It was not a good thing.

I'm very ambivalent about Halloween. The one time I chose to celebrate it here in NYC, I went with Joey to the parade, and that was a disaster of crushed bodies through which I was pulled like a flailing water-skier, attempting to apologize in the wake of the large man-boy parting the crowds like Moses himself. I lost several of my home-made CDs off my jeans that night, which was sad as that project may have been the one time in my life I was artistically inspired.

Later that night Joey dragged me to an apartment party of some boy he wanted to schtup, where he left me in the clutches of a demented Martha Stewart from Leawood, Kansas. In case you don't yet know, being from Kansas is not a sufficient attribute to have in common to create good conversation, especially when said Martha was thoroughly drunk and insisted on shoving her cheap cupcakes (how I wish that was an euphemism) in my face.

This sad sack of a boy was from Leawood, one of the most tony of the suburbs in Johnson County, Kansas, a place which has as little to do with the rest of the state as bacon does with bagels. I am from Kansas City, Kansas, which is Wyandotte County, adjacent to the North of Johnson County, and home to an odd collection of gangsters, hicks, and old world Croatian families too stubborn (read: poor) to move to the 'burbs (guess which I was). The 'Dotte could be a very dangerous place, and those from Johnson County rarely found reason to go there, other than perhaps when tromping one of our high school football teams, which happened regularly, as tax income used for education in Kansas was by law only allowed to be used in the county in which it was generated, and Johnson County kids thus attended great citadels of modern education on lush campuses while kids in the 'Dotte sweltered in old buildings without even air conditioning, let alone modern physical education equipment.

So you see, meeting a demented and drunk Martha Stewart from Leawood was not exactly my idea of fun on Halloween. When it opened its mouth and began discussing how it drove a Mercedes in high school, I was appropriately vicious and venomous in my responses. I was not drunk and my bitch skills were well honed long before I arrived in NYC. This, naturally, soon earned me a cheap cupcake to the face. Johnson County boys can be so sensitive! I probably knew his father paid for his Mercedes by working some awful corporate job, rather than by making his mother walk the darkest parts of Prospect Avenue at night, but the latter seemed a reasonble guess at the moment.

At any rate, Joey was perceptive enough to remove us from that confined space quickly after the cupcake incident. Johnson County boys may have beat us at football, but they always hopped quickly into their luxury vehicles after the game, as they knew better than to stay around and face 'Dotte-style vengeance, some of which was nigh on making an appearance in a cramped Chelsea apartment.

The night deteriorated from that point, though I believe I began to drink enough to fuzzy up my memory. I know there was a very unwise trip through the projects of West Chelsea on our way to the Eagle, during which I was hit in the back by a thrown egg that miraculously bounced off me and spattered harmlessly on the ground. Rather than use it to make more cupcakes, Martha attempted to call down the wrath of housekeeping on the culprits using a wildly-wielded wooden spoon, though I believe she was distracted and led away by a Prada carrot on a stick. I vaguely remember an ill-advised attempt by an older patron to remove her apron at the Eagle, which prompted more girlish screaming than even the real Martha could muster, and after that I believe my brain quit functioning. Mercifully.

All of which is reason enough, I think, for a certain ambivalence about the spooky holiday.

Your hair is on fire.

Howdy y'all, this is Julie Cruise Director, phoning it in from an undisclosed location. I paid the pharmacy delivery boy for his minutes, but there's always a chance that big brother has discovered his phone number or implanted a radio in his head, in which case they're triangulating on this signal now. So Julie will make it quick.

Julie Cruise Director is saddened to report the early departure of one of her favorite cruisers, but Joey was warned not to lean across the railing. Julie cannot be held liable for any personal injury or death incurred while cruising. Joey should have remembered the disclaimer he signed before he started climbing the rails like a monkey. No, Julie's nervous tick in her arm had nothing to do with the accident. Julie is under professional medical care for that problem and cannot help it if the pills hadn't quite kicked in yet.

Julie will be making a brief public appearance on All Souls' Day at her favorite church (Julie likes to think of it as the flaming spinster of Times Square). Yes, you really should join her, as you have no doubt sinned a month's worth of sin by now, and Julie is, despite murmerings to the contrary, deeply concerned for the well being of your eternal soul. No, Julie is not going to send up a prayer over dear, departed Joseph, as we all knew he was damned to begin with. Julie wastes no time on lost causes.

And to those who have been considering jumping ship during Julie's unfortunate isolation, Julie wants to know why her emails are not sufficient for you? Suddenly you think Debbie Cruise Director can lead a decent tour? You think Debbie could have found that yak's hidden birthing ground in Greece? You think Debbie can lead you to the alien artifacts in a certain French volcano? You think Debbie knows a single word of the language of the Chilean indigenous peoples? You should watch it...Julie and Debbie have a feud that goes way back to 15 minutes ago. You don't wanna make Julie mad. I mean, it IS Julie's cruise and all. Debbie came along later. And only because the psychiatrist recommended that Julie not be left alone. But he's a quack. Julie is fine. Julie takes her pills. It's Debbie who you need to watch out for. She's got a radio transmitter in her hair, Julie saw it.

Julie can say no more until you're wearing a protective helmet.

Thank you for your time and attention. Life preservers are located in the bins near the exists, and in an emergency your seat cushion may also be used as a flotation device. No, there was no time to throw one to Joey.

Pick It

Monday night I hosted the Colors Committee of New York boys of Leather at my apartment. (www.newyorkboysofleather.com) It had been a long time since we met and there was much to discuss.

Conversation quickly devolved into my unfortunate condition. Apparently I have a chronic resemblance to a muppet. I am not quite sure when I acquired this strange ailment, nor exactly how it is to be treated.

I suppose not yelling "I am a hot toe picker!" randomly on the street in the screechiest voice I can manage might beat down the dastardly little microbes evidently controlling my brain.

But really, what fun would that be?

Coup De Blog

So there's been a coup at the Couch Stalker Compound. Joey is out. Not that I don't love Joey, because believe me, the love we share is deep and profound. Rather it's just that I'm lazy. I have decided to write a blog which is more personal in nature and signing up for a new account just seems too much work.

Not to worry, dear readers, as I have not given up stalking! No, my targets must still quake as they lie asleep at night staring at their ceilings, wondering what diabolical ploys I am developing from my very comfy Couch of Doom.

Instead of pure stalking goodness, my blog will now have a complete recitation of my daily activities. That will come along with the occasional report on a leather event, perhaps a pipe organ recital review or two, and the odd hilarious story gleaned from my extraordinary exploits in Gotham.

I have also entered into an exclusive agreement with Julie Cruise Director, a talented but reclusive organizer of spectacular outings to exotic destinations where wildly inappropriate fashion is worn and all innocence is lost. Julie will report irregularly from the ragged edge of her internal reality. I am assured that the federal investigation will ultimately exonerate Julie in the case of Joey's untimely death, but until that time she will only be able to report when her medication is delivered to her hideout. Security precludes any land lines or cell phones at that compound, so Julie borrows the cell phone of the sweet boy who comes from the pharmacy.

Stay tuned in and enjoy all the blogging goodness. It should prove to be delightfully inane, if nothing else.