Date: October 27, 1987 (I think?)
Location: The Holy Woods of Angels (Hollywood?), The Americas Mood: Totally Radical / Slightly Intoxicated on "Wine Coolers"
Yo, Journal. Or should I say... ‘Sup.
I have successfully infiltrated the local aristocracy of this era. I materialized in a place full of glowing glass tubes filled with trapped lightning—they call it "Neon," which I assume is Latin for "very bright candle."
First things first: check out my threads. I found a haberdashery called "The Gap" (presumably a gap in the space-time continuum) but ended up stealing this outfit from a man named Don Johnson. It is a blazer of the finest pastel hues—colors that do not exist in nature back in 1825. It has massive pillows sewn into the shoulders. I can only assume these "shoulder pads" are armor designed to protect me from sudden duel challenges or falling debris. I feel fly. I look phat (with a 'ph', which denotes excellence, not obesity, remarkably).
I made two best friends immediately. We are, as the locals say, "tight."
The Lady on my left: This is the Duchess of Material. She told me she is a "Material Girl," which I interpret to mean she owns a very successful textile mill. She is very poor, however, as she cannot afford proper gloves or shirts without holes in them (see the fishing nets on her arms?). I offered her a copper farthing to buy seamless fabric, and she just struck a pose. She kept muttering about being "Like a Virgin," which was a confusing topic of conversation for a cocktail party, but I told her, "You go, girl," which seemed to appease her.
The Gentleman on my right: This is Sir Charles. He wears the skin of a black cow as a coat. He has the eyes of a man who has seen the devil and offered him a cigarette. He kept shouting "winning!" even though we were not playing cards. He is a very intense fellow. I believe he is a warlock, given his "tiger blood." He put his arm around me and asked if I wanted to ride the "white horse." I told him I prefer a sturdy carriage, and he laughed for five minutes straight.
The Libation: I am holding a glass of something called a "Sea Breeze." It tastes like fruit punch mixed with regret. I believe the small floating icebergs are enchanted.
The Event: Everyone was shouting "Word!" so I started listing words I knew, like "apothecary" and "dysentery," but that did not seem to be the vibe. The air was filled with paper confetti, which I initially feared was radioactive fallout or perhaps severe dandruff from a giant, but Sir Charles assured me it was just "party debris."
The date stamp in the corner says OCT 26 1987. I have been awake for 24 hours. This era is loud, the music sounds like robots fighting, and my shoulder pads are chafing my neck.
But honestly? This party is all that and a bag of chips.
Sincerely, Nathaniel "The Party Animal" Fizzywater III
