Last night I popped into the Halloween store that they had set up in the mall, in the food course of all places. I was in heaven, that store was awesome. Shit, there was stuff in there that I wanted simply to decorate my house with. Like some of those cool paintings that look like normal paintings, but when you view them from the side they turn into demons and other spooky things. I will have to go back. Meanwhile I had a great time wandering around and squeezing the rubber brains and what not. I picked myself out a big long beard and a couple of rubber roaches to glue to it, as well as a little bit of makeup.
I had dinner while I was in the food court, some of the greasiest bourbon chicken I have ever had. Was still pretty tasty. While I was eating some fat guy with a walker slowly eased himself into the booth across from me. He sat there and wheezed and watched me eat. Not very covertly, either. I had the most horrid feeling that he might reach over and grab a meaty handful of my bourbon chicken and smear it into his mouth, the whole time his eyes never leaving mine. I hurried up and finished and got out of there.
I also got an ice cream cone. Hey, I don't go to the mall very often. Not wanting to stay in the food court for fears of wheezy walker man, I wandered around looking for a bench. I noticed that all the benches in the Sanford Mall are arranged so you are forced to look at one of the little product carts that are placed outside of the stores. I am sure this is on purpose. While I ate my ice cream cone some little boy wandered over and stared at my cone with big eyes. I cheerfully gave my cone a big slurp in the universal playground language of "No, you cannot have some. Not yours." After a bit his mother came and hustled him away. Why does everyone have to look at my food?
It got a little chilly last night. Old stray cat George wandered in my house. He went over to the couch and huddled next to it in the corner, trying to make himself as unnoticeable as possible. Poor old cat, he just wanted to get in out of the cold. He would be a really nice cat if he were not so icky.
I stuck my space heater in my bedroom last night. This morning it was a snug and warm cave and I did not want to leave it. Finally I sighed and slithered out and showered in the freezing cold. I think I am going to save that story and tell it to my grand kids.
Independent bar tonight! Everyone must go to see my awesome costume and to watch me drink. All the cool kids are going to be there. If you do not go, well, then you aint cool. Stay home with your knitting you filthy square. Watch some friggin love boat reruns on tv land and sigh and wonder what it's like to have fun.
Cranking the infernal dial to October 2006: Ed, synthetic beard glue, rubber roaches, and one very territorial ice cream cone.
Ah, 2006. The Halloween store lived in the mall's food court, because where else would rubber brains and bourbon chicken share one greasy air supply? You bought yourself a fake beard and rubber roaches to glue to it, a plan only a pre-internet-insanity age could treat as a costume. Malls were still designed so every bench faced a product cart, forcing you into the consumer gaze while you licked ice cream; two decades later the carts are mostly gone because the whole building is a ghost or a warehouse for online returns. Your space heater made one warm cave while the rest of the house froze; now appliances are smart and argue with you about whether to waste electrons. TV Land reruns and knitting were the square pastimes you mocked, yet that exact energy is now a content aesthetic with its own subscription tier. The real nightmare isn't wheezy walker man; it's that in 2026, a grown man can still glue rubber roaches to his beard, but he will post it online and wait for strangers to look at his food.
“2006 Ed, after you glued rubber roaches to that long beard, did you actually sway through Club Necropolis with the wheezy walker man's stare still burning on your neck, or did you save that costume for the couch?” — Beelzebubba the Third
2006 Ed: Well, Beelzebubba, I wish I could say I sashayed into Club Necropolis like a greasy bourbon-chicken king with rubber roaches frozen mid-crawl in my beard, but the truth is dumber and sadder. I got home, glued the roaches on, looked in the mirror, and realized I just looked like a guy who'd been eating junk out of a dumpster for a week. Also the glue fumes were getting to me, and old George was still huddled by the couch looking pathetic, and I thought, yeah, this is where I belong. So I sat on the floor with him and wore the beard for maybe ten minutes before taking it off because it itched. The wheezy walker man probably never even remembered me. But I did eat the ice cream cone in peace, eventually, with only a cat judging me. Take that, glamour.
