These days, especial on the Hill nothing is certain. Almost nothing, except Fenty will be mayor. So those rare and monumental certainties that still remain fill me with a sense of glee and calm and with a morose pleasure that suits the season. All that to say, Winter is nipping at our noses. Thats right. The big girl is almost upon us all. She’s unfurled her thin sheets and it is only weeks before we are blanketed by her leaves and short bursts of cold air. Yes, cold air. Check wikipedia if you’ve forgotten the term. So get out your camera. Load the Kodak film (better oranges and reds), put away the polarizers you won’t be needing them anytime soon. Gather up the rouge toys from the backyard (or if you’re a poster to this site the rouge beer bottle). Get ready to plant a some fall produce; I still have tomatoes popping like Orville Redenbacher. Give up the hope that you’ll make it to the beach this year. You will not make it to the zoo. The tan you now inhabit will soon be whatever the natural color of you is untainted. Summer is over. Or, add the “almost” for just one more day. And prepare yourself for those of us who kick up leaves and snap every orange hue. We’re about to compete with posts about football because this is our season. We’ll be gentle.