Circa 9:30, on my way home from Chris Smith’s no-holds-barred throwdown, I drive past Fred Stewart’s party at Emanon Cafe on NW Lovejoy, and drive by slowwwwly, trying to gauge if it’s worth the trouble of parking and going inside to check out the scene. I’m tired, and I figure it’s not worth it—a suspicion that’s backed up when I see Stewart, silhouetted in the doorway, shaking peoples’ hands as they leave the cafe; inside, said scene consists of four or six people watching the TV. When I call Amy, she tells me Stewart lost big, and there’s not much need for me to go in. So I drive by one more time—yep, still not much happening—and then I head home, stopping first at Videorama to check out the used DVD racks, and I end up talking with the friendly dude working there about The Assassination of Jesse James by the Coward Robert Ford and Southland Tales, and no more than five minutes later, I’m trudging up the stairs to my apt., stretching and yawning, feeling great about Obama, good about Adams, bad about Middaugh, and etc.