IT'S TIME FOR...FUNEMPLOYMENT!!!

Hey, dear Vaulties-

I, along with roughly half of the staff at the design 'ho house, got laid off yesterday and none of us (to the best of my knowledge) is receiving even two cents worth of severance. I saw the layoff coming so I'm relived that the suspense is finally over, but I am rather irked at the reality of no severance pay. But, fuck it. Might cry a tear in a bucket! It's time to regroup, center, and launch once more into the breach that is the NYC job market, a famously iffy and savage arena where grown men and women have been known to battle one another over an entry-level position at Weiner On A Stick. Nonetheless, I'll actively look for work and file for unemployment benefits, but for the time being it looks like it's going to be another round of "funemployment."

ANOTHER REASON TO BRING LUNCH TO WORK

It should come as a surprise to absolutely no one who lives or works in Manhattan that the cost of buying lunch on a daily basic can be exorbitant, thus precipitating many folks brown-bagging it. I usually cook stuff that I can bring in but every now and then I'm tempted to try something new, in spite of the pointlessly high prices here in Midtown. My day job is located near Grand Central Station and there are numerous places where one can find pretty much any kind of grub to suit their fancy, and my co-workers take it upon themselves to check out nearly every new place that opens up. One recent sitdown/takeout joint that won high kudos from my fellow employees at the design 'ho house is Five Guys, a hamburger joint on 3rd Avenue that makes burgers and fries that were reputed to be on par with getting one's dick sucked — well — by an in-her-prime Jenny Agutter while she looks up from her kindly-provided task and gazes at you adoringly.

24-year-old Jenny Agutter as Jessica 6 in LOGAN'S RUN (1976). You're welcome.

Needless to say, I very much doubted if any burger could live up to that kind of hyperbole, but I resolved to eventually judge for myself. That day came this afternoon, when I couldn't make up my mind as to what I wanted to have for lunch (I forgot my packed lunch at home) and wandered about the area in search of sustenance. Failing to find anything that looked good at the local Hale & Hearty soup place I looked across the street and spied Five Guys, deciding on the spot to experience their allegedly transcendent burger (no fries; too greasy and heavy).

I walked into the joint, passing a large crowd of yuppie-types as I made my way to the counter, and took a look at the menu. I decided on a plain bacon cheeseburger — just the beef, bacon and cheese, no condiments — so I could taste the sandwich and judge it by its own unadorned merits, but balked when I saw that the burger I wanted, even as relatively no-frills as I desired, was priced at $8.49, or rather $9.25 when tax was included. I mulled it over and finally decided to take the risk, plunking down my hard-earned cash before the cashier. In no time flat I received my burger in a plain paper sack, after which I made it back to my desk and commenced with the eating.

The Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, yours for a mere $9.25.

As I bit into the burger and masticated upon its artery-clogging goodness, I enjoyed its flavor to a certain extent, but the overall experience amounted to what could fairly be compared to the same item as found at any Wendy's location, only about 85% less greasy. While that's all well and good, the Wendy's version is less than half the cost of the much-vaunted Five Guys version, and the burger I had was in no way whatsoever worth paying nearly ten bucks for.

The Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, half-eaten and positioned next to a soda can for scale. This was not worth nearly ten bucks.

Considering that I was full after eating a little over half of the thing, coupled with a sense of disappointment and a profound feeling of having been ripped off, I didn't bother finishing my nearly-ten-buck burger, disinterestedly relegating what remained of it to the trash.

Oh, well. No Jenny Agutter dick-sucking analog for Yer Bunche. You live and learn, I guess...

DOWN AT THE OL' SWIMMIN' HOLE

NOTE: While technically not occurring on the sidewalks of New York, I do feel this entry warrants inclusion in my category chronicling the wonderful sights experienced in this magnificent Rotten Apple.

So here it is, Monday again, and another work week begins. I arrived at work this morning and headed toward the kitchen to snag my frosty mug from the freezer — can't have mt dose of Dr. Pepper-provided caffeine without it! — and heard revolted groans of disgust issuing from the humble eating area. I walked in and found my co-worker/pal Nick staring aghast toward the sink after washing his hands and apparently catching sight of something nasty, so I asked him what had set him off. With eyes bugged in disbelief, he gestured toward the right of the sink with his head and my gaze followed his lead, finally freezing on the following charming sight:

Four good-sized NYC cockroaches had been doing their thing in the kitchen over the weekend while we humans weren't infesting the place, and from the look of things it seems they decided to use the jar where people leave utensils to soak as a a swimming pool. Most likely Borgiaed by the dish-washing soap that saturated the water, the four little corpses bobbed silently amidst the spoon and two knives in what reminded me of a blattidae performance piece.

