Secret Pop

Nov 1, 2004

Daylight Going at Fire Sale Prices
Nearly all of my important clocks are network-managed. My cable box. My cell phone. My computers. It's easy and painless to transition out of daylight savings. And I catch myself thinking, "Dumb kids of today. They don't even have to learn to set their clocks back. Why, in my day..." When did I turn into an adult. And a cranky one at that. What suckness.
So I didn't actually get to dress up this Halloween. Everything was up in the air, and then the next thing I knew I was performing in San Diego on Saturday night, and that was that. It wasn't a curse in any way. The shows were smasheroo, and I had a great time. Even in -- and maybe especially in -- Oxygen Deprivation, the game where one player at all times has to have his or her face submerged in a basin of water. I ruled that game. I almost wish we could play it more than once a year. And I love our Thriller ending. Love it love it love it. I can forgive many of Michael Jackson's transgressions solely on its basis.
After the shows, I met friends at Brians', where I drank jungle juice from a Big Gulp cup and watched the endless parade of questionable costumes. Late, late in the night, two police officers sat down to their meal, and I checked for their Adam's apples before deciding they were, in fact, the law. They were. But they didn't hassle me. Even though I kept sipping from my cup and eyeing them rebelliously.
So, here's something that occurred to me the other day when I was driving in the suburbs and saw a pair of hot teenage hipster dudes crossing the street. Maybe the reason the fashion comes around again on such a dependable cycle is so that women in their 20s and 30s will find themselves nostalgically and irresistibly attracted to fifteen year-old boys who are, of a sudden, wearing the same tight, boot-cut cords and Op shirts and feathery haircuts that adorned the cool boys in their grade schools. At least that's how it seems to be working for me. And the dangerous part about that is that those fifteen year-old boys have no aversion to sending me messages on MySpace asking if I'm into younger dudes. So many lines to be crossed. So little bail money.
Well, I'm a little sad that I didn't get to put together a slammin' costume for this year's festivities. I was looking forward to seeing how much easier it is wearing wigs with my shorter hair. Maybe I will throw a New Year's Eve masquerade. And when no one comes to it, maybe I will hang myself with a belt.
I'm a bit sore and bruised from Saturday night's goings on. Which, in my case, involved breakdancing and falling dead from a standing position multiple times. I could have guessed that breakdancing would hurt. But now I can expertly testify about it in court. I need to learn a few new moves, though. The lower part of my spine has nearly been rubbed raw.
Vote for John Kerry tomorrow. Vote for anyone, obviously. But if you want to earn points with me, vote like a person who is smart and vote for John Kerry. We can all celebrate in the democratic hot tub on Wednesday. But only if you do the right thing. I'm not sitting in a hot tub with a lot of Republican pee.

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