i want that world.

halloween is always an opportunity to see where your creativity can take you. some choose to be a SEXY _________, or a DEAD ________. or a witch. or a vampire. meh.

the ones i've always liked are references to media. specific rock stars, specific movie stars, more specifically movie characters. things of that nature yielded a few of my personal favorite costumes of my own, being bomberman and cosmo from the fairly oddparents. this year i was walking down that same road of hero worship, this time in the form of OSCAR THE GROUCH, who holds a whole world of amazement for me, someone who i could talk to you for probably a half hour straight about. the possibility of his world, his origins, his day to day, all of it.

i LOVE oscar the grouch.

but last second, my costume broke. the iconography of oscar has always been dominated by his trash can. and that's the one thing that i thought i had figured out. i tested it out, tried to on, etc. worked out perfectly. i had cut the bottom out, set up a harness with suspenders. but when i started walking with it, the "stress" must have been too much for it. i was sweating with frustration trying to reharness myself in, etc.

but i started thinking around the can once i realized i needed the costume by tonight. and i thought of doing the paper thing, maybe drawing it. i thought about being a little more conceptual with it, making a 'statement' by taping or carrying paper with me that said the words, "garbage can" on it. but as i started putting together my ideas, i invented a brand new character. and while i'm not going to go into COMPLETE detail here, i invented ROSCO the Grouch, a cousin of Oscar, who is actually a HOMELESS grouch, one without a garbage can. and i'm realizing (actually the point of this post) just how far i go for character development, at least in my mind, and the fact that i have a few props that no one might ever ask about, i know about each piece and why he has it, etc. too much. too much.

*EDIT, POST-PARTY:
the lighting in the house was either brightly smoked out strobe effected, or entirely red, depending on where you were standing. the only other option was outdoors. this party was in roosevelt. i had to explain that my face makeup was GREEN, not BROWN, the entire night. and that no, i was not tyrone, a dave chappelle character. several times. my costume was apparently a death wish. i think the ratio of people that i knew there was perfect, though, because for everyone who thought i'd shown up to crash the party as something entirely offensive, there was someone there who either knew what i was going for or knew that i would NEVER be going for what it appeared to be. the fact that i wore a red bandana around one of my shoes at one point didn't help either, because apparently, i was flying a gang flag. such new policies and procedures, man. unreal.

legs and language.

all of this,
seriously,
is amazing.

the photos alone tell a nightmare.
but when you read the love story,
it might make you feel a little differently.


then there's the broken, freshly learned english.
it's really admirable, i'm not being sarcastic.
it's impressive that these individuals have learned this amount of english, and know enough of it to get through message board posts about a post this far removed from standard regular conversation.

the users' love of the subject definitely comes through as well.

declare.

it bothers me when

someone who complains about the way things are doesn't celebrate change,

and when

someone can't answer the question "what does a GOOD DAY consist of for you?" without having to get back to you

and when

someone's first response to "what have you been up to?" begins with either 'nothing' or anything work related.

punch in the heart.

you want to see fucked up videos?
watch NATURE.



there's so much to describe, from the lifedump (and replay... and OTHER replay), to the corpsekicking, to the gasping humanlike face.

this happens everyday.

454a to Merrick.

330 in penn station, with an hour and a half until the next train is an unbelievable... unBELIEVABLE scene. It's friday night. Bars are vomiting up the waste, the putrid wretches of the early morning.

the ex-football players are clearly delineated by their massive size of men once pulled together as muscle but let go into a bulk of meshed fatty tissue and alcohol. shouting at each other in slurred tones reserved for workyards, cafeterias. mouthful of cinnamon twists, calling, "cutie with a bootie," words and sound getting caught up in empty carbs. passing out as he tells his friend about getting his weekend together, and complaining about his cell phone battery dying.

in-fighting between small groups of friends.
two drunk men in business suits helping each other up for a full two minutes.

women dressed in the tightest, most revealing skirts they own because it's FRIDAY NIGHT. walking around on cell phones, some crying to their boyfriends, or ex-boyfriends, or complicated situations that the next train is 4:54... i'm SORRY... it's FRIDAY NIGHT.

everyone watches the schedule board like something's going to change. like 4:54 is going to change, like this time is just a lie, like there's no way this is right -- there's no way this is true, i needs to be home.

and the crowd keeps growing,
the night preparing for the hangover.
there is nothing else for us to do here but wait in this arena.

there are no good girls here, there are no lingering conversations. there is nothing nonviolent here, no lack of vulgarity, a caligula scene. all fucking in the mind, eating what's edible, bodies sprawled where they can be sprawled.

this is what it's like to be alone.

and what i've been thinking is where do you go to be in rome? you maintain of self what you can as self but you do as romans do to maintain.

and here begins the other end of the conversation, the boyfriend, the ex-boyfriend, the complicated situation, the i can't talk about it, and he's yelling, "where ARE you?" and "that's not what you said... that's not what you said... that's not what you said you'd be doing before. that's NOT what you said you'd be doing before. where's christina? where's christina. fine. fine. bye. i'm NOT. GODDDD."

"nnnooOOOO... nnnoooOOO... i left a fucking message."

Please watch the gap when boarding the train.
Khaki pants, pink polo, black moccassins, small black shopping bag... talking to himself the entire time.

Brown pants, brown button up, khaki suit jacket, picking a fight with someone who gave him attitude, walking away, placing full bag of taco bell at his feet, shaking his head. rolling his neck, rocking it back, stretching his jaw. readjusting his sleeves. in the brush, this would be followed by pissing on nearby foliage, ramming tree trunks, baring teeth.

circling like hyenas.

girl in jogging suit eating ice cream.
asian girl in short skirt, drinking lemonade.

dryfucking on the pillar.
alphajawing around the promenade.
deadstaring in the stairwell.

403 in penn station with no sign of slowing, no sign of speeding, no sign of progressing, just the motions and the motions en route to the 454 to merrick.

jockmeat and fightstance battlestooging side by side. silent. Powerade. Powerade. Reps and Powerade. Bitches and The Game and Looking Undefeated.

broback to broback.

Let's get a beer. It's Friday night.