Bring on the Rampage of Foliage Death!
All Hallows Eve. I love Halloween. The crisp fall air that tweaks the nipples just enough to feel comfortably erotic... the warm crawling burn that peels off the back of your throat after a shot of bourbon... hiding in bushes with a tazer gun. The fall is simply an enjoyable time of year.
The leaves wither and die. The entire world seems to creep into huddled cracks and wait for the darkness to clear. We hide and wait for the perfect moment to strike... and steal Tootsie Roll pops from helpless children, the revel screaming half-naked through the crisp night air. The howls of dogs calling a passing train are not dissimilar to the howling madness of joy I feel in the twisted nocturnal adventures of Autumn. These are my Tom Waits nights... as I Paw my inside P-coat pocket for a welcome twenty-five cents... only there to know that I'm not broke... or to bribe someone for a cigarette on that long walk home from the bar. The streetlights all sing sermons from the top of the hill and I sit fascinated listening to their words of love. Of course, as we swing on past the sugar coated freakouts of Halloween, we stumbling into the dessert tables, fatted turkeys, and marshmallow dreams of Thanksgiving. The stuffing is scattered with cranberries and rusty nails. Then we follow suit with the golden glisten of Christmas joys... Christmas songs... heated drinks, scarves, and late night stops at Coffee Shops. Wrapping paper and staying under the covers for just a while longer... even taking entire Sundays to stay in bed and work off the strains of chasing down The Heart of a Saturday Night.
Then again, I could be this guy... and never hope to get laid as long as he shall live. It's a shame really... because I'm sure that there is some special place and some special girl for a guy that knows deep down in his heart that Elvis was a Jedi. Crack must be a really fucking awesome high.