This is clearly unacceptable.
So it is with great trepidation (and excitement...but mostly trepidation) that I announce to you that I am throwing my jaunty fedora into the ring for NaBloPoMo.
I can hear you from here. "Frances, old thing, why are you spouting gibberish?"
NaBloPoMo stands for National Blog Posting Month, and is a spinoff of NaNoWriMo (National Novel Writing Month). The great and prolific Coz has been doing this for nearly a decade now, and has successfully convinced me to join. Okay, pestered. Whatever. These details do not concern me.
The main point of NaBloPoMo is that one posts every day. Every single day. Please take it upon yourselves to leave nasty and threatening comments and text messages if you sense that I am slacking off. If the caliber of my writing has fallen dangerously past its already admittedly low point, please poke and prod so that my guilt pushes me into doing the right thing. Because that's how we Catholics roll, after all.
However, having this announcement count as "a post" would be lazy. Lazier than usual anyway.
Dear San Francisco: Let's talk about the shenanigans on the N Inbound train last night shall we? For example, the mostly naked man. In a diaper. With mysterious bits of paper stuck to his body in a seemingly random fashion. Or the inappropriately exposed escaped prison convict in a gaping orange jumpsuit?
Granted, it was peak time (about 10) and sure, this is the main way to get downtown/to the Castro from the Sunset. But the Mav and I agreed. Many of the costumes seemed half-assed this year.
That's just disappointing. We saw a pair in clearly homemade costumes that had clearly taken a good deal of time. But we could not for the LIFE of us figure out what they were supposed to be.
Turns out, they were shrimp. I don't even know. If you are going to dedicate some thought and time into your costume, at least have it be somewhat recognizable.
A good deal of the slutty _______. An even greater deal of the DEAD slutty ________, but that is to be expected. Of course, my detective was pretty classy. I only ran into one other similarly attired p.i. - trench + fedora. Our rapid fire conversation went something like this:
Unknown Girl: (spots me from 10 yards away and runs up) - You are a detective!
Me: I AM a detective!!
U.G.: Do you have a magnifying glass? (shoves glass under my nose)
Me: No! But I have three mustaches!
U.G.: COOL!! Hey! Slutty ______! Take our picture!
Me: Would you like to borrow one of my mustaches?
The slutty _____ proceeds to take our picture, and Unknown Girl runs away.
Three mustaches you ask? These are of course for use in my role as a detective for when I have to, you know, be undercover and stuff. See below:
This is the English Mustache. At least that's what I called it. For an inordinate amount of time, The Coz and I spoke in a ridiculous British accent while taking turns holding the 'stache. Turns out, I have an alter ego - a personal gentleman's gentleman named Spiffington. Picture the men of Monty Python's Flying Circus and their innumerous drag sketches, and you will come close to the preposterous accent I was affecting.
Now, this is the mustache of the sneaky Frenchman. I CANNOT do a French accent. Instead I kept parroting the lines from "The End of the World" - Sheet guys, zey are coming! Fiere our sheet!
And, finally, the resident Canadian disguise. You will notice I am grinning like a loon - the inimitable Kate Beaton has a comic strip in which she parodies Canadian history. Now, not being Canadian, much of the humor flies over my head, but there is an underlying theme: Canadians are friendly.
I do say so.
PS. I registered on the official site because apparently there are prizes! I love prizes. It involved labeling this blog as about "food" and "humor". A stretch? Perhaps.