Thanksgiving feast at Elmer's Diner - AAA+

I started this post but it was really hard to write considering a friend had died on Monday afternoon. So finally a week later I am posting it on its original date.....

My family on my mom's side always had a big gathering on Thanksgiving. For me, thanksgiving used to mean driving a half hour or more to a crowded busy place full of a dozen warm gabby relatives. Aunt Pearl always cooked a giant bird, the kitchen would humm with activity, the table was stocked with tons of food, 8 different impossible-to-resist desserts, a long day of eating and talking and family opinions. Often rapid fire conversation, feeling too full, and being sickishly on the verge of a headache.

Over the years most have moved far away or died. Mom says she doesn't want to travel on a holiday weekend, nor does she want to be invited to well-meaning friends family dinners. She doesn't want to cook nor eat MY cooking.. (No one could blame her for that...)

SO - Last year we went to a new diner in town - Elmer's. (There is a long post on this blog about it...) This year, despite invites from relatives in New Jersey and Pennsylvania, we went to Elmer's again. Except we decided we would have what we wanted instead of the requisite Turkey Dinner that we were supposed to eat. So mom had salmon and I had a chicken & mushroom dish made with my favorite wine Merlot. The food was great and we didn't have to do the dishes!

The staff is very friendly at Elmer's and we were very well attended. Our waitress even ran outside after the meal because mom had left her hat in the booth.

So then, after, we went to the brand new dollar store open for the first time that day. A mom bought a few bargains, then set her money down on the moving belt in this brand new store and the bill slipped between the belt and the counter and disapeared leaving everyone gasping and full of consternation. They were very nice and polite and sent mom off with her change. After I got her situated in the car, I went back and they were taking the panel to the counter off and a man reached his hand up and over something there and retrieved the bill. WHEW!

Too much excitement!

A poet lost... Terence Stewart McLain (Terry)

The late Terence Steward McLain: 5/24/51 to 11/24/08  was a poet and a host of the Wednesday Night Poetry Series (which at that time met at Molten Java in Bethel, CT), and a fan of poetry readings around the area.

 Terry joined the series around 2003 or 2004, proved himself to be a a caring individual and a man who thought deeply about both life and poetry. He often read not only his own surreal poetry, but poems by vetted “great” poets of many schools and would offer biographical sketches of the poets along with their poems.

 He was a former exec at a relocation company, then at an online electronics re-seller for a time before experiencing the leading edge of the great economic downturn beginning in 2008.  He was divorced, and had two sons he spoke of with great love.

During his time at Wedpoetry  he lived in what he called, “the stony ex-urbs of CT” in the “penthouse of a stable” where two goats, five horses, and six cats also lived. He occassionally putup out-of-state poets like Jack McCarthy at his diggs there. Terry was a member of the Marathon Critique and attended the Housatonic Friends Society. His death at 57 years of age, in Nov. of 2008 left us all scratching our heads, blowing our noses and wondering why. 

His obituary reads: Terence Stewart McLain passed away unexpectedly, November 24 at the age of 57. Terry was born in Duluth, Minnesota on May 24, 1951 and then moved to Des Moines Iowa where he attended school.  After high school, Terry attended Coe College and received a history degree. Terry worked for many years in the relocation industry and later at Cyberian Outpost as a product manager. Throughout his life, Terry enjoyed playing and coaching basketball, as well as coaching soccer for his sons’ teams. In addition to sports, Terry developed a deep love for poetry and enjoyed writing and sharing his poetry with others. He was also an active member of the Toastmaster’s Club for many years. Terry was a loving and devoted father to his sons Kevin and Gregory of New Fairfield. He is survived by, his mother, Ailie McLain, of Minneapolis MN, his sister Judy (Bob) Dannenberg, of Burlington, Wisconsin, and Sarah McLain, the mother of his boys. Terry will be missed by his nieces and nephews in WI, VT and CT. He will also be missed by his close friends at the Molten Java Poetry Group and members of the Quaker Meeting Community.  Terry was predeceased by his father, Fred McLain.

Click here for the post with extensive comment on the Wedpoetry blog which contains a photo of  a comfort quilt maybe a few of the wed poets for Terry's girlfriend Pamela Yager.

