porsche revving in my circular driveway beeping at the security gate.
i walked down to the drive and she was cleaning out the back seat area of her targa. our pal marc weisbott was in the passenger seat jetlagged but looking like a million. he was dressed up as a weary canadian and obviously spent a lot of time and money on his costume. i shook his hand, always impressed by a journalist who got paychecks from the likes of the village voice.
moxie (pictured) floored it and left a nice skidmark on the brick driveway and sped through the iron gates.
took sunset east hugged a tight right at alvarado and in no time we were being valeted at casa de marc brown, a 17 story 50s office building that had been converted to artists lofts. the mc has always lived large and im talking plate glass windows super high ceilings, exposed walls, track lighting. minimalism at its finest.
upon arrival we saw transvestites dressed as men, women dressed as ghouls, quite a few dot com casualties, wizards, even a very large man dressed like anna nicole smith with pill bottles in her hair instead of curlers. it was awesome.
i was invited to mix a drink for a lovely lass and i fixed one up for her and made a spiced rum and coke for myself.
happy halloween, captain morgan.
happy halloween, jack from the white stripes.
me and marc go back. how far back? way back.
he was the man who first showed me the world wide web. he also turned me onto some of my favorite bands like the muffs and monster magnet. if you look at his cd collection you will go home and look at yours and want to punch it for being so lame. same goes for his clothes. same goes for his life. very few men have made me jealous with their lifestyles but marc brown tops my short list.
because he’s a great host, marc (not pictured) invited us to follow anna nicole downstairs one flight where she lives. turns out she lives with another man and together, in real life, they are interior designers, and it was totally amazing what these gentlemen have done with their 1,600 foot rectangle. it was like night and gay. buddah head statues, faux marble floors, luxurious furniture and window dressings. recessed lighting.
it was hard to chose which we liked better, the german influenced grays blacks and whites of the mc’s pad or the browns and greens and whites of the fellas downstairs. we went back upstairs to marc’s pad and i felt more at home there. i felt like i could rollerskate up there like in “betty blue” which, i believe, is one of the fine aspects of having a loft. why turn a loft into an apartment when it’s perfect just being a loft?
the views were breathtaking. long, sweeping panoramas of downtown la, complete with the police helicopters shining their floodlights upon the ruffians near staples center. it looked straight out of terminator. i was mesmerized.
so marc brought us upstairs to the roof where the wizards had congregated to smoke.
even on a roof moxie attracts attention. of all the beauty of hollywood and koreatown and downtown all eyes were on the nancy sinatra outfit of madison and one courageous wizard trekked across the roof to offer us a puff or two of his “cigarette”. moxie blushed and refused the generous offer. i followed her lead. hugs, not drugs, harry pothead. pounded my rum and threw the cup off the roof at the crackheads in the park twenty flights below.
marc had a dj on the wheels of steel who busted out the slow jams and even threw in a little Toto that brought back memories of halloweens of the past.
when i got home i found a message on my machine from my mom who said that she was remembering when my sister and i were little kids and she would help paint our faces and make costumes and she wondered if i remembered any of those nights and of course i do.
who could forget.
strangely none of the kids from my neighborhood came around for the mini tootsie rolls that i had waiting for them.
perhaps my home was decorated too scary for them.
maybe it was the creepy church next door.
maybe life is super different these days than they were when i was a boy when you could knock on any door in the neighborhood and get a treat.
oh well, sometimes change is good. if moxie and weisblog and i drove 20 minutes west instead of 20 minutes east we would have seen Pink sing for free on santa monica blvd.
i think our party was way better.
and because i was buzzing so hard and my arms had had the night off before i laid myself to rest, i whipped up a quickie little photo essay for your costumed posteriors that goes a little something like this hit it.
and for those of you into politics, may i suggest: daily instigator
porsche revving in my circular driveway beeping at the security gate. 
because he’s a great host, marc (not pictured) invited us to follow anna nicole downstairs one flight where she lives. turns out she lives with another man and together, in real life, they are interior designers, and it was totally amazing what these gentlemen have done with their 1,600 foot rectangle. it was like night and gay. buddah head statues, faux marble floors, luxurious furniture and window dressings. recessed lighting. 
i followed her lead. hugs, not drugs, harry pothead. pounded my rum and threw the cup off the roof at the crackheads in the park twenty flights below.
i do that because theyre famous celebrities and their girlfriends would be pissed if they knew they were slumming with the likes of me.
everyone’s asleep. everyone either has their head down in their chest or their head back and mouth open or their head over to the side resting against the graffitied plastic window pane.