Tuesday, November 4, 2008

The foray into raw milk presses onward with about half a gallon finished, but along with all the nutrients consumed comes a realization that the experiment wasn’t as clean-cut as it could’ve been. Skim milk, arguably the most profound imitation of white water in either organic or processed form, has been my dairy beverage of choice most of my life, which made the raw kind de facto delicious as soon as it registered with my tastebuds. Processed low-fat milk would’ve been a far better starting point, if it were in my lexicon.

You could say it wasn’t an “apples to apples” comparison, were that phrase acceptable, but it’s universally reviled here, so I guess you’ll have to shut up. I never understood the obsession with fruit, you know? It’s, like, who on earth actually compares apples to other apples or–and this is getting really crazy–possibly oranges? I’m no farmer and neither are you, I imagine. Busted experiment aside, the raw variety tastes good in and of itself, and you’ll notice I’ve resisted the urge to work in a line or two about the fruitlessness of crying over the spilled stuff, even though I could’ve milked the opportunity. Hey-o!

I’ve been refreshing election coverage like a fiend, comparing heat maps across multiple websites for discrepancies, tracking liveblogging, and fiddling with charts until consensus, at last, left no doubt. I just poured myself another eight ounces. A celebratory cup, as it were. There’s going to be a speech soon. The speech, and it’s all inexplicably compelling. But when history unfolds during your time, apathy has no choice but to retire for an evening.