skot AT izzlepfaff DOT com
Tuesday, 29 November
On one of our nights in Chicago, one of our gracious hosts, S., had lined up some theater tickets for us. At Steppenwolf, no less! The wife was very excited; more so than me, I admit. "That's right . . . you hate theater now," said S. Or, more accurately, as my friends V. and J. independently pointed out, "You hate everything." I thought of the reasons for hope: respected theater . . . uh . . . free tickets, I guess . . .
"I looked it up online, and it's only seventy minutes long anyway," said S. I started to feel better. I can endure anything for an hour or so. I have watched "CSI: Miami." Nothing can do permanent damage in an hour.
"What's it called?" I asked, starting to feel better for mere seconds; then S. told me. " '4.48 Psychosis,' " replied S. I started to feel worse suddenly. It's by a local group that's really got a good rep going," S. continued. Hey, what the fuck? "Yeah, Steppenwolf, right?" I was starting to get short of breath, but that was probably also because the cat was stepping on my balls and waving his ass in my face. "Oh, it's not a Steppenwolf show," S. explained as my eyeballs pulsed and wowed. "The company is just renting their space." S. averted his eyes. "Well, their garage space."
All my blood immediately turned to aspic. S. was really enjoying himself watching me enter a fugue state as I contemplated spending a quality evening in Steppenwolf Theater's fucking parking garage watching a band of sweaty little macaques performing the oh-so-primly titled "4.48 Psychosis." S. smiled sweetly before delivering the deathblow. "Oh, and it's environmental theater," he said. "So, no chairs."
Environmental theater, you see, eschews such pedestrian trappings such as audience seating. No, in environmental theater, you, the audience member, wander like a bedouin around the spaaace, maaaan, being careful not to fuck with the actors who are totally right there begging to be fucked with or to kick over their water bottles or anything. Exploooore the spaaaace! Whoops, not that space or that space or that space, though, because those are for acting.
And so it came to be that one night we travelled to the world-famous Steppenwolf Theater Parking Garage facility for a little show.
A word about that show, by the way. "4.48 Psychosis" is an ostensibly poetic piece about a woman who wants to kill herself. (SPOILER: She does!) The playwright, Sarah Kane, achieved some fame in the theater world, particularly when, in 2000 or so, a few months after writing this play, she killed herself. Go ahead an insert your own really easy joke here. The 4.48 in the title refers to 4:48 AM, which Kane describes as the only time of the day when she feels lucid. Or, perhaps, psychotic. Or, these days, cold.
It blows off any real attempt at linear plot, which is fine, were it not for the fact that what she replaces the plot with is an excruciatingly tedious litany of "poetic" imagery, fractured non-sequitur, strained therapeutic hoo-ha, and an awful lot of "Look at me! I HATE ME!" Get in line, sister! I was here first!
It is a truly awful script, and I wish that whoever decided to do this show had, oh, I don't know, read it. Or sobered up and reread it. The opening line in the show is the lead actress': "I am sad." Gee, lady, we just got here. Should we go? Kane's play also features her therapist, who in at least one scene should be amusing as she tells Kane (yes, I'm just saying that the play is about Kane and not worrying about it) that everything is all her fault, but the actress isn't up to it, or the director didn't notice that it was a grimly funny scene, and anyway, there died one potential moment of amusement under the carriage wheels of this abysmal production. In another nice bit of me-against-the-world-ism, Kane's boyfriend sleeps through the entire production, except for one scene where he inexplicably gets some giant thing rammed up his asshole. (Then he goes back to sleep.) The subtext seemed to be: "My boyfriend sure is a turd. He sleeps while I'm sad, which is all the time! He should get something rammed up his asshole." At the risk of sounding insensitive--which I'm sure will be a first--if I were this woman's boyfriend, I think I too would sleep as much as humanly possible.
I actually like to imagine this actor's internal monologue during the show:
As if all this weren't enough, the show also features three young women who function as a sort of chorus. You can never get enough mileage out of three women, can you? Just ask the Greeks! Or Niel Gaiman. Fates? Furies? Graces? Oh, who cares. They wore some nice costumes, though, sort of ballerina costumes with kind of a Bride of Chucky spin on them. Unfortunately, they also had some odd halos which were actually dead baby dolls hanging over their heads. You know? If you bring out the dead babies, you'd better be ready to pull the trigger on the whole dead baby topic.
