My attempted killer, Joaquin Phoenix.
I would've been WAY under-dressed for the occasion, but I almost met my maker late last night.
As usual, I spent Halloween with Lord V, in whose house Lubbock and I lazed while eating a lovely, semi-fattening home-cooked meal and watching scary movies. Well, not so much scary as just seasonal, like "Rocky Horror Picture Show."
Anyway, we hung out a few hours then made our adieus, walked out the door and headed for the side-yard gate. As we fumbled with the lock, I heard something rattling up the street. Looking to my left, in the sickly orange glow of a street light, was someone pushing a grocery cart.
"OK, hurry," I said, which is always the wrong thing to say to someone when all parties involved are overly anxious individuals. Lub seemed to go pale as he walked rapidly to the car while I locked the gate behind me.
I realized then and there that I was probably over-reacting because we had just finished a horror film -- not even a scary one, embarrassingly enough: "Final Destination 4." So I kinda chuckled to myself.
But then the silhouetted figure, who was wearing either a trench coat or dirty floor-length robe, started speeding up, the cart's wobbly wheels clattering loudly on the road.
"Open my door! OPEN IT!" I told Lub, who finally got his door open and, what seemed like half a minute later, unlocked mine. Our potential killer was getting closer, faster. And he had a beard, which, at the time, seemed particularly menacing. Not one of those friendly Santa Claus or Bob Vila beards either but a ratty, slightly disheveled, Joaquin Phoenix on "David Letterman" beard. "AUGH!!!" (That was me screaming, by the way.)
Actually, we managed not to really scream until we got in the car, slammed the doors and, in glass-rattling unison, belted out a blood-curdler that would've frightened off anything mortal -- anything except the Bathrobe Butcher flying up behind us with his cart of aluminum cans and dead bodies. Lubbock started the car, gunned it and flew around the corner, still screaming.
It only took a block for me to realize that the guy was probably harmless and, perhaps, homeless. But better safe than dead, I sometimes say.
But next time you're walking to your car in the Pearl District, be on the lookout for a bearded individual -- male or female -- pushing a wobbly grocery cart. It's a creepy experience, let me tell ya. So he/she probably needs a creepier name than Bathrobe Butcher. If you think of a good name, let me know, por favor.
Peace, love and friendly beards ... XOXO
Today's non sequitur: What do y'all think of the new Metallica/Lou Reed collabo album, "Lulu"? Buy it or not?
