November 29, 2002
Obligatory fall from grace post:
It goes a little something like this:
- See the Baby in the sink. Scream.
- Opt to make my pain into other people's pleasure. Write blog about Baby in sink.
- Throughout the rest of the day, insist on referring to turkey as the Baby.
- Everyone else begins referring to it as the Baby as well, culminating in Mike Pope calmly pointing to my own personal dad carving away, and remarking "Look, it's the Baby's bris."
- We two opt for veggie entree and eating our weight in carbs.
- Next day, I come over to the parental home. Notice the carcass of the Baby in the fridge. The Baby smells delicious. Well, who can resist a Baby that smells like that? It would take a stronger man than I.
- Mmm. Tryptophan.
Posted by didofoot at 07:55 PM | Comments (6)
November 28, 2002
Obligatory vegetarian post:
The turkey is huge, so huge that it looks like a small beheaded toddler in the sink. When I walked in I screamed "AAAAH! DAD, THE MOMS KILLED A BABY!" It's got this little flap of wrinkled skin where its head used to be. "Ew, Moms," I whispered, plucking (ha) at her sleeve, "it's got little bony nubbins where its feets were."
"I know," she said. "I had to pull out the neck."
"You had to--eeeeaugh! Is that what you just gave me to throw away wrapped in that bag which at the time I thought how weird that she wrapped something so tightly in this bag when she's only going to throw it away and why can't she wait until I've taken out the trash and have returned with a fresh new bag? It was the neck, wasn't it!"
"Yeah," the Moms said.
I touched turkey neck, turkey neck, I touched turkey neck...
The window is open, and I thought maybe it would make the neck flap shift a little in a creepy way but it turns out to be too thick and wrinkled to move and that is actually more creepy.
The baby is almost too big for the pan. Time to push things up its bottom.
Posted by didofoot at 10:17 AM | Comments (5)
November 27, 2002
An obligatory holiday post:
Tomorrow, I am a cook. It is regrettable for a number of reasons. The reason it is regrettable is that I cannot cook really and the number of reasons it is regrettable is one.
My most important job this year is that I have to beat on the turkey until it stops crying and plays dead in the pan. Some years we just lie to the turkey. We tell it that it's going on a vacation to sunny Hawaii. That often fools a turkey; they aren't creatures of complex brains. Sometimes turkeys will stare at the sky and drink the rain until they drown. That is turkeys for you. Surely, God put this dopiest of birds on earth for us to massacre and gastronomically enjoy.
You know what else is an apparently stupid animal? Babies.
Well anyway, back to the turkey. This year we will probably eschew the more complicated hoaxing of the turkey in favor of just threatening it until it snivels and whines and does what it's told. Besides, it's kind of tough to convince even a turkey that it has a vacation coming after you've just stuffed its bottom full of bread chunks. Nothing says "You're about to be eaten, sucka" like having a bottom full of bread. If, that is, you're a turkey. (You might want to think about this the next time you let someone put bread up your bottom. No judgment here. I'm just saying.)
When I was a wee little sprog, I really enjoyed standing in front of the oven window where the turkey could see me and then pretending I was trying to open the door and let it out. I would wrinkle my toddler brow in a facsimile of concern, pretending to try with all my might to open that oh-so-heavy door. Meanwhile, the turkey would be shrieking, "Get your dad! Your dad! Find a larger adult with improved motor skills! NO! NO! AN ADULT! AIIIEEEEE!" Man, that joke never got old.
Now that I'm older, though, I don't play that game anymore. What I do sometimes, though, is let the turkey try and bargain for its life. I say, "Okay, Bird, if you tell me where you hid the money, I'll substitute the dog for you and you can go free. Otherwise, Rover here is going to be begging for scraps of your wing meat. Got it?" Which is just downright mean, since it's not like you can expect a turkey to remember where the money is hidden. Rain-drowning, remember? Tiny tiny brains. Sometimes they'll make shit up though, which is just laughable. "It's in the, uh, in the kleenex box! The box!"
"Oh yeah? In the box? That's funny, I don't see any money in here..."
And then they try to think on their feet and they can't. It's pathetic. Just really sad.
Posted by didofoot at 12:46 PM | Comments (9)
Suck eggs, Wallace, you conniving fucker.
You've probably seen this, most of you. Go see it again.
If you plan on reading The Book, and I suggest you do read it, it's probably best not to read the rest of this entry because I'm about to bitch about the ending. Okay? Okay.
