Happy Hallowe'en, fools. Before I get into ... whatever the hell it is I'm going to get into, I feel compelled to send you to my Monkey Goggles article on Halloween songs. And Gregory Crosby's wonderful Monkey Goggles piece on Halloween costumes. And this gallery of photos from a zombie dance party I attended last night. I don't know who the guy in the lucha mask is, but he's one handsome rudo.
Google-hacking aside, I don't have much to report. Publically. One of my freelance projects is pushing ever closer to a launch; another is growing in popularity by the day; yet another one is about to receive a top-to-bottom redesign. I wish I could tell you which is which, but I don't want to jinx any of them. I'm at that sensitive stage of freelance empire-building -- the stage at which just one person could lose faith or change their mind and knock one of the legs off the table. I aim to have some good news to tell you, and soon -- but I've got to keep it close to the mask right now. Er, vest.
By the way: Many thanks to Mark and Susan Shaffer for donating that wrestling mask to my wardrobe. It's become one of my most prized pieces, next to my tearaway pants. The fact that it's never fitted me right -- it's about a size too small for my big fathead -- is an insignificant one. And belated thanks to Geoff Carter circa 1990, who didn't throw away that bola tie upon realizing he hadn't worn it in more than a year. That venerable accessory, older than anyone in the cast of "Twilight," really brought the whole ensemble together. Totally made up for not being able to breathe, to hear, to see or to think. Who needs to do all that dumb shit when you look this good?
Also: PLEASE, GOD.
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