Though several of my co-workers were revolted by this tableau, some of us whipped out our cameras and captured it for posterity, far more intrigued by the unintentional beauty of the composition than grossed-out by the fact that there were four thumb-sized insectoid vermin bobbing deceased in a receptacle for instruments used by humans to eat and handle food with with.

If I were an ancient Greek I might read some sort of omen from this happenstance, but what could it possibly harbinger?

WORKING WHERE THE ACTION IS

1:11 PM, happening right now:

Once again the world of international politics collides with my insignificant orbit, this time in the form of irate protesters on 40th Street making known their displeasure over Iran's President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad's presence today at the U.N. Here are two shots of the crowd as seen from fourteen stories up:






And you've just gotta love how you can come away from this with a bitchin' t-shirt purchased from the protest's handy merch tent:

"You're all out of anti-Ahmadinejad tees? Bummer, dude... Oh well, I guess gimme that Motorhead tour shirt instead."

START THE WEEK THE VAULT OF BUNCHENESS WAY!

Once again the all-too-brief weekend is over and we all have to haul our asses back to wherever we call work (except for those of us who are "funemployed" as my upstairs neighbor Mike puts it), and here I am back at the design 'ho house. The one thing that really gets me primed for five days of a work grind is starting the week off with an enjoyable breakfast and the proper sounds to set the mood. If I could get away with it I would start every day with a hearty meal of bacon (or sausage) and eggs an wheat toast (which was my breakfast every single day from the time I was four until I was eighteen), but nowadays it's wise to limit my doses of saturated fatty anti-goodness, so I start the week with a "treat" and then restrict the truly bad breakfasts to the weekend.

The Vault of Buncheness Monday morning repast.

On Mondays I begin the week with my frozen mug filled to the brim with a real, made-in-Mexico Coca-Cola (cane sugar instead of high fructose corn syrup makes a universe of difference) to provide caffeine, one of the delicious personal quiches from Pax on 42nd Street and 3rd Avenue, and the musical accompaniment of SACRED MORNING CHANTS to Shri Ganesh, as sung by a number of folks who are down with the Hindu Remover of Obstacles.

Ganesh, my favorite of the post-Vedic deities.

While not a religious type per se, I do dig what Ganesh represents and puts out there, and the serene sound of his devotional chanters fills me with a great sense of calm centeredness, the perfect way to start the week, and imbues my isolated no-man's-land work space a shrine-like air. A shrine to geekiness, perhaps, but it works for me. I just wish I could burn incense in here.

THE MOST FUCKING AWESOME T-SHIRT IN THE UNIVERSE

Sometimes life throws a curveball that warps one's basic sense of reality as one knows it, and the following item has done that for me at the moment.

See this rather lame and generic shirt featuring three howling wolves and a full moon? Trite, no?

Well lemme tell ya something, buddy. Apparently this humble/awful t-shirt has become a phenomenon over on Amazon, where over 1,300 consumers have written in with their reviews attesting to the sheer awesomeness imbued upon the wearer by what at first seems to be a mere item of trailer park-ready apparel. Dubbed the "Three Wolf Moon" tee, this mystical fashion statement is a focal point of cosmic energies previously incomprehensible to mortal man (with the likely exception of Injuns and collegiate dabblers in mind-altering pharmaceuticals), but now it can be yours for around the price of a halfway decent case of beer.

Myself and several of my co-workers were intrigued when one of our designers, let's call him "Sour Sam," alerted us to it, and now we all want to obtain one of these objects of power and harness its innate magicks. Seriously, how could you not want one after reading such actually posted reviews as the following (the names of the reviewers have been withheld, but I swear these are up on Amazon):

Why can't Amazon have more stars? 5 ain't enough!
So I'm looking for threads that say, "Hey baby...I'm real boss!" when I stumble upon this epic creation. The wolves spoke to me in a language all their own; it was like German, Mongol, and Bitchin all mixed together. I mean, one wolf howlin at the moon is major...but three???

I ordered next-day air (if only there was same day!), and, of course, a size smaller than usual to ensure the closeness of the wolves to my chest hair. When the package arrived, I tore it open, and I SWEAR angels sang. I think it was Freebird. I immediately removed my "No Fat Chicks" shirt, and replaced it with this finery. Lemme tell you: AW YEAH.

