11/08/2005 - 5:28 p.m. | WHOA, it feels so good (to have your blood in my veins)

Jumping back to�. Halloween.

It was a completely normal day, and I had a feeling the evening would be just the same. No one seemed in any mdood to go out (besides Spritz, but he doesn�t count), and the constant downpour didn�t help motivate us any. Sort of planned on staying right here, catching up on all the diary shit I still not have caught up with now.

Well, clearly, that did not happen and, as is so often the case, Allison Helm was to blame. She prodded Smacko into going out (for obvious reasons), and I was eventually drug into the line myself (for a decidedly more complex line of reasons). Unfortunately, there was little time to plan for a costume (Slutty taco???), and my old standby the robot was not in any shape to go out. I was quite out of it the last time I wore him, so I had no idea of the full extent of the damage of dozens of angry party-goers punching him in the back of the head. He was tore up. Plus, going out in the rain? I would have gone soggy like Chex in milk! There was only one thing to do. Give up, stay home, and save money? Ha ha ha! If only I were so practical! No, let�s go to Wal-mart and weatherproof the fucker! Revamp him all over again, at lightning speed (as there were less than two hours until go time). Robot v1.898!!

Now, of course, because Smacko, Spritz, and I were going, Shelly was pretty much in by default (Kyle was at work), so she needed to throw a costume together as well. We ponder variations on �Slutty [noun]� until she decided to break tradition and go with the most unflattering costume possible: Fat girl. So, while I was in hardware comparing Thompson�s Weather Seal to some spray-on lacquer (my eventual goal is to fossilize the whole suit � Smacko will fire at me with the BB gun, and I will just laugh as they harmlessly ricochet into someone�s eyes), Shelly was stocking up on sweats, balloons, and chocolate bars to make herself nasty. Smacko, by the way, was Mr. Rogers, which makes perfect sense, and Spritz was nothing because that�s just how Spritz is.

Anyway, we ran home to hurriedly put our shit together, Shelly carefully forming her front butt and smearing chocolate all over herself, me rapidly gluing, taping, reinforcing, and painting that poor creature one more time. He seemed likely to both implode and break apart at the seams, so I did one last patch job, promising the poor fellow, �This is it! We�ll retire you after this. No more abuse. No more arms ripped out of sockets, head dangling by a thread of old hot glue.� He knows I�m lying just as well as I do. Finally, just as we were getting out the door (I had no time to even drink! Lord!), I ran down to the basement to soak the poor thing is water protectant and spray paint. I used the hairdryer liberally, but the shit was not as �kwik-drying� as the can proclaimed. Also, I smelled fucking terrible. Like mink oil, someone said, and I can�t imagine that�s a good thing. And it was like it was just on me � it formed a bubble of odor five feet from me in all directions.

Yes, yes, I know all of you hate the robot. I�m not that stupid. It�s a logistical nightmare. I can�t see anything, I take slow, tiny steps, I bump into everything, I�m always either frigid or sweltering, I can�t hear you (and vice versa), and I usually have to be led around. Thank you, guys. Your disdain was well apparent. But I finally learned some damn lessons! Bought some elastic and made some suspenders for the lower part � no more constant adjustment down there! And instead of trying to drink or talk on the phone through the head, I began smuggling things in. Much easier. Also, I brought a fucking knife, so when somebody claps me on the back of the head (and they invariably do), they now have to fuck with both my angry eyebrows AND a dull blade.

We lurched along, smelly and wet, to get Brytne and Taylor and all their associates. None of the guys there were dressed up, either, especially not in some annoyingly hit clusterfuck. �Attention whore!� Yes, yes � more disdain! Throw it on the fire. It was about the third time I �met� Dustin, and the fucker still does not remember who I am. Fuck that, man! I learned your skunk-head name the first time around. It�s about to the point where I want to pull a Dane Cook on him. Boot him hard in the nuts, and while he�s on the ground writhing, toss some Nutter Butters at him, get real close to his face and whisper, �My name is Nathan Patrick Walsh. Don�t you ever fucking forget me!�

Anyway, this is sort of how I thought the whole night was going to be, stumbling around in this pile of failures, ignoring the annoyed looks from everyone, and quietly blasting some music through the robot�s internal speakers. For a while, it did not seem far off. We went to the usual grad student bars, and they were both the fucking doldrums. Nobody was dressed up at Murphy�s, so we were all getting dirty looks, and everyone just seemed so unhappy that it was rainy and that others were attempting whimsy, blah blah blah blah. And Nick Reinheardt was there. My God. Of course, I couldn�t sit, and no one would stand near me because I reeked, and I kept hitting my head on a hanging lamp, but the nice thing about the suit is that I can just stand there (or lean there, when I grow weary) and make a statement without actually having to talk to any of you retards. Spritz kept slipping me foul, strong drinks, which I would suck down in the suit while chatting with people on the phone. Something like a Disaronno and Pepsi. Jesus.

