Labels: halloween
I can't sleep, so I decided to pull a Halloween costume together. I swear this isn't becoming a Morrissey-themed website, but I had everything in my closet. Obviously, the glasses aren't quite right-and then there's that whole "I'm not a flamboyant British man" thing—but for taking only five minutes to do this, it's entertaining enough. But few people would actually get the costume, and I'd be mistaken for a sullen, flower-loving drag king. (Which is fine but it's not the costume.)
Labels: halloween, morrissey, signs of latent homosexuality
Recycling a costume idea from 23 years ago, I went as Little Orphan Annie for Halloween. I know that choice seems obvious and perhaps cliche, but hey, why not? The only problem is that when strangers would say, "Hey! Annie!" I'd look at them and ask, "How do you know my name?" Did that three times before remembering that a red dress + crazy red wig = Annie. Miles thought I was going as Beat-up Orphan Annie, mostly because my makeup freckles had smudged, I think.
Good costumes spotted this year:
Edward Scissorhands walking in a group with Colonel Sanders
Repressed Gay Suburban Dad
Kurt and Courtney (done tastefully)
French Existentialist
Good costumes spotted this year:
Edward Scissorhands walking in a group with Colonel Sanders
Repressed Gay Suburban Dad
Kurt and Courtney (done tastefully)
French Existentialist
Labels: halloween
For Halloween this year, I was going to go as Buffy. But then I got cheap and lazy, and maybe a wee bit dejected that tonight there are no parties to attend. So my impromptu backup costume is Kathleen Hanna. I will write SLUT on my belly, smear red lipstick on la bouche, take scissors to an old tank top, put my hair up, and maybe find an old (my my) MetroCard.
The best costume I had was a Crayola. I was three. My artist father created a little red cone-shaped hat, and my mom sewed a felt crayon wrapper to go around my little body. I wore red tights and bright red rosy cheeks and a smile.
A dark cloud hovers over this year's holiday. Yesterday, my doctor gently scolded me for eating so many sweets (or "treats" as I invariably call them). Now I am allowed to eat treats only twice a week. The doctor seemed to think that this would be a reasonable, easy regimen. But how can you go from three or four treats per diem to two per week? No more creme brulee dinners, no more fun as I grudgingly turn to wheat germ and yogurt with raisins.
The Onion hasn't been very funny lately. The stories just seem predictable these days, humor without bite. Perhaps the Onion writers should move back to the midwest from Manhattan. The midwest is a more easily amusing place; we have mullets and F-150 trucks and twangy accents.
The best costume I had was a Crayola. I was three. My artist father created a little red cone-shaped hat, and my mom sewed a felt crayon wrapper to go around my little body. I wore red tights and bright red rosy cheeks and a smile.
A dark cloud hovers over this year's holiday. Yesterday, my doctor gently scolded me for eating so many sweets (or "treats" as I invariably call them). Now I am allowed to eat treats only twice a week. The doctor seemed to think that this would be a reasonable, easy regimen. But how can you go from three or four treats per diem to two per week? No more creme brulee dinners, no more fun as I grudgingly turn to wheat germ and yogurt with raisins.
The Onion hasn't been very funny lately. The stories just seem predictable these days, humor without bite. Perhaps the Onion writers should move back to the midwest from Manhattan. The midwest is a more easily amusing place; we have mullets and F-150 trucks and twangy accents.
Labels: halloween