I'll spare the details of my conquests since I started wearing this shirt; suffice to say, I'm swimming in a sea of babes the likes of which are usually found on those K-Tel infomercials. I'm also more confident at work, and expect to be promoted to cashier soon. I owe everything to this shirt (I should say "shirts", since I now own 23 of them).

Without knowing, I gained the power of the wolf
I bought this shirt at Wal-Mart because I liked the design. There was some feral instinct that made me toss aside the myriad other shirts and get the 3 Wolves Howling shirt. I still don't know why. I went to a local biker event and a very attractive girl asked where I got the shirt. I told her and she said "That is the coolest shirt I have ever seen". Well, as you may have guessed, the rest of the night went beyond my wildest dreams. Silly me, I thought that it was ME, not the shirt. However, after a short period of celibacy (not voluntarily) I wore the shirt again and, stunningly, I had my choice of women at the bar I went to. I then realized it was the power of the wolf that I had inadvertantly stumbled upon. I decided to push my luck. I am a keyboard player, and I went to a Rolling Stones concert wearing the shirt. The road manager came out and invited me backstage. Mick asked me about the shirt. In the conversation, I mentioned I was a keyboard player. You guessed it-now I am the backup keyboardist for the Rolling Stones. With the extraordinary amount of money I am making, I have bought enough of these shirts to last me the rest of my life without ever having to wash one. Would I recommend this shirt? Only if you are tough enough to handle it.

If God wore a t-shirt, it would have three wolves and a moon on it
I am very respected,envied, and feared throughout the world. . . of Warcraft. As a man endowed with such a might and power, I have also been gifted with a physique that is appropriate as such. My powerful shape and size has rendered the vast majority of the shirts in my wardrobe less appropriate to wear. For example, my colossal arms have ripped the sleeves on my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles shirt, and my titanic girth has stretched out my original Yoda shirt to the point that one could mistake him for Jabba the Hut. With this conundrum at hand, I paused a very important quest in World of Warcraft to update my wardrobe. When the Three Wolves t-shirt blessed my screen with its presence, I immediately bought five of them. I waited for the magic to grace my home, and I wasn't disappointed. . . .

I noticed that the shirt fit snuggly--ensuring me that no troglodytes would steal it off of my back. I also very much appreciated that it is short enough to show about three inches of my stomach, the powerhouse of my being, complete with the hair of a mighty brute and a girth which would rival that of even the greatest kings. I immediately ran some of my medicated salve into my scalp, got my pony tail adjusted to ride just over the waistline of my blue sweat pants, and I was off to the local thrift store in search of comic books and vintage video games. The shirt gave me the luck of an ancient talisman from World of Warcraft; it was just like boosting my Mana and skill points by 35. I stumbled upon an original Storm trooper action figure still in its original packaging! It must be worth tens of dollars, and I got it for only three. I also found that a young damsel couldn't keep her eyes off of me. I turned to face her so that she could see the divine linen that I had donned that morning. It was clear that she was drawn in by the aura of my power and mysticism which was made even greater by the shirt. I got her cell phone number and promptly entered it in my PDA.

It has been three weeks, and I have yet to remove the first of my five shirts. I am hoping that its divine fibers will meld with my flesh so that we can become one in our greatness. I have gone up an astounding 23 levels in World of Warcraft, and I have the shirt to thank. I can't even think of what other things this shirt has done to enhance the quality of my existence. Thank God for the Three Wolves and the Moon on my T-shirt.

A day that will live in infamy
The day that I received my 3WM shirt in the mail is my Pearl Harbor, it shall live in infamy.
I had been sore from the intensive training I had undergone in preparation for this day... you know, to be utilized in beating back the intense barrage of screaming ladies clawing for a piece of me. I had been training like a fighter trains for his title shot, not only for my own safety but to live up to the reputation of the 3WM.

As I stood in front of the mailbox, I opened it, noticing a faint glow from inside and the sound of what I could have swore was distant howling. I reached inside and pulled out the Amazon.com package, instantly lighting up like a combination of the fourth of July, Time's Square on New Years, the eerie white light from the X-Files, and a kid with a brand new toy on Christmas morning.

