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So I’m walking down the street near my newly adopted home in sunny LA, and the sun suddenly disappears from the sky, the gentle breeze turns almost immediately into a torrent right in my face. As I struggle forward, all I remember is a huge palm frond snapping off, plummeting toward the earth, and hitting me violently in the head. Then, almost simultaneously, that same frond, powered by that airburst, lifted me upward into the air. And that’s all I remembered.
Until I awoke. The first thing I noticed was that the whole neighborhood was in technicolor rather than black and white. Also, there were lots of little people gathering around me, and the traffic line down the middle of the street had expanded so that the whole road was yellow. And the palm frond that had transported me to… somewhere… had crashed onto someone and was covering most of a body.
The people surrounding me were very very short and they were wearing little tags that told me where they came from—places like Pennsylvania, Georgia, Michigan, Wisconsin, Nevada, Arizona, and North Carolina. Most of all, they were very curious about the body that my frond had eviscerated. Someone in the rear asked whether there were signs of ruby slippers, but no, all we could see were some of the remnants of a red hat with some letters on it. The hat, and the body it was attached to, were in such bad shape that it was hard to make out the writing on it. Someone from Ann Arbor said that, although it was red rather than blue, the first letter looked like an M, then there was another letter that couldn’t be read at all, and another little person said he thought that the last two letters signified that the deceased must be from Georgia, as it said G A.
And then it hit everyone at the same time and we all sang out in joy, “Ding dong, the wicked witch is dead!!”
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It never happened, of course, but on behalf of the cowardly lion, the tin man, and the scarecrow (who had enough of a brain to know which way to vote), you have my Kruscontrol fantasy-wish: that when the dawn breaks on Wed morning Nov 6, we will awake from our nightmare. A certain malevolent man-witch and his broom will be nothing more than a sad memory, a stain and a stench no longer–not dead in body, but dead in influence, a wannabe mob boss and dictator no longer powerful, no longer intimidating, no longer feared. A wizard no more.
And at that point we can joyously click the heels of our ruby slippers and say, “There’s no place like home. There’s no place like home.”
I hope, I hope, I hope.
