Wisconsin Dells. Cheese, both metaphorical and foodstuff. Condo for the weekend. Five of us, with two to three more joining tomorrow. Guitar Hero, mullet rock on the iPod, hot tubs and water parks and joy and squee and happiness. Life is good.

We're here for Dawn's b-day. there will be much rejoicing and drunkenness and the occasional reptile park. there's snow. It's going to be a very, very good weekend.

Don't rob me -- and I'm too busy doing other things things to come up with threats, but come on, I left nasty traps there. So don't rob me.

OK, so I talk to myself. I live and work alone, no big deal.

I have, however, realized I have started talking to myself about talking to myself.

I'm trying to figure out at what point I should be concerned. When I answer myself about talking to myself? When I have a conversation with multiple points of view with myself? When I have violent, occasionally physical arguments with myself?

Or did the point of concern pass long ago, and I'm just slow in catching up to that fact?

Has everyone who is eligible in the US gone out and done their civic duty? Have you swallowed your distaste and hatred for the political dumbfuckery that goes on before an election, made up your mind to vote for the least objectionable candidate, and read through the seemingly endless referenda at the end of your ballot? Have you punched/punched/toggled/drawn lines to your candidate of choice? Are you doing everything in your power not to despair?

Yeah, me too.

I don't live in any of the hotly contested districts here in Illinois -- although that hasn't stopped me from suffering through the commercials -- so there wasn't much hoopla around my voting location. No Duckworth/Roskum, no Bean/McSweeney. The Governor's race here has been distinguished by asshattery on the part of both major candidates, so there's no real way for me to feel good about my vote. My stab at voting the bums out on the Cook County Board is probably doomed, because the machine still rules. A disturbing number of the state and county races had the incumbents running unopposed. And seriously, what's the point of having a referendum question about withdrawing from Iraq on the ballot? That's pure political theater, and won't change federal policy.

I know enough about myself to know I'm not the sort of person who should be running for office -- I'm not much of a people person, and all the jockeying for power leaves me somewhat ill. When I'm flush, I give money to groups I hope can help on issues I'm passionate about, and I try to be involved in the community through tutoring. But -- and thanks so much, Quaker education! -- I never feel like it's enough.

Why haven't I been blogging? Because my time has been spent pondering the ineffable conundrums of our time, such as:

Why is Fido a common dog's name? Where did it come from?*

What do narcissists do in therapy -- spend the hour forced to talk about other people?

How on earth did the wedding industry become so bloated and horrific that stores can charge $300 to $500 for a tiny little decorated hair comb?

Ah, great thoughts. And if anyone knows the answers to those eternal questions, let me know.

The horror movie party was a triumph, as usual, despite LL and JV's own personal horror movie in their digestive systems. Within six hours of my arrival (because it's all about me), LL took to her bed and bathroom, and I didn't really see her vertical for more than 24 hours. I did visit the sickroom a couple of times, but stayed as far away as polite conversation would allow, and washed my hands obsessively every 5 to 10 minutes. Apparently those precautions worked, as I remained plague-free. JV wasn't so lucky, but his case of plague was much less severe -- LOL had to go to the urgent care clinic to get a couple of liters of fluids pumped into her because she was so dehydrated, but JV managed to escape relatively unscathed. We feared for the party, but LL was singing power ballads at the top of her lungs Sunday morning, so it was on. Huzzah!

For the films, we basked in the brilliance that was Joan Crawford in the inexplicably hyphenated Strait-Jacket, and Melissa Sue Anderson in Happy Birthday to Me. Both made very little sense.

Strait-Jacket included horrific elements like an elderly Joan pretending to be a lusty young woman, an elderly Joan pretending to be acting as if she were elderly, an elderly Joan decked up like a lusty young woman and hitting on her daughter's fiance, the world's most annoying charm bracelets, tremendously bad parenting, really horrible childing, sculpture, wigs, axe-wielding silhouettes, stock characters just begging to be axed, and a shocking! twist! ending! that I called in the first 15 minutes. Go me.

Happy Birthday to Me shared some elements with Strait-Jacket, like actors playing way outside of their age range, and had a remarkably similar shocking! twist! ending! that I did not call this time, because it made no sense and came out of nowhere. Weird-ass movie.

As an added extra-special bonus, Shannon was in LA and managed to show up for the party, which was awesome -- I got to talk with her for a while, and she got to see the madness that is horror movie central. Joy!

I saw Amy and David briefly upon my return to this fair city, and we had dinner and went shopping. Amy, I'm sorry, I told mom and dad about the Oaxaca band -- it was just too funny not to. You may beat me about the head and shoulders when next we meet.

*I just talked to my dad, who told me that Fido is Latin for faithful, so it's been a dog's name since Roman times. Who knew? Well, besides my dad, who knows all sorts of obscure things. I inherited that talent from him.

Also, my dad would like me to post this immortal gem, one of his favorite jokes: Did you hear about the agnostic dyslexic insomniac? He was up all night wondering about the existence of dog.