With baited breath and much trepidation, I donned the shirt, instantly absorbing its powers, and set out on an adventure back across the parking lot to my apartment. Though it was raining, the 3WM shirt refused to be inconvenienced with "wet" by the water drops falling from the sky and would not allow me this discomfort either, so it repelled every droplet that came within a five foot radius of my shirt. As I stood in the rain, looking down in amazement, the soreness went away, and suddenly, there I was, up to my neck in screaming, crying ladies... it was like the Beatles had just landed, but better, because the Beatles didn't have the 3WM shirt... suckers. How I made it out of there I haven't a clue, but thanks to my training, and the recently acquired skills of the three wolves navigating by moonlight, I escaped. Hours later, as I returned from my journey that normally would have taken less than two minutes, not only had the trash taken itself out and my dog learned how to speak in English, but all my furniture had transformed to leather and my apartment was now a 2000 square foot condo. The best part? Dinner was waiting... Hot, succulent, freshly grilled steaks with steamy, flaky baked potatoes and a cold one. And of course, three cool pieces of raw cow flesh left over for my newest howling friends. My dog was jealous. I know because she told me. In English.

Needless to say, I am impressed. However, in the interest of providing an unbiased forum for this amazing revelation, here's a dissenting opinion:

I guess some of the benefits are exaggerated
So I got this wolf shirt because of, you know, the sweet wolves on it.

However, having owned this shirt for three weeks now and having tried it out in a variety of situations, both formal and informal, I'm beginning to believe that some of the benefits ---- as described by other reviewers ---- are exaggerated. For example, not ONE supermodel has approached me. Some of you may be used to having supermodels approach you on a regular basis but, believe me, I am not: I would notice one should she appear in my vicinity.

Similarly, I have not been invited to a vision quest, even though I wore my wolf shirt in New Mexico.

There is one thing, though, and that is that whenever I wear the wolf shirt I have a lot less issues with involuntary urination. I have not studied it long enough, however, to establish a cause/effect relationship.

Once, however, while wearing the wolf shirt I was mistaken for Schneider, the building superintendent on "One Day at a Time."

So I guess the jury is still out.

Whatever the case, we are clearly living in days of miracle and wonder, so head on over to Amazon and read these stirring testimonials for yourself! There are 138 pages of them. No lie!!!

NOTHING BREAKS UP A MONOTONOUS DAY AT THE OFFICE LIKE A BOMB SCARE

A little over a half hour ago, the NYPD stopped traffic to investigate a "suspicious package" on Third Avenue between 37th and 38th Streets. I figured it was probably nothing, but...

The police investigation, as seen from my office's 14th floor vantage point.

Some of my co-workers check things out from the balcony.

The sidewalks were closed off with yellow crime scene tape, and then my co-worker Tatiana pointed out a fully suited-up bomb squad guy advancing down 3rd Avenue to check things out.

By that point the gawkers who'd been outside on the balcony were forced to go back inside since the conference room through which we access the balcony was about to be the site of an important phone conference, so the gawking resumed inside various offices with adequate vantage points.

While some of my co-workers, most notably those who are relatively new to what goes on here in New York City, were understandably worried, I've seen far worse than this, and in no time things were declared normal and life returned to its normal rhythm. Yet during all of this drama I'm relieved to note that I kept my priorities straight and managed to allow my attention to be focused where it should have been, namely on the wonder of Jersey Jill's toothsome booty.

Now isn't that nicer than some ol' bomb scare?

A PRE-HOLIDAY GOODIE!

It's a well-known fact that I unashamedly love me some Orion slave girls — aka "green chicks" — from STAR TREK, so how could I pass up a cute caricature statue of one as the latest addition to my ever-growing collection of geeky work area paraphernalia?

Funko's Orion Slave Girl figure. Love the animated look!

I saw this Funko Orion Slave Girl online about two weeks ago and ordered one the minute I got back from my trip to the UK. It's fun enough that such a piece of kitsch exists, but I believe this is meant to be cartoon version of the illusion used by the unfortunate Vina (Susan Oliver) to entice Captain Pike (Jeffrey Hunter) into willingly remaining in captivity on Talos IV and mating with her (it didn't work). That happened in the first STAR TREK pilot, "The Cage" (completed in early 1965), but is more widely remembered from the re-use of much of the pilot's footage as the 2-part Original Series episode "The Menagerie" (1966).

Susan Oliver as Vina.

If you somehow missed either "The Cage" or "The Menagerie," do yourself the favor and watch them as soon as you can (especially the uncut "The Cage") so you can see the Ground Zero from which the STAR TREK juggernaut sprang.

