Pineapple juice, parking fees, and longstanding crushes

At the sweaty, jostling after-party for the Clash of the Titans event last night, I had a number of nice sound bites and moments to register. Janeane Garofalo shook my hand gingerly. Scott Thompson smiled and said hello. David Cross rubbed elbows with me quite literally and quite accidentally. Bob Odenkirk thanked me for coming. Craig Northey told me how -- at long last -- to buy his CD. And Tom Kenny told my friend to marry me and was, for the record, the nicest one of all. This sort of name-dropping holds little real victory for me, though, as I paid a fat sum of charitable currency to be there and no one thought I was actually anyone special. But I enjoyed myself and laughed the tears right out. There was even an Albert Brooks reference at one point. That, sir, takes the cake.

Also for the record, this is what I wore.

There are many thoughts I should have written down. Many inspirations I should have translated into being before translating myself into sleeping. I always manage to find a path to failure for myself. Even in moments of great pleasure. For purposes of recounting, the weekend held plenty of non-failing passages. And a sort of impromptu gay pub crawl. And fear of the planning stages. And fear of the recounting stages. I can't cheer too loudly. It might lead to cramping. It is, after all, November.