Fire Wheel Burning in the Air (2 Days in November)

Just like that other dark Tuesday, it was a gorgeous morning. No traffic to the West Hollywood temple where I punched my card, a long but friendly cue, a game-plan for the day coming together. Rocketing down the Golden State, KG and I gazed in wide wonder at the snow-capped San Bernadinos to the east, and agreed with James LCD: indeed, a good day for "Yeah!"

When we got to Watts, the kids were talking about getting acquainted with the ballot-box because they knew their neighborhood would be the first stop for the coming-round bus of Sickle-wielding recruiters in camo hoods; meanwhile, Questlove had plenty of Afro room in the Scion he used to chauffeur first-time voters to the polls before he had to get to sound-check. In Echo Park, as every other district we heard reports from, the high turn-out turned us on.

This was before we knew we were dead, before we realized that we had no losing exit strategy from this evening, before hope emerged from the Heineken bottles I was emptying at a dizzying pace all night, and said there was some other places she had to be. KG couldn't fall asleep, but I couldn't stand being awake.

Wednesday, after the concession, she and I drove around shell-shocked -- first, down the recline of the East Side's unnamed streets, then a hillside cemetery in Glendale. And I swear I could already hear the Gods of Free Commerce, Manifest Democracy, and Strict Interpretation scheming about how they could improve the traffic up in here, while the iPod played "good night to the rock and roll era."

That night, instead of enlightenment, Los Feliz got a blackout. No lie.