Okay, I finished it. (Finnished it.) And lo it was the most obnoxious ending ever.
Let me sum up:
One Book.
Eight nillion story lines.
Five killion characters.
Thirteen chachillion red herrings.
Eleven hundred pages.
No resolution of anything.
Can somebody explain the moving objects? Was this the Incandenza wraith trying to indirectly communicate with his son via Stice? Can someone explain, please, the whole Hal slowly disintigrating thing, since he never took the massively annoying red herring DMZ? And why the fuck did Don Gately wind up helping Hal to dig up the head of Incandenza?
Stuff I really thought he was going to get into:
- an Interlace conspiracy with the Quebecois
- some revelation that pot really is the most dangerous of drugs
- any kind of explanation of what powers the Entertainment
In short, YEEEEEAAUGH!!!
On the other hand, I am now using the vocabulary constantly, to wit (if that's the phrase I want) the terms 'de-mapping,' 'limp' and 'the moms.'
This ending was totally limp.
I'm going to find Wallace and demap him.
Don't tell the moms.
Posted by didofoot at 08:46 AM | Comments (4)
November 25, 2002
The End of an Era
It's almost over. I pretty much knew when I started this that it wouldn't last, because none of these relationships ever last. I jump into it, delighted, like (pardon me) a pig in shit, and wallow around for awhile until abruptly it just...ends.
So it's ending. The worst part about this is now I have to go through the whole post-apocalyptic limbo scene again, where I just don't have the energy for something new but then neither can I stand the sudden space in my life that it used to fill. I'll wind up once again jumping in and out of, shall we say, less worthy pursuits, just to keep myself occupied. Just like last time, I'll start heavily relying on my friends to get me through the unoccupied weekends. I'll be haunting all kinds of quote 'pickup joints,' desperate for something new even though I can barely stomach the thought.
I hate this. I've been drawing it out as long as I could, but yesterday I initiated a nine-hour communication session pretty much designed to finish it, and I predict that today will see the whole thing come finally to its depressingly inevitable conclusion.
I admit, I've already started flirting with other men: Pynchon, Ondaatje, and even a brief saucy glance at Herodotus. But none of them are mine in the way this was mine.
I'm wicked depressed, y'all. If anyone knows a good book they could introduce me to, I'd be grateful. Just to tide me over. Just to make it through.
Posted by didofoot at 09:09 AM | Comments (32)
November 22, 2002
The Book
So I spent last night communing with The Book.
The Book is cumbersome to haul about, but I do it. I read it standing up on the subway, even, flipping back and forth between the bookmark in the story and the bookmark at the back where the footnotes are. So far I am at the 203rd footnote, and there are so many ahead of me. Some stretch for pages; some reference sub-notes; some require that you read footnotes which are a hundred footnotes past the footnote you're reading now, forcing you to tear off yet a third bookmark.
Then there is the writer. The writer has read all of Finnegan’s Wake, more than once, and is pretty sure he understood it. (He thinks, though, that girls will like him for this.) He has wet dreams about being Thomas Pynchon, and I mean being in the "Being John Malkovich" sense of going around ordering his tea towels and brushing his own Pynchon-esque teeth.
Either that or he's married and humble and has small, unattractively uncool dogs whose hairs he uncomplainingly vacuums from the carpet, and he goes to small dinner parties with old friends and has a comfortable sex life.
This is the brilliance of The Book. It could go either way. I picked it up from the Millers, but only in the sense that one picks up a disease. No, no, I started saying as soon as I saw the sheer cussed size of the blasted awful apocalyptic thing, get it away from me, backing away with my hand over my mouth to prevent the book germs from flying down my windpipe and taking root there and slowly growing page-like fungi in my larynx until I choked myself on my own newly-acquired vocabulary. But Ian just kept on coming, grinning like a maniac, Take it, take the book, and I was crouched down on the corner of the sofa in the well-appointed Miller living room, sort of crying in a bewildered child way and making a palsied cross with my index fingers as all two hundred pounds of all eleven hundred pages of The Book came crashing down into my lap, word after word after word after word after word just leering at me, silently, under the deceptively peaceful cover. By which, we all know, you really can't judge.
But so anyway I took The Book home and ignored it for a week. It grumped around the living room and left wet towels on the floor and ate all the chips. Finally I opened it in sheer desperation, hoping that once I started taking it places I might have the luck to accidentally leave it on a bus somewhere.
