And Samhain for all you groovy pagans. FYI: It's pronounced SAM-HANE. Don't let anyone tell you different, m'kay?

Pictured from left to right: Cat, Bat and Cauldron (by Peanut), Charlie Brown (by Jonny) and a mocking little Devil (guess who?)

(Notice proper usage of the City Pages-approved serial comma.)

There's this big gardening emporium located a couple of blocks from our house. They also sell live animals, a fact that simultaneously distresses and intrigues me. I can't resist stopping in from time to time to lock eyes with the inbred, quivering Chihuahuas. Then I commune with the tragic, molting cockatoo with the rheumy stare. I even like to visit the snakes. I stand in front of the terrarium glass and hiss "HARRY POTTER ISSSSSS A HOMOSSSSSSSSEXUAL. THAT'S WHY HE RIDESSSS A HORSSSE NAKED!" And they totally understand me.

Recently, we were driving past this particular store and I noticed the window said "BIRDS! BIRDS! BIRDS!" As if it were an avian strip club or something. Of course, I was immediately reminded of a certain totally kickass '80s anthem by Motley Crue. So I started singing:

Birds, birds, birds!
Rockin' in Atlanta at Tattletails!
Birds, birds, birds!
Raisin' hell at the Seventh Veil!

I choked with laughter, because I find myself really hilarious. (I always "break," you see, even during my most sophisticated bits. I'm the Horatio Sanz of observational car comedy.)

Anyway, every time we've driven past this store since, Jonny and I do a bird-themed reenactment of Tommy and Vince's spirited conversation near the end of "Girls, Girls, Girls."

(Imagine sing-songy, hair-metal dude voices)

Jonny: "Hey Tommy! Check that out, man!"

Me: "What, Vince? Where?"

Jonny: "In the cage! That's a Red-Bellied Grackle! They aren't often seen in the Western Hem-is-phere!"

Me: "WHOOOO! Save some for me! Hey, I think I see its genitalia!"

Like I said, I find this really funny. Anyway.

The theme-- and with Trixi, there's always a theme-- was Pop Culture. (Last year's theme was Old Hollywood; scour the archives for a peep at my "Slightly Decomposed Judy Garland" costume).

This time, I went as a severely orange Lindsay Lohan and Jonny went as Kenny Loggins (Yacht Rock-era.)

The incongruous-but-happy celebrity couple. I made scary Lindsay faces all night. Note the thatch of ginger pubic hair peeking out from my waistband. (I knew last year's Napoleon Dynamite wig would eventually come in handy!)

Trixi (The Orbit Gum Girl), me, and Nicole (Avril Lavigne.) Nicole is actually younger than the real Avril Lavigne, which makes her particularly Punk Rawk. Trixi sewed her own costume, which makes her particularly Fabulous! Meanwhile, my firecrotch doth teach the torches to burn bright. It seems I hang upon the ass-cheek of night.

Something about the combination of Lucy Ricardo and a Rubix Cube makes my head want to explode. In a good way. Lucy probably would have been better off marrying a Cube than a Cuban. The former may be impossible to figure out, but the latter might beat your ass.

The best costume at the party, in my humble ho-pinion. Heidi as Laura from Project Runway. Note the signature bow and Baby Einstein bump.

Shayne opted to show up looking smorkin' hot while the rest of us merely looked foolish. Man, was this Night of a Thousand Redheads or what?

So anyway, the party was fantastic, aside from the fact that 1.) I fell on my ass twice, which apparently warranted a Look of Concern(TM) from several friends and 2.) Jonny used a hidden microphone to taunt me while I took a piss. (It's dehumanizing to relieve yourself while a talking skull calls you a whore.)

When I slumped drunkenly to the floor at night's end, I apparently left a telltale orange stain on the wall. Sorry, Rik and Trixi! I'll be over shortly with a pint of Benjamin Moore semigloss. Or Guinness. You pick my penance.

That's me blowing my nose. But I don't have a cold. See, if I admit to having a cold, I empower the cold. And I don't want to empower the cold. I want to spank it. Therefore, I don't have a cold.

In a few minutes, I'm leaving to meet with rad director Marc Webb, who's directed about a jillion music videos you've seen. Including--yes!--"Wake Up" by Hilary Duff. Here's a photo of Mr. Webb with Gerard Way from My Chemical Romance.

You may recall I had my own encounter with Gerard Way earlier this year:

That's some kinky giantess-porn shit right there!

Don't tell Marc Webb I sucked his client's head.

I brought my camera out here, 'cause I'm fixin' to rustle up an old-fashioned PHOTOBLOG! YEE-HAW!

This charming self-portrait was snapped in my hotel room not ten minutes ago. I told the guy at the front desk that I was going to throw my TV in the pool like Keith Moon. And he was like "Very good, miss." Try as I might, I just can't seem to ruffle these heavy-lidded Californians! Frustrating.

