Damn it Creed! I've been up since four!

As the Halloween season approached, friends began brainstorming possible Halloween costumes, a subject I feel brings far more joy to Adult You than it ever did to Kid You. (Back then, costume choice wasn't such a make-or-break factor since your mom was just going to make you wear a jacket underneath it anyway, causing several a dickwad from the greatest generation to make some crack about not remembering the Terminator being so roly-poly.)

However, it soon became clear to me that my friends weren't brain-storming as much as they were pitching me their ideas to see my reaction. When I asked one of them why my reaction factors into anything, they told me they figured I was one of those who came up with really ingenious costume ideas.

This couldn't be further from the truth.

I guess since I'm generally a creative person, it's assumed that I apply extra amounts of that creativity to the holiday that greatly encourages it. Nope. Not at all.

When it comes to Halloween, I'm just in it for the booze and erections. (As opposed to my childhood days, when I was just in it for the candy...and erections.)

I'm ninety percent lazy when it comes to Halloween, which is why I was Austin Powers for three years, Dr. Evil for two, and Shaun of the Dead for three as well. (And the Shaun of the Dead costume was born out of a desire to get more creative on Halloween. Then nobody knew who I was. Essentially wearing a bloody business-casual look, the most popular guess was Scott Peterson)

This year, I decided, like countless others, that I was gonna' be the Joker. But, not regular Joker. I was Nurse Joker. That was my twist...as well as countless others.

I didn't care that I wasn't being original, my shit was off the chain as the kids say.

However, dressing up in drag did give me a better understanding on the plight of the female:

Much of their wardrobe is uncomfortable and inhibiting. I've never worn a skirt before, but it didn't occur me just how much pants I wasn't wearing until I wore a skirt for the first time. I had to don a pair of purple tights just so I felt I had something going on down there. (It also served the much more important job of Junk Containment)

The skirt being so short, I had to adjust my swagger, as I was never completely sure how much of my ass was showing at any particular time.

Speaking of my ass, it was groped by a man at the bar. Leaning over the bar, I felt a hand caress my booty, thinking it was a friend doing a round of Gay Chicken, I turned to see a man I had never met before. Once he realized I was a man, he shrieked, "Whoa! Not what I was expecting!"

Which -- what if I had been what he was expecting? Was I supposed to turn around and tell him that I've been waiting for this moment all my life, now let's away to the bathroom stall for hand jobs? At least buy me a drink.

He had to have known I was a dude, right? I mean, we don't live in a world where that's the ice-breaker?! Seriously? Ladies, is that what I'm competing against? If so, single women at my age are probably grading on a curve, which is going to be hugely advantageous for moi.

All in all, the costume was well executed and well received. I made children and grown women, who are probably legally children, cry. I had fratties tell me I was "awesome." And Justin, whom incessantly mocks my lack of Halloween originality, gave me high marks for authenticity.

Justin, by the by, went with my joke suggestion of the Domino's Pizza Noid, whom you should avoid.

It was hilarious -- if you were born before 1982. Everybody else didn't know what the hell that thing was.

Even when Justin barged into a Domino's Pizza and shouted, "GIVE ME ALL YOUR PIZZA'S!"

He was instead given total fucking silence until a fifty-plus employee in the bank quietly remarked, "Is that supposed to be the Noid?"

We slowly backed out of the Domino's, not bathed in laughter.

See. Too creative and you lose mass-audience appeal. So says me.

And, obviously, Hollywood.

Up there, there is so much room; where baby's burp and flowers bloom; Everyone dreams I can dream too...up there!

I haven't heard the sentence, "Oh, you're in the play?" so much since high school.

The setting of this oft-repeated question, occasionally paired with an exclamation point, is Seasons Restaurant at Bunker Hills. The play is Casting Christmas - the first show in the twenty-first season of the Seasons Dinner Theatre, of which, I have just had my first rehearsal.

The phrase, also much like high school, is said in one of three tones:

1. An astonished, borderline marvel at the foreign, perhaps even mythical creature they see before them. Sadly, this is not the awe-inspiring that causes admiration or warm feelings in the pants, but the kind of awe that's inspired when you see a three-legged dog, or platypus.
2. "Oh, he's one those." This is probably the most accurate of the reactions.
3. By just being in a play, admitting I'm in this play, doing so in front of this particular person, now places them in direct vicinity of an about-to-explode gay bomb. (Oddly enough, the older the person that says it, the more prone they are to this option)

The show itself is pretty much what I thought it was going to be. Family friendly. G-rated. Lotsa' Minneso-tah accents. Thankfully, none of which will be delivered by me. In fact, in a play dominated with over-the-top, extra hilarious characters, I am playing the straight man to all of them. Particularly, I am the romantic antagonist. Think Zach from Wedding Crashers, but with significantly less f-bombs.

