Indulge me. This blog started six years ago as an antidote to the sadness of the Bush years. I promised to stay off political topics. But I can’t ignore the fact that this Tuesday is an election day. We will choose to continue our grand experiment in democracy or vote in an oligarchy. This is my once in four years political rant.

Whatever happens tonight, I have decided to spend the rest of my life being a Molly Ivins wannabe. Molly was the sharp witted Texas journalist who nicknamed our last Republican President “Shrub”.

I briefly considered being a Dixie Chick, but rejected that idea. They spoke the truth about the Iraq War. Everyone knows that the bearer of bad news is vilified or shot.

Molly attacked the establishment with her humor. It’s hard to hate someone when she’s got you doubled over with laughter.

Here are some choice Mollyisms:

“The first rule of holes: when you’re in one, stop digging.”

“Satire is traditionally the weapon of the powerless against the powerful. When satire is aimed at the powerless, it is not only cruel…it is vulgar.”

“I believe in practicing prudence once every two or three years.”

“I dearly love the state of Texas, but I consider that a harmless perversion on my part, and discuss it only with consenting adults.”

“You want moral leadership? Try the clergy. It’s their job.”

Don’t rest in peace, Molly. We need you more than ever.

If there is one thing America excels at, it is excess. Super-sized sodas, burgers, living room couches, stretch limos, you name it, our fair nation can super-size it. Pumpkins are no exception.

Competitive pumpkin growing has become a huge sport in the last fifteen years. The kings of the Great Pumpkin field are the father and son team Dick and Ron Wallace from Rhode Island. This dedicated duo has been toiling for years to smash (a scary word in the pumpkin business) the world records.

The first All New England Giant Pumpkin Weigh-Off began at the Topsfield, Massachusetts, Fair in 1984. The largest pumpkin weighed in at 433 pounds, and the farmer got $100. An Alaskan grower with timed heaters and a greenhouse grew the first 1,000 pound pumpkin in 2000. In 2006, Ron Wallace’s super squash hit the scales at 1,500 pounds at the Topsfield Fair. Nine growers beat Ron’s record in 2007 and the race was on to grow the first one ton pumpkin. But could it be done?

From a small seed to 2000 pounds in one growing season is a lot to ask of Mother Nature. Could the pumpkin structurally support itself? Root rot, foaming stump slime, hungry deer and groundhogs are but a few of the ever present perils to pumpkin success. The bad news is that only 50 per cent of the super size pumpkins survive to maturity. The good news is that once the pumpkin starts growing, slow growing is an amazing one pound an hour.

The 2012 Topsfield Fair was the last weekend in September. Ron Wallace was there with his pampered, well-fed pumpkin and high hopes. His entry was named The Freak II. The fork lift raised the giant squash to the scale and the needle started going up…..to 2009 pounds. History was made.

Ron Wallace received $10,000 for growing the first one ton pumpkin, $5,000 for first place and an orange ribbon.

Congratulations, Ron. What can possibly come next?

Halloween is fast approaching, but I am not into blood and gore. I am, however, a fan of Gorey, Edward St. John Gorey to be precise.

Gorey is one of my favorite artists and writers, one who never ceases to bring pleasure. Born in a suburb of Chicago in 1925, Gorey describes the start of his artistic career as follows:

“My first drawing was of trains that passed by my grandparents’ house …the composition was of various sausage shapes.”

His formal art training consisted of one semester at The Chicago Art Institute. He was then drafted and served as a clerk at the Dugway Proving Ground near Salt Lake City. “They tested mortars and poison gas,” he stated. “Whenever you read that somewhere in the Western states twenty thousand sheep have expired for some mysterious reason, it’s always the Dugway Proving Ground.”

After his service, he enrolled at Harvard and majored in French literature. Shortly after graduation, Gorey moved to New York City where he lived in a one room studio apartment with three of his beloved cats. Doubleday initially employed him as an illustrator and book jacket designer. He subsequently worked on scores of books including a wonderfully droll version of Little Red Riding Hood. Soon he began writing and illustrating his own books, often under pseudonyms that were anagrams of his own name such as Ogdred Weary, Dogear Wryde, Wardore Edgy and Mrs. Regera Dowdy.

Edward Gorey became “absolutely hooked” on George Balanchine and The New York City Ballet. No fan will ever be more loyal. In his full length fur coat, sneakers and ring encrusted fingers, he attended nearly EVERY performance of the NYCB for over thirty years. He once attended 39 performances of the Nutcracker in a row.

In his later years, Mr. Gorey lived in Yarmouth Port in Cape Cod. The number of cats expanded and a raccoon once lived happily in the attic. His artistic output was prodigious, yet he found time to work for local theaters, scout out yard sales and watch TV (he loved Dallas).

Edward Gorey died in 2000; his home is now a museum of his art, life and creatures.

One reviewer describes Gorey’s style as,”Macabre yet delicate; grim but amusing; ghoulish without a drop of blood.” Intricately detailed black and white drawings are his hallmark. Gorey’s costumes for the Broadway production of Dracula received a Tony award in 1978.

Get yourself in an ominous Halloween mood by checking out his artwork for the opening of the PBS Mystery! series. Click here.

My uncle was an intrepid world traveler. One rainy night my aunt found herself standing in the middle of a muddy field on a remote Caribbean island after the plane she and my uncle were on had skidded off the runway. She informed my uncle that his adventures would be solo ones in the future. He continued to skid off runways and stay in concertina wire protected hotels until well into his late seventies.

After his death, I handled my aunt’s affairs, which included their mail. I received my uncle’s International Traveler newsletter. Despite repeated attempts to inform the subscription department that my uncle was no longer traveling on planet earth, this publication arrived in my mailbox for many years.

International Travel News will win no literary or graphic design awards. Written and photographed by serious travelers, it appears to be aimed at those adventurers who collect countries the way birders find birds for their life lists. These folks don’t let a small insurrection, rampant tropical diseases or lack of potable water get in their way.

I must report that I found one article  that applied to my husband and me. To paraphrase:

Most travelers yearn for the new vista, untrod mountain or unique adventure. But a few folks (note the word “few” ) like to return to the same places and explore them in depth…..they crave details and intimacy.

Count us in this group. Set us down in a place like Amsterdam and we will be happy, again and again. The rings of canals and canal houses have enduring charm. The bakeries exude aromas that promise and deliver bliss. Dogs are welcomed in cafes, and cats occasionally share a table with the cafe patrons. Everyone loves music, art, flowers, cheese and bread. The populace exudes happiness.

I guess we are simply old fashioned hedonists.

My husband started laughing at the breakfast table as he was reading the business pages, a section of the daily paper that is not known for its mirth inducing journalism.

“You won’t believe this,” he said.

“Try me,” I replied, ” I could use some comic relief.”

“It seems there is a new phone app to help guys match their socks. Since we tend to give more wear to the ones in the front of the drawer, this application assures equal wear for all the pairs. I’m supposed to buy 12 pair of identical black socks with built in microchips. Then I buy the phone app so I can scan my socks and always match the same pair. The app tells you ‘where your socks have come from, what their life has been like and who they belong to’ .”

In my opinion,this phone app might be the signature one that signals the decline of western civilization. But at least all the women will be laughing as we sink into irrelevance.

I would bet my net worth that a man designed this app. We women are too busy doing the wash.