But The Book is the golden goose, if that's the fable I'm looking for, and I'm stuck with no help for it but to encourage the rest of you to touch it yourselves and be stuck along with me. Because misery, well, you know.
Posted by didofoot at 03:50 PM | Comments (9)
November 19, 2002
There is, apparently, also a midterm I will not really study for. But that's unrelated.
He finds out she's having an affair with another man. He crashes his plane, in which she is a passenger, into her lover, intending to kill everyone.
or
He finds out she's having an affair with another woman. He shakes her and threatens her and allows her to catch on fire and be horribly burned.
or
His heretofore pliant new wife talks back. He slaps her and calls her names and, quite improbably in light of this evidence, declares in a lustful about-face that he likes his women "spunky."
or
He finds out his fiancee still loves her ex-boyfriend. He forces her to marry him and attempts to kill her boyfriend.
or
A woman whose hero boyfriend has been distracted is discovered by the villain. He calls her "sweetheart" and suggests that she be given to his most physically repulsive henchman as a kind of sexual sundae.
or
A woman talks back to a man/a woman behaves out of the common way/a woman is found by a man to be alone on a street/in a bar/in her home. He rapes her.
or
or
or
I watched Fire last night. It made me so tired. And I don't watch this stuff if I can help it. What about the rest of you, I wonder, who don't have my hyper-sensibilities and have seen legions of women being raped and beaten and murdered, how can any of you walk around in a world with men and not be afraid all the time and not believe you are just a potential victim all the time and not be waiting always for the creepy violins to start or the scream-drowning bassline? Even though you know in your brain it's not a realistic portrayal still how can you not have this beaten into your bones like a genetic code? There are things I would never say or do around a man because if you push a man too far he will beat you up I have been taught it is so and I am big into self-preservation. There are ways I will never lead my life, things I will never say, places where I will never be alone, places where I will never be in company, men I will never be with around other men because they are the wrong man and they can get you for the company you keep as much as anything else, there are clothes I will never wear there are words I won't use there are places I will run through and places I will move through at an effacing-walk there are a thousand rules I will follow that I have intuited and never been told.
Posted by didofoot at 05:12 PM | Comments (36)
November 18, 2002
Nitwit, dictionary, me.
Last night I went to the Lad's house to get aid on the maths. (My parents have an Australian houseguest who brought kangaroo jerky, vegemite spread and the phrase "maths.") He was late arriving on his Machine o'Death so I sat and watched 'The Sopranos' for ten minutes or so with the housemates and co.
I'd never seen 'Sopranos' before. (I'm all the time missing out on the national crazes it seems - American Idol, Survivor, war with Iraq, etc.) I was amazed by how SNL-ish it was. All the dialogue was very sketch-comedy, and no one made reference to spaghetti or fish sleeping or any of it. And it looked like it was shot on video, which gives a clean, shiny effect I do not typically associate with mobsters. I came in on a scene where the main character is at an elementary school for some reason and joins in on a parent-kid game of dodgeball. He's supposed to open a restaurant in three days, and the critic who will be reviewing him just happens to be on the other team. "I can see such pain ahead," said Mike, chortling, as the two began hurling the ball at each other and growing more and more angry. I chuckled. Didn't this critic know that he was dodging the ball of Mob-related fury? Clearly the critic was clueless.
Wacky hijinks continued to ensue, with no one getting shot or saying "fuck," until Gene got home. "That was so funny!" I said. "I didn't think it would be so funny."
"Yeah," he said. "I love that show."
Posted by didofoot at 02:04 PM | Comments (6)
November 17, 2002
More like Dogmeat 95.
I saw my first Dogme 95 film last night, Italian for Beginners. Dogme 95 is a group of directors who have made a series of promises known as the vow of chastity about the films they make.
I heard about Dogme 95 three or four years ago, but I never had any interest in watching their films. Their manifesto is extremely unappealing in the way that only German ideas can be. (I myself am slightly German, so I feel justified in condemning the whole nation.) (Slightly German: band name?) Their central problem with modern films seems to be that these films are rife with false elements (i.e. false lighting, sound work, scenes shot in times other than the present, etc.) and therefore can't be expected to impart a true idea or emotion to the audience. They solve this problem by requiring that their films be shot only in real locations, with natural light, and handheld cameras, and so on. Basically they're coming as close as possible to shooting real life without just going around filming ordinary people.
