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October 22, 2002 pagan solo I sang solo in my choral group's concert and, for once, it wasn't because I misread a note or ignored a rest.  The solo was intentional, sung with gusto aforethought.  I sucked, of course, but I sucked all by myself. The following day, I shopped for Halloween.  Of the holidays, I am partial to pagan ones; in fact, the paganer, the better.  I've long considered the prohibition against virgin sacrifice a tad puritanical.  As it is, Halloween is my favorite holiday. K-Mart's selection of Halloween crap is phenomenal and provides insight into their bankruptcy problem.  How many plastic nose warts are too many?  How many homeowners will purchase Creepy Cemetary Fog-Making Machines in this bear market?  Don't look at me.  I favor a plastic wart on every nose, a creepy fog-maker in every garage.  I purchased a bale of fake cobwebs, a gross of plastic spiders, a supposed-to-glow-in-the-dark skeleton with green blinking eye (only one eye actually blinks and the plastic "bones" do not glow unless thrown in a fireplace), and ten giant-ass bags of candy for my largely Negro clientele. My daughter belongs to a coven that worships Martha Stewart.  Inspired by the High Priestess of Decorating Darkness, she constructed a centerpiece of gourds, flowers, limes, and apples.  She also spent an entire day making "shrunken heads" by decorating fresh beets and drying them in the oven.  I think they look more like fibrous, shrunken turds than shrunken heads, but what do I really know? My family left Sunday and, once again, I was alone, softly singing solo on the Alhambra's porch.  Fake cobwebs fluttered on the evening breeze.  I was singing solo, true.  But I was, at least, singing.

©  2002 by the beastmaster