T, Erin, and I suffered a collective creative seizure Saturday night.
It didn’t start out that way – but who could’ve known?
Saturday started, technically, whilst still at Area XX with Janis, Amy, Kathy, Willie, Steph, Kurt, two Jeffs, and an Andrea. No, it’s not really Area “XX” but they don’t advertise; and with my monumental readership, we don’t want to get me kicked out of there, do we?
So at midnight I was at the Area XX Halloween Party, on the third floor of a large old brick building about five blocks from the house, rubber disembodied hands appearing to come out of the walls, smoke machine whirring, various movable and immovable objects covered with white sheets, man-made cobwebs or both.
There are pictures; and if Mike “Braaaaaains” M. can remember what he did with his cell phone/camera/internet-finder/purplemonkeyelevator, you’ll see ghouls on guitar, citizens of Zebulon Five, Rosie the Riveter exchanging blows with Sarah Palin, Yours Truly as Mother Nature or whatever the hell I was supposed to be and dozens of other party people with nothing on their minds but live music and drunken revelry.
But we’ll just have to wait and see about that.
Drink-smoke-drink-drink-laugh-story-story-story-leave-car-catch-ride-home-bowl of cereal.
Went to bed about 3:00 and was awakened by the obscenity that is the ring of the cell phone.
“Spring Street at 11:00? Pick you up?” It was Erin, she of the Little House in The Hood.
It was 10:45.
“Can you make it 11:10?” Like those extra 10 minutes were going to make the difference.
Erin and T picked me up at 11:09.
Janis, Amy, and Steph were already there; and after a dramatic telling of the supremely tiny and drunken woman at the party who had aggressively – and unsuccessfully – flirted with everything with a heartbeat, a fish sandwich, fries, two restorative Diet Cokes and half-a-Bloody, we were settling the bill and heading for the doors.
Janis and Steph had other plans, but Amy, Erin, T, and I went to Erin’s to paint.
And we did. We did paint. The kitchen has now been primer-ed within an inch of its grubby little life. The living room walls have their first coat of color (Chocolate Froth) and Erin has somehow finagled the bulk of the bathroom wallpaper from its walls.
But that’s not the point.
The point is that after hours of working followed by several beers at T’s and a cigarette on the steps under the bright red leaves and berries of the bush near the front door, we realized that it was friend Bruce Lee (yes! Seriously: Bruce Lee's) birthday.
And that’s when it happened. The sudden, unexplainable urge to create. Must. Make. Ridiculous. Card. For. Bruce.
A small branch from the shrubbery was all it took. The red leaves. They call to me.
My accomplices were dragged into it, amongst mild kicking and questions revolving around my sobriety. The weirdest thing? Believe it or not, everything we needed was within reach. For some inexplicable reason that I really should explore, T had a glue gun, cardboard, twist ties, Mardi Gras beads, a Chinese menu, the purple velvet bag from some liquor and a medallion from another brand of liquor (those from his roomie Dave) and a red felt-tip pen within feet of his coffee table.
Suddenly, much later, the results. See for yourself. This is its envelope.
The outside of the card: Happy F*ckin' Ninja Birthday, Honorable Bruce Lee, from the land of your ancestors.
The interior. Big wish double joy happy happy fun time Bruce.
Close-up of the fortune cookie we tucked into the bag. Erin slit a seam and inserted a false fortune: "Prepared and Paid for by the Republican Party of Minnesota". Bruce is a Republican, but we still like him.
Periphery gifts added to velvet bag for maximum silliness, including hand-made Hannah Montana/Mardi Gras Boobie Beads, plastic soldiers, and a Johnny Walker Black key chain. Beer not included.
Erin delivered it to Bruce at the Corner Bar mere hours later, where he was, by all accounts, suitably impressed with our beer-fueled creativity.
Party on, Bruce; and Happy Birthday.
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