2016 was a very special year and it deserves a very special sendoff.  Here is my recipe for Dec 31st:

For the ritual soundtrack, I’m going to turn on some nostalgic Prince.  Your tastes may vary–you are welcome to instead try some Leonard Cohen, Bowie, Sharon Jones, or any of the many talented musicians who left the planet this year.

Sadly, I don’t have a cauldron, so instead I’m going to find a large pot and put it on the stove.  Bring water to a boil in the pot and then toss in the following ingredients:

–the hair of a Trump voter

–eye of Pepe the frog

–my now useless I’m With Her sticker

–my now useless Bill of Rights

–a photo of Justin Bieber…who is still alive

–a few chopped up pieces of the root of division and prejudice

Be sure to stir the pot, and then dance around it, muttering dark incantations and chanting:  “Things will only get worse!  Things will only get worse!”

Repeat as many times as needed.  Keep the pot for next year–I’m sure we’ll be doing the same thing in 2017….

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When I was younger, I used to daydream about Prince.  I would imagine what it would be like to be at one of the legendary parties at his mansion.  These were your typical lame-ass young girl fantasies.  Prince would come trotting out in his stilettos like the sexy little satyr that he was and he would play guitar for us.  Perhaps our eyes would meet for one magical moment.

But then I grew up, and I got a newsflash courtesy of Cold Hard Reality:  I would never actually go to one of Prince’s parties.  It just wouldn’t happen, in the same way that I would never date that old school crush or become a good dancer.  It wasn’t a painful realization, as by then my life had turned out to be far more unpredictable and meaningful than any celebrity fantasy could be.

The problem is, I live in a nation which still believes it’s going to get invited to the party.  Too many of my fellow Americans suffer from the mansion party syndrome.  They genuinely believe that one day they will be friends with Donald Trump.  One day, they too will be winners.  They will find a way to get rich.  Maybe they will make some brilliant investment, or their singing talents will be discovered on Youtube.  Or maybe they will win a million dollars on a reality show.

Here’s the thing–you won’t.  Your chances of joining that club are tiny to slim.  And that’s fine.  But please, don’t vote based on the delusion that your membership in that club is possible.  Stop voting against your own best interests.  You keep thinking that the oligarchs would love to be BFFs with you.  You’re waiting on the curb with that sad little bouquet, but your prom date isn’t coming to pick you up.  Wealthy and powerful America isn’t going to make out with you in the back of the limo.  They don’t care about you.

So don’t vote for the mansion.  Vote for who you are, for your little house or apartment, if you still have it, because even that is slipping through your fingers already.  There’s no shame in being a regular working person–you’re the one building this country, not Trump.  You deserve to have a glamorous party thrown in your honor for all the blood and sweat you put in every day.  Since that will never happen, at least stand up for yourself, and when Donald or Ted ask you out to the dance, turn them down.

I miss the way guys used to dress.

Today’s masculine look doesn’t quite do it. Baseball caps. Even worse, backwards baseball caps. Wife beaters and droopy pants. Boring suits and ties.

A couple of friends and I visited an exhibit at the art museum this week. There were some plump ladies getting kidnapped by Greek gods, a lot of paintings of severed heads (reminding me that ISIS is nothing new), but I couldn’t get my mind out of the portrait section. Because, man, those eighteenth century gentlemen had style. I had forgotten about those amazing fashions I first fell in love with way back in the Amadeus movie. The wigs with the ponytails and fancy ribbons. The fantastic stockings and shoes with gold clasps. Why don’t men dress like that anymore? Well, okay…probably because people on the street would point and laugh at them. But hey, I’d be a huge fan!

This is one of the reasons why I’ve always been crazy about Prince. The little man is not afraid to be beautiful. He can rock the ruffles and high heels, and do so with complete confidence. Now there’s a deity who can kidnap me anytime.

Then again, if I demand that guys put more elaborate effort into their outfits, shouldn’t I be doing the same myself? Wouldn’t that mean having to wear giant frilly dresses, petticoats and corsets? Since I’m writing this in my pyjamas, I’m the last person who should be offering fashion critiques. Modern convenience cuts both ways.

All right, I’m not willing to spend fifteen minutes every morning lacing myself up at the waist, and I don’t want to have to run for the train in a long gown. So I won’t expect others to put in that kind of work, either. It’s only fair.

I think I’ll settle for our local hipsters with their bowler hats and handlebar moustaches. They certainly look bizarre enough for me….

Well, it’s almost time for the Super Bowl.

No, I don’t mean the actual Super Bowl. The only time I’ve watched that was when Prince played the halftime show. Prince totally won that game.

I mean *my* Super Bowl–the election season. It sounds like Hillary is about to break the shocking news that she’s running for President any day now, and Romney has already indicated that he is going to serve his reheated Mittsie stew to a conservative base which wasn’t that crazy about it the first time around.

Politics is my hobby and my spectator sport. Yeah, I realize that the question of which party wins the 2016 election will likely not make a huge, earth-shaking difference in my life. The country is too divided for any drastic changes to happen, and both the Democratic and the Republican candidates are too beholden to their wealthy donors, so…. But I won’t lie–I like rooting for a team. I don’t care about muscles and the ability to throw a ball around, so teams of jocks fail to interest me. I’d much rather root for the nerd who does the most eloquent job of explaining economic policy. My games take place on C-Span.

So I’m getting ready. I’m checking out the horses which might be running in the race. I’m doing finger stretches for the hardcore blogging to come in the next couple of years. I’m preparing my finest witty jabs for my online conservative friends. Yep, this is our time, my fellow political junkies.

Oh, and since I’m in the Northwest…go Seahawks. I guess.