years ago they would have been a much bigger deal. Nov. 12, 11:49 a.m.

Litsa fears we're all going to be dead a long time before she forgets the sight of the guy dry humping and then licking the brick wall on Broadway and E. Union today. Nov. 12, 4:18 p.m.

Litsa would like to point out to the kids tagging the neighborhood with pentagrams that actual satanists probably have more interesting stuff to do. Nov. 13, 9:20 a.m.

Litsa is warmed to know the love she has for French toast is, in fact, requited. Nov. 14, 9:39 a.m.

Litsa can't help but wonder if U.S. astronauts are all that excited about NASA's new invention that converts urine to drinking water. Nov. 14, 11:13 a.m.

Litsa thinks that unless gays toss, say, plutonium into the mix, there's no way they're going to screw up marriage worse than straights have. Nov. 15, 10:17 a.m.

Litsa will not take it personally that the deli near her home has stopped carrying organic tzatziki. Nov. 16, 5:47 p.m.

Litsa isn't worried that our president-elect will soon surrender his Blackberry, because he has assured her they will still communicate telepathically. Nov. 17, 10:52 a.m.

Litsa was once, many years ago, friends with someone whose favorite actor was Keanu Reeves. In retrospect, that should have been a tip off. Nov. 18, 11:52 a.m.

Litsa will think about the lasagna w/ bechamel sauce she had at La Spiga last night for the rest of this life and well into the next. Nov. 18, 4:17 p.m.

Litsa understands the prevailing strategy but thinks Joe Lieberman can still eat a dick. Nov. 19, 9:34 a.m.

Litsa 's friend once joked about Top Pot developing an opium donut and given the way the day is going and that it's only 9:15, she really wishes they'd get on that. Nov. 20, 9:19 a.m.

Litsa wants the pencil-chewing half-wits to know that if they decided to spontaneously combust, she'd be okay with it. Nov. 20, 12:58 p.m.

Litsa would like to commend herself for committing neither the murder nor hari kari that the day so clearly warranted. Nov. 20, 6:29 p.m.

Litsa had forgotten how awesome Whitman's Samplers can be until her dad surprised her w/ one yesterday. Yea, nougat! Nov. 21, 7:38 a.m.

Litsa sometimes falls in love with her neighborhood all over again. Nov. 21, 1:32 p.m.

Litsa thinks that if Bill starts acting batshit again during Hillary's SoS tenure, we should all agree to look the other way when she finally tazes him. Nov. 22, 10:06 a.m.

Litsa is disappointed that breakfast isn't responding to her commands and preparing itself because she thought they'd worked through all this. Nov. 23, 9:52 a.m.

Litsa is going to write a sonnet to the au jus sandwich and hand cut fries she had at the Virginia Inn tonight. Nov. 23, 9:07 p.m.

Litsa finished revising another chapter of her novel today. Which, all told, might be a bigger deal than the aforementioned sandwich. Nov. 23, 9:20 p.m.

Litsa 's downstairs neighbor seems to be running headlong into his east-facing bedroom wall repeatedly and for no discernible reason. Nov. 24, 10:22 p.m.

Litsa seems to have a poltergeist situation with her Ipod. Nov. 25, 11:39 a.m.

Litsa has extra family members in case anyone is running low the next few days. Nov. 25, 11:56 a.m.

Litsa has to go to the grocery store now despite her best plans and is psyching herself up as if she's at base camp on K-2. Nov. 26, 1:39 p.m.

Litsa still hasn't ruled out holing up w/ a stash of yam fries and Johnny Cash tunes for the next five weeks. Nov. 26, 7:37 p.m.

Litsa is thankful for her loved ones, the new first family, and that for the second year running, she was assigned Top Pot donuts and didn't have to cook anything. Nov. 27, 9:50 a.m.

Litsa says this as someone who isn't necessarily all "Holidays! Awesome! Yippee!" but yesterday turned out to be pretty damned great. Nov. 28, 11:21 a.m.