Because Frahm introduced me to this philosophy I expected the films to be pretentious, but Italian was amazingly accessible. It's a very good film. Unfortunately, I found that the handheld cameras and use of video distracted me from the script and acting which were the film's strengths. In fact the only thing I approve of about Dogme 95 is the lack of a soundtrack or score. I have always resented filmmakers who use sweeping violins or bass lines to manipulate my emotions when the acting or script isn't enough to convince me.
Wait, I do approve of one other thing.
Posted by didofoot at 05:24 PM | Comments (6)
November 15, 2002
tired of talking, what's the point?
Posted by didofoot at 08:47 AM
November 13, 2002
The thought of Emma is all that keeps me going.
Last night's suckity suck English class was spent profitably making rude jokes about our book with the Irishman who was in my group. He is a riot. Why? The accent. He got obsessed with the description of chickens with hormonally enhanced breast meat (trust me, it's funnier in Irish) and that carried us through the majority of the suck.
Then during the last half hour of the class, she passed out one of her ubiquitous evil handouts. This one was about Coordinating Clauses.
For those of you who, like me, went on strike in your sophomore year of high school when asked to learn this stuff and refused to do any of the assignments because you understood it pretty instinctively, let me assist you. Coordinating Clauses can be recalled with the handy mnemonic FANBOY. This stands for For And Nor But Or Yet.
How many of you can use these correctly in a sentence? Not just an easy sentence, but any sentence, always, forever, since infancy?
How many of you would enjoy sitting through a half hour of muttering and fumbling and out-loud exercises and filling in the blanks?
How many of you are even now wearing the expression (in sympathy with me) that I was wearing then: the puppy who has been good all day and still is being beaten with clubs expression?
I almost cried, for I was hoping she would let us out early.
I retaliated by viciously glaring, and I read my answer out loud in a mean voice.
She did not seem to notice my dismay, nor would she care if she had noticed.
I nearly stabbed her with my pen, but remembered that I can be tried as an adult now.
I could have left the class, or I could have hidden beneath the desk.
I wanted to stage a protest, yet I remained patient because if I get an A I will be allowed to study Jane Austen later.
Posted by didofoot at 09:40 AM | Comments (15)
November 10, 2002
Many links, little time
Thursday in class we watched a video about how women got the vote, launching us well and truly into our feminism section. It's making me extremely touchy about certain things, like the fact that the Lad does not like Lily Tomlin. I keep wanting to blame it on his patriarichal need to feminize feminists, and last night over Scrabble I nearly stood up on my parents' newly-upholstered dining room chair and yelled "J'accuse!"
In other news, Brian found a wonderful site which consists solely of fascinating links. Usually after spending any more than half an hour surfing the web I feel robbed, like Weebl & Bob or Memepool just hastened me towards death without me noticing. But the site Brian found made me feel all tingly and nice. Rock, Brian.
Posted by didofoot at 10:56 AM | Comments (4)
November 08, 2002
You didn't like that last one, huh?
It's interesting how some of these garner 50 comments and some none.
Have y'all seen Kissing Jessica Stein? Yeah? Did anyone notice how much egg it sucked? Millers and Lad and I watched it last night, and I couldn't help but notice not only the lack of steamy lesbian sex but also the lack of so much as a passionate kiss.
It's a billed as a groundbreaking lesbian movie, but all it shows is a neurotic straight girl and her doormat girlfriend not having sex. And p.s., Actress Who Plays Jessica, waving your hands in the air and talking with a baby girl voice will not distract us from the fact that you aren't acting. You know what would have distracted us? Showing us your breasts.
If Hollywood made movies about real people who happened to be gay, I would watch them without an expectation of breasting. But when I'm watching straight actresses taking on gay roles because of the "challenge" of it, I expect the movie to be entirely sex-based (as this was) and I expect nipple action. Why else would I watch it?
P.S. I'm not trying to be a tiresome dormroom lesbian. I just think girls are pretty.
Posted by didofoot at 02:03 PM | Comments (9)
Oops, no.
The Lad and I met in 1993. Because that is the year I started high school.
1993-94 Freshman
1994-95 Sophomore
1995-96 Junior
1996-97 Senior
Considering that fully half of my readership is comprised of members of my high school class, I wonder that none of you caught that. Oh well, my fault. See previous entry re: sucks at math.
It's kind of irrelevant anyway, since right after posting my Lad Anniversary gooeyness, I remembered that we actually met long before that.
