Saturday, November 26, 2005

Thanksgiving for the Least-Assured and Whiskey-Filled

As has become tradition, Tumble and I recovered at a coffeeshop from the food orgy (foodgy?) that was Thanksgiving at our landlord Phil’s. Chestnut normally would have joined us, but he was sleeping off the previous night when he’d realized four brownies and a ladyfinger too late that the desserts on the red tray were “leaded” and several hours later attempted to show us the interconnectivity of life through dance.

And so, on this fine morning, Tumble and I shared a laugh or two over coffee in the courtyard of the megamart-outlet-warehouse down the street and watched one woman wrestle another woman to the ground over a flat-screen TV. I silently gave thanks for the roommate in my presence, the one recovering at home, and the landlord who, when one of his tenants breaks into a grand plie, doesn’t scoff but rather plays “I’ll Be Your Mirror” on the record player and tells everyone to be quiet.

Somewhere in my mind, I can’t shake the knowledge that Thanksgiving is actually the commemoration of teepee-burning and smallpox blankets, mutated over the currency-soaked centuries into a rolling land of strip malls full of Kay Jewelers and Taco Bells. But I also can't shake the knowledge that one late November years ago in college, a guy I knew sang an entire Guided By Voices album into the drive-through speaker at one of those Taco Bells.

I want to know how that man is doing today, and give thanks for a world that produces such a thing.
posted @ 04:19 PM est [link]

Thursday, November 3, 2005

Costumes of the Aimless in a Disapproving World
Greetings from November! It should come as no surprise that I have Halloween pictures to share, so let's get to it. This year, I decided on the Lone Ranger and set to work on the costume which was met with approval from the collective. The same fate was not afforded my two cohorts, however. Chestnut’s first idea for a costume, “Michael Dukakis,” was vetoed by Tumble for being too arcane (the actual word used was “retarded”) and Chestnut vetoed Tumble’s costume ”Jedi hooker” for being a transparent attempt to piecemeal the remnants of a Sav•On half-off Halloween bin and call it a costume.

Chestnut went with The Flash as his alternate choice, making us both wish he’d gone with Dukakis.

Tumble regrouped with a quickness and decided to go as the Ghost of Hunter S. Thompson, resourcefully hand crafting his outfit with a pair of pinking shears and the first bedspread he found.

Once properly enswathed in our alter-egos’ outfits, we ventured forth in Chestnut’s hatchback to see what the night would bring us (my hope among hopes: a king size Baby Ruth). Our first stop: a haunted house Chestnut’s friends invited him to. Exciting! We pulled up to the house.

Chestnut grabbed a lantern and I grabbed my trusty camera and the three of us approached the door, windows pitch black from the outside. Spooky!

The front door wound up being locked, but Tumble found the back gate open. Nice touch!

Another nice touch: The difficult means of entry! One quick scuttle through the doggy door and we were ready to get spooked!

Tumble found himself a Coors. In the middle of telling Tumble the fridge probably wasn't part of the haunted house tour, Chestnut spied some cold cuts and promptly shut up.

So on we crept in anticipation, waiting for a ghoul to burst from the shrank or a zombie to lurch around the corner. Would the cheap Halloween decorations in the foyer foretell our impending doom?

We heard faint bustlings upstairs… plodding footsteps, a small groan...

Chestnut exchanged a glance with me as we climbed the stairs: we were getting close. My stomach bunched with excitement.

At the top of the stairs, we froze. The sounds were coming from behind the door down the hall. Tumble held his breath. I grabbed Chestnut’s arm. We slowly approached and braced ourselves for what lay in wait…

I jumped back in fright. Tumble let out a feminine gasp. I really had anticipated something more flesh-eating or minion-of-the-dark-lord-y, but I certainly gave points to Chestnut’s pals for the creepy factor. We giggled at ourselves for being scared and continued our tour of terrors. A door opened behind us...

Now this was getting good! From our blind side, a spooky goblin came at us willy-nilly. I thought we were just going to get bowls of cold spaghetti to feel labeled "worms" or a spooky sound effects CD set on repeat play in the corner somewhere, but these guys went all out! The goblin was yelling by now; Chestnut thought he was putting a curse on us. I think he was just cursing.

It was at this point I began to get the feeling that Chestnut might have Google-mapped the wrong address, that this might not be a friend from Chestnut's work dressed as a bewhildered stage-one zombie but in fact an irate homeowner well within his legal rights to hammer our faces shut.

I decided to clear things up a bit, and asked our angry friend if this was a haunted house full of the undead or if that was indeed his wife on the toilet.

After that, I just remember a lot of running. Running and a moment or two of scrambling. I remember Chestnut clearing a four-foot rose bush. But I also remember feeling that while running at top speed on a chilly night, cold air in the lungs makes you feel six again.
posted @ 01:41 AM est [link]