If you’re reading this, I’m a genius, or dogged enough to figure out how to make it happen—ftp from the university in secrecy as though anyone would care, really, though surreptitious down- and uploading is undoubtedly frowned upon. I’ve been working at a library at the U of M since the beginning of September to general good feelings though I can’t release the floating—feel the ground beneath me or drift away completely. Classic twenty-something uncertainty, I suppose—the quarterlife crisis, the angst not dissimilar to adolescence, except now I have a lot more weight I don’t want (material possessions and possessed expectations) and debt I don’t need (the not useless degree though I ought to get another). I mostly just want to say I’m alive. Convinced I would die at age 24, I hit 25 last month, much to my surprise and I suppose relief, though the “now what” is crushing.

So what have I been doing besides getting older and not dying? Undying! One mild and lovely October Saturday afternoon, the first annual (*cough*) Zombie Pub Crawl thoroughly confused and corrupted Northeast Minneapolis. Well over a hundred people showed up, goofy-grinned undeadified, and shambled bar to bar with lots of stopping traffic and terrorizing screaming (…with laughter…) living folk. Check out a short film here: I appear at 1:26 in all my evil undead glory. The above throat clear cough is my language precision gag reflex at hearing “first annual” anything, but hell… if this intends to go down every year, I’m wishing hopeful right along with it.

Ah, Halloween…. Though the pub crawl was not connected, it seemed an extension of wicked, wild fun, of which I needed extra dosings given last year’s Halloween cancellation. This year made up for that lil’ mishap, which shamefully (and hilariously, considering) involved me being violently hung over for the first and so-far-last time in my life. In addition to the crawl and being a zombie, I attended three events, all with different costumes. The first was Hurricane Wilma, a five-dollar, last-minute, too-clever-for-my-own-good display of good fun involving water-soaked clothes, a spritz bottle, a necklace made of ping-pong balls (…get it? Wilma Flintstone!) and lots of windmill and kicking action. This was at the Varsity’s Halloween bash with Revolver Modèle (see gushing below). Saturday night I was on the town with Anna in matching super unsexy skeleton body sock suits that somehow earned us rave reviews. The third, on Halloween proper, I was a Look Ma, No Pants! fan who committed suicide along with my friend Bree.

The short explanation: the comedy duo the Scrimshaw Brothers had a long-running variety show called Look Ma, No Pants! at which, at the beginning of every show, everyone in the audience would remove their pants and throw them on stage. Pants would be collected, the show would commence with everyone in their underwear, and at the end, the audience would get their pants back. Bree was a diehard fan—I only saw the finale, which was a couple years ago. On Halloween night, the Scrimshaw Brothers had a performance (non-No Pants related), which included a costume contest. So Bree and I went as fans of the old show who had committed suicide after the finale. She shot herself in the head—I slit my wrists. And neither of us wore pants. After parading about on stage, we got third place, losing to a radioactive pirate (??) and a damn good-looking lobster.

That protracted Halloween was the best I’ve ever had. Strange—for the stupidest things to make me so happy. I wish I had pictures, but my camera was stolen in early October. My uptown studio was broken into (while I was absent, thankfully). I only thought someone had tried to break in, seeing how I didn’t notice anything missing (though my door was clearly destroyed). I mean… c’mon, there’s my four-hundred-dollar bike. There’s my flat-screen monitor and my piles of CDs (though, as the previous post attests, thieves think my music sucks—and to date, I still don’t have my car door fixed, though I managed to reinstall my radio-only factory stereo). But the next morning, I realized I was burglarized when going for my OJ. Yep. They stole my orange juice. And some plums. An apple. A kitchen towel. …And my digital camera (which, uh, I don’t keep in the fridge, but after knowing I’d been hit, the frantic inventory that followed found the camera unfindable). They got the guy down the hall, too, also swiping his camera (but leaving his laptop), cooking his pizza in his microwave and eating it, and making off with his deodorant.

