And I just stuck that Japanese thing in to see if anyone notices. Earlier today, I received my yearly announcement that has circulated the Internet longer than that the Nigerian lottery, the reminder that August 27th is (yet again) the Night Of The Two Moons. Of course, the actual night was back in 2000 AND THREE, when Mars was at its closest to Earth and its ascension coincided with a full moon. This year on August 27th, we can see a much dimmer Mercury and Venus, with the moon already waning. As Not From Michigan Mike said, it resembles an Islamic Flag. So get those telescopes out, people.
My buddy HEF is funny, aside from the fact that his house address is one of those 1111 numbers that will one day cause the downfall of Western civilization. Going back to my post about the Wow! Signal and Elvis going home, HEF commented that the static from space was really a dinner bell. One night, he, I, Jeff, and Andrew smoked pot in his basement and I exclaimed "I am Emily Dickinson!" to which the other men choked down the goodness and of course I meant to say that I was Spartacus. And to this day I am reminded of this event.
Last night, I awoke in the wee hours (they are called this not because old men like me have to go wee, rather the it is the time that the little grey aliens from Zeta Reticuli are yanking on my little toes, telepathically telling me "this little piggy went wee, wee, wee all the way home" at the same time as singing the theme from The Banana Splits) to a sudden and frightening realization. I dream about a flaming cow as a sign of impending doom. But I am linked forever to Bubbly Creek, and what is at the bottom? Cow Ghosts. Rotting Cow Ghosts. Then it was time to get up at urinate like a banshee.
Tonight was the Printers Ball, a yearly thing. This time around it was at the MCA, the Museum of Contemporary Art. The photo above is from last year's event in Bridgeport in which the police were called because Bridgeport is full of @$$holes. I can type those words about Mayor Daley's old neighborhood and get away with it because NOBODY in Bridgeport is smart enough to use Google and type in Bridgeport Is Full Of @$$holes. So there, you Irish hillbillies. It was a neat little event and I soon realized that most everybody there was half my age. I caught up with the aforementioned NFM Mike and Becky Who Can Evidently Afford To Drive From The Northside And Park In A Garage Off Michigan Avenue and we hung out for awhile, Becky passing out flyers for Twilight Tales while NFM Mike and I questioned if we should tell a fellow his fedora was on backwards. One guy had this cool teal sport jacket and we were the same build and I got into wondering if I should trade him...then I realize I had nothing to trade. I was wearing a kind of tealish Hawaiian shirt, but I'd look pretty silly wearing my jeans and just the jacket and my three chest hairs. Silly there, but fashionable in Wrigleyville. I also got a whatever kind of look girls give guys twice their age from this Claire Danesish gal as I refilled my water bottle. She was by herself but I had nothing to say because I AM AN IDIOT. I could be with her right now, holding hands over deep dish pizza at Lou Malnati's before sneaking out the back way because I only have $22.37 and a giant Pope coin to my name. Maybe she was into Hawaiian shirts. There was also this adorable black girl with an afro and she looked to be all of about 85 pounds. And, to be fair, I caught the eye of a guy who looked like young Kurt Russell, like from THE COMPUTER WORE TENNIS SHOES days, and everybody knows about my not-so-secret man-crush on the actor, and the guy gave me a chin nod to which I chin nodded back and it was like I had been transported into a George Pelecanos novel. It was a fun night, after Becky left us boys for our trek to the lowly subway, NFM Mike and I discussed porn while waiting for the Red Line and a young waif flipping through a magazine moved ever further away as I discussed such grand titles as THE NEIGHBORS SUCK AND SO DO WE, and the book I swear I will one day find again and one day own, I can see the cover as if it was 1979 all over again, MY DACHSHUND, MY LOVER. (I know if I keep mentioning the book, it will come to be in my possession.) And that was my last, oh, 18 hours or so. One more week of summer. I felt sooo old at that party tonight.