I was in 5th grade, which was what year? Let's do the math...1990-91. This was back in the good old days when Chorus was still part of the standard curriculum, so once a week we all goose-stepped over to Mrs. Brown's classroom to sing songs from The Sound of Music. Mrs. Brown was the Reverend Mother in a stage production of same, and it sort of affected her ideas of good music. So every week we sang our nunnish little hearts out, and every so often she would grab me out of line on the way out - she was a big lady and I was Meeky McMeekerton - and say "When are you going to come audition for my singing group?"
So finally I bowed to faculty-induced pressure and auditioned. The group was called Brand New Sound and I was admitted solely because my audition song was "My Favorite Things." (Seeing Bjork sing it on death row many years later was so disturbing. Though I guess it was disturbing either way, that scene.) I didn't stay in long because I was shy and didn't know anyone, but I did stay long enough to learn the main song, as follows:
Gonna rise up singing
It's a brand new day
I see the sun is a-shinin and the rain isn't fallin
Like it was just yesterday
And I feel like livin
Got a reason to say (-ay-ay)
Gonna rise up singin, throw my troubles away
Cause it's a brand new day.
I still get tears in my eyes, I swear.
Anyway, this story is too long, the point is, the Lad sat behind me at one of the rehearsals, because he was in the group on actual singing-based merits, and made fun of me. And that, THAT, is how we met. So really this is our 11 year anniversary this year. Kind of. Sort of. Not at all.
Posted by didofoot at 12:37 PM | Comments (10)
November 07, 2002
The Geeks in Applied Calculus
...are eating my living brain.
I did good up until the first midterm and now I'm struggling. Does anyone know about derivatives? (Cue helpless mocking laughter from all of you who know math, except KTV who seems to have forsworn that kind of mockery. Do we know derivatives? Yes, and we can recite the whole alphabet too...)
Okay, but I need help, so quit laughing for a minute. It's very basic (I assume) stuff, as it's just being introduced to us, and now we're learning all the rules for exponential equations and stuff and my head is sort of coming off. Because suddenly with no warning my professor got all snippy about going slow - which he was so good at up until now - and said You should know all this immediately from algebra. Urk.
So, help?
Posted by didofoot at 10:44 AM | Comments (24)
November 06, 2002
Mystery Woman Baffles Old Friends, Acquaintances
There's been some uproar lately over Michele's quiz on the new How Well Do You Know Me quiz site she found. Apparently most of our friends couldn't make it past the 60% correct mark. That's how well we all know her: 60% or less. She's been getting e-mail apologies right and left from those folks she once called friends.
Well Francisly, I think it's a load of hooey. Hooey! Michele, if you're going to cultivate this air of mystery then you have to expect your friends to fail your quiz. You wear all black all the time; you speak in odd languages when you're upset; you use mysterious code words; you spy on foreign governments - well, shoot, we're just down-home folks who wouldn't know a 'rendevous' if it bit us on our overall-clad behinds. And we can't spell it, either. Now how can you expect us to understand you? And when you're all the time jetting off to secret assignations and hiding from Cute Brian, well, I think you just gotta reap what you sow, chowderhead. And I mean that affectionately.
I love you. Don't get me wrong. But there are things about your animal-sacrificing, pygmie-loving lifestyle that I find downright unsavory. 60%? Well, frankly, that's enough for me.
Posted by didofoot at 08:50 AM | Comments (50)
November 05, 2002
From old journals:
November 1999
"And he took the blind man by the hand, and he led him out of town; and when he had spit on his eyes, and put his hands upon him, he asked him if he saw aught. And he looked up and said, I see man as trees, walking."
--Mark, 8:24
I always feel like an imposter in women's clothing stores. Not so much in Macy's or any of those big somber clothing cathedrals; only in the smaller shops in the mall, with all the gum-snapping high school girls shopping and manning the counters and talking about their boyfriends. I go in there and they're all walking around in their little skintight high-fashion outfits...it's such a highly-charged scene, the more so because none of them seem aware of it, as if being surrounded by half-naked beauties in a room covered in soft fabrics and, my god, mirrors was perfectly normal.
Sometimes I worry that I'm a one-way mirror, with all kinds of people peering inside to see what I'm up to while I can only see myself...
November 2000
The night comes every day to my window.
The serious night, promising as always,
age and moderation. And I am frightened
dutifully, as always, until I find
in the bed my three hearts and the cat-
in-my-stomach talking as always now,
of Gianna. And I am happy through the dark
with my feet singing of how she lies
warm and alone in her dark room
over Umbria where the brief and only
Paradise flowers white by white.