The great news about this part is that I don't have to sing (seriously), but there are several references to her only being with me cause I was hot and successful. There's even a couple of references to my having a good body, though don't get me wrong, I've more of a man's body now than has ever been. I know because I watch myself in the mirror as I slowly remove my shirt in the morning.

As for the job that led to this job -- things aren't great.

As winter rapidly approaches, golf course attendance naturally drops off. Which means that currently, the only business that frequents the bar are the hardest of the hardcore golfers, which is to say the biggest blankholes (I'm trying to cut back on swears. There be kids in the show and shit. Oh, damn! Aw, hell! Ah, bitchcake!). This means significantly less tips. Monday, for an eight hour shift, I got three whole dollars. And that's just because Bo felt bad for me.

And, with such little revenue, cutbacks in staff are to be expected. So, in the places where servers and bussers would usually be, there's just Josh now. Essentially, the money has vanished in the same amount that the work load has tripled.

Contrary to what people may believe, the single reward in being the service industry. in any way, is completely monetary. I know there's a lotta' bull-honkey about bartenders meeting lots of people, and hearing out their troubles. It's not true. I don't want to hear about your shit any more than you want to hear about mine. And, there's not actually as much character inspiration as you'd think.*

Add this to the anticipation of my upcoming productions, my morale has been rapidly diminishing. Truth be told, I think I'm just getting sick of it, and it's starting to show, despite my best efforts, which I stopped about a week ago. Case in point, I actually said to a customer, in a sarcastic-but-if-I-stop-and-think-about-it-maybe-he-wasn't-being-sarcastic voice, "Hey, let's play a game. It's called 'How Many of Me Are There?' "

And here's the thing: I know I'm being whiny, and bitchy, and selfish, and that my sudden curmudgeonness will only get me scheduled even less than I am now. That's the angel shoulder talking. The one that's saying, "Suck it up Pee-Pants, six more weeks, and you get to be an actor again. Stop trying to chop off the hand that's fed and boozed ya' up."

However, Devil Shoulder, he makes some solid points as well. Everytime I ask someone want fries or tater tots, he wipes his ass with my college degree. He then sheepishly makes eye contact with me and says, "What? You're doing it."

This afternoon, before my shift ended, I was taken aside and properly admonished for my attitude in a nearly word-for-word exhange with Angel Shoulder. Thankfully, I think they realize what's going on, and they're understanding. (Though, my manager did say something to the effect of 'things are going very well for you, it doesn't seem like the usual Josh to want to ruin that.' She was partly right, that's not usual Josh. That's Classic Josh.)

See! Look! Prove I'm growing, cause now I know when I'm being stupid!

For instance, right now, Devil Shoulder just told me "Really Josh? You're okay with being reprimanded by a younger superior who can't stop giggling when they hear the word 'floater?"

But, Angel Shoulder has rightly countered with: "But, Josh -- you're the one that chose to say the word floater, specifically with the intent to make everying giggle."

Okay. Maybe growing up isn't the best way to desribe it.



* Though, there is the occasional gem, such as a couple I overheard at the bar a few weeks back:
GIRLFRIEND. Remember when you used to give me things? You never give me anything anymore.
BOYFRIEND. I could give you a pearl necklace.
GIRLFRIEND. Why would I want a pearl necklace? It wouldn't go with anything.
BOYFRIEND. (Deep sigh) Nevermind.

Remember where you are - this is Thunderdome, and death is listening, and will take the first man that screams.

The Joshtober Fest aftermath usually begins with the first apology tour of my new year. However, my gravest sin this year was calling someone named Andrea Katie. Though, to be fair, the first three people to arrive at Joshtober Fest were Kat, Katie, and Catherine, so I just figured that was the thing now.

All in all, it was arguably the best non-roller coaster laden Joshtober Fest in the entire fictional holiday's history. My reasoning behind that doesn't go much beyond "Nothing blew up.*"

Perhaps it's a sign that I'm growing up that I decided to go the low-key route. The day was spent dicking around the MOA with the lovely Lauren Anderson, who must have been wearing her Angry-Gay-Men-Who-Work-At-Failing-Lotion-Kiosks Axe body spray.