A private funeral for family was held the week that Terry died at the St. Stephen's Episcopal Church in Ridgefield, CT. Click here to visit the Cornell Memorial Website where you can read the obituary and light a virtual candle. A large memorial meeting held for Terry several months later at the New Milford Society of Friends Meeting house. It was attended by many area poets and by his friends at the meeting society.

The Window Accepts Its Brick

a poem by Terry McLain

Kiss me with all your approaching difference,

as you yourself keep arriving to me,

potent like the stone you’re not,

approximately edged like my rectangle

but with a roughed-up surface and

some necessity I have never met before.

.

Can you see me? A subtler presence, maybe,

in this fluid familiar world, clear

but with reflections of sunlit leaves, lawns, and hedges,

street traffic and birds above.

You come closer, as certain as my stance,

with no reason for doubt.

But I think I still do.

===================================================

Apologies Not Accepted

a poem by Terry McLain

Never apologize

never say “sorry--this is a little poem”

when you mean this poem—“my poem

that I will now read”--something made

somewhere else, when it (the poem) is unaware

you would be reading it here, tonight. as if it

merely survives on paper

by the grace of me,

godlike, its deity and creator

judging it’s worthiness.

“sorry” implicates the audience

in this heresy, reveals

your willingness to ignore

the significance of your words

plucked by you from the universe of words—

you encourage us to ignore the hundred errands

you neglected to make this poem,

and that here, tonight, some word or words

you are about to read could change

someone who listens, who

will go home tonight with a new purpose,

living two generations away

from the inventor of healthy ice cream

or the orgasm bomb that will make armies

quaint and unnecessary.

when, later, historians consider how

this miracle happened, do you want

to be remembered as the one who

didn't understand the latencies in your poem?

to be forever derided for falling into that old trap

of saying sorry there will be no "peace in our time",

the "mission remains unaccomplished".

the germ might be hidden in a complaint about a boyfriend,

or the last time you kissed your mother,

or how teenage acne could be suffered easily

by retirees in group homes;

it might be an ode to a basketball, when

some words are united for the first time

and then get added to other lines of sublime words

until ignition so the genetic code of someone in this audience

moves north or west by a micron,

saying “yes” now to the future

saying “hold on for just a little longer”

and you want to apologize?

====================================================

My Easter poem…

Judas Tells All a poem by Terry McLain

Before there was blasphemy, there was only the narrative

without inspiration or instruction, without purpose

or a reason for understanding the final words

of this dying man cleaned of any honor he could still lose.

He remembers the final week of life with Jesus

and the palm-strewn Sunday they arrived, the hosannah cries.

He murmrus of a lifetime and how three years of miracles and ministry

disappeared when He walked through Jerusalem gates, remade

into a series of imperfect guesses no closer to who he was -

not the rebbe or the son of god, not the new king

feared by Roman and clergy, not the son of god asking

each disciple to see him as more than them

not the leader who needed Peter's awkward sword

or a man defined by his denials, not the man scourged and beaten,

mocked before Pilate and washing his hands

certainly not the criminal slowly dying, or the son and friend

too soon taken, or lover of mad wantons, strangely unable

suddenly to make a miracle that would save him.

He understood this somehow, he told me that he was prepared to die

to be everything and nothing for this imperfect world

terrified by the perfect god who judged them always.

His place on the edge, between all mistakes and the only place

where none might be, a soft cold light within each of us,

turned into each imperfect vision, named god's will

in all this. He told me to honor him by never denying who he was

no matter who asked me. And when I did, I called him master and

kissed his cheek in the garden because he had taught me to be true

to that and to be his servant in even this. I took the sack of coins defiantly

before grief tore into my resolve, too late to change what he insisted I do,

and when I threw it away, I felt no cleaner.

After he died, for two nights and one dark day I sat alone

hiding from those who would not understand what I had done,

hanging one of the corpses the Romans were so good at making,

so that I was made dead, already knowing that I had one more miracle

to witness. One more mystery to produce. Not knowing what or anything

but the loss of a friend already lost that last week.

Some might say the miracle was the strength to move that stone alone

or when he vanished forever, his body in a light bundle on my back

to be buried in a secret place in the desert.

I say the miracle was the damning one of personal sight that let me see--

that let me know my name was a new scourge used for any weak traitor

crucified by an imperfect world unable to see he was a vessel of light

no more than anyone else, no more than me.