Anyway, the cartoon green chick showed up today's design 'ho house mail and I immediately afforded her a place of honor on one of my shelves. And just for the sake of comparison, check out how Playmates handled the same character in a "straight" version released some thirteen years ago:

I snatched up the straight version of Vina simply because there had not been a toy of her up to that point, and when you see its rather bland facial expression you can understand how I keep it solely as a piece of collection fodder that could end up in a box and stashed in my closet with no tears shed over its absence. The cartoon version, on the other hand, has a lot of personality and charm (she's totally workin' that "walk like an Egyptian" move), so I predict she'll be on display either in my work space or on a bookshelf in the Vault for the foreseeable future.

Man, I love me some green chicks...

AM I THE ONLY ONE?

While sitting here at my desk at the design 'ho house and listening to my computer's iTunes library, I was struck with a from out of nowhere question: am I the only person in the world who would love to see Miley "Hannah Montana" Cyrus sing a live-in-concert version of the Butthole Surfers' timeless classic "The Shah Sleeps in Lee Harvey's Grave?" Seriously, wouldn't you give just about anything to hear her scream "There's a time to live, and a time to die/I smoke Elvis Presley's toenails when I wanna get hiiiiiiiiiiiiigh!!!" in front of a legion of her Disney-brainwashed tweener-gal audience? I sure would...

REALITY CHECK

Yesterday there were six more layoffs at my job and while I'm apparently safe for the moment I am nonetheless filled with dread. So no post for today while I take some time to think, center and regroup. I'm already depressed— have been for a couple of days; other shit going on — so this is just the icing on a great big shit cake.

Back soon.

-Yer Bunche

ASS WEDNESDAY

As I see so many of my co-workers adorned with an ash cross on their foreheads today, I wonder if Catholicism had instead instituted "Turd Wednesday" and required the smearing of shit on their heads, would they do so? And just once I'd like to see some wiseass go up to get his facial ash and instead demand full-on blackface instead of a tiny cross smear. Then I'd love to see the Jolson-looking dude burst out onto the street and scream the most Amos 'n' Andy-style "HALLELUJAH!!!" possible.

"HALLELUJAH!!!"

But that's just me being a heathen.

SWAMPED!

Dear Vaulties-

as you know, I work on this site when I have the time between actual work, sleeping or generally being a geek/menace to society, and I have suddenly found myself buried with real work. That means there may or may not be full articles posted here for a couple of days, but there are several days worth of FUN WITH CAPTIONS scheduled to automatically post so you won't be left totally high and dry. I'll get back to it ASAP, and I thank you for your patience and support.

-sincerely,
Yer Bunche

WHEN A POTENTIALLY COOL ASSIGNMENT BITES YOU ON THE ASS

How swiftly the mighty have fallen.

Last week at the design 'ho house I was tasked with writing a style guide for the hit NBC television series HEROES, a job that requires me to write overviews of each full season and what there is of the one that got started a few weeks back. Now, a style guide is a book containing basic concepts, quotes and other pertinent info on a given property that a licensor wants to develop products around, and I recently wrote just that sort of material for upcoming guides on THE LOVE BOAT, TAXI, THE TWILIGHT ZONE and THE BRADY BUNCH, each shows that to greater or lesser degrees I grew up with so I was quite familiar with their particulars.

Then came the HEROES assignment and while I saw the entirety of its first season and was reasonably entertained, as a lifelong comics geek I found it incredibly derivative to the point of being able to name longstanding characters and plotlines "borrowed" from roughly the past forty-some-odd years of American comics history (if Peter Petrelli isn't the Mimic from way back in the early days of the X-Men, I will eat my left arm, sprinkled with some Mrs. Dash, on live network television). You comics geeks out there probably shared my annoyance upon constantly hearing during the first year "Wow! HEROES is so original! I've never seen anything like it!" while thinking to yourself, "Maybe on live-action primetime TV, but I remember this from when it was called THE UNCANNY X-MEN." But the ratings proved colossal so HEROES was renewed in the blink of an eye, and with the advent of the second season it became rather apparent that the emperor was buck-nekkid with saggy balls a-swingin'.

