I liked the banana, but I really
Also, I talked to a Dogma
-style angel who might’ve been an okay guy but, probably owing to his pantslessness, was broadcasting some very subtle creep vibrations. My favorite, though, was the sailor who hit on everything with ovaries (from the jellyfish to Carmen Miranda to Dorothy) like he was competing for immunity on The Pickup Artist 3: Night of the Living Dead
I love Halloween.
And I love Halloween parties even more, because it gives you permission to use sentences like the ones above. “That zombie is super cute.” That’s something I only get to say once a year, unless of course the end of days comes sooner than expected and the graveyard across the street from my house is filled with eligible dead guy bachelors.
Google Maps apparently shares my enthusiasm for the holiday and sent Kai and me out past Transylvania Road on a hunt for Amity Street. On Halloween night. In the middle of nowhere. It took us three hours, two sets of directions from nerdy teenage boys, a bag of Lays, a Sour Patch elementary school of Sour Patch Kids, and a disgusting amount of licorice allsorts (don’t judge me and my increasingly geriatric candy preferences) to get to the Yale School of Forestry Halloween party. The third member of my teenage coven currently goes to school there. When I got her invitation, I threw together a costume (I was a riotgrrrl, which my regular wardrobe shamefully accommodated) and took the Great Paul Hunt
to the Ivy League.
Sadly, the only Paul I was able to turn up was my friend’s ex-boyfriend and he looked like Jesus. I mean that he was both actually dressed in costume as the Messiah and that he physically resembled Jesus Christ and, on either count, I’m not really looking to get down all Nazareth-style.
The Paul hunt is not going well, and, shut up, I’m aware this is due to the fact that my friend made him up and I am something of a psychopath. But when you receive signs from the cosmos, you either start taking your lithium or you give in and follow wherever they take you. I prefer the latter. So, what I'm saying here is send any and all available Pauls Kathyward and I promise you at least a verbose blog recounting of our undeniably awkward meeting.
The best thing about this past weekend was that Kai found and passed on a relic from our teenage years that, to me, is every bit as good as finding Paul or the Holy Grail or the Dead Sea Scrolls or Tut’s tomb or whatever.
Yorktown, my hometown, has only ever produced one punk. He was fucking badass. He was a few years older than me and he was far too awesome to have any idea who the fuck I was. Except, once, he randomly sat down with me and Kai at a coffee shop and hung out for a few hours, eating our sour gummy worms and bullshitting and making me so nervous I’m pretty sure I did actual damage to my cardiac muscles.
I can’t remember what any of us said, but when he left he tore apart his empty box of Marlboro reds (BAD. ASS.) and wrote two phone numbers, his name, and “that loser from the coffee shop” on the back.
We never called it. We thought about it. Constantly. But we never even got near the phone with the numbers, let alone for one of us to actually dial, actually listen to the phone ring, actually have to come up with something to say to him.
Anyway, Kai knew she’d never thrown the numbers away, but when I got in her car the other night and I saw the square old piece of Marlboro pack sticking out of a book she was giving me I got so excited I think I actually rubbed it on my face like it was a kitten, or something.
The sad thing about life, now, is that you can Google people who probably should’ve been able to disappear into the ether of suburban legend. Last thing I’d heard about this guy was that he was tattooing somewhere down south; a Google search, however, turns up an interview he recently gave a free daily in Canada about being a crack addict. I’m sadder knowing where he is than I was wondering if I’d ever hear about him again, and I think maybe that’s the shit of it—maybe it’s better to look for a mythical Paul than meet a real one, and maybe liking the living is less fun than lurking a zombie for a few hours.