Halloween 2008 at Wed Poetry

Shijin at ArtWell

Things change.  Especially performances.  ( I had started this post a week late and then was totally distracted by the death of a friend - see nearby posts in this blog)

I belong to a poetry performance troupe called Shijin. We have been having at poetry together for a number of years now.  We create a 30 minute seemless show of poems end to end, forming a sort of  storied arc.  The question most often ask following is "Did you write these poems together?"  And the answer is always no.  They are separate parts of ourselves,  individual as we ourselves. But our common human experience overlaps and our sets evolve in a sort of call and response hashout session which can last hours. 

 Our concept of how to structure the visual aspects of our performances has changed both with the particular set and with the space in which we perform it. Most often the staging (and we do not always stage), is done   by Alice-Anne Harwood, who has studied theatre and dramaturgy.

We hit our stride this year with a new set called Undone, which has been published by Hanover Press.  This works very well for us, as it gives us the set in hand, incase any members are absent. It also gives listeners the opportunity to take the poems home, arranged in the same way as the performance. We had already given one performance of Undone this past summer at the Wednesday Night Poetry Series. It was a tentative show, as we had just put the set together.

At Artwell Gallery on Water Street in Torrington, we gave another performance of Undone on Nov. 15,   and although one member was missing, the set works quite well.  Alice Anne had us behave as if we were getting together for coffee just a bunch of girls getting together telling stories in the form of poems. This really allowed everyone to react to the others poems very naturally. It worked very well. The audience really was attentive and apreciative

I should add that Artwell's open mic was a really good quality reading, and really enjoyed listening to their poets and and to one man who improvised a poem.  The art on the wall is a plus too. It's a wonderful atmospheric venue for a poetry reading.....

Seasonal song for the disposed, persecuted or foreclosed

To me, The Coventry Carol is not a religious song, but a song about a momentous and tragic day when a government, a king turned on the poor and helpless, slaughtering an entire generation of children rather than let a future rival escape. It's sadness is that of families suffering loss, and becoming refugees, living in hiding. It's sadness lies also in the realization of the depth of savagery the powerful can visit on the helpless.

Though this is with guitar the singing is "legit" style rather than belt.

Dedicated to the refugee, the transient, the persecuted, the rejected, the foreclosed, and ALL PERSONS BORN OR LIVING UNDER: power mad bullies, kings, despots, ruling parties, war lords, rogue presidents, vice presidents and their minions, certain priests & clerics (of ANY & ALL faiths) who spread hatred and intolerance for those with different beliefs, or political Machiavellis who shepherd maliciousness and mistrust.

Confluencia! November's poets, with musical prelude

Confluencia 's November poets: Faith Vicinanza, Marianela Medrano-Marra, Sally Van Doren, then NVCC president Dr. De Filippis in the center,  Reggie Marra who read poetry by Doug Anderson, and Elizabeth Thomas.

Confluencia is a marvelous event created by Dr. Daisy Cocco De Filippis, and Marianela Medrano-Marra. It features poets from varying cultural heritages, in varying languages and styles. I missed the first reading in this series which was in October, but got to catch up this time... What a line up - with so many twists of language and performance. Some great lines from their poems:

Van Doren >  "I'll meet you by the dragon-fly keep."

 Thomas > "....Dangerous as a broken sea-shell...."

Medrano-Marra > "She made a pact with fire...."

Vicinanza > "He told me he was Satin. I should have believed...."

Anderson > "....the smell of Arizona in May...."

Another post on the musical prelude can be found at: http://mmw113.blogspot.com/2008/11/musical-prelude-at-confluence-1108.html

Musical Prelude at Confluence 11/08

Before Confluencia 's November reading, in the lobby of Naugatuck Community College's Playbox Theatre, the College's Opera and Jazz ensembles were performing selections from Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. That show is set for Nov. 21, 8p.m.

Richard Gard was

on keys, and his wife Evelyn Gard was conducting.The singing and the acting were quite good!

-- mar walker photos

A Concert with two Vladimiroffs, three really

See also: Memorial for Sergei & 70 at 70 & Walden Premiere

Saturday, November, 8,  I went to a free concert at the Valley Presbyterian Church on Wisconier Road in Brookfield.  The concert was in celebration of the church's new grand piano and a grand piano it is indeed, especially in the capable hands that played this concert.....