Whereas the first season succeed thanks to its cherry-picking of scads of comics sources, season two had already run out of cool stuff to knock off and for several episodes bobbed about as aimlessly as the "floater" aftermath of a KFC four-piece meal (with biscuit and extra gravy). I gave up on the show some three episodes in and decided to wait for the season to be over before watching it, hoping it would again pick up steam and grant viewers something to hold our attention, but that hope proved as fruitless as thinking George Lucas would get back onto some sort of track after the creative debacle that was STAR WARS-EPISODE 1: THE PHANTOM MENACE (or "The Phantom Man-Ass" as my buddy John Bligh so aptly redubbed it). All the people I know who watched HEROES week after week pissed and moaned about how the show had taken a precipitous nosedive (although not one of them stopped watching it), and even series "creator" Tim Kring very publicly admitted that season two seriously ate the big one and steps were being taken to rectify the situation; that may have been the noble gameplan, but then a 100-day writer's strike hobbled the lofty plans for a spinoff mini-series and season two clocked in at an unavoidably-sparse eleven episodes and finished up leaving behind a trail of largely uninteresting ancillary characters who came and went, engendering little if any interest along the way, perhaps most blatantly a cute black girl whose abilities were a shameless ripoff of Marvel Comics' villain the Taskmaster (one of the coolest characters they ever came up with and a huge fan-fave).

I'm nearing the end of season two and I'm bored out of my mind. I just plain do not care about where any of the characters' stories are going, and if not for the need to have the info so I can write the damned style guide I would not have bothered to watch it at all, especially after taking into account the very vocal and harsh criticisms of media critics and the masochists I know who still fruitlessly stick with HEROES week after week. Some of you may think I'm bitching needlessly, considering that technically speaking I'm getting paid to watch this stuff, but while that may be true I could be using that at-home time to be doing something else. Well, my agony will be over soon enough I guess, and at least I'm not assigned to write about ACCORDING TO JIM. Yet.

THE LAYOFF LITANY

Coming as no kind of surprise — it was just a question of when — my place of employ let go five of its employees last Thursday (two of whom remain on staff until the end of the year) and even though I believe myself to be somewhat secure thanks to the services I provide I'm still sitting here with a bit of a knot in my stomach.

I've been through the layoff dance a couple of times and I probably don't have to tell you that it's a major downer for all of a workplace's staffers, leaving those who remain after the axings with a sense of survivor's guilt but also with a feeling of tension and possibly impending doom. It kills kills morale stone dead and hampers productivity, and no matter how much the higher-ups may make promises to the contrary there are always cuts to be made in these uncertain economic times. At least here at the design 'ho house there is no blatant psychological cruelty involved in the layoffs; when Marvel Comics ended up in Chapter 11 in the 1990's, the powers that be over there tried to put a ludicrous positive spin on things by giving the corporate clear-cutting the catchy name "Marvelution," and some of the people from the floors that had a clue as to who was up for the chop during the long cycle of culling would actually brush past some of us Bullpenners in the hallway and cryptically tell us things like "I'd get ready for something heavy today if I were you" and other such uncalled-for bits of torment, putting us into even more of an agitated state than we already were. And despite such dire "warnings" the layoffs would sometimes not come for weeks, leaving people fucked up and scared throughout, but at least some of the suits got their jollies...

Sheer assholism.

In fact, if I remember the dates correctly, it took some three or four years from the announcement of Marvelution before I got let go after nearly nine years of service, so we're talking years' worth of uncertainty and anxiety.

But this time around, should the axe fall upon my beige neck I'm ready for it and I'll just have to man up and sell boy-pussy in videos with titles like BEEF CHUNX 'N' GRAVY or BEARS' NIGHT OUT.

HALLOWEEN RAMPAGE 2008!!!

It was Halloween and the gameplan was simple: meet up with my buddy Jared and wend our way West toward the perfect vantage point from which to capture the annual West Village Halloween Parade, possibly meeting up with some old pals along the way. Well, it all went pretty much as expected, and we all had a blast! Here it is, with a minimum of commentary, and unless otherwise noted the pics that have me in them were taken by Jared.

PART ONE: WORKPLACE SHENANIGANS

Yer Bunche, rockin' the Ro-Man excellence. (photo courtesy Jill Ferraro)

Metal Matt represents as Eddie, the Iron Maiden mascot.

Sukihoshi drops by the design 'ho house in her Sheena, Queen of the Jungle gear.

The Jungle Queen catches up on the day's events.

About fiftten years after I expected to see this character, Raili shows up as Mia Wallace. If she's up for doing another Tarantino character played by Uma Thurman, I'd love to see her don the yellow and black as Beatrix Kiddo next year!

Ro-Man takes a call.