But no. So that was pointless too.
It was all very agonizing, of course. S., happily, did find some worth to it: he thought the director had some good visual ideas and nice staging (at least for a piece where the actors are forever shooing you away from wherever they need to be writing in chalk on the floor, or eating oranges [yeah]). I couldn't disagree; for one thing, I'm no director, that old saw about all actors just wanting to direct notwithstanding.
(It actually sounds like the worst punishment in the world to me. Here you have an artistic vision for some show, and then you have to sit around for weeks and weeks and watch cantankerous, scuttling backfuckers like me utterly fail to make it come true, every night. It's much easier to act. Directors come home every night and wail, "Those cretins are destroying me by inches!" Actors come home and flatly think, "Ruined the director's dreams again. Hey, whiskey!")
The show was a preposterous dud in nearly every way, then. We autopsied it afterwards as we shambled to a bar, any bar; S. was still finding good things to say about the direction, I was muttering darkly about dead baby-halos, and the wife as usual made up for my horrid manners by thanking S. for procuring the tickets for us in the first place. (Hey, it was a very sweet thing of S. to do.) We had a perfectly lovely time whiling away the rest of the evening.
That night--or that morning, really--I woke up. I felt strange. I looked at the clock's glowing numbers with a chill. 4:48. I did a quick mental inventory: Was I sad? No. Was I suicidal? No. Was I really fucking sleepy? Yes.
Then the wife rammed something really huge right up my asshole. I screamed; I screamed with pain . . . but also exhilaration!
I thought, I'm totally going to write a play about this!
See you in the garage.
Tuesday, 22 November
The Cats That Ate My Blood. Also, Chicago!
The wife and I are back from Chicago. What a crazy city! I mean . . . crazy! You know? Totally crazy! You know what's so fucking crazy about it? Seriously?
Nothing. It is the least crazy city I've been to. Chicago is, from what I can tell, pretty definitively not-that-crazy. Or if it is, it's crazy in such a quotidian way that it's not really noticable to the outside observer. And I was really looking forward to the crazy. I mean, my God, this city does after all have a Daley at the helm. Give me some corruption, Mr. Daley! Don't bore me! Offer me a bribe! Promise me free socks! Threaten me with arbitrary prosecution! DO ANYTHING!
Again, nothing. Which isn't to say we didn't enjoy ourselves; we did immensely, even despite our utter failure to get a toehold onto some of the city's infamous graft scene. The closest we got to discomfort was some diffidently inclement weather (Oh no! Wind!) and an alarming experience on the El with something called the SANTA EXPRESS! Where we were greeted by CTA elves wielding candy canes and packed cars of glum people all miserably clutching . . . candy canes. "It's only November 19th!" screamed the wife, striving helplessly to be heard over the sound of Perry Como being lashed by the Christmas Furies.
There's a lot to tell about the visit, so I will as usual be obnoxiously talking about this for a week or so, so for the travelogue-hating folks out there . . . happy Thanksgiving! From here on out for a while, it's going to be nothing but Tales From Chicago. And I have a few. Including this one time where I fucked this hot chick from Canada, but you don't know her.
Anyway. We were hosted the entire time by our good friends S. and J., old pals of ours from Seattle, and their cats, Herbert and Dora. I bravely do not feel the need to protect the identities of the cats, you see, mainly because, well, one, they are cats; and two, perhaps someone will kill them for me. For while our hosts are lovely and gracious and kind, their cats are FUCKING POISON to me.
I've had a lifelong allergy to cats. I thought to mitigate this with medication, so before our trip, I coughed up a good amount of dough for some Claritin. No problem! RIght?
Those fucking cats nearly killed me. DORA AND HERBERT? ARE YOU READING THIS, NASTY CATS? I'm still breathing funny! I've stayed with friends before who have cats, and it's never been much of an issue, but this time, it was like some awful histological key party where Dora and Herbert waltzed off with my immune system (played by Joan Allen) and rough-fucked it into oblivion, leaving me, immunologically-compromised Skot, to gasp and cough and wheeze the entire time until I finally wandered the icy Chicago roads only to be electrocuted by a downed power line. (Unfortunately, Elijah Wood was nowhere to be found.)