Litsa wishes the fanatics of all stripes would instantaneously evaporate and let the rest of us get on w/ things. Nov. 29, 12:10 p.m.

Litsa thinks we all deserve ponies and snowcones today. Nov. 30, 11:26 a.m.

Litsa hopes the fog enveloping the city is normal fog and not horror movie fog b/c she would hate to be eaten by beast-monsters before her novel is completed. Dec. 1, 12:18 a.m.

Litsa is glad it's sunny now and that the aforementioned horror movie fog lifted b/c she did not like worrying about the also aforementioned beast-monsters. Dec. 1, 10:54 a.m.

Litsa thinks this whole thing could be improved by a bowl of pistachio pudding. Dec. 1, 3:12 p.m.

Litsa doesn't get why Maureen Dowd blew so many words on Tina Fey's weight in the new VF cover story when Dowd's subject is one of the best writers working today. Dec. 2, 12:35 p.m.

Litsa just did something almost Chaplin-esque w/ her bowl of lentil soup, minus the grace and nuance. Sorry, kitchen floor. Dec. 2, 1:43 p.m.

Litsa wants to give Georgia a stern talking to. (Saxby Chambliss? For real? Thanks, wankers.) Dec. 2, 6:21 p.m.

Litsa knows to everything there is a season and all that, but still thinks it would be nice to have more than 45 minutes of sunlight a day right now. Dec. 3, 8:03 a.m.

Litsa calls bullshit that the gone but never forgotten Sonic Boom Records in Fremont is now a frozen yogurt place. Dec. 3, 5:52 p.m.

Litsa was trying to return a snowball thing and thinks she might have inadvertantly sent one to everyone on her FB list. Awesome. Dec. 4, 7:03 p.m.

Litsa wants to congratulate the title company w/ whom she's dealing for staffing solely w/ those who have been kicked in the head and recent mental patients. Dec. 5, 12:09 p.m.

Litsa was either sitting behind Dale Chihuly earlier today at the movies or an indigent guy. She's unsure which. Dec. 6, 7:43 p.m.

Litsa spotted two whole roasted chickens in front of the bldg next to hers yesterday; later, a guy asked her for "money for a whole chicken". Curious. Dec. 7, 2:22 p.m.

Litsa is very glad she did not have to go to REI again this year for her friend's birthday gift as displays of dried food kind of skeeve her out. Dec. 8, 12:17 a.m.

Litsa really hopes the riots in Greece finally stop today. Dec. 9, 10:38 a.m.

Litsa thanks Tina Fey for introducing "whittling IHOP monkeys" to the lexicon and will shower her w/ Green and Black's chocolate mint bars should they ever meet. Dec. 9, 1:10 p.m.

Litsa reminds everyone w/ auditory perception that not listening to the Pernice Brothers hastens the apocalypse and indicates you might be kind of a wang. Dec. 10, 1:24 p.m.

Litsa can't figure out why Paula Abdul exists. Dec. 11, 12:23 a.m.

Litsa thinks we should reenact "The Lottery" but instead of a random citizen it should be Blagojevich and instead of rocks we should pelt him w/ flaming garbage. Dec. 11, 11:21 a.m.

Litsa is pretty sure the lunatics are running not just the asylum but also the adjacent lot and the taco stand one block over. Dec. 12, 2:28 a.m.

Litsa is savoring the piercing morning sun. Dec. 13, 10:26 a.m.

Litsa thinks there should be a cash prize for not kicking someone in the shins when that person is so totally asking for it. Dec. 13, 11:41 a.m.

Litsa enjoys peering up the hill at the decorations festooning the bldgs to the east; she hopes her neighbors dig the arrangement of ornaments on her end table. Dec. 13, 3:38 p.m.

Litsa is enamored of the snow-covered birch trees outside her window and is going to traipse around for awhile. But first, a soy mocha. Dec. 14, 11:51 a.m.

Litsa is ridiculously pleased that after an already good day, "Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy" is on and will provide the soundtrack while she wraps gifts. Dec. 14, 6:24 p.m.