We dined at the tackiest restaurant in the entire enclosure. It's called Kokomo's and it attempts to make you feel as if you're at a Hawaiian resort instead of across the street from the food court. It is so over-the-top, I've decided that I want to make it my break-up bar. You know, if I ever get to initiate a break-up.

I then bought myself some grown-up clothes, because let's face it, the performance fleece ain't getting me laid much these days. Also, Ashlee Simpson finally talked me into getting a pair of Sketchers. Now get off my back, bitch.

Later that night was Joshtober Fest proper at The Independent, so chosen specifically for the proximity of the 1986 apartment, despite the fact that being two blocks from my apartment didn't help too much during Joshtober Fest '05. It was a great time, and when all was said and done, I ended up walking down Hennepin at two in the morning with a giant stuffed Pug named Jack Bauer.**

The most feared guest at any Joshtober Fest, my own personal Mr. Hyde, Honest Josh actually didn't seem as if he was going to show. Then he caught the red eye in the form of a marathon of shots placed in front of me in the final hours of the Fest. However, he didn't cause much trouble, because in all honesty, he doesn't have much to say. I think it may have something to do with my being happy and content, which is something I didn't even realize I was. Happiness snuck up on me, the prick.

And now, I have to live life as a twenty-nine year old, which if the first couple of days are any indication, will be a year of constantly defending that you are actually twenty-nine, and occasionally looking behind you, to see if the thirty-sized boulder is getting any closer.

I've decided not to fear that boulder. Which is how I ended up at the Tina Turner concert last night. Well that, and the free ticket Katie Moen had.

And the best advice I can give anyone who is depressed over aging is to attend a Tina Turner concert. Though the bombardment or Aquanet and leopard print that shouldn't be seen the light of day, especially from that angle, watching a woman who's nearly three quarters of a century, spryly bound about the stage kicking the collective asses of her four twenty-something back-up dancers makes you feel like a complete jack-ass for thinking that somehow still being in your twenties is the time when you start calling yourself old.

Also, whenever possible, you should be someones private dancer, their dancer for money. It's not much, but we don't need another hero. I have a friend named Mary who does that, and she's quite proud -- Mary is. Says it's simply the best.

Be thankful you weren't at the concert with me, because I played that game before, after, and during.

*Metaphorically and, in one case, literally.
** Seriously. He has a personalized collar. It's for the real dog, when he starts existing.

If you can't hold it, you take your ass to the men's room and cry in private on the toilet… like a man!

I love Fall. It's the greatest.

I love the wearing of layers, I love leaves on the ground, I love that I get to use words like crisp and brisk. There's something about a brisk fall sunset that makes me want to attend a fall football game, do my homework, and go Halloween shopping. (Incidentally, anyone know where a fella' can get him an old-fashioned nurses uniform? Probably one that previously hung from a woman that would be politely described as husky.)

In other news, I've told Crazytown that I don't intend to dwell in her Coo-Coo cave past December. That apparently was the key to stopping the constant phone-calls and e-mails. This somewhat rashly made decision once again finds me homeless during my busiest month in a great long while, but as luck would have it, the fates found me a new place nearly the same night. I don't want to get into great detail, as that tends to jinx things, but I'll just say that I'll be living with my favorite politician, ever. Speculate away.

I was shopping in Magers and Quinn the other day. I was in the middle of reading The Road and looking for something a little more light-hearted for my next literary adventure. I knew I was in trouble when the clerk asked if I meant funny, putting the emphasis on both syllables. He proceeded to recommend several books he had heard were good that he didn't read himself, however, I've already read. At which point, the exasperated clerk said, "Dude, you read too much." So, essentially, the independent bookstore clerk called me a dork.

Reading too much doesn't make me a dork! What makes me a dork is that immediately after getting a new book, I check to see how many pages are in it, divide that number by four, so I can correctly gauge when I am 1/4th, 1/2, and 3/4th's of the way through that book.

If you're not watching Chuck or Pushing Daisies, your life is all the more empty for it.

Since my schedule is going to be working my bar-tending job, rehearsing the dinner theatre show, and then rehearsing Tony and Tina's, while bartending and performing the dinner theatre show, it is unlikely that I'll be able to acquire pug-puppy Jack Bauer until January, when Tony and Tina opens. Or, you know, Christmas. Just in case any of you want to know what to get a guy that has virtually nothing.

Besides a nurses uniform.

More later!