Stupid cats. Stupid worthless Claritin. Even when I doubled the Claritin dose--knowing full well that when pharmaceuticals get approved for OTC use they routinely halve the dose--it didn't do fucking jack. Here's a sentence that should make for some good Google hits: CLARITIN BLOWS DEAD CIRCUS BEARS. Here's another: CLARITIN ANAGRAMS TO "CLIT NAIR," FOR WHAT THAT'S WORTH! And finally, CLARITIN DIDN'T HELP ONE BIT WITH MY ALLERGIES, BUT I DID FUCK THIS HOT CANADIAN CHICK, BUT YOU DON'T KNOW HER! SO THERE'S THAT!
My fussbudget antibodies are, happily, starting to chill out now that I'm back home, but I can tell it's going to be a while. It's fine, though. It gives me time to ruminate on my other experiences, such as the astounding gay bar known as SideTracks; the utterly appalling theater experience we, uh, experienced; and of course, the gigantic banquet thrown in my honor by many friends who wished to come and pay fealty to their king, which was me. (NOTE: While I am not lying about the banquet, some attendees would not refer to me as their king, and would instead prefer the term "that jittery jackoff.")
Oh, and there was also this hot chick from Canada that I totally banged, but you wouldn't know her.
Friday, 11 November
Chicago! Not The Musical.
Craving new Izzle Pfaff hi-larity over the coming week, are you? No? Nobody? Well, you're all in luck! On Sunday, the wife and I travel to the City of Hot Dogs, fair Chicago! So I'll be blessedly silent for a good week or so. Our good friends S. and J. have agreed to put us up for our stay, and I just can't wait to make fun of them or the city they live in. Yes, I'm on a serious joke-finding mission, and nothing--not inclement weather, not the generosity of our hosts, not even a minimum standard of goodwill nor taste--will make me stray from my path. My path to hot dogs. And also to Ozzie Guillen. I'm bringing him a gift! It's a button that says, "I'm kind of a creep!"
See? I'm not even there yet, and I'm insulting the place! This is going to go great.
It's just too bad that actually getting there will, of course, involve yet another immersion into what has become America's Lousiest Fucking Common Experience, air travel. Oh boy! The airport! We all know how this is going to go.
"HAVE A GUN? GUN! SECURITY!"
And then I'll get gang-tackled by a bunch of guys who got demoted from mall duty. After a brief tussle, I'll finally be muscled into a locked room and surrounded by the brutes.
"Strip off his clothes," will say the one who has mastered human speech. "We've got to find that gun he's been bragging about."
"I don't have a gun!" I'll scream. "All I've got is a cigarette lighter!"
And an ominous hush will settle over the room, as they stare at me with fresh hatred.
"An explosive device!" the lumpen leader will hiss. "You confess! Boys . . . get me Alex."
Helpless tears will roll down my face as I struggle at my restraints. "Who's Alex?" I will gasp.
"He's our bomb-sniffing crocodile. We're going to light him on fire and then slip him right up your asshole. He'll eat that bomb in no time! And maybe your heart. We'll see."
"WHAT BOMB? WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" I'll scream. Then I'll pause for a moment. "Wait, why are you lighting it on fire?"
"I dunno. It's in the regs." And he'll show me a little book with a page that clearly says, "IMPORTANT: ALWAYS LIGHT THE BOMB-HUNTING CROCODILE ON FIRE PRIOR TO INSERTION. IT IS TOTALLY HILARIOUS." So there's no getting around that.
And then I just know they're going to make me check a carry-on.
But anyway, when I get back, I have a new project. Just FYI--clear your calendars!--for I am yet again taking the stage for another kind of bullshit theatrical experience that doesn't really require much effort! Which is really my cup of tea these days. In December, Open Circle Theater will be mounting its all-expenses-spared production of a thing called " 'Twas A Night of Shitty Theater," a holiday-themed reader's theater show where actors read from scripts of the worst holiday plays ever imagined by man. Good times! (Note: Good times not actually guaranteed.) I'll keep you posted.
See you after next week. Unless in a fit of button-inspired rage, I get choked to death by Ozzie Guillen. I'm not ruling it out.
Wednesday, 09 November
Of Me I Sing
Today was a really unpleasant day at work, so naturally afterwards, I went to a neighborhood bar for a drink. Why not? Unwind! The bartender on duty was a young woman--actually, the owner's daughter, I knew--and I hadn't seen her in quite a while. I had thought she had been overseas attending college. So, feeling friendly, I asked her about it.
