The New Republic

I'll be spending the remainder of this afternoon and evening watching election night coverage and blogging about it here. Think of it as an ultra-concentrated reenactment of the Chilean miners' ordeal. I am the miners, and the mine is the inky blackness that is televised election coverage in this nation—a muggy, cramped space a mile from the real world that’s jam-packed with mostly horrible people saying pointless things which seem designed to make regular people angry.

Now, I know what you're thinking: "That's a ridiculous, insulting, offensive comparison, Jesse. What you're going through bears no resemblance to the disaster in Chile. Those miners didn't have to sit there and watch cable news—they were free to converse, exercise, smoke cigarettes, and watch DVDs." That is a good point, and I appreciate your concern.

This isn't the first time I've taken a televised bullet for TNR, so in all likelihood I will survive. The path between now and my rescue is a long one, however, and I could use some help. To borrow a bit of common sense a robot voice on the subway taught me, if you see something, say something. Questions, comments, Breitbart racial epithets I may have missed—all are welcome. Send them to TVslowlykillssingal@gmail.com. If I get good stuff, I'll post it (and if you want to be credited by name, say so).

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