Monday, January 3, 2011

Halloween 2010


Last year on Halloween a homeless woman gave me a bunch of Valium after I comforted her for an hour as she cried over her estranged daughter. I thought that that was a crazy Halloween. My Halloween in Baltimore trumped that.
            I was a couple of things for Halloween. Out of laziness and other time constraints I was forced to brush the dust off of my costume from Halloween 2009. Last year I was the Megaverse, a theory that the universe is just one of billions and trillions of other universes. The whole outfit consisted of a black sweater, puff paint, glitter, and yarn (for string theory). This year I used the workshop at the Annex (el lugar de mi residencia) to add on and thus refine, what essentially had taken me twenty-minutes to make the previous year. 
            Just to be clear, I had had big plans for the costume the year before, I had even planned an entire day around working on it. But after I received a free, I-thought-no-strings-attached, haircut from the Korean lady that ran the one independently owned sushi bar in Gainesville, I was forced to watch her very energetic six year old for the day instead (we had just met). 
            Anyways, this year I totally tricked out this costume. With way more materials I was able to spray paint nebulous clouds and draw on more galaxies, and even add what my costume had been lacking all this time, leggings with proto-universes. As a last touch I added a glow-in-the-dark cross to symbolize Intelligent Design.
            After painting and gluing on more string and other sorted materials I left my costume on the ground to dry, then forgot about it for a few days. 
            So I’ve never lived with cats before (My family has a dog bias). No one warned me that cat urine was the foulest thing in the world. I mean, I’ve heard talk, but I had never really experienced it. While in the Annex, I lived with two territorial cats. One of my roommates finally stopped me one night and said, “You know you shouldn’t leave clothing in the workshop, right?” It was said in a matter-of-fact-how-could-anyone-not-fucking-know-this sort of tone.
            “No.”
            My costume reeked of urine. The cats drenched it. And, best of all, I added so many weird glued-on things that the thought of washing it was out of the question. So on Halloween I soaked it with Ralph Lauren’s scent Ralph and tried my best to breath out of my mouth. I smelled like what I imagine someone on a strictly flower and nitrogen diet’s feces smells like.
            For Halloween I went with some of my roommates to the Bank, a venue with floors that might literally collapse in on people any day now.
            Two seconds into the place I heard a Warlock tell a zombie-goat, “Oh man, a cat must’ve peed around here.” Downstairs I found a couch and a friend sat on either side of me. The one on the right, nihilistic-plumber, said, “Hey, I think we chose the couch with cat urine on it.” Then, on cue, the one on my left, Spiderman-who-accidentally-shrunk-his-costume, said, “Alex, we should move, this couch smells like cat urine.”
            To drown my self-conscious, I bought a personal-sized bottle of gin, which is completely to blame for a few improprieties I committed much later in the night but feel no need to highlight, mostly because of the lack of anonymity in my seemingly anonymous blog.
            The Bank was packed. Each performer (there were several musical acts) was forced to start their show with a warning to not jump because the floor would cave in. Which brings me to the seven-foot hollowed cake in the middle of the room. For two weeks my roommates, Mike and Ryan, sweat tirelessly over this wooden cake. Building two layers and covering with copious amounts of paint and lacquer. It was to be the centerpiece for Ryan’s witch-house band, Gravebangers.  The plan was that their friend, Maggie, would jump out of it dressed as a cockroach in the height of the performance. I was pretty excited about it.
            Before his show, during one of the larger scale performances of the night, people started going crazy, flailing and head banging. To offset all of the communal abuse, I had the idea of standing inside the empty cake and thus, avoid being touched by strangers. A friend followed suit. While standing there I smiled and pat myself on the back for the genius idea. Together we stood in that cake for about 3 minutes when my roommate came to prep it for his show. He kicked us out, felt around for a few seconds, and then ran off in a huff.
            I forgot that this happened ten-minutes later and preceded to enjoy myself. When he was up to play, his boyfriend ran up to me and said, “We need to have a roommate meeting when this is all over. You broke the cake.”
            To which I replied, “What?”
            I got a pretty dark look then a face full of cotton-shoulder pad from his Jafar costume as he turned to make sure he was front row of his boyfriend’s performance.
            At this point I had finished my bottle of gin and was feeling highly defensive, as I slobbered on one my friends, “I don’t understand! I didn’t break it! I didn’t do anything! I didn’t!”
            She assured me that she had seen some other dude break it way earlier in the night. She said this just as the show started so I didn’t have time to rectify the situation.
            So, apparently, while I was getting tipsy and running around and dancing and trying my best to explain my confusing costume and the smell of cat urine, these two roommates were pissed at me. They vented to a few people, one of them being Maggie, the girl that was due to jump out of the cake dressed as a cockroach.
            They quickly changed game plans and she was to instead be topless drinking milk and spitting it on the audience.
            Halfway into Gravebangers’ third song Maggie found me, and as I tried to yell, “I didn’t do it!” she focused most of the milk in her jug on my body, catching hair, clothes, and open-mouth in the process.
            The next morning I woke up smelling like cat urine and rotten milk.
            So I guess I was a litter box for Halloween.


            

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