Design 'ho-house sales wunderkind Jamie as a carefully-researched and authentic redneck (Jim Beam is one of our clients, hence the convenient bottle of hooch).

Jillybean lays the foundation for foxy evil.

Nick, an aspiring makeup artist, attends to some last-minute touch-ups for Jillybean.

If Hell's staffed with demons that look like this, damn me for all eternity right now!

Rear view of sheer evil.

Ro-Man with Mia Wallace, the Blonde Demoness, Chickboxer and Bumblebabe.

No sooner than one second after I walked out of the design 'ho-house and hit 3rd Avenue, I ran straight into a group of the costumed. Yes, the Halloween Rampage had begun! (I love the ghoulish Holly Hobby or whatever she's supposed to be.)

PART TWO: JOURNEY TO THE WEST

In honor of the late Rudy Ray Moore: Dolemite and two of his foxy-as-hell all-girl army.

Two minutes after rendezvousing with Jared, the first of two John Lennon and Yoko Ono couples costumes I saw that night.

Jared and Yer Bunche storm 14th Street: "WHERE'S OUR FUCKIN' CANDY?!!?"

Two of my favorite people in the world, Susan and Daniel, trick-or-treating as Death and Jerry Garcia.

"Aaaaaarrr!!!"

My vote for "Best Costume of the Night": a petite woman as AC'DC's Angus Young.

Ace, the Bat-Hound (look him up; there really was such a character).

An ingenious tribute to Alfred Hitchcock's masterpiece, PSYCHO. (photo courtesy Jill Ferraro)

E.T., Elliot and Gertie. (photo courtesy Jill Ferraro)

I usually abhor costumes derived from advertising or commercials, but this Morton's Salt girl was simply too charming not to photograph.

THE MUPPET SHOW's Beaker, a costume all the more impressive for having been thrown together the previous night.

Johnny, that douchebag from the Cobra Kai dojo.

One of the many times that people asked to be photographed with Ro-Man.
Red Riding Hood and her transvestite/lycanthrope grandmother.

Two icons of manliness: a pirate captain and a matador.

Another view of the pirate captain: pirates are a dime a dozen at Halloween, but I always award extra points for rockin' it with an extra-bogus parrot prop.

El Matador!

It's Pam Grier, muthafukka!!!

The bouncer outside a club as we headed West, not Skeletor.

"It puts the lotion on its skin": Jame Gumb makes his way to Christopher Street.

A flapper and a geisha ("gay-sha?").

I love it when families get into the spirit of the night!

I dunno what her boyfriend's supposed to be, but is Cleopatra awesome, or what?

PART THREE: THE ANNUAL WEST VILLAGE HALLOWEEN PARADE

The Avenue of the Americas: the nexus of all realities.

One of the gigantic spectral rod puppets seen along the parade route at the Avenue of the Americas and Christopher Street.

More towering spectres.

Hey, don't look at me! This one's just plain unclassifiable.

Legos on the loose!

In this economy even dreaded inter-galactic bounty hunters get the shit end of the stick.

The second John and Yoko couples costume. I guess the only prerequisite for this one is that Yoko be embodied by an actual Asian chick.

An angel from the West Village.

For all you DC Comics geeks out there: I've seen Zatanna several times over the years, but this is the first Martian Manhunter I've ever encountered.

Too fabulous for words (I'm not certain, but I think this was a woman).

Iss Tony Montana, joo fuckin' cock-a-roach!

Riff Raff, Magenta and Dr. Frank N. Furter: once mainstay characters of the Village Halloween Parade, these were the only people I saw representing THE ROCKY HORROR PICTURE SHOW. I guess as the world becomes more accepting of "anything goes" pansexuality they are no longer as necessary as they once were. While the acceptance is great, it's sad to see them slowly going the way of the Buffalo.

The Robin Sisters.

The Penguin hits Gotham.

This guy was the only person I ran into who represented in the name of STAR TREK. What the fuck, Trekkies? Where were all of you?

The Jeannie Sisters rock with much fabulousity.

Father Will U. Tell and the Blondies: I have no idea what this was about, but what a composition!

Yo! It's fuckin' Soopah-Man!

I was always a Betty man, but this Wilma...Yabba Dabba Doo, indeed!

Hola, Mamis! Wicked and Wondrous!

Not a costume per se, but I want this guy's hat!

The Hefty Ballerina, swept away by the Terpsichorean muse.

A pair of Ghostbusters.

