gastax

I'm 32, everybody, but for one blissful night this weekend, you could've reversed those numbers, because everything was just that perfect. Worked all day, which was a drag, but some kindly ones somehow learned my dark secret and cleverly lured me into an empty room save a birthday cupcake and several tone-deaf nurses. A work-sponsored costume party also went well, if only to find satisfaction in livening up the usual inanities among older suburban professionals. I was dressed as Dream from Neil Gaiman's Sandman (makeup, black contacts, black cape and a ton of hairspray--hair's grown out a bit) and was accompanied by a very convincing and incredibly attractive version of Death (yow). Then a mad rush on to The Metro, where after a ten-year wait, I was finally audience to the band Killing Joke. Several drinks later, after staggering out of the Raw Bar in a fuzzy bliss, out walks Jaz Coleman from the tourbus looking around like he wants something to do. Bad news for my credit card because moments later we're all drinking top-shelf scotch on me. Jaz has eyes that bear witness to a troubled past; as much as I look up to him I found it difficult to stare into that abyss. Not many nights can one say that he's chased Death around Wrigleyville (and eventually caught her) with no less punishment than a headache at the noon wakeup the next day, and a new 40GB iPod starving for my attentions in the coming weeks. Yep, I couldn't have picked a better costume this year