November Spawned A Monster: Snaps From A Lunar Evening

Here are a couple Lunarians from last night's Halloween party above, masked to protect the vows of silence and anonymity that preserve the sacred circle of Los Angeles' Lunar artistic elect.

We Lunarians held our usual yearly Halloween séance as well last night, and despite our new clubhouse on the Malibu sand being illuminated by only the soft golden flames from a sea of new silver crescent moon candelabra, the pretty melodies of the Harryhausen Skeleton Orchestra carrying on the ocean wind and the eyes-rolled back high of the narcisse blossoms we had flown in from Turkey for the occasion, I just couldn't be bothered to join the gents above when they offered to share a spliff and a few confidences (and kisses, they hinted) with your Wit editor, the prim and overworked Lunar Librarian.

No, I preferred to sit chastely holding hands with my spectral sweetheart, Venice of America founder Abbot Kinney. Until the Waltham grandfather clock in the library where we sat pitching woo struck midnight, that is, when Kinney (known in real life for practicing a particularly free form of Free Love, keeping two different families on separate Venice canals, and penning a book on his sexual theories and practices entitled Tasks At Twilight in order to give vent to his amorous inclinations and his--well let's dispense with the niceties--his love of fucking) could resist the romance of the evening no longer and he merrily joined the two men above in bobbing for caramel apples in cognac and breaking open a pinata shaped like Keith Moon's head that was stuffed with magic mushrooms with his silver-handled Kinney cane and some impressive ectoplasmic force.

And here we'll roll in a dense fog over the rest of the evening, which ended at dawn with fresh sour cream and caviar omelets for all prepared by unstoppable Kinney in the Lunar commissary and yours truly awakening in a long abandoned California condor's nest on a craggy peak over the Pacific wearing nothing but a hot pink satin bandit's mask, last might's mascara and the carnation from Kinney's lapel behind one ear.

Oh! I have fallen, it is true dear reader! And to think how shy I was before I climbed the winding windswept stairs to the attic of our palatial new clubhouse and cracked the haunted spine of that cursed copy of Tasks At Twilight! Please, I beseech you, use this as a cautionary fable dear reader, for I fear that many in the audience would have this shrooming ghost humping cognac swilling omelet eating hell serve as an infernal blueprint!

Dictated this very morning from a hot bubble bath on the 13th floor of the Los Angeles Lunar Society to the asst. librarian by Theresa L. Duncan. November 1, 2006.

"Some stains never wash out!" She added, then: "Abbot, quit splashing! Can you reach that washcloth?"