This morning I looked out the window and saw nothing but sun and clear blue sky, a little too clear in fact.

Downstairs, kettle on, coffee ground, fire started and then I remembered to check the forecast. Eighteen degrees, wind chill to four degrees. At first I thought, “Good lord it’s freezing out there.” Then I remembered that freezing would be somewhere between fourteen and 28 degrees warmer than that.

For the first time in almost a year I thought about taking the Metro.

But then I thought about all the days I’ve spent on mountains in similar temperatures, being a little cold but mostly having a ball, and it seemed like the main ingredients for success in that environment were the right clothing and a flask of Irish whiskey. In this case though, instead of a lodge full of friends and booze at the other end of the trip, I was heading into work, and we’re still several days off from Christmas, so the flask had to stay home.

I added a pair of snowpants and a balaclava to my cold-weather gear and that pretty much did the trick. The ride was a little slower, very warm, pleasant, and I was glad not to have taken the train within 5 minutes. On the way in, I thought to myself, “Cold. Deep, too.” This deserves some explanation, or perhaps it doesn’t, but you’re here already so why not waste just a few minutes more?

There are jokes shared with friends and family that don’t split sides in their first telling, but whose punchlines gain value on their own later on, performing a sort of rope-a-dope on the target. Years ago, I told, to my aunt, uncle, cousins, and grandmother, the joke about the pirate with the ship’s wheel coming out of his pants. (If you’re the only one who hasn’t heard it, the bartender says, “Hey pirate, what’s with the wheel.” Pirate says, “Arrrrrrrrrgh! I don’t know but it’s drivin’ me nuts!”) It’s definitely on the fluffy, cute side of blue humor, but nevertheless blue enough to elicit some eye-widening and nervous laughter.

Seems like a dud, right? Until about half an hour later, when my cousin starts talking about her evil boss, and the impossible, unfeasible situation he was putting her in. She says, with an exasperated sigh, “That man is driving me nuts!” I immediately cried, “ARRRRRRRRGH!!!” A moment passes and then bam, everyone in the room’s guffawing, and Pirate Joke is off the ropes and hittin’ ‘em hard!

My Dad and I share a dumb joke, a dick joke naturally, that’s become funnier by reference than it was in telling. Two guys are peein’ off of a bridge, one says to the other, “Man, that water’s cold.” The other guy replies, “Yep, deep too.”

Ya get it? See, the one guy says something that indicates that he has a freakishly, impossibly long penis! But then the other guy indicates that his is even more freakishly, even more impossibly long! Woo! Funneh!

Okay, so not especially funny the first time you tell it, seems like a throw-away one-liner, right?. Oh ho, not so fast. This joke’s true value lies in its ability to keep giving long after the joke itself has been forgotten. Because at some point, folks with whom you’ve shared this dumb joke will rub their hands together, cup and blow into them, and say to you, “Man, it’s cold out here!” And you’ll look ‘em in the eye and say with perfect deadpan delivery, “Yep, deep too.” The light of recognition will flicker in their eyes, and if their inner 5th-grader yet survives they’ll start laughing.

How’s your holiday preparations comin’?

There’s an Au Bon Pain downstairs that I frequent in the afternoons when I’m feeling peckish and need to top off the tank before the ride home. Nothing extravagant, a small cup of coffee and a little treat, typically.

Yesterday, I was perusing the baked goods and was drooling a little over a creme de fleur, which looks like a muffin-ish confection with 3 buttons of custard on the top, indicating what lies below. That sounds pretty good doesn’t it? But wait, it gets better: it’s actually 3 sections, baked together into a muffin-shape, so that you can actually tear 1/3 of it off, and that little guy is a self contained pastry packet of custard!

Oh man.

I gained some control over my visual appetite, and decided that I’d be better off with a pumpkin muffin. “There’s no need for the triple-cripple custard bomb,” I chided myself, ” when that pumpkin muffin will be very good with a small coffee, and a healthier choice overall.” I was feeling pretty good about overcoming my impulsive, custard-laden first choice, and making a wiser, healthier decision.

Except I didn’t. That goddam pumpkin muffin has 530 calories, 81g of carbs, and almost no nutrional value. By comparison, a Big Mac has 540 calories, 45g of carbs, and 25g of protein, as well as calcium and iron. I’m not saying that a Big Mac is healthy, and I’ve certainly got ethical concerns over the source of a lot of those calories, but there’s no denying that from a nutritional perspective, I’d have been better off with Le Big Mac.

Oh, and the creme de fleur? 490 calories with 57g of carbs. And it’s filled with custard, in each of three discreet sections, like a pastry custard tanker filled to overflowing, the tops shaped like little custard flowers. I think it’s even dusted with powdered sugar.

Stupid pumpkin muffin.

You’ve got a big decision to make tomorrow, citizen.

There’s a lot to think about as we approach this historic election. There’s more than one dire problem to solve, more than a few turds hurtling towards the blades of a big, angry fan, more to be resolved with higher stakes than ever before.

We’re mired in geopolitical conflict, and the way home is difficult to find, harder to navigate. We’re hooked on an energy source that’s dirty, expensive, and often comes at the cost of supporting some nefarious organizations. Our economy is shaky, fragile, and everyone’s looking over their shoulder for the axe to fall. Health care is skyrocketing, and getting sick often means bankruptcy. Bridges are falling into rivers, cities are falling apart, our manufacturing base is much diminished, and the guy you’re trying to order that Bacon Cheeseburger from doesn’t seem to speak much English.

What will be in store for America as we enter the next chapter in our history? Which candidate is better equipped to handle these challenges? What’re we gonna do?!

I know that when I ponder issues of these magnitudes, I try to imagine how the best of our presidents would tackle them. I contemplate Washington’s moral rectitude, Jefferson’s master statesmanship, Teddy’s cunning diplomacy, FDR’s inspiring leadership. Ultimately, the path of my meditation will lead to Lincoln, whose counsel is always the same.

You’ve got a big decision to make tomorrow, Superstar.

So this article shows up today on Ars Technica, about how great the future’s gonna be when the cars can drive themselves. Matthew Yglesias weighs in to discuss how this will affect transportation and city planning. Ryan Avent riffs on this, speculating about how these self-piloting cars will be a shared-resource, and make suburban density more appealing, and what a great thing they’ll be for urban areas. Then someone disagrees with Ryan’s vision, positing his own wild speculation, which gets a thoughtful reply.

And the whole thing got me thinking about something James Kunstler said, about how most people’s thoughts about the future revolve around what we’re gonna put in our cars after the gasoline’s gone, and what it says about what people think is coming in the future. So I said so in the comments at Matt’s place, and this was one reply:

Kunstler is an idiot.

There was a short mention of how the author of The Geography of Nowhere and The Long Emergency (as well as several novels) was “not a reasonable analyst about the things he’s analyzing”.

And then everyone went back to speculating, discussing, agreeing with some assertions, contesting others, and generally trying to predict what colors our unitards will come in during the next phase, the Age of Happier Motoring, when the cars will be driving themselves.

The Internet is a funny, funny place.