"So are you back from school now? I haven't seen you in a while."
She replied, "Well, I--"
And that was where I stopped caring.
Hi, my name is Skot. And I'm an asshole.
You see, it really did take just that long for me to stop caring. Why am I listening to this shit? I asked myself. Well, you asked, stupid. I replied. She was still explaining what her story was, and I was still not caring. Weren't we happy just a minute ago watching ESPN in peace? I wouldn't let this go, and neither would I. She's just answering your fucking question. Ass.
As I pointed out to me at the time, it wasn't like she barged in on my private time. I asked her a question. And she was answering it. The problem was, I didn't care about the answer. (Not that I heard it, really--I was already deep in conversation with myself by that point. And also the World Series of Poker, which was helpfully right over her left shoulder.)
It's a problem I have. I admit it. I am a shallow, self-obsessed creep. Don't get me wrong: I am not pretending that most of the things that come out of my mouth are somehow less banal or tedious than anyone else's. It's just that I am, at my core, far more interested in what I have to say than I am with what anyone else says. And despite my every effort--well, a couple of weak efforts, maybe--I remain so to this day. Let me give you some more examples.
Earlier today, in the smoking gulag, a fellow gasper remarked, "That's a nice coat."
"Thanks!" I replied. "My wife gave it to me."
"I--" he started to say, but then I was instantly bored, and kind of stopped listening. He prattled on about something that had nothing to do with me, clearly--the "I" was a giveaway--so I sat there and stewed, thinking, I could be doing my crossword puzzle right now. Then I spent a few moments fantasizing about how cool it would be to be a professional crossword puzzle-solver, but like with fame and money and stuff.
I can pretty much do this for hours, no matter how exasperated I get. All you have to do is keep a polite smile going. Here's another example that's happened to me many times.
"Hey, what's up?" It seems like an innocuous question, but in reality, it's the worst thing I could ever say. Because inevitably, here's the reply:
"Well, I--" And then I stop caring. Look, I've tried everything, including not trying to be an asshole, but nothing has worked. Because I'm still an asshole. I am pretty much going to assume that you're about to tell me about a dream you had or something, and then I'm long gone, and probably thinking about Kate Winslet or some such. I can't help it, folks. It's not my fault that everyone in the world but me is so unfathomably boring.
Let's all just agree that this is really your problem. I mean, of course, you and everybody you know. Would it really be so hard to try to engage me on topics that I find interesting for a change? Like, say, me? It doesn't seem that hard. But nobody is ever willing to meet me halfway. (Okay, to be fair, people often try to meet me halfway, but honestly? Halfway is too far.)
Just look at this entire magnificent fucking post. Has there ever been a better one in the history of the Internet? One more interesting? I can categorically say: No. This is easily the most well-written, absorbing thread that I--and by extension, the entire world--has ever seen. Because it's about something that we all want to hear about: me. Somewhere, Hemingway's zombie corpse is futilely blowing his head off again and again because of how insanely great this post is, and it makes zombie Hemingway bummed out all over again that he can't get his zombie dick up or write anything good any more. Suck it, zombie Hemingway! Well, once you find your mouth again.
I'm really glad to get this all off my chest. And I know it's been valuable for you. You get way too much of you. I'm happy you're finally getting some more me. In fact, it reminds me of a funny story.
Tuesday, 08 November
OMG OSX G4 LOL
Hello hello! Your Izzlepfaff experience is BOUND to be more exciting today! Why? Because I have a new computer! And by "new," I of course mean "used!"
You are going to shit your pants over my posts from now on. In fact, you're going to have to go to your neighbor's house, beat him or her senseless, steal their pants, and shit in their pants, then laboriously put their shit-filled pants back on their dead-weight bodies, and then put on your own again, thinking, "Man! I have shit so many pants!" from now on. I'm sorry! I don't make the rules. My gain has come at the expense of your pants. And the pants of your neighbors.
I have moved beyond my little old iMac with OS 8.3! Whatever that was! I now have a slightly less outdated G4! Apparently! With OSX! I guess!