Litsa has more shoes if that Iraqi journalist wants to try again. Dec. 15, 10:04 a.m.

Litsa 's downstairs neighbor, based on the sound of things, is either continuing his protracted remodel or passing a small live animal. Dec. 15, 12:14 p.m.

Litsa will track down and ear-flick whomever recorded that crapfest version of Dolly Parton's "Hard Candy Christmas". Dec. 15, 8:11 p.m.

Litsa thinks W should spend his final month in office residing at Walter Reed Hospital. Dec. 16, 11:20 a.m.

Litsa wishes there were a way it could snow and still remain a balmy 55 degrees. Dec. 16, 12:43 p.m.

Litsa at this point is convinced the packing tape is out to get her. Dec. 16, 3:35 p.m.

Litsa doesn't know an enormous amount about the internal workings of the SEC, but based on the Madoff case, thinks maybe they need to lay off the long naps. Dec. 16, 7:11 p.m.

Litsa thinks Caroline Kennedy is smart and gracious and sane; still, getting appointed senator to New York seems like jumping several places in line. Dec. 17, 11:13 a.m.

Litsa thinks Rod Blagojevich and Bernard Madoff should be imprisoned together in a lucite box w/ no air holes so we can all watch them slowly expire. Dec. 17, 12:08 p.m.

Litsa wonders if we've been lulled into a false sense of complacency w/ the inaccurate snow forecasts and, like, now a tsunami is going to hit or something. Dec. 17, 9:08 p.m.

Litsa commences w/ the greatest day ever: an americano and maple cruller across the street at Top Pot, then a glorious walk in the snow. Hooray! Also: yippee! Dec. 18, 10:12 a.m.

Litsa still wishes sometimes that Elliott Smith were alive and creating today. Dec. 18, 8:17 p.m.

Litsa , for reasons she won't go into here, is recalling the scene in Groundhog Day where Bill Murray announces, "Morons, your bus is leaving." Dec. 18, 11:05 p.m.

Litsa wishes a whole bunch of her friends and colleagues the happiest of Hannukahs! Dec. 19, 12:00 a.m.

Litsa just realized the 20th is tomorrow and not today, and that she wished her friends Happy Hannukah a day early. Oy vey. Dec. 19, 12:12 a.m.

Litsa thinks y'all should read her friend Eric's hilarious new Vanity Fair piece on Orlando's evangelical theme park: http://tinyurl.com/3o8hzp. Dec. 19, 12:13 p.m.

Litsa is bemused by how many of her artist friends are taking the snow *personally*, totally not dispelling the notion we're all a bunch of solipsistic crybabies. Dec. 19, 11:29 p.m.

Litsa is quite touched two friends have now offered to fetch her groceries from up the icy steep hill. High five, humanity! Dec. 20, 11:22 a.m.

Litsa wants to launch an indie rock "Behind the Music" wherein bands discuss their vegan chili recipes and library fines. Dec. 21, 8:05 p.m.

Litsa is toggling between M. Ward's "To Go Home" and the Mountain Goats' "This Year"; they sum things up perfectly right now. Dec. 22, 11:44 a.m.

Litsa isn't sure if the guy next to her at Half Price Books had roasted many bowls or just rubbed the pot all over himself for the past few days. Dec. 22, 6:13 p.m.

Litsa thinks the drunk sledders outside her window who are still at it five days into this are maybe way too fascinated by gravity. Dec. 23, 1:58 a.m.

Litsa reports the sledders outside her window kept at it until four a.m.; maybe today gravity will beguile them to leap from something tall. Dec. 23, 10:24 a.m.

Litsa got astoundingly good news when she got home! Merry Christmas, indeed! Dec. 23, 5:18 p.m.

Litsa says, Okay, let's do this thing. Merry Christmas and continued Happy Hanukkah to all! Dec. 24, 10:24 a.m.

Litsa has discovered the Williams and Sonoma chocolate-filled peppermint snaps she received as a gift are the earth's most addictive substance. Dec. 25, 10:09 p.m.

