October 31, 2003 07:35 PM

The evolution of a Halloween costume . . .

So I was going to be a vampire. But I kind of wanted to be contemporary and sexy so I decided I'd be a biker vampire. Studded leather arm bands, a black fishnet mesh sleeveless shirt, a fake leather vest with studs and buckles, black jeans, boots, black nail-polish, pale makeup, lots of eyeliner, black lipstick. As an extra touch, I sprayed my hair blonde.

But the fangs I bought don't work. They come with these little putty packets that are supposed to customize them to your teeth, but my teeth are weird, and the fangs don't stay on. Without the fangs . . . I can't really be a vampire.

So I don't really know what I am. I'm kind of the bastard love child of a goth club and a biker bar . . . with a little 70's-era glam rocker thrown in, and a generous helping of the femmier side of Folsom Street.

But that's kind of hard to explain to people.

So I guess when people ask "What are you?" I'll just say . . .

"Tonight, I'm whatever you want me to be, baby."

Happy Halloween!

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October 29, 2003 12:45 AM

This afternoon, in the spirit world, I stood on the edge of a cliff . . .

And I could not tell if I was a spider or a fly.

And then I realized . . .

Both are entangled by the same web.

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October 25, 2003 02:27 PM

I made a new friend today . . .

Death.

Death has been an annoying constant in my existence lately. My dad died of sudden lung cancer about three and a half years ago. Then his mother died . . . a combination of age, disease, and sadness. Then an uncle-in-law died of a heart-attack right after Christmas last year. Most recently . . . just a few weeks ago . . . my uncle's mother died after a long round of suffering from the "frailties that flesh is heir to."

The men in my family seem not to live very long. My dad and my mom's dad died in their mid-fifties. My dad's dad died in his early sixties. It struck me recently - I don't quite know why - that if I follow suit, I actually passed "middle-age" a few years ago. At 32, I may be rapidly approaching the mile-marker of my life that says "Two-thirds done!"

Not that I plan to follow in the footsteps of my immediate gentic forbears. But still . . . sobering thought.

One of the advantages of being psychic is that concepts like Death don't have to be impersonal and coldly abstract. Like people have always done up until a few hundred years ago, I am capable of seeing Death as a person, as an individual.

And I decided today that's it's time to stop ignoring Death and wishing he would just go away. I sat down and told Death I was ready to have a chat.

At first, he looked like a big, scary blue ogre. He was violent and destructive, and it scared me to look at him.

But I kept looking, and I saw a certain twirl in the energy, a certain static-electricity blur . . . the spiritual signature of dishonesty, of a lie.

I said, "Oh, Death. You're such a victim of peer pressure. You look big and scary because that's how people expect you to look. But that's not how you really are, is it?"

Death was kind of surprised. I think it's been a while since anyone called him on the carpet like that. And then he changed.

First he changed into a beautiful black-haired woman (because I've been reading Neil Gaiman's Sandman comics, and in that series, that's how Death looks).

But then Death said, "Actually I'm not really male or female. I'm pretty androgynous." And then s/he settled into the form of a little elf with a sort of green glowing aura.

"You're like . . . you're like a leprechaun!" I said.

Death laughed. "I can be as big as I need to be. But I'm more powerful small. It's easier to be sneaky that way . . . to catch people when they're not looking."

We talked for a while. Turns out that Death is a fairly personable creature. Upbeat, good conversationalist. Slightly twisted sense of humor, but, you know, I'm down with that.

And Death is a pretty straight shooter. I asked about my own death, and Death said, "I'm brewing inside you right now. In certain genes you inherited. In a couple abnormal cells that are already replicating themselves. In tissues just starting to go rotten deep within you."

I told Death I didn't like that. "Don't get me wrong," I said. "I think you're pretty cool. It's nice getting to know you. You're a good guy." (I used masculine pronouns for convenience.) "But I don't like the fact that you're inside me."

Death then started to draw itself out of me . . . out of my heart, out of my bloodstream, out of my intestines and bones. His hands were like vaccum cleaners, sucking death out of my body. And he gathered up all the death he pulled out of me, and he put it in a sack.

"Look," he said. "It's been nice talking to you. No one really bothers to even say hi to me these days. I don't have many friends. Which I don't understand, because you know, I can give life if I want to! What is life, but the absence of me?"

Death laughed at its own joke.

"Let's make a deal," Death said. "Let's talk again soon. Let's be buds. And I'll keep my hands off until you're ready to go."

"Sounds good to me!"

I shook hands with Death. He picked up his sack and walked away.

"Hey," I called after him. "Just out of curiosity, what are you going to do with all the death in that sack?"

"Well," he said, "everyone has their own share of death. If you don't want yours . . . I know plenty of people who are looking for more than they were given."

Not quite sure what Death meant by that.

I'll have to ask next time we talk.

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October 23, 2003 12:24 AM

I can stay silent no longer. After suffering through another interminable hour, I have to shout to the world . . .

THE WEST WING SUCKS! Really really bad.

Watching it is like watching a roadside car wreck with fatalities. It curdles my intestines. I want to turn away, to stop watching . . . but I can't. I'm frozen with shock.

Comparing the end of last season to the beginning of this season, it appears that the characters have all been labotomized in some group procedure over the summer. They have each returned missing about 50 IQ points and 60% of their usual vocabulary.

And CJ has been turned into a moody doormat. That really pisses me off.

I had a friend in college who was obsessed with "Gone With the Wind." She had read the book several times. When the sequel, "Scarlett," was released in the early 90's, she read it. And she wept.

"Margaret Mitchell's prose is so sharp and powerful," she cried. "This . . . this is like OATMEAL!"

Now I know how she felt.

In tonight's episode, there was even a "silly mixup" subplot, where senior White House staffers sort of jokingly wrote disparaging remarks about someone and whoops! the insults somehow managed to actually get on the President's teleprompter . . . without ANYONE NOTICING.

What the fecking hell? Is this a sitcom now, with wacky misunderstandings and comic mayhem around every corner? Can we expect Janet and Chrissy to show up soon?

I LOVED this show. It's about the only thing on TV that COMMANDED my viewership.

I feel like it has been taken from me.

DAMN THE GODS!!!

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October 22, 2003 05:06 PM

I was reading Cyn's post about eating "Pizza for One," and I remembered that old commercial jingle:

"When Mama Celeste had a restaurant,
way back when,
She made a special pizza for one . . .
her neighborhood friends!!"

If gay guys are "friends of Dorothy," maybe single folk should be considered "friends of Mama Celeste" ?

(Note that a Maxim Online "food critic" says of Mama Celeste's Vegetable Pizza for One:

"It looked and tasted like the mosh-pit floor after a Slipknot concert. Mama Celeste should put a hit on the jackass running her company.")

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