The 1st Anniversary Spectacular

About four hours ago marked the exact One-Year Anniversary of The Long Sunset. It’s been a violent and random first year. In the beginning, I had little idea of the direction that these Nevada Wolf-pack blue pages would go. They’ve been clearly all over the place (from the mimicry of Mark Twain to Vicodin filled rants about Orlando’s infrastructure), but I believe each post has managed to be fairly entertaining, and perhaps, occasionally insightful.

I’d like to thank everyone that has visited the site. From the time that my Google Mercenaries started keeping track in mid-May, I’ve managed to pull in 1100 unique hits (individual computers) from 14 different countries; from Gainesville to Kuantan, Malaysia. Although, I think the hit from Kuantan is either a robot or a sex slave. Either way, I appreciate you visiting the site (and feel free to e-mail me if you’re the latter).

And I must also thank my lone sponsor, who diligently sells odd wooden furniture at the very bottom of the page. It’s been a long strange year, but as the Good Doctor taught us: when the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.

The Orange Occult

I destroyed a giant pumpkin this weekend. Our fallen soldiers would have wanted it that way, and on Veteran’s day/weekend, who was I to deny them this freedom. To wit, I’d never smashed a pumpkin before, but the sound a cracking pumpkin makes is exactly what one would expect. And immensely satisfying. This was a giant pumpkin. So giant that I struggled to lift it even to waist level (not that I’m by any means a weight-lifter, but this orange behemoth must have weighed close to seventy pounds). Nevertheless, it had to go; no one is allowed to keep such a magnificent pumpkin sitting outside their house over a week after Halloween and not expect this treatment. And beyond being drunk on a mixture of liquids, and inhaling the PVC/fiberglass fumes of a terrible backyard bon-fire that involved lawn chairs (and probably violated the Kyoto Protocol), it was simply the right thing to do.

Now I’m not sure if I did the literal smashing, or whether my friend Mike did, but the result was the same. And I certainly initiated the bloodthirsty move.

It was one of those weekends. The homeowner has probably had an awful week due to my rage. People get quite attached to their pumpkins, and pumpkins depend on their owners for protection. Such a ritual is involved in pumpkin selection. You get your family together and drive down to the local ambiguous field of grass. There they are, spread across the yard, and you get choosy. That ones much too lopsided, that one has gray spots, this one is filled with strange parasitic beetles. But then there it is; the fruit that will be with you through the autumn. It will scare and delight. It’s not unlike adopting some small orange child, and in the end equally as delicious.

Then you wake up one cool Sunday morning and see its stringy brains scattered across the street. Why! But you’ll never get that answer, smashing a pumpkin is both a meaningless exercise of drunk ambition and a life changing event for the smashed. It signifies the beginning of those rough holidays, the ones that involve family and planning. Gifts and cash, over-time and terrible office parties. The fun of Halloween and all its innocence and simplicity lies decaying in your driveway. All at the hands of some tequila fueled drunk. So next Halloween, be sure to destroy any neighbors pumpkins, and spread a little piece of holiday sadness.

Good Night, Sweet Prince

This page is usually not an Obituary (sometimes Real Estate, often Crime, occasionally Travel, rarely the Obits), but on this day I must make an exception.

On October 30th, 2007, Bob Goulet drifted peacefully into the great Jersey Turnpike Diner in the sky. His friends called him Bob, he had no enemies. Except bad taste. And Bob Goulet had plenty of taste. The death of the sensational host of The Bob Goulet Special, Starring Robert Goulet has caused mass vigils in the Vatican, and at least temporary peace on the Gaza Strip. The world bleeds blue eyes on this Hallows Eve.

The Los Angeles Times started the healing, calling Bob a "strikingly handsome singer, with the rich baritone, who soared to stardom". Such modesty. He was struggling through multiple lung transplants at the time of his death. None would take. Of course. Only the lungs of God would have taken with Bob Goulet.

His funeral will be held on the banks of Lake Erie, as his body will be burned in the traditional Camelot style of flaming arrows. The ghosts of President Nixon and Johnson are expected to attend, Mr. Goulet sang often at the White House during both of their presidencies. Elvis, of course, will not be attending (in 1966 Presley shot a television with Bob's image on it, a little inside, I know).

Bob Goulet is best known for his near mythic appearance in Naked Gun 2 1/2: The Smell of Fear. And his drinking. His legendary ability put him in good standing with some of the greats of all-time. Sinatra. Sullivan. Candy. He even overcame his Canadian background.

All donations are to be directed to the Burbank School of Theatrical Arts. Gin is more than accepted.