GRAAAARGGGH! I'M A TIGER! IF YOU ARE IN THE LOS ANGELES AREA, PLEASE SEND STEAKS (PREFERABLY RUTH'S CHRIS) AND SOME DIET MOUNTAIN DEW.

Yes, I am wearing Chas Tenenbaum track pants.

Don't you love the way the light catches my polyester hair?

Do you concur that we are, in fact, two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year?

I'm a nurd.

Dang, I'm getting tired already. Time to forage for caffeine, jog in place, and focus on this week's pitches. Much love from the Hills. I'll say hello to L.C. if I run into her at Hyde.

P.S. I am enjoying John Mayer's blog a little too much.

Yesterday, Jonny and I scored some sweet-ass art toys at Robot Love, the best Minneapolitan store since the Smitten Kitten. I got a Kozik White Labbit (non-smorkin') and Jonny got a Munny.

The whole point of a Munny is to decorate it yourself. Jonny did a minimalist white-crayon thing, but it still came out heartwrenchingly cute:

Since I got the camera out anyway, I took some pictures of the new dwelling for all you voyeurs!

Living room. The animals were not invited to participate in this photo, but they showed up anyway. Not pictured: Douchepacker

Kitchen. Those pneumatic bar stools are really fun to adjust. Also, that's an excellent granite kitchen island...FOR ME TO FUCK ON!

And randomly: Jonny driving a boat. Watch out, manatees!

We have decided to become real estate moguls (ie; the housing market sucks veinous dong). In other words, we want to rent our former house to some gorgeous person or family.

(And if you decide you'd rather to rent-to-own, we're down with that, too!)

This is the MLS listing.

Pros:

*The house is on the busline and close to downtown. (Most people don't realize that Robbinsdale is a pussy hair away from Minneapolis. We are an inner-inner-ring suburb.)

*The house has been lovingly maintained. And is within walking distance of three (3) bars, one of which has 100 varieties of vodka. Also, a great school, a pretty lake, and the world's best video store.

*Income opportunity alert!: You could sublet the finished basement to a buddy or stranger. There's a brand new bedroom down there with an adjoining shiny-new bathroom.

*We would be the coolest landlords ever. You can paint, adopt an incontinent Newfoundland, whatever. Just pay rent.

*House is beyond immediately available. You can move in yesterday if you want. Of course, we'll take the house off the market as soon as we find a renter.

For details, please email me. I'm totally serious.

(Please do not use the email to tell me I'm going to hell.)

Thanks for letting me shill.
xxx
Diablo

OH!- P.S. The annoying doorbell-pressing crotchlings I mentioned in yesterday's post are at the new house. Never fear.

I've decided Peanut's new friends are obnoxious, ill-mannered little crotchlings.

They've been ringing the doorbell for 25 minutes--no exaggeration. Barnabas is barking himself hoarse, which is the primary source of my annoyance. Now they're doing that "shave-and-a-haircut-two-bits" knock. Oh God, the agony. Why did so many people fuck bareback in the late '90s?

I would march upstairs and reprimand them, but that's something only a "real mom" can get away with-- I'm already under suspicion in this neighborhood because I'm so rad and shit. Besides, I prefer the idea of ignoring the children completely while they shiver in their thin nylon jackets.

I'm not a professional urchin-greeter, and I won't be exposed to their rank lunchpail stink! AND IF YOU THINK I'M MEAN, ALL YOU MAUDLIN CLOWNS CAN CRAM IT!

Luckily, Jonny has volunteered to pass out candy on Halloween this year. I'm gonna stay in the basement, drink Freixnet, surf SG and read Bizarre.

P.S. I just read over this entry and realized it could be interpreted as a mild, Swiftian satire of child-hating trolls. Good, good. Keep believing it. Don't stop loving me.

Jonny's birthday is today! I think October 7 should be declared a holiday. In the State of Diablochusetts, it already is. One more year of insight and hilarity from my darling souse--excuse me, spouse--is something to celebrate.

Due to diminished funds related to our recent house purchase, I had to get Jonny some pretty lame gifts. The booty hardly seemed sufficient, especially considering Jonny bought me the DEF! LEPPARD! JACKET! for my birthday. I thought to myself, "What would the songwriting team of Elton John/Bernie Taupin do if they were faced with this conundrum?"

Der!

Jonny's Song (to be sung to the tune of "Your Song.")

I'm totally kidding!
I'M TOTALLY KIDDING!
I'm just giving you static
(And I also gave you HPV
Don't worry--most men are asymptomatic)

Love,
Brookie

For months, I've fervently prayed for a second Defamer mention. I could only imagine surveying the masses from such great heights. And now, at long last, I've ascended the summit!

(draws lusty breath of crisp mountain air, unsheathes alpenhorn)

RIIIIIIICOLA, bitches!

This is cool for me, but even cooler for my favorite ten-percenter. He's been officially christened "HORNY MANAGER" in Hollywood-gossip parlance. That's fucking legendary.