Freddy Kreuger and Edward Scissorhands: the world's worst "double-Dutch rudder" just waiting to happen.

What can I say? Chicks dig what the Ro-Man's puttin' down!

Ain't it the truth!

The Mad Hatter and the Green Lantern.

The Green Lantern versus Ro-Man for the fate of the Earth! If you think Ro-Man's gonna take a fall for some masked nutjob with fierce jewelry, you've got another think coming!

While shutterbugging at the Avenue of the Americas, I spotted our former Marvel Comics colleague Renee Witterstaetter and got her attention by waiting until she was walking right past me and shouting "Christ, I hate Renee Witterstaetter!!!" That stopped her dead in her tracks, and when she saw it was me she laughed and I called her over for a shot with Jared.

Renee represents.

Proof that the classics endure: Fay Wray, well in hand.

Batman, after discovering the joys of Popeye's Chicken.

The King, Marilyn and...???

Let's hear it for old school mythology!

David Lynch, eat your heart out!

Elasti-Girl and Princess Leia.

El Chapulin Colorado exits a McDonald's on 6th Avenue.

Batman may not have his cowl on, but I'm willing to let that slide thanks to Robin's extra-fabulous footwear!

A helpful demon gives directions to a tourist.

A ghostly bride and jason Voorhees, a match made in Hell.

Just another night on Christopher Street!

Big pimpin', yo!

On the stroll along Christopher Street.

Batgirl and a geisha.

Baby & Buddha.

Skunkette.

Talk about "Girl Power": Supergirl, Wonder Woman and distaff Harry Potter.
Sally and Jack Skellington (aka "the Pumpkin King"), looking far more at home than they did during that whole Christmas debacle.
Considering all the anticipation for the WATCHMEN movie, I was shocked to see only one Rorschach. Just wait 'til next year!
You've just gotta love Rock, Paper and Scissors (though obviously seen here in reverse order).

Strangest couples costume of the night: Pee-Wee Herman and Alice Cooper???

Another Elasti-Girl.

I have no idea whatsoever as to what these two were supposed to be, but I like it strange so they rock!

Captain America and Batman near Christopher Street: what would Bucky and Robin say?

PART FOUR: SUZI'S, THE PUB AND BEYOND

After Jared and I parted ways I went to my friend Suzi's apartment, conveniently located a stone's throw from where I'd spent the last few hours. There I was able to shed the gorilla suit and helmet, take off my shoes and relax by kicking back a few Bud tall-boys. Here's Suzi and her totally awesome pooch, Reggie (aka "Gaylord"), who majestically rocked the Ro-Man vibe.

Sonya and Suzi as Viking Goddess and a stewardess who survived the plane crash.

Cartoonist/goofball Amanda Conner as a snow leopard with a cat-o'-nine-tails.

A.C., shy and demure as always.

A.C. follows Suzi and Viking Goddess on a quest for booze.

Viking Goddess and Suzi at the bar.

Duff-Man!!!

Duff-Man, Marilyn and the dudes from DUMB & DUMBER.

A.C. meets Parrot-Man.

This guy took the prize for sheer conceptual brilliance: he was "a child's interpratation of a superhero," including a spa mask, Y-fronts over a pair of sweats and a towel for a cape. Totally fucking awesome.

Another Angus Young, encountered at the pub in the wee hours.

Viking Goddess and Super-Hero.

A human Q-Tip. Hey, I've seen stupider costumes...

After an entire night of being misidentified by costumed revelers as "space monkey," "Martian gorilla," "spaceman" and, most memorably, "the space mokey's returned from the moon," I ran into exactly seven people who knew exactly what I was supposed to be, including this Stormtrooper who also happened to be a fellow sci-fi geek/brutha-man.

I don't care what you say, dude: simply throwing on a pair of pointy rubber ears doesn't make you Spock, so I still say I only saw one person properly representing STAR TREK. (Nice guy, though.)

Outside the pub where I ended my West Side adventures, I ran into Super-Old Man and a Goldilocks/witch minus her mask.

3:30 AM: A.C. negates her gin & tonics with a delicious grilled dog at Gray's Papaya.

Having been too excited about running about in costume I was far too wound-up to have taken the time to eat more than a couple of beef-stick snacks, so it was a joke of cosmic proportions when this guy sauntered onto the Brooklyn-bound N train. And, alas, there was no chicken in the bucket.

Yer Bunche at approximately 4:40 AM: shagged and fagged and fashed (as Little Alex would put it) on the N train.