I turn all night with the thought of her mouth
a little open, and hunger to walk
quiet in the Italy of her head, strange
but no tourist on the streets of her childhood.
--Jack Gilbert, "The Night Comes Every Day to my Window"
Michael Justin Mathews asked me today what I want in a man.
What do I want? I want what every woman wants. I want a god, I want an incubus, I want kings and princes and the leader of the free world trussed up like a sacrifice on my fucking doorstep.
I also want a punky haircut, a proficiency with guitars and motorcycles, an outrageous wardrobe and clearly-defined cheekbones.
November 2001
Half the time I feel like he's my child. It's a sort of combination of maternal love and maternal exasperation. And I feel he takes me for granted like one does a mother...He seems to be always sick or depressed these days. I begin to think he catches plagues and curses from my mouth...
At work I got started on trying to talk Michele and Nuala into writing a soap opera for our friends to perform on public access...
Posted by didofoot at 10:25 AM | Comments (1)
November 04, 2002
Happy anniversary, Lad.
My helmet may be too loose, too old and basically unsafe, but it has great acoustics. I discovered that I can sing at the top of my lungs while we're riding up 680 and no one can hear me but me. I can sing, for example, "Anna Begins" over and over, putting the chorus in a different place every time and occasionally repeating the part about shaking and shuddering for days many times in a row when I can't remember what comes next. Nobody knows. Nobody can even see my mouth moving, except when my helmet slides down over my eyes so that the window is somewhere around my chin.
Last night we had a meeting of the musical. That's how I always say it and grammar be damned. It was the same old wonderful, with a lot of impassioned arguments about whether they had Draino in the 1920's and whether gummy worms could be substituted for footage of killer centipedes. (No and yes.)
Warning: the rest of this is probably going to slightly embarass most of you.
The Lad was there too of course. I love watching him move around a room. I like to see his spatial relationship to people and furniture when he walks and sits and flings me across a tiled floor like a manic swing dancer. I like the way he intensely concentrates on everything. I like that he will throw the ball for the dog until the dog is tired, not because he likes the dog (he hates the dog, and all drooling unhygenic mammals including toddlers and coma patients) but because he likes to beat the dog at its own game.
It's November now. We met in September, but it was around November that I started to notice there was something rather extraordinary sitting across the classroom from me, being a caustic smartass to everyone. We met in 1992, so that makes this our tenth anniversary of mutual esteem.
Comments are back now, by the way, for the nonce. Let's face it, I can't quit anytime. I need an intervention in a big way.
Posted by didofoot at 09:20 AM | Comments (27)
November 03, 2002
Next year, we're getting a cabin far far away from the teeming masses, and everybody gets a key.
First, I need to clarify that Jolie also had a kick-ass costume.
Second, Erica and Jolie had a shitty shitty time of it, being that they were stuck outside my house on Halloween night due to a series of unfortunate accidents. Despite that they were accidents, I feel responsible because I was a hostess and the Castro Halloween was my party and I wanted you all to have a good time (as opposed to having to fight off drunken clowns with your bare fingernails). So if this blog can offer anything in the way of virtual aloe vera to your neglect-and-clown-burned skin, here it is.
Posted by didofoot at 09:27 AM
November 01, 2002
Halloween
As with high school dances, I enjoyed the getting ready more than the actual event. I liked the part where my apartment was packed with people throwing wine on each other (okay, really just on Erica, who gets her props right now for being an incredibly good sport about it) and glitter on themselves. But after that it was all crowds and about sixteen thousand Japanese tourists with video cameras. There were some rocking costumes - Big Bird and Cookie Monster come to mind - but there were also way too many people in street clothes roaming around just gawking. I mean, come on. Is it hard to paint yourself a color at least? I mean even Jason threw body paint all over himself and went as Arts'n'Crafts.
So, okay, I skyed out early, which was actually a fortunate impulse since I had a passed-out Kimmie in my apartment. Not that she particularly needed me - my favorite thing about drunk KJ is her absolute calm. "I think I'll throw up now." And then she does, once, in the correct place, and it's over. No fuss, no muss. Perfect for her busy lifestyle.
Anyway, getting all that sleep and taking good care of my hangover this morning means I get to go see the buffalo in GGPark today. Which...is a nerdy thing to prefer over the drunken masses. But it can't be helped.
Excellent costumes, all y'all that I saw, especially KTV, KJ, Erica, Jacob, Brian and Lily.
Posted by didofoot at 11:41 AM
