I need to write a short about doing kid's birthday parties in Los Angeles. When I run through the vivid yet horrific memories, there are some wicked tales in there: Having to play Superman but without the ability to fly or lift cars (Superman, by the way, without super powers is simply "stranger wearing tights at my party"), the Sylvester and Tweety show where some 4th grade dipshit kids ripped off my tail and I challenged them to a fight; the Little Mermaid show where I played the prince and the HOTTEST chiquita, wearing nothing but a bikini top and tail, played Ariel - how we went out for lunch afterwards and she stripped out of the tail in the parking lot down to her thong and held a conversation with me; the numerous times I suspect I did parties for the kids of Orange County swinger parents, how freaked out I was having to do a party in Compton and having it turn out to be one of the most appreciative group of sweet kids I've ever met; playing George of the Jungle wearing nothing but a wig and a loincloth (you are deemed "naked guy at party" from the moment the door opens), the manymanymanymany times neither the children nor the parents spoke a lick of English and I was screaming my nuts off in a Barney costume; jumping into my 71 VW Saturday mornings at 9 and not returning home until sometimes 8 at night only to awake and repeat on Sunday, sitting in traffic on the 405 heading down to Long Beach on a Friday night as Batman and showing up 2 hours late; the Spiderman show where I caught the mothers checking out the - ahem - "tarantula" in my costume's pants (it really left little to the imagination)....Jesus, and that's just off the top of my head.

I'll search for an angle later, but I needed to empty those contents out of my head. Now there's more room for pie in there.