Hello and welcome to the political orphanage, a home for plucky misfits and problem solvers.

I'm your host Andrew Heaton, America's designated driver.

Just tirelessly shuttling you back and forth between critical thinking and mirth in these twilight hours of the 2020 election

while other pundits are driving straight into Chappiquitic just right into the drink and then to the bottom of the pond with some passenger in the vaccine.

Or alternatively if you want to pick a different analogy, driving to hell on a road paved with good intentions or

maybe just drinking a six-pack and hitting squirrels for fun.

I'm none of those people.

I'm the intellectual, designated driver.

When I was a kid, late elementary school, early middle school, somewhere in that region, definitely

pre-car, I needed to get a haircut and my mom drove me to the mall so we could go to

super cuts or whatever the thing was there and as we walked in to this

styling studio there were two stylists available and we could go either way. We could go one direction or go the other.

On one side of the room was a pretty standard looking ordinary guy.

Decent haircut, collard shirt, apron, scissors.

You've seen a hair stylist before. He looked like one of them. a And she had a nose ring, which in the late 90s in Oklahoma, that was quite the statement

having a nose ring.

And she had on top of that a bunch of earrings in her ear and not even in the standard lobe position but at the top part of her ear.

Just a bunch of earrings and tattoos and my mom made a beeline to that woman.

Now I'm I don't know 10 11 and I look up at mom quizzically because I'm not sure what's going on

on my mom without breaking stride looks down and goes that woman's going to be more interesting to talk to.

And it was a light bulb moment for me where I went,

oh, my mom doesn't quite operate the same way

...