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.