The players were Maxim Vladimiroff, a Russian-born pianist and award-winning composer, his father, Sergei Vladimiroff,  a beaming and emotive concert pianist, as well as two highly credentialed Russian string players who have both appeared with the Hartford Symphony: violinist Natalya Shamis,  (a former concertmaster of the Moldavian Symphony Orchestra and later of the New American Chamber Orchestra),  and cellist Zakhary Paranyuk who is a member of the Ridgefield Symphony Orchestra, the Brooklyn Chamber Orchestra, etc.

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The company was great too - I got to sit with an old friend, Leisa Vladimiroff, who is Max's wife, whom I haven't seen in quite a while - long enough to notice that their boys have grown quite a few inches, while I have been away!

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Back to the music! The opening salvo was Sonata for violin and piano (KV 378(317d) with its Allegro sections, sandwiching an Andantino sostenuto e contabile. Ms. Shamis showed her beautiful, energetic and singing lines, and Mr. Vladimiroff the younger played this lighter Mozart score with precision, balance and sensitivity.

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Next was an immediate change of pace. From the tidy elegant structure of Mozart, the program moved to Tchaikovsky, and Vladimiroff the younger was tag-teamed by his father, who specialty is emotion, caprice and surprise.  Mr. Vladimiroff the senior played five sections (months) from The Seasons, which is "program music" composed to embody  some well known Russian poems.  It was all lovely - but I most loved the June and October selections because they were most meaningful to me.. In June one could feel the sea waves lapping at one's ankles, and the warm night sky arching above. In October it was impossible to not see leaves flitting slowly to the ground, and at the end even a single leaf, trembling and rocking in the breeze before it finally lets go and falls.

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For November and December, I  couldn't grasp the metaphor and I think this prevented me from immersing myself in the music itself. November involved "not trying to catch up with the troika" according to the program notes,  and I had no idea what the troika  was.... December 's metaphor was wonderful, but I was unsure of its context. The program notes mentioned maidens on Christmas eve, removing their slippers and throwing them outside the gates. How wonderfully poetic! I would love to  know more about that (someone comment and enlighten me....)

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From the Sesaons, the senior Vladimiroff moved to more Tchaikovsky - the Polonaise from Eugene Onegin (an opera based on a poem). This well-known and beloved composition almost makes one want to dance...  As always, Vladimiroff played it with strength and subtlety.

After all this work, the players got to rest during intermission, during which a silent auction took  place in the lobby.  There was a lot of friendly conversation, and a few libations as well. (I am a coffee addict and always love fresh brew...)

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And fresh from intermission - I heard my favorite piece of the night - Etude in G minor Op. 33 by Sergei Rachmaninoff.  Now, when listening to music, it's always best heard when one approaches it as a sunbather approaches the sun - peel off the protective artifice and allow the music to act directly on the most vulnerable areas of the self.  This etude took me away, filled me with melancholy, and exaltation in its exquisite beauty all fabulously brought out by this fine player.

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Next on the program was a psychological wonder -- the father interprets the son!!!   Sergei played Six Preludes, a modernist tone-row style composition by Maxim !  I loved the caprice, the smatterings of tones, contrasted with the heavier tread of discordant semi-chordal blocks of notes - yet this is not a completely atonal work. .

There was much context to center, and it was an interesting contrast to the surrounding works.

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Then, it was back to the intense emotional ride of Dmitri Shostakovich's Prelude and Fugue  NO 24 in D minor, Op 87! It was most interesting to read in the program that this was a part of the composer's 24 Preludes and Fugues written written in tribute to Bach's own preludes and fugues.  Listening with the form of  Bach's  works in mind - it was amazing what different effect emerged from  Shostakovich's simmering furtive intensity - an intensity amply encompassed by Sergei Vladimiroff. The man must have been exhausted when he was finished playing it, so much energy went into the furious build of the fugal elements.

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He got to rest though - the next item was played by Maxim instead.  The composition was another Mozart bookending the program: Trio, KV 502. And here is my second favorite work of the night.  To me there is nothing so beautiful as the sound of the cello, and Mr Paranyuk is a wonderful player with superb tone! Perhaps as a mezzo-soprano, I am systemically partial to this rich sonority. Then when the cello's sound is woven with the sound of  Ms. Shamis, singing  violin, and Vladimiroff's artful energy, well, it's like a death by chocolate desert, except more serious, more expediant!   It was so compelling my own head could not stop moving in some sort of sympathetic rhythmic echo.   Oh what a marvel - Mozart, form and controlled flash, so well inhabited.  This was truly a fine piece...

