The cops came -- my shouting probably woke the whole neighborhood -- along with an ambulance, and they checked me out while taking my story. One cop was particularly diligent as he scribbled in his pad -- "So it was beef ravioli, not cheese ravioli, right?" -- until they finally let me go home to my couch and some ice packs and a deep curiosity about what the hell could be next. After the swelling went down, I went back to my bar with the paving stone and a story to tell. After I finished, Mike the chef said, "I read that in the paper!" Sure enough, there it was in the Boston Herald police blotter: "Man Foils Mugging With Beef Ravioli." The cop took good notes....

These two stories have been much on my mind as we careen toward concluding the quintessential absurdity that is this 2016 presidential election. With less than two weeks remaining, there is to my mind a distinct similarity between covering this thing and getting beaten with rocks as I shovel sewage, but in truth, that's nothing more than poor-me hyperbole. It's exhausting and dispiriting, to be sure, but the fact is that covering any campaign -- even a berserk one like this -- is a privilege and an honor … and they all end eventually, don't they?

Those stories, however, mean more to me than that. If that rock had been thrown an inch to the left, it could have killed me or done serious damage. It put me on my knees, but I got up and kept fighting. I could have been like Michael and rowed my septic pool boat ashore, hallelujah, but I kept skimming the filth because the campers up the hill needed it done. I didn't quit, neither did my crewmates, and as we hosed off the boats we took pride in an act that no one saw but everyone benefitted from. Even us, because everybody poops.

The moral? Get up, keep shoveling. Blood and stink wash off, but endurance and perseverance are always their own reward.