Litsa is irked that Sharon Stone, who is only slightly more relevant than Ashlee Simpson or a Kardashian sister, will be attending the inaugural festivities. Dec. 26, 12:33 p.m.

Litsa is pleased to report that someone working in the Broadway QFC's homeware section actually knew the answer to her question and was quite pleasant. Milestone! Dec. 26, 6:59 p.m.

Litsa was cajoled-- both arms totally twisted!--by her friend from college into grabbing donuts at Top Pot then burgers at Dick's. Sorry, life expectancy! Dec. 27, 2:51 p.m.

Litsa just remembered she has more gifts to wrap before today's snow-induced belated Christmas gathering and rallies, as always, for the sake of the children. Dec. 28, 11:16 a.m.

Litsa wonders when novel writing became a communal event. Dec. 28, 8:55 p.m.

Litsa thanks her immediate and extended family for providing so much material. Though she would love them anyway, she's pretty sure. Dec. 29, 12:18 a.m.

Litsa pauses to reflect on the joy that Fuji apple slices and Adam's creamy peanut butter have brought to her life. Dec. 29, 11:29 a.m.

A brief summation before the unicorns take flight:

• Typing the above sentence made me nervous. Like everyone I know, I don't want to jinx things. Certain states are too close to call and in recent years we've all become acquainted with the myriad of ways our elections can go bonkers. Still, I think this time tomorrow our new President-elect will be massively intelligent, prepared, intuitive and sport a damned fine jump shot.

• All the talk about Sarah Palin being the future of the Republican party is dead wrong. Two decades ago, the more centrist Democrats formed the Democratic Leadership Council to wrest power away from the lefty branch of the party, mainly, so they could start winning elections again. I think we'll see a similar aligning of moderate Republicans such as Tim Pawlenty and Olympia Snowe and others because that's the only chance the Republicans have of not being perceived as evangelical wack-jobs by the next generation of voters. (I would include Chuck Hagel in the above group, but he's not running for re-election and, by most accounts, he's going to be Obama's Secretary of Defense so it's a moot point.)

• During the primaries, I declared Chris Matthews insane. While I still believe this to be true, I've come to enjoy his reporting. He's nuts, but he knows he's nuts. Most importantly, he's a true scholar of American electoral politics, his perceptions are singular and, as a bonus, entertaining as hell.

• Someone needs to round up the Pennsylvania guys--Matthews, Ed Rendell, and Joe Biden--and put them on a stage together. The sheer tonnage of unedited verbiage could fuel power grids in all 50 states. (I say it with love, gentlemen.)

• It will be interesting to see what happens years from now when Malia and Sacha start dating. Who, exactly, will measure up their father?

• Also curious to see if Obama nominates Hillary to the Supreme Court, as some have speculated. I think she'd be well-suited for the position and, as consolation prizes go, it'd be pretty great.

• I never looked at McCain the same way again after he said Obama "dealt the race card from the bottom of the deck".
  

• In 2003, I pitched an idea to one of my editors: I wanted to interview 50 people and ask, "What gives you hope?" He passed and every editor for the next four years did the same because none of them could see the point. In the summer of 2007, my Esquire editor said yes (though we curbed the interviewees to 20) and during the past year, I've felt a tiny bit vindicated. Something besides instinct keeps us going and it's useful to explore it in a non-cheesy way. Clearly, this campaign has shown that a huge swath of the American electorate believes that if we work very hard and keep working very hard, we can make life better for ourselves and our country. We don't have to accept things as they are.
  

• When my brother and I were little, our parents had us watch the Watergate hearings because they wanted us to understand that America is a nation of laws and that no one, not even the President, is above the law. Since then, my brother and I have followed politics avidly. While we often reach different conclusions, there's no one I'd rather debate this stuff with. Still, it will be nice to collect his ten dollars tomorrow.
  

• I never thought I'd respect a politician this much. Thanks, sir, for inspiring the country again.