Explosive Animals and Bottle Rockets

Halloween in New York is a subversive mix of colorful, buoyant, and suggestive culture. Especially in the annual parade, you'll see outlandish creations such as "Mother Africa" - where a politically suggestive (yet mentally deranged) white man paints himself black, and extravagantly becomes a Xhosa African circumcision ritual, complete with a thatched-hut-inspired dress, with young African boys prancing around him painted in white clay, dancing to tribal techno music composed by a Japanese DJ, and all choreographed by a casino-owning Native American tribe. How's that for mixed identities?

Then, there's the creative costumes of BP. Last year, I was going to be my own religious onion, in the form of St. Basil's Cathedral. However, getting an architectural behemoth like that through airport security would have taken god's good graces, and multiple circumcised Xhosa boys to assist. Needless to say, I abandoned the idea all together.

This year, GoAskAlice wanted me to be her police escort. As fate would have it, I arrive in New York not as an officer, but costumed as an aggravated tourist with too many large dufflebags weaving into yellow taxicabs due to broken wheels. Yes, dear readers, it has finally happened - I moved to New York City. Instead of being baked daily by the sun, I will now be salted and freeze-dried by the ocean.

It's a grey afternoon in the apartment, two days after Halloween. It's messy. Satchels lie mangled, scattered across the floor. Articles of clothing sinfully intermingle with wads of paper. In the corners, strands of black hair are deliciously enjoying afternoon tea with dust bunnies... Not an attractive site to wake up to.

After spending $90 on a multitude of cleaning products and latex gloves, I tackle the 9x15 Room of Doom I now call home. Moving the armless couch to the middle of the room, i notice small black jelly beans, about the size of pants-pocket lint, forming a trail along the wall edge. I follow the tell-tale trail, and low and behold, JUMP BACK! There's a mouse... that isn't moving...

I grab a chopstick and poke at the mouse. As the bamboo shaft touches its head, it crumbles to dust. Miffed, I look around it, and notice a deeply shaded circle of maroon haloing the mouse. I poke at the maroon; it's stiff and flaky. I then realize that the mouse had been happily running around shitting everywhere, then decided to stop under GoAskAlice's couch for a breather, where it exploded due to internal hemorrhaging. I remark to myself, "Wow, that sure was one out of shape mouse: it just stopped there and POPPED!"

Throwing bleach onto the mini police scene, I allow it's disinfecting properties go to work and finish the rest of the apartment. I turn the oven on (NOT TO COOK THE MOUSE!) so I can make dinner after I'm done cleaning. As I'm scraping the final remains into a bio-hazard bag, I hear a gunshot, and stand up. The oven starts to volcanically rumble and fizz like a rabid squirrel. It starts vibrating toward me across the floor, pouring alcoholic smelling liquid onto the freshly mopped floor. I move to make an escape, but the small iron oven psychically anticipates my every step and adjusts it's vector.

Then, as quickly as it started, the oven sputters to a halt, and I hear another loud gunshot. The oven door flies open, vomiting bottles of fizzing wine onto the floor. Apparently, while pre-heating the oven, I'd forgotten that GoAskAlice put wine in there for storage since she doesn't cook. Being under high pressure, the bottles started to boil and only had one way out - through the neck of the bottle and cork. Gurgling to the floor are various international wines that I will never taste... but the smell is terrific!

I clean the war-torn apartment again, and GoAskAlice arrives at home commenting on how she lived in such squalor. Upon offering to show her the spot where the mouse exploded, she shrieks like a banschee and runs out the door. Good thing I didn't tell her about the war-oven attack... she'd have nightmares.