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There followed lots of applause and people rising from their seats. There was an encore, I am getting senile and cannot remember what it was.  Then followed by

FOOD, conversations, more libations.

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Valley Presbyterian - congratulations on very satisfying event.

Rutter Gloria with Lots of Brass!!!

The occasion was the Eighth Annual Fall Festival of Music at the First Congregational Church in Ridgefield, directed by Edwin Taylor, which occurred on Sunday, November 2.. (It’s that church by the stone fountain, the one in the middle of the road that gets hits by cars so very often.) In fact the concert is part of the church’s Fountain Music Series.

The primary work was the Rutter Gloria with organ and brass. The singers included Edwin’s choir, singers from Jessie Lee United Methodist, and choir members who sang under the late Robert Ayotte of St Mary’s including a few of his paid soloists singing in the chorus(me for instance, and that is how I came to be involved) and a few from out of town. The 11-member brass and percussion ensemble was all imported and very expansive! The organist who played instead of Rob was Daniel M. Beckwith from Princeton. And no one ever forgets the fabulous Celebration Ringers – Edwin’s marvelous and discplined handbell choir.

We had dress rehearsal the afternoon of the concert. It was rigorous but very well organized so there was a minimum of hassle involved. Because most of us missed lunch, and would be concertizing well into the dinner hour, a meal was served at 3p.m. And there was coffee (I am always in need of caffeine), and I was grateful for the sustenance.
The brass ensemble opened in the side isles with a Gabrieli hymn arranged by Mr. Taylor. The brass and handbells were smashing! The handbells did Fantasy No 4 a new composition by Michael Helman and on Elgar’s Nimrod from his Enigma Variations. Later the brass and Organ together had a Taylor arrangement of Pacibell’s Deus in Adjutorium.

There were also a lot of congregational hymns. All in all, the concert went of without a hitch, Although it is hard to tell when you are singing – I think the choral works went very well too. I have to report that I actually did NOT GET LOST in the 5/8 sections of the Gloria. The Counting went very well.
There was a marvelous metaphoric talk Living in Harmony with the Universe, given by the Rev. Dr. Brenda Steirs about finding the tune and the key of life…..
For me the only difficulty was, that during a lush and beautiful duet The Lord’s Prayer, written by Mallotte and arranged by Mr. Taylor and sung by Amy Montanari and Faith Ferry – my eyes teared up, my sinuses clogged. It was so so very beautiful. I suppressed a cough until after this beautiful duet was done, then lost track a bit blowing my nose. We did the benediction ( The Lord Bless You and Keep You by Lutkin), from memory. And low and behold I remembered it. YEAH.

The concert ended with Moussorgsky’s Great Gate of Kiev in Mr. Taylor’s own arrangement for brass, organ, percussion, handbells and choir. And a good time was had by all….

Dia: Beacon - thought-provoking exhibit...

Last Thursday, fellow Shijin Robin Sampson, White Plains Slammer Ann Marie Marra and I visted the DIA museum in Beacon New York (a snapshot of its website is to the left), which opened in 2003 in a 300,000 square foot printing factory.  We got separated in this large maze-like building and I didn't see them for two hours.

I was constantly surprised - each time I thought I had reached the end of the exhibits, there was a still a large part of the building I had not visited!   Better, each time I thought I had drawn a bead on the meaning of what was exhibited, another twist was revealed.

The first room featured an exhibit of  minimalist work "24 Colors for Blinky" by Imi Koebel - large odd shapes each painted in a single bright color.  They were not at all like the monochrome canvases of Modrian  which contain subtle, though barely discernible, complexities. Koebel's colors are utterly flat and uniform.  Just shapes varied wildly. Imi may well have been trying to "shape-up" Blinky Palermo whose small and uniformly square works were on display in another room.  Another room had works by Agnes Martin whose canvases were more in the actual lineage of Modrian, but with a much more personal touched-surface  feeling....

Then there was an entire warehouse-sized room of light work by Dan Flavin. I mean, a kind of minimalist work created entirely as arrangements or "monuments" of florescent light fixtures. I didn't really get off on these, though they were interesting.  On the lower floor were a several works that were a kind of minimalist drawing  and the medium was vivid  blinking neon lights .