Eventually, people did start to take interest me. Some guy slipped a quarter in my mouth slats and ordered me to dance. Degrading as it was, I was happy to oblige. Shelly braved the smell for a share of the attention, and we began to dance together. Which of course brought Brytne (slutty nurse) into play as well.

Lord, finally whatever football game or whatever we were waiting on ended, and we headed to the next hell, Legends. More crowded, just as dispirited. We didn�t stay long. Everyone was well drunk enough to attempt the real Champaign bars now, so we hit the streets. Clybourne, five dollars? On the shittiest night of the year, with everyone acting like a Grumpy Gus? We�ll keep right on stepping.

Strangely, our savior for the evening was Brothers. Maybe they�re right: Always thebest specials, always the most fun. It was a bar filled with people, dancing and loud (not crying into the cheap bar a la Murphy�s), and a vast majority was dressed up to some degree. Champaign, good god, you have saving graces?! Shelly led me around and kept most of the riff-raff from thwacking me in the noggin. I called Allison and told her she and her friends should skip Legends and meet us there. Smacko as Mr. Rogers only became more disturbing as the degree to which he drank and swore increased, and suddenly the non-dressed-up were in the taunted minority. Finally, some luck.

Eventually, word came that there was to be a costume contest. Shelly was sure that she and I would be shoe-ins, but only if we kept fucking dancing to maintain attention. By this point, I was sweltering, and the crowd all around had me breathing in little but weatherseal fumes, but who was I not to oblige? We shook tailfeather to the best of our ability. �The Bicardi Girls� were there, but I was too busy trying to stay vertical to notice their little shakedance. I wish I could be a beautiful corporate whore.

I�m not sure if it was the drinks, the fumes, or the heat stroke, but I suddenly felt drunk. �Just keep dancing,� Shelly would yell, and I would (however dancing was equated with victory), as more people came up to take pictures. I swear, over the course of the evening, like a dozen or more people took pictures with me. Finally, a Bicardi slutty angel or devil came around, and we were in. We went to stand with the other potential contestants. One had a giant hammer for a head, another had a plastic ass, slutty Little Bo Peep had nasty thighs (I�m told). Plastic ass and Shelly flirted as I wondered what in the world they were going to make us do. Didn�t have to wait long.

Unfortunately, Shelly was ousted at the last minute (too many contestants), so suddenly I have nobody to watch my back. �Climb onto the bar,� someone orders, offering up some flimsy stool. These legs are not made for climbing, but I will not be deterred and on the spot invent some sort of leaning dance maneuver to navigate my way onto the bar. We are lined up on the bar, and since I really have no idea what�s going on or when it�s my turn or anything, I decide to work the crowd nonstop. We�re supposed to dance when the music comes on, but I stumble sort of nonstop and constantly appeal the audience for more noise in my favor. Noise-based contests, by the way, are the truest form of democracy. Imagine how much better elections would be if it were just millions of drunk people across the country yelling for their favorites. George W. still would have won on the Noise-O-Meter, but somehow it would seem more acceptable that way.

Anyway, due in part to the large amass of friends we had brought in (Allison and company were there by then) and the fact that my costume is absolutely ridiculous and bitchin�, I won the damn contest! I had no idea what that entailed (other than the clever DJ playing �Mr. Roboto� as my victory dance), but eventually a bartender came over to me and started counting out twenties! I had Allison count them quickly, and it turns out I won a hundred bucks! YES! Nearly covers the cost of four years of construction and repair of the damn suit. It was quite surreal � more pictures, more dudes beating me on the back of the head (rar!), chicks fawning over me. Too bad it was only for my cruel cardboard metal exoskeleton.

We tried to drag out the victory celebration for as long as possible, but it became readily apparent that I would be dead very soon if we stayed any longer, so Shelly and I got the eff out. I finally took off my shell on the walk home, and I was just drenched. You know how your hair gets all fucked up when you go to the beach, all salty and gross-feeling? Yeah, mine was like that just from the sweat.

But, still, I was pleased. I hadn�t won anything in years, it felt like. Hadn�t had nothing good happen, really. Maybe karma and I had finally come to an accord. Disdain, discomfort, huffing fumes = Cash money, praise and love. Victory and suffering intrinsically linked. Like finding a guitar (yay) with a demonic seed that will envelope my soul (boo). I can deal with balance, man. Just no more of that hell. I came home to brag of my accomplishments.

By which I mean dressing up like a dumbass. Gotta keep it real.