The Evolution of a Rock God… Another Halloween on the Books

I’m half asleep as I write this, sitting on a heating pad nursing my lower back, as I tend to do on any normal evening. I probably won’t finish these thoughts for another couple days, but here’s how another glorious Halloween played out.

Mullet or Fro?

When I awoke this morning, I had no idea what I wanted to be (quite the opposite of my childhood when I was certain I was destined to be a superhero). Most mornings, I awake to a glorious sunrise, and I know that I will be happy. How can you not be in Sausalito, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful places in the country? But this morning, I didn’t. I didn’t know what I wanted to be.

What I did know was that I had a dirty blond mullet and I had a short black fro with a shock of blond up the middle. From there, my inspiration would come. I mashed two pictures, sent out a poll the night before for advice as to which look to go with, then went to sleep. My thoughts as I was dreaming that night were of The Dark Knight, Bruce Lee, and Uma Thurman in Kill Bill. Raiding my closet when I awoke, I found yellow pants and yellow Onitsuka Tiger sneakers, Batman t-shirts, a yellow track suit, a Batman mask and other sundry clothing items that could make this work. Then randomly, other items came into view – a fifteen year old pair of extremely worn Levi’s, an old denim shirt, bandannas, my “Lucky” belt buckle, and boots. And my mullet. The Canadian Rock God was born!

Before I left home (and after walking with Taylor), I snapped a selfie posing in front of my mirror.

Canadian Rock God. Later Brett Michaels. Later Billy Ray Cyrus. Later and finally back to Brett Michaels.

I walked into the office, “dude, you look amazing!! …Every rose has it’s thorn!”

Goodbye, Canadian Rock God! And just like that, Brett Michaels was born! That morning, the Rock of Love was in session.

By lunch time, my music changed it’s tune. Standing in line for food at a Halloween party that was being thrown at the office, Mark Twain lamented to me, “I’m really sorry about Miley!”

Goodbye, Brett Michaels! And just like that, Billy Ray Cyrus was born! “Don’t tell my heart, my achy breaky heart, I just don’t think she’d understand!”

I stayed at the office till 8pm that evening. Tired, but committed to going out, I decided to meet friends in the city at the Clift Hotel for an invite only Halloween party at their lounge upstairs. Driving down took thirty minutes. Searching for parking took another thirty. (Quick aside. While I was searching, the bomb squad was outside Ruby Skye, which is never a good sign. If Billy Ray needed to step in to save the day, I’d be more than willing to help.) An hour later, I was still in good spirits walking towards the Clift when a group of women yelled, “Talk dirty to me!” And asked for my autograph. Not breaking character, I told them it was my night off. Brett Michaels was back! I saw a million faces. And I rocked them all. I’m a cowboy. (Wrong rock god, but you get the point.)

Finally there, I was standing in line for almost thirty minutes, the line barely moving, as much as I wanted to spend the night with my friends at a lounge, an overwhelming taste came over me, knowing that the night I envisioned would not come to pass.

I was hungry and craved Indian food. Fortunately, as I was driving around the blocks looking for parking, I spied an Indian restaurant – Naan and Curry – barely committing it to memory somewhere into the deep recesses of my mind, and now in line, becoming a stronger and stronger pull, more attractive than even seeing my friends, significantly more attractive than staying in line.

Walking out, bidding adieu to the pretty woman next to me, I stepped out of the line, walked Tony Romano style towards the restaurant, walked in owning the place, all eyes on me – “Every Rose Has Its Thorn playing in my head, channelling Brett Michaels out of my body, I strutted to the front, demanded a seat by myself at their best table in a corner, ordered chicken vindaloo and shrimp biriyani (because I wanted leftovers), and ate like a star. I never broke character.

Satiated, I strutted out the restaurant towards my car, a rock god in the misty night, drove away towards home, a smile on my mulleted, bearded face adorned with sunglasses at night. That’s how you leave, folks.

With style.
In the way only a rock god could.

Brett Michaels waiting for some chicken vindaloo and shrimp biriyani


One thought on “The Evolution of a Rock God… Another Halloween on the Books

  1. Reblogged this on The Secret of My SucCecil and commented:

    It’s entirely possible that this particular Halloween I may spend indoors with only Taylor to keep me company watching the Notre Dame game and the World Series game, all the while reminiscing about Halloweens past, like this one when a simple outfit turned into three costumes. Happy Halloween everyone!


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