Eleven months of the year on the road with you, my dear

I did not dream that I discovered a book of short stories by Lloyd Alexander; it just existed in the children's library collection of the church where part of the dream was taking place. It was from the mid-'80's and had little sandy-looking pen-and-ink illustrations like chapter headings. I remembering being particularly struck by the one for Vesper Holly.

I am awake at this hour because I'm going to be part of this parade: "Reclaim the Streets for Horns, Bikes, and Feet!" The last time I was in a parade, I was still in the Girl Scouts. This time, I got invited by old-time radio people. I have dressed accordingly. I hope someone takes photographs.

The world would be a more colorful place with a few more Ted and Calistas

That was a parade.

There were stiltwalkers. There were masks. There was facepaint. There were puppets. There were political signs. (There were non-political signs.) There were banners. There was a lot of bird costuming, I have no idea why, but the tall draped stork masks were terrific. I also approved of the couple who dressed as mandrills, complete with pale-blue papier-mâché buttocks. Hula hoops, roller skates, wings, and banners. We were one band behind a thing that was basically a homebuilt Mari Lwyd, only it was a buffalo. On wheels. There was lots and lots and lots of brass.

derspatchel dressed as Dr. Alberts at his sartorial worst (the blue-ringed octopus tie made an appearance) and carried a hand-lettered sign reading SCIENTISTS PREDICT! RADIO on the MOON by 1985, which regularly got him stopped for photographs. Red Shift, Interplanetary Do-Gooder put in an appearance in the person of Michael McAfee (who does not have a livejournal that I know of) and vanguardcdk carried his sign for Tomes of Terror: New Arrivals in a Big Broadcast of 1954 sweatshirt. I dressed in '30's drag and am in the conflicting position of hoping there will be photographs while knowing my reaction to them (thank you, Tiny Richardson) will almost certainly be depressed by everything that isn't the three-piece suit. That said, the three-piece suit makes me happy. For the first time in my life, I had enough pockets.

We were announced as the "Post-Meridian Players" at the bandstand, but the fact that we were announced at a bandstand was sufficiently awesome, I wasn't going to complain. The radio part was probably obvious, anyway.

Harvard Square was full of infinite people afterward, so we took the T back to Davis and had brunch at M3. I did not think I was going to eat half a habanero when I accepted the dark-red, seed-filled pepper off the top of Rob's chicken and biscuits, but that's what the waitress said it was and my endorphin rush agrees with her. It was so hot it made my ears hurt from the inside. The hog wings were also very good, but I couldn't feel them in my cheekbones.

And then Rob went back to sleep and I am not meeting rushthatspeaks for a movie this evening, so I am home and decompressing, drinking cinnamon tea. I changed back into corduroys and a sweater; hung up my suit, trousers folded along the crease. My hair is very crinkly from having been braided since nine o'clock this morning. I will want more waistcoats in my life.

That was wonderful.