And then there was a room entirely containing abstract expressionist sculptures by John Chamberlain that looked as if, and I think were actually made from junk cars and scrap metal. I liked several that were imposing crumpled metal cairns each cloistering a small brightly color nucleus.  But My favorite work of the day was The Privet - one of his metal  sculptures. (The photo simply does not do it justice...)  It is a bit of an abstract expressionist hedge - of metal strips painted capreciously with high gloss enamel. It's metal fronds twisted organically, and each with a unique color scheme. The form was so familiar, the material and colors, arresting. I was inspired to write a poem, though it has a miserable slant rhyme.

The privet's metal stalks aspire
To rustle 'neath the critc's pire
In colors crisp with high gloss shallac
The metal hedge row with varied palette 

Louise Bourgeois' mythic Spiders inspire primal fear, I think and awe.... One can walk right up to the monster which is sci-fi man-eating sized!

Another area I adore, was a set of architectural scale works by Michael Heizer - that involved enormous holes in the floor, I liked the effects, and as a bonus the polished concrete floors in that area were so beautifully and intricately marked, each of the huge sections could have been hung on the wall as art....

Another area I enjoyed very very much contained huge iron spirals "Torqued Elipses" by Richard Serra like the hulls of mysterious ships or giant vats in a factory, that were 15 feet tall with walls several inches. You could walk inside the huge spirals and sometimes, there were hidden inner chambers.  Their juxtaposition also made a very pleasing view of differing angles. There was an erie sonority to the pieces as well. I tried singing inside of one and the echos were amazing.

Interpretive verses generative art

One of the most fascinating aspects of the artists on display were the many who had not constructed the piece on view, but who had left a set of instructions as an architect leaves blueprints, or actually the very same way a composer writes a a score and then leaves it to the future - for others to bring to life!

There was one Lawrence Weiner who had left large sized instructions for the construction of arrangements of monolithic stones. One huge obelisk-like monolith was recessed into the wall. There was an exhibit of drawings by Sol LeWitt (who had recently died). The work required  a team of 20 artists to draw patterns of six different basic squares.  Each looked like a geeks creation on graph paper. The squares were drawn in combination, juxtaposition and super-imposition  in pencil right on the four walls of a museum room. It sounds so prosaic but the effect was sort of  contrary to that. Inside four twenty-foot walls all covered with this work, well the effect was strangely imposing and the repetition made it comforting and  tranquil. It had a great quiet dignity.

The presence of a whole room of Andy Warhol canvases gives real weight to the idea of art by collaboration rather than by one hand.  So much of the art in this exhibit was  what I would call Art Divisi - that is art divided into inceptor or "Idea-ator" and executor. Or more completely - as in music - the generative artist and the interpretive artist. As in theater or in the performance arts, this allows subsequent generations to add cultural nuance...

Could an artist devise a handmade drawing or painting of so many layers that generations of interpretors would be required to fulfill the design? One thinks of the great cathedrsls ( one was still unfinished when I was in college. Not sure now)

And on the topic of great catherdrals - the Photographs of Bernd and Hilla Becher were of wonders of another sort - the great detailed twisting industrial cathedrals of European industry of an era past.

It's a great exhibit. They also have a fine coffee shop for lunch and a fabulous book store. Check the museum's website at http://www.diabeacon.org/exhibs/bindex.html

While we were in Beacon, we also visited the Muddy Cup for Lavendar Tea....

-- Mar Walker

Alternate Parking

It was hard to find parking at the polls. We voted at 6:15 a.m. this morning. Before coffee before breakfast. I personally voted straight Democratic - Duane Perkins, Chris Murphy, Joe Taborsak and most important of all BARACK OBAMA.

( I am an independent who went over to a party to vote in the primaries when John Kerry was running...)
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I think the odd angle and out-of-sight bike in this pale pic, contribute to the idea of hidden alternatives, escape routes, and alternate ways of looking at the familiar.... This is a photo I took in New Milford CT, standing by town hall looking towards the green, (you can see the intersection with Bank Street in the distance.) I fiddled with the photo in both iphoto and Adobe Photoshop Elements.



UPDATE; It's 11PM and ABC news has just projected BARACK OBAMA will be the next president..... HURRAY!