The following material contains small parts which could be a choking hazard.
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I was abducted by some spooky ghosts which did not allow me to do anything creatively constructive for many a whole month. It was an idle Friday afternoon around lunch time. I was just eating some Hot Sauceta Pasta (spaghetti with Frank's Red Hot on it, a house favorite) when I was suddenly whisked into the air like some sort of windblown, dead leaf. Now, I know a thing or two about non corporeal beings as I am an avid fan of the Ghostbusters movies and the animated series The Real Ghostbusters. I did not, however, support the endeavor for The Extreme Ghostbusters. There is something about a wheelchair bound semi-goth teen with a proton pack that just doesn't sit right with me. Anyhow, these weren't your friendly, low opacity, shoving sausages in their collective mouths, amusing ghouls. They meant business. I think I may even seen one looking at a PDA. That's how much business they were. And as I was spinning like a child who had just twisted the chains on his swing set I noticed tha-You know what? I am lying. That whole poltergeist thing? False. I have been busy with other stuff. Important stuff. I took the reigns of the blazon steed that is my life and and hoisted a great sickle over my head to harvest the stuff that dreams are made of. I heaped them into bushels, bushels I tell you! And into that bushel did I delve a large spoon and began my feast. It was delicious. Okay, you see what I did there? I went on a fit of lying again. These bushels I spoke of were complete fiction.
I would like to apologize to you, the reader. These entries of mine, they used to be full of grandeur and were a veritable tickertape parade of consistent entertainment, but these days all the frequency of the updates have tickertapered away. I could blame a myriad of things. My failing health, my hectic work schedule, a venus flytrap that requires much more attention and the blood of the living then the informational card that came with it suggested, or my significant other's constant desire for my masculine and outdoorsy presence. No, it can't make those things be my scapegoat because they don't exist. I think the plain and simple fact is my heart isn't in it any more. This constant pandering to a single digit fan base and pressures to be king champion of word play have left me disenfranchised with this whole internet subculture. So this is me saying goodbye to you Miss Internet. You are a harsh mistress and I am not suited to be your suitor.
That was a lie.
So, what is it that I have been doing that has led my usual, online faithfulness astray? I have been sloshing through day after formulaic day. Not some sort of magical formula that a mad scientist may been concocting with Easter egg dye and dry ice that will make you invisible or turn you into a hideously sweet monster with a penchant for totally wrecking people's brain cases and eating alley cats. Rather this formula is a funeral dirge of classes and the ignoring the work for said classes. In this hopeless cycle there is a bastion of hope aptly titled adventures.
Adventures are, as one would suspect, the aimless wanderings of college aged kids far away from the beaten path. We search, sometimes in vain, of interesting happenstances and the chance of treasure. Not material treasures mind you. I have no practical use for a golden chalice aside drinking the ambrosia that is white grape juice. No, the treasures I speak of are memories and they buried in only one place; your mind and perhaps a time capsule out in your back yard. But honestly, you don't even remember where underground that thing is. I mean it's probably kind of near that tree, but face it; the stuff you put in there was the crap you didn't want anymore and it's more than likely worm food. A time capsule is just a subterranean trash can with nostalgic connotations.