Let me explain. This new iMac--which is a hand-me-down from some lesbian friends, which probably explains the really great wallpaper featuring a stacked blonde in a bikini holding a rifle and wearing some sort of Beefeater hat (no, not kidding)--is what is called, as I said, a "G4," or as those of us hip to the lingo, of G-furr, or also for us Anglophiles, a "Guv'nor." And OSX? Don't get confused. It stands for "Oh Shit Times Ten!" because for anyone who is used to anything else, it immediately makes no sense. In this way, you can sound like a British computer expert, just like me! "Gotcher a new computer, Guv'nor!" "Aye! Blimey! I think I put me hard drive in the rubbish bin!" "Oh shit! Times ten!"
Now don't get me wrong. This thing is adorable. My friend P., who set it all up for me, was showing me this browser thingy called Safari. (Side anecdote: I had asked him, based on geek recommendations, "What about Firefox?" His sheepish reply? "It freaked out on me.") For one thing, the little stoplights up there! Red obviously means "Stop"! Oh. Boy, it sure doesn't. Okay, then yellow means . . . uh . . . load slower? Whoa, page loads! Too fast! And green, I guess, means . . . I don't know. Does it mean, "Carry on! You're doing great!" I think of it as the Encouragement Button. Keep it up, Safari!
These are of course all lies. I got too scared to hit any buttons after my experience with the fucking red one.
Another feature, I am told, is this phenomenon called "tabbed browsing." With tabbed browsing, I can tell this weary machine to start downloading a page, and then, in another tab, start working on a different page entirely! Safari! Go get me this Tubgirl biography! In the meantime, I can check out what's new in evolutionary biology. And also get irritated with Slate! This is rad! It's like having multiple windows open in IE . . . but now I can call them tabs!
It has been suggested that I do not fully understand why this is cool. Which is almost certainly true. In the meantime, I do appreciate why it's called tabbed browsing. For every new one you open up, you get a little canned video of Tab Hunter to let you know what's going on! Hey, Tab! " 'Allo, Guv'nor!" he replies jauntily. " 'Aving a spot of trouble loading your fisting vidjeos!" I love that guy. "Oh shit!" I scream. And Tab, that rogue, replies tinnily, "Times ten, Guv'nor!"
I'm starting to see why Macs are so great. I think it mostly has to do with the racky blonde holding a rifle.
Thursday, 03 November
I Can't Wait To Have My Meat Packed!
Hey, November! So here you are! Gosh, it's . . . fucking lousy to see you again!
As if on cue, the weather has turned absolutely fucking miserable these last couple days. I stare up at the grim sky and wince at what appears to be the dire folds of God's great grey striated anus stretched out across the horizon for my nonpleasure, waiting to unload His woe on us. Fuck this, man.
(Look, not to pick on God's butthole or anything. I'm sure it's like the best butthole ever. But I'm sorry, He's getting up there. It's got to be kind of grey. I'm sure He's fastidious and all about this. But grey. Gotta be.)
I know . . . I don't have to live here. It's all just crummy. I just managed to forget that this place is shitty for heating. It's electric baseboard (as opposed to our last place, which was forced hot water)--I considered for a little while about getting an auxiliary heat source. An electric one. Because I'm a fucking genius. Then it was gently pointed out to me that whatever electric source of heat I brought i would probably be financially equivalent to our baseboard heat. Then I killed some adorable babies, because, hey man, fuck this! I'm cold! And, it seems, pretty stupid.
But in only a week and a half or so, I will be relieved of this shit! The wife and I are going on vacation. To the tropical town of Chicago! Hurrah! Fuck this abysmal cold and rain. Think about it: if you're kind of sleepy, "Chicago" sounds like "Kokomo"! (Enjoy that earworm, everyone.) Which means--duh--that it is somewhere we can relax on the beach while Bryan Brown prepares elaborate cocktails for us! Hey, look! Tom Cruise is putting it up Elizabeth Shue's ass! Flip her over, Tom! It's the "Cocktail" thing to do!
We're really looking forward to this. Especially the famed "Lake Effect," where the warming air of Lake Whatchama blows all over Chicago and we all walk on the beaches getting free corn dogs and shit from The Fridge. At least that's what the guidebooks say. We have coupons. "Present this to The Fridge for a free corn dog and shit." (Look, it beats the hell out of Jim McHahon's sauerkraut.)
Here's to dreaming about tropical Chicago! The city of White Shoulders! Who knew that city was so into fragrance? I can't wait.
