Okay, we’re crossing into Delaware. Leaves are not yet “deep autumn.” Don’t know if they ever get there on this stretch of less-than-lonely highway.

Man, I know they’re going to ask me about the shutdown. “I thought it was great,” I’ll say. For Christ’s sake, I’m not Republican, why do they ask me questions for which they need no answers? Imaginary questions, I mean. Haven’t been asked too many questions, really.

Gonna get asked ’em at the town hall, though. They’re all about the questions, right? What am I, John Quincy Adams? What’s with the town halls? It’s like the triumph of the flinty New Englanders.

Gone awry.

I imagine colonial New Englanders would be horrified to learn their participatory institution has been mastered and maneuvered by descendants of their slaveholding southern brethren who used it to whip up the anti-Obamacare shutdown frenzy.

They’re dead, though. Colonial New Englanders.

Except Olympia Snowe.

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