Between the Election and My Hopes (a Quick Aside)

Katherine Harris: If tragedy had a face ... and a blow-dryer

Son of a bitch!

When I went to bed last night/this morning, I was ahead in the voting. God, I slept so well – better than I have since the end of last month’s Film Fight – secure in the knowledge that I had finally gotten the better of Kim Jones and that, at long last, Chronicle readers had come to their senses. All was right with the world:

God was in his heaven

The dew was on the grass

Six preceded seven

The priest was at his mass.

The dove was softly cooing

Alone up in her tree

And girls were fit for wooing

The world had voted “me.”

Then I wake up this morning/afternoon to find that somehow, some way, somewhere I’m behind again.

This is treachery! I’m convinced of it. I doubt some foul play. Get me Warren Christopher! Get me Ron Klain! Get me Katherine Harris!

Something must have happened in the interim, but I can’t see what it was. The only thing that changed between then and now (unless the moon somehow came too close to the Earth) is that I posted my latest two entries. Nothing strange there, right?

But then I got to thinking: It appears the more I write the less I win. Every time I post some 3000-word essay on the relative merits of Laurence Olivier vs. Claire Danes, I somehow come out with the fuzzy end of the lollipop. I think I see a pattern.

So, being no fool, I’m taking a new approach to winning Film Fight. Convinced the more words I write the fewer votes I get, I will now be the first person in Western history to attempt victory in a debate without saying anything. I will be silent as the stars, quiet as the sand, clammed up as the clam.

I shall speak no more forever.

Starting tomorrow.