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10:49 am | 01 November 2004 | happy clawmachine

Kids, I'm giving you some Halloween pictures and then that's all I friggin got. Mr. Jim Beam and I engaged in a little tangle last night and, though John Jameson Esq. interceded briefly on my behalf, I think I may have lost the battle.

BUT NOT THE WAR.


Costume #1: Myself In 1996, which involved mostly looking like a very goth flapper with a shiner. And green hair. I may start walking around with a black eye more often, just so I can be all "Uh, I...ran into a door." It's Lifetime Channel comedy, people!


Good pumpkin at the first party on Saturday, which was inexplicably riddled with both Europeans and Hip Mommies who used, like, saris instead of Snugli© baby carriers. ANNOYING.


Matty in his bunnysuit. Saturday night he accessorized it with a Hitlerian moustache, but he opted for a more entrepreneurial cunicula look on Sunday.


Pants in her Tiger Claw School of Instant Death ninja costume. If you are saying to yourself "Man, it's a shame that's so blurry," then you are missing the point. Point is, it's a miracle I was able to take her picture at all. She's a fucking ninja, goddamnit! She knows 43 ways to kill you with a pimiento, my man!


By Sunday there was no way I was gonna put that black eye on again, so I pawed through my Closet of Unwearable Goods and hauled out my sailor top (petty officer second class) and managed to make a hat out of paper after about thirty false starts. The exciting part, though, was the fact that, lacking sailor pants, I just opted to wear my white badminton shorts and some pumps. It was a stroke of...something. Probably "minor retardation."


We ended up at Denny's, where I attempted to sponge up a pint of crap whiskey with grilled cheese (verdict: FAILED) and where Bunny gazed wistfully upon his compatriots, imprisoned in the Abu Ghraib of the claw machine.

ALSO, partly since I feel guilty about the paucity of today's entry (when you're all restive from the weekend and feeling that shock of re-entry [at least my deskbound friends] the last thing you want is some bullshit entry like "I'm a drunk with a cameraphone"), but mostly 'cause I don't like wasting things (only being wasted [heh]), here's a little dreg I wrote on the flight to New York two weeks ago that fell a bit by the wayside, meaning: I was wayyyy too freaked-out by the entire 'sperience to remember the blog until now. GENIUS! love, the claw machine.


I can't decide whether it's totally awesome or violently stupid that I'm typing this on the plane, but I can say that, thus far, JetBlue is fantastic, if only for the following reasons:

1. You can watch TV. I don't have a TV (and no real desire to have LobotoVision in my home, since it functions as a muzzle on the snapping jaws of my creativity), so it's like giving crack to a baby to have the picturebox a mere two feet from my slack-jawed face. Plus, perhaps grossly, nothing is better to me than watching TV whilst doing something else--slacker multitasking--so working on the comp while Animal Planet plays three inches above the screen is truly a gangsta's paradise, if you take 'gangsta' to mean 'Claude,' which, duh, you should.
2. They have no crappy vegetarian-unfriendly meals*, opting instead for a variety of snacks, and mang I love snacking. For the rest of my life I'd be happy to eat small quantities of things all day long, like tapas-as-lifestyle-choice. They have animal cookies, too, that I'm saving for the Pres.
3. I scored an extra seat to my immediate left (and, similar to the meal fiasco, I actually reserved and then received a window seat, something my nerves absolutely require). This means I can contort my hulking frame into four additional non-comfortable sitting-on-a-plane positions.
4. Long Beach Airport is sweet 'cos it's super-tiny and you get to walk out on the tarmac and then climb stairs to the plane, which may seem inconvenient to some of you but which is total glam to me. Obligatory: the pause-and-wave at the top of the stairs when disembarking, even if it's only to the baggage guys. Also, that accordion-tube-thing they extend to the planes at larger airports always has this death-channel, Satan's-Fallopian feel to me. Hate 'em. I'll clamber up stairs any day.

. . . . . .

*w/r/t which, dudes, I know that you are supposed to be able to request special meals, but never ONCE have I gotten anything other than like "Well you can pick the ham off, right?" No, no, I can't. Because I will die. Once I was able to procure a Buddhist meal (?) which was some root medley and then a tastelessly mealy vegan cookie (?? 'sweetened with fruit juice to ... pamper your dharma!'), but even then, it was crass coincidence. So to airlines who claim that you can state preferences when making online reservations (I'M TALKING TO YOU Southwest, Frontier, American, United, and Northwest): eat dicks!


Uh, also, here is my sister, whom, we ought to note, is wearing her like SIXTH GRADE jazz dance costume, and representing with the malt liquor. You're really doing it, Daddy!


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