Halloween. That’s right. It’s Halloween again, even though it was Halloween two seconds ago. Usually, right about now I’m asking my friend Frank, “How many days until baseball starts?” and he always says, “A hundred and sixty-eight days,” without missing a beat. That’s because right about mid-September the Braves are always getting themselves mathematically eliminated from the play-offs, and I want to know how long until the next season starts. But this year it’s gonna be (was) different! This year we’re gonna (didn’t) win the division title, and make it to the world series and and play the Yankees and it’s gonna go to seven games an and then it’s gonna go into extra innings in the seventh game against the Yankees and it’s gonna be the longest baseball game ever, and I’m going to write a science fiction novel about it while it’s going on and the game will be so long that next baseball season will be here before it even ends and it will be an awesome time-traveling conundrum and, and, and, and . . . .

OK. That’s what’s gonna happen next year, as in 2011.

And but so then, so anyway, it is almost Halloween (As in only 340 days). Don’t be that idiot (me the last three years) scrounging around the totally mauled costume stores the day before Halloween trying to piece something together. Do it now! Take your costume for a test drive on talk like a pirate day! It isn’t just for pirates anymore. In fact I am officially renaming it TALK LIKE YOU’RE TEST DRIVING YOUR HALLOWEEN COSTUME DAY. (I’m so smart, and all my ideas always come together given time, which isn’t linear, but rather malleable, like Play-DOH!)

And but so then, so anyway . . . Once there was this scientist named Fermi, and he was sitting around with his goober friends eating lunch and talking about really esoteric science-mystery stuff so that he wouldn’t have to think about his bills and his aging parents and his own failing health and sex and stuff at work and his friends were saying that since there were hundreds of billions of stars in the galaxy, and a hundred billion other galaxies each with hundreds of billions of stars in them, why then, there must be other life out there and in fact the universe is probably teeming with life. And they felt so smug and self assured with their billions and billions of worlds that they said even if you did that dumb old creationist trick where you put all the parts of a watch in a bucket and shook it up that eventually it would come out a watch after billions and trillions of tries, so much so that they were quite taken aback by Fermi when he, very cavalierly, (and one can only imagine that, being a goober scientist, he probably spoke with his mouth full), when he said, “So, where are they?”

And but so then, so anyway . . . there was this scientist named Turing, and he is on the shortlist for people who have contributed the most to the advancement of humanity. He merely invented the computer. (And, no, it’s not analogous to the way Al Gore invented the internet). But he was gay in 1950’s England, which, evidently wasn’t quite like being gay in 2010’s Atlanta. He was loathed and reviled because of his sexual orientation, even though he invented a machine that cracked the Nazi submarine codes, which were considered so unbreakable by the Nazis that when it became apparent that their moves were being anticipated, they executed all their submarine commanding officers.

Maybe in a couple decades someone with an abhorrent sexual malfunction will save the world from North Korea’s killer satellite fleet. Do we even have anything analogous to being gay in the 1950s? Sexual attraction to stray cats?

I have this pet snail named Gary. No, that’s sponge Bob. I have this feral cat named Gary, brother of Owen Meany (my little beanie weanie) who is wise to me. Gary knows that I am trying to trap him so I can torture him to death. I have not been able to fool him by feeding him every day for six months, nor did successfully capturing him and then turning him loose, unharmed, a dozen times fool him. He knows I’m trying to trap him so I can torture him.

And but so then I was talking to a client and he said, “I have spent so much of my life contemplating the human condition and observing men and women and searching my own feelings and desires and I have come to the conclusion that, much like Crohn’s Disease, there is no cause and no cure and that the only thing you can do is, live with it as best you can, and if that means you want to be alone 80% of the time then, by golly that’s what you should do and if you have any vague sexual fantasies that you can fulfill, without hurting anybody else, well then, by golly you should fulfill them, and who are you to say that there isn’t an analogous puzzle piece out there somewhere that fits you perfectly?: and who are you to say that you should eat broccoli because it’s healthy and who are you to say that there isn’t some woman out there somewhere who would love to give 25% of her time to making you happy if you also made her happy, and who are you to say that you should not try to get from birth to death and make it as wonderful as it can be, and if that means getting a sense of satisfaction from helping others than so be it, and if that means wrapping yourself up in some obscure study, so be it, and if that means experiencing suffering, so be it, and if that means pursuing fame, fortune, or power, so be it. It’s not like you are not going to secretly, or subconsciously pursue your innermost, deep-seated needs at some level anyway?! Is it?

