Our newsroom, every time we publish, stands briefly poised between two fortnights, one just past, and one to come. Two weeks ago, the calendar caused that transition to occur on Halloween, the day—or night—when the mundane rubs up against the mystical. Some subtle synergy between those cycles apparently induced a state of irrational editorial exuberance. For a brief, joyous moment, certain members of the staff were convinced that the nation was about to break out of its moral, political, and economic crash dive, and begin to level off; the Republic would soon be spared, before it augers in. A real-world event sparked this extravagant hope: on Halloween, our President held a 1920s-style, Great Gatsby-themed extravaganza, complete with scantily-clad dancers, at his lair, Mar-a-Lardo, even as tens of millions of Americans—many of them full-time workers; some of them active-duty military personnel—were staring hunger in the face because the Life of the Party, El Presidente himself, was refusing to tap emergency funding for SNAP benefits. With this…