Nighttime whispers desperate measures. Baby, don't make no fast moves tonight.

Being broke never sounded so good. In addition to Shelby Lynne and OutKast albums, I also acquired Rufus Wainwright's latest. I love this new thing at Tower where they sell new releases ridiculously cheap on the first day they come out, only to jack the price back up the next day. Well, I like it when I actually manage to make it there on a Tuesday when I have money, or part-money part-gift certificate.

I wasn't going to rush out and get Rufus after reading a mediocre review, but then I read a great review elsewhere, decided to split the difference and follow my instinct which in this case was more than correct. Love it. Rufus is perhaps a bit of an acquired taste, but really how many singer-songwriters out there have been heavily influenced by musical theater in a non-Linda Eder way? I dream at night of a collaborative album between him and Marianne Faithful that would feature Burt Bacharach, Stephen Sondheim, Kurt Weil, and Jacques Brel songs.

Actually I dreamt last night about watching Aretha Franklin on television, then this morning I nearly choked on my poached egg when I saw the commercial for today's episode of Oprah with special guest star....Aretha Franklin. Maybe someday my psychic dreams will be more useful, like winning lottery numbers.

Although my powers of perception did amaze me last night when I re-read a short story I wrote where some of the scenes were based on real-life experiences, and my character makes this observation about someone's behavior, and the other night when talking to the real person that I based the interaction on, it turns out I was exactly correct in my perception. This might not make sense, but in order to fully explain I'd have to take up too much time and too much space and I'm mostly just making a note of this for myself as a reminder that hey, you're doing alright. Keep plugging away and paying attention.

It's all coming back to me now.

On the train ride home I realized it was Wednesday and tomorrow is Thursday which means all my nights are booked except tonight for some costume shopping. So I hopped off the train in wig central which is mysteriously enough located near the office of dommeyourass. I called and said "meet me at Wigs & Plus in five seconds -- GO!" except it was more like she told me to come over and wait for her outside on the sidewalk.

We walk over to her favorite shop and almost immediately I found exactly the hair I had imagined in my head and I asked the employee for it and it was their last one so I got a ten percent discount. I took it as a good sign that I chose wisely. Dommeyourass was deciding on her own wig and hers was the last one as well -- our lucky night. I mean aside from the incident following immediately where she thought she lost her keys and walked all over the neighborhood when they were in her bag the whole time, but whatever.

I came home and managed to walk the dog before taking the wig out of the bag and trying it on. It just looked weird on so many levels. Then I adjusted it a bit, teased it a little, and most importantly, removed my glasses. Ta-da! A star is born. Sort of.

Dommeyourass came around the corner of the bathroom and nearly had a heart attack from fright, I think. I removed it quickly because I knew otherwise she probably wouldn't kiss me goodbye on her way out the door. After she left, I tried it on again.

I can't say who my character is because it's a surprise for someone who reads this journal. But I will say that this hair confirmed that I will indeed be removing the facial hair, because otherwise I look rather Jesus-y. Which has it's own appeal frankly, and for a brief second I imagined myself going to work tomorrow while wearing it. I also had some strange flashback to having long hair many many many many many moons ago. I don't think my hair has been longer than my the tops of my ears since sometime in 1997.

There was another wig in the clearance section I might go back and buy, which is real human hair, jet black, and is basically a bad mulletish cut, but I'd cut off the back and make it a great mod foppish wig. That I would wear around Wicker Park on a Saturday afternoon with my too-tight jeans and Bertrand Russell shirt and sneer at hipsters who come out of Starbucks.

Also, this is the second time I've consumed homemade guacamole with strong onions before going over to Lowenstein's old place to help her move. I'm also wearing the same shirt, I think. Sometimes I feel like when I wear this shirt with my brown shoes, I'm in a different character, one who walks with both their thumbs hooked in their front jeans pocket, and maybe this character likes avocados even more than I do, as well as lifting heavy boxes.

One final thought of the evening: I keep having these urges to make a cast of characters in my profile, as if my journal is some damn soap opera for people to follow. Wait, maybe that would be fun.