Here I am on the day election resolved into conniption, or vice versa. I am happy --perhaps I never look down. My forearms are mostly scar tissue now, after outdoor work in 2 strangely connected centuries. Yes, off and early on, I worked indoors and suffered 10 years of jumps, tyrants, subterfuges, people crying "out damned spot!" (Macbeth, Act 5 Scene 1), which causes Spot to dash out onto the street, get run over and likewise does damage to humans --even those not named Spot. Ergo, "Now thrive the armorers..." (Shakespeare, Henry V, prologue Act 2). This brings us to Don Santino:
It is not Spot. Don is an early 21st century gift from a beloved occupational-safety consultant. Despite my having retired from gardening public places in 2009, we have kept this outfit. As a wearable collection of hinges, levers, inclined planes and other safety devices it is unparalleled. I should have worn it oftener.