San Francisco, 1990. On Samhain eve (Halloween), a horde of us pagans were up in the ruins atop the Sutro Cliffs, chanting around a smoking cauldron, with lightsticks glowing green in the dark... when a drunk climbed up the steps into the ruins seeking a private place to drink and howl at the moon, and found us--fifty robed chanting creatures. And yelled "HOLY SHIT!" in the most truly sincerely religious voice I've ever heard.

And I should end the story there--but the image is from an hour later. The drunk's sacked out on a bench, the lightsticks have faded, ceremony's over, and the witches and monsters and spooks have all paired off, leaving one lonely, envious, potato-faced monster.

Guess who.

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