So we embarked upon a great journey which, if you allow me to foreshadow, went terribly awry. The team was The Duke, Scrappy (The Duchess), Weebles, and myself. We decided to do something completely novel. Under the cloak of night we went where only trains hath come before us. Our guide was only our eyes, ears, sixth senses and set of never ending, parallel tracks. The railroad for a many a great year have been the site of numerous instances of teenage debauchery from underage drinking to the smoking of the reefer. However, this night it was used merely as a path to our true destination: The Indescribably Creepy Cave That is Pitch Black Even During the Day Time and it's Like Twelve Midnight Oh My God I Think I Just Saw an Entire Sentient Spider Civilization No Wait That Was Just My Hand. Not much can be said about the trudge there asides from the constant, breakfast cereal crunch of gravel beneath our sneakers. The cave was not much of a cave at all, but rather a tunnel. What could be on the other side? Reason would suggest that it would open up to a gorge with more train tracks, but since it is unreasonable to walk through a potential, hobo sleep tunnel in the middle of the night we surely couldn't use logic to ascertain answers. Our best conjecture was it was a portal to mirror universe wherein we would find our opposites and strike them down. In order to extrapolate the truth we would have to venture into the maw. (At this point I would like to voice my disapproval with the person who invented darkness. Dark is scary and you can't see in it. Why would you even want to make something like that?) I cannot express in writing the feeling of being the business letter that is completely enveloped in the Nothing ala: The Neverending Story. I quickly snapped a picture into the darkness and was instantly heebie jeebied:
Upon exiting the tunnel that God hath forsaken and finding no extra dimensions had been stumbled upon, we decided to continue our trek by way of conventional roads. As it happens, The Duke and Duchess have a family guideline of night-time travel which must be strictly adhered to. No one is allowed to see you, which I think is derived verbatim from ninjitsu. This turns a relatively brisk, night time jaunt into a fight for one's very survival. Headlights pour out from around a bend and bodies ragdoll themselves indiscriminately into briar patches to avoid being found out. Let me just say that it really elevates the whole from point A to point B thing. Our path was complicated at some point by a tractor-trailer truck parked on the side of the road. The Duke led to a particularly tricky short cut through the woods which had (surprise) more briar bushes, but it bypassed our would-be obstruction. Now, this is where things a hairpin turn for the worse. All parties involved had jumped safely from the modest embankment to the asphalt, save for one: Weebles. Weebles wobbled, and did in fact fall down. It is the equivalent to crashing your car right next to the checkered flag. If she had been playing dice she would have rolled: her ankle. We walked another two miles to safety without incident. Weebles required crutches for two weeks after the spill.
Halloween is a holiday where I support loosening the belt of moral scruples. There is something lighthearted and jovial about being soused while all gussied up in a costume. Kind of like a mall Santa that reeks of Pall Malls and Old Crow whiskey. I indulged. I partook. I ingested a fair amount of alcohol. But, it was acceptable for I was:
The Superhero shtick shtuck for my brother reared his mantle shrouded face.
Most memorable quote: "In the criminal justice system there are three parts: Your prosecutors, your police officers, and your goddamn Batman."
The Duke was a villainous villain and it was accentuated by key features. Those being: well dressed, facial hair, and mysterious missing eye.
Most memorable quote: screaming "Shot!" at random increments of time.
Also, The Duke looks so good with an eye patch I am half tempted to give him permanent corneal damage. Depth perception is unnecessary these days. Now it's all about your image.
These shots, that The Duke would so often remind us of, came in various flavors, but none as infamous as the "Fly Shot."
Apparently, fruit flies are well cultured and enjoy the fine taste of sweet vermouth as they plummeted their bodies deep within the liquid. Only to find themselves be encased much like mosquitoes into amber; best represented in the historical documentary "Jurassic Park."
There was an impromptu dance party.
It was probably set to some song like The Monster Mash, which just gave me a great idea for something to hand out to trick or treaters. Monster Mashed potatoes.
We had the obligatory bearded woman.
Despite its obvious cliche`, the Godfather pulls it of with grace. Thanks in part to a camping hat, Renaissance Festival-esque gown, and the great pillar of hair protruding from his bosom.
We had the no so obligatory.
MacVick is an uncanny Blues Brother much like the X-men are uncanny.
A rather non-descript dwarfbarian...
...WHICH IS TOTALLY GOING TO WARHAMMER YOUR SOUL OUT OF YOUR PORES.
The black-lit kitchen was haunted
Haunted by an artsy fartsy slow shutter speed picture!
The party was a grand success on the scale of great to colossally great. Already in the works is a Dia de los Muertos party that will take place in the spring. We are fully aware that this is a fall holiday, or falliday if you will, but the potential to paint our faces as if we are skeletons and celebrate a Day of the Dead Mextravaganza is far too tempting.
This is by in large my most by and largest update to date. This surely makes up for the month I neglected it.
Kyle Lee Hufnagel
"Raccoons are nature's burglars."