I may have to say this a million times before I die but, you can take a cheap transistor radio that operates on batteries and pinch the handle atop it between two fingers and hold it away from your body and listen to music or talking coming out of the speaker. You could climb a tree and toss the radio into the air and it will broadcast songs and/or talking until it has landed in the net you have wisely placed below it, and the whole time, music or talking will come out of it, even when it’s not touching anything. I imagine you could drop it from a tall building and it would transmit on the way down. It kind of implies that there are songs and words in the air, everywhere, at all times.

Luckily your brain is nowhere as sophisticated as a $10 radio, and so of course there is absolutely no way that anyone could ever conceivably receive anything in that way.

Right! So, and not to offer this as any kind of excuse or explanation or anything, but when I was yanked into this world from my mother’s womb, held aloft and slapped, instead of bursting into tears, much to the discomfiture of the attending physicians, I laughed my little head off. In desperation I was administered a second slap at which point I projectile vomited right into the left eye of the nurse who promptly dropped me on my head. And if that’s not the truth, may God spank my bare bottom in front of all my friends.

I’m sure many Yacht Clubbers are excitedly putting the finishing touches on their short stories for the Creative Loafing short story contest this weekend. The theme is X and it has to be less than 3000 words long, or something like that.

Just a note of caution . . . should you, by some supremely depraved caprice of fortune, decide to write a story about how X marks the spot during a treasure hunt in the Yacht Club on Talks Like a Pirate Night, well then, your time-traveling, plagiarist’s tongue shall be cut from your body and super-glued to your time-traveling plagiarist fingers. If you write about how X is the roman numeral 10, and try to incorporate the 10th commandment, well, then, Frank may do something gross and weird to you.

The Turing Test. Please submit your thoughts on the Turing Test to Gino for cash and prizes.

Please do not submit your thoughts on the Turing Test to Hippy, or Michel, or Meredith, or Jen or Medium-sized Jeff. It will just upset them, and you will be disqualified from receiving cash and prizes from anyone, ever

Send your thoughts on the Turing Test to 1768 Pennington Place, Atlanta GA 30316, or deliver them in person to 1136 Euclid Ave any Friday between noon and 4pm.

In summary, there are 365 days in a standard earth year. There are 320 days until Halloween. In 174 days you must set your clocks one hour into the future, thus “springing ahead” and losing a precious hour of sleep. There are 45 days until Christmas. There 14 days until Thanksgiving, on which day the Yacht Club will open at 6pm, (or as we say in the world of marketing and advertising, THE YACHT CLUB WILL OPEN AT 6pm ON THANKSGIVING AND WILL BE SERVING DELICIOUS SMOKED TURKEY DINNERS PREPARED BY HIPPY WITH EXTRA LOVE AND CARE).

On a lesser note, because you demanded it, and I like to be thorough, my birthday is July 19th, and I won’t be embarrassed if you shower me with gifts. I know how good it feels to give, and I want you to know that I will always be here for you. Ladies, ditto for Valentine’s, only 93 days away. St. Patrick’s a month later (it may be leap year, but there’s thorough, and then there’s anal).

Also there’s the Gingerbread Trailer Park which you very seriously should very seriously buy a lot for right this second since they all sold out last year in less than one week. Five bucks! Buy it NOW NOW NOW NOW NOW!!

One last thing. Buy an album called Metallic Spheres by the Orb featuring David Gilmore, and play it while you clean your house. You will totally think you’re in a movie where cleaning your house makes you a hero! You don’t even need to eat carrot cake while you’re cleaning, but it wouldn’t hurt. Thank you. And have a nice month.

-Gino