Tuesday, 01 November
Hey, happy Halloween! And by that I mean, fuck this Halloween, right in the feet, or some other unfuckable place. (Please don't send me footjob links.) Halloween on a Monday? Sucko, man. Halloween on a completely intolerable Monday, replete with various (boring) work-related nonsense to test my limited amount of mettle? With lots of phone calls, and people wandering around at work dressed as a school crossing? (Yeah.) It's enough to make a guy . . . not go to the office party and instead sit in his office in a snit, trading venemous IMs with distant friends! Because that's how I know I am All Man.
The weekend didn't start this way. This weekend was the wife's BIRTHDAY WEEKEND! And I had to--it's a condition of our exhaustive pre-nup--show her a good time. On Saturday, then, I romantically keyed in the "unlock" code on her electronic restraints, massaged the feeling back into her atrophied legs, and wheeled the old gal to the cheapest ginmill in town! (They make their own gin, right in the urinals! If anyone goes blind, hey, free round.)
It was a cool night, really--lots of pals showed up, and we had a grand time, after I threw the wife into the coat closet for excessive mewling. GIN THIS! and BLIND THAT! I don't even know. People did bring presents, though! Our friend V. got the wife a really lovely pair of pinking shears, which the wife clutched happily amongst all those coats. She loves to pink. And she went to town on those coats! She pinked the hell out of them, and by the time the evening was through and we pulled her out of the closet, she was thoroughly covered in bits of wool and mohair, and was distractedly singing that Liz Phair song, "Mohair Bride."
On Sunday I don't really remember what happened. I just woke up in the tub, naked, with a bunch of blood and bone in my hair--I should get a drain trap. Those bone fragments are going to really fuck up the pipes. (And can I just say? L'Oreal is just hopeless with this shit.) I eventually wandered out to watch some football games, and at one point spotted Ray Lewis on the Ravens' sidelines. He gave me a wink and a covert thumbs-up. Fuckin' A, Ray! I raised my bottle of cough syrup at him as a salute.
The sink garbage disposal has been grinding for three days. I'm not gonna look. It's freaking me out.
Anyway, that gets us to the lousy fucking Halloween.
You know, I tried to get into the spirit. It's for the kids, after all. Even after such a lousy day. I stopped at the store and got a big fucking four-pound bag of candy. Four pounds! I figured I was going to get raided by these little animals--better be prepared! I also got an X-Acto knife and a shitload of bug spray, and spent a really long fucking time carefully opening all the little fucking candy wrappers and liberally dousing everything with the bug spray. It was a real project! I carefully re-wrapped all the candy, except for a few boxes of Dots, which I used to devour as a kid. Those fuckers really stick to your teeth!
And I waited. I clapped my hands gleefully in anticipation. I mean, not "my" hands, technically--I have an extensive collection of hands. I clapped some of the really meaty ones, and got a nice rhythm out of some of them, kind of a Bobby Brown sort of feel. I put on my "I [HEART] CHOLINESTERASE INHIBITORS!" t-shirt and borrowed the pinking shears from the wife, who didn't seem to mind once I snapped the fuckers viciously at her eyes a few times.
Boy, did I wait. And wouldn't you know it? Not ONE FUCKING KID showed up to knock at the door. Not one! I can't get over it. It's a little sickening, really, how some faint rumors about things like "pending indictments" and "horrible snipping noises" can poison one's neighbors against you. It's . . . disappointing. Not one kid.
It really bummed me out. The worst end to the worst Halloween ever. I listlessly dug into the candy bowl eventually, grabbing for some Dots to cheer me up, and gnawed on them with an absent kind of hunger. They tasted funny, but I ate three boxes of the fuckers. Now I'm sort of vibrating, and my pores feel full of liquid, somehow. My asshole is doing funny things. It feels like fucking George Carlin routine down there. Shut up, crazy asshole!
Oh, son of a bitch. The bug spray. That's right! How embarrassing. The bug spray. Man, these Dots sure get all the fuck up into your gums. I can barely claw this stuff out, even if I go through my face! I didn't even realize how easy it was to tear through cheek meat! Flimsy. Especially if you have a nice new set of pinking shears. Snip snip! Smile wide! No problem!
I just wanted to have fun. With the children. What a lousy Halloween this turned out to be.
I hope this candy doesn't go to waste.