I otherwise like my apartment. Lots of windows, hardwood floors, high ceilings, fake fireplace. But even though my door has since been reinforced, I don’t feel particularly safe, and that goes a long way in not feeling good (…and I’ll spare deepsicks the story of the police officer who came to take my statement and sexually harassed me I am too angry. Still. To speak).

Living alone has been nice, despite missing the Anna-kine and all her crazy antics (we keeps in touch, we do). The lack of home internets has been… telling. Relatively nontramatic or dramatic, what the absence has been teaching me, though not surprising, is valuable. I’d rather not admit it, but what the hell, eh? Yes, in the past few years, nonstop high-speed internet access has been distracting—but killing this distraction has not automatically or even try-test-tearingly brought to life motivation or inspiration to do other things. I’ve been reading a lot more but I’ve also been sleeping a lot more, and writing has been sporadic and thin. I have no intention of going back, though. Even as I sit here with the anxious spine tingling (too much caffeine? or too much curiosity? oh my god, who’s emailed me? possibly?? since the last time I checked???). Bleh. I feel it, yes. But I refuse to give in to it, to cater to it, succumb yes, please, control me by hooking myself full time into the stream once more.

I have fallen dangerously in love with Minneapolis locals Revolver Modèle. I wrote glowingly of their general mien on Instrumental to Change, but at the time I was more fascinated with my blitzkreiged self than with the band that did the bombing. Their Halloween show—only the second time I’ve seen them—will haunt and hold this city in its cryptaline grasp for all eternity. Or something But they are seriously… ka-chachacha. I have a deep(sick) range of reaction, satisfaction and pummeling to live music interaction, the bracing embrace infatuation with sound and experiencing it, and they invoke the nothing-before-felt to such a throttling degree, all smolder eyes, angles and ecstasy, full-set wanting to fuck everyone in the room. Given the care I take with, uh… potential impropriety, words used against me, for-all-the-world-to-see yeesh take it easy… let my gloves-off honesty show my seriousness and sin-cerity (hi, mom!) intoxicating. They are that good. Hee.

I’ve also fallen in love with riding my new bike, an actual new one—I purposely left the summer craigslist find unlocked where I knew it’d be stolen. The back wheel was busted; I fought my entire Labor Day to fix the damn thing, and several hours later, bleeding in several places (not kidding), I quietly escorted it to the building basement, turned my back and ran away fast—and haven’t seen it since. The new bike’s a Marin Larkspur and super sweet; I’ve ridden it to work nearly every day save recently, the biting cold preventing me. Ah, the freedom of flying downtown, whipping around buses and beating the hell out of traffic. I have a helmet and headphones and bikedance absurdly. I pedal hop knee knock the tire shock curb caught careen cut killingly, I race I glide I ride—my whole body smiles wide.

I wish it didn’t get dark so soon. I hate but could handle so much better the snow grit cold if only I could see the sun.

Whatever your end of December brings or means or is made to create inside you, I hope it is well. I tend to get depressed. I enjoy visiting family and partaking in our traditions—but without fail, every year, I get edged and short and silent in the presence of the people I love. I don’t mean it or know what it means. But I’m thankful when—without fail, every year—they put up with me and love me anyway. If similar stated, may your own be as precariously joyous—and if complication free, all the better for it. Either way, I wish everyone merry, and a happy, safe new year, too.

In case I don’t update again for awhile, and I probably won’t, OMG, COME TO MOULIN NOIR!!! January, FRIDAY THE THIRTEENTH! at the Triple Rock, and possibly also on the following Monday at the Saloon’s Hard Monday. They’re coming over from Sweden to regale you—yes, you!—with the most delicious, surreal and wtf??-worthy synthpop ever pulled from a cotton-candy machine set up at a wake for a drag queen. I saw them about a year ago with swoons, magic and glee. You like goth-electroschlock don’t you don’t you don’t you? : ) Sure you do. It’s gonna be hot.