Halloween, as I’ve oft opined in these hallowed pages, is my favorite holiday, even more so in these blindingly conservative times – it’s the only night of the year when each and every one of us can uncork our inner gaywad and swish around in any costume we please. I am frequently dressing up as a woman, although this year I decided to forego that pleasure just so I can keep it fresh, yo.
Park Slope is no Chapel Hill, but it’s still a fabulous place to watch 45,000 kids dress up into some of the cutest costumes this side of a Texas beauty pageant. I sat on the stoop and doled out candy (note to self: kids don’t like Peppermint Patties but devour Kit Kats) to 2-year-olds barely possessing the physical means of getting up a flight of stairs. Kids that young also don’t get the whole “dual personality” thing – when you see them in a Spiderman costume and decide to play along, you ask, “who are you supposed to be?” and they invariably answer “Alicia!” like you’re a total dumbass.
Chopin the Dog came out, and seemed to be genuinely freaked out by the idea of “strangers coming up to our stoop and taking food.” Eventually, he began to see the bowl of chocolate candy as something that belonged only to us, and decided to act as judge and jury. You had to be pretty wily to get past Chopes for your treat, and I thought his selection process was sorta racist, so I fired him on the spot. He had to watch the rest of the evening through the door.
I always like the fourteen-year-old kids with the hints of an early moustache, slapping on some crappy mask so they can bilk the neighborhood out of Mr. Goodbars. One kid had on a basketball jersey and asked for candy at the pharmacist. The cashier said “Who are you dressed up as?” and the kid responded, “I’m Antoine Walker. Gimme some Snickers, bitch!”
I wish I had done that when I was eight, in my robot costume, doing Halloween 1975 in Cedar Rapids. “And who are you supposed to be?” “I’m a fucking robot. Gimme some Almond Joys, BITCH!”
The insanely warm weather made this year’s Halloween a must-do for every New Yorker, thus the streets of Manhattan were packed in midtown and the Village. This year’s crop was weirdly high in Charlie Browns, Sexy Catholic Schoolgirls, Snow Whites, and good old fashioned witches. Tessa’s favorite was a guy dressed as a Twinkie; mine was some girl festooned with hundreds of loofahs for no apparent reason. By the way, I’d like call a moratorium on the “visual pun” costume, which means no more White Trash or Black-Eyed Peas, please.
Our first party was at the Arinella’s pad up on Central Park West, and it was awesome to see the gals whooping it up, swirling in a haze of Absolut and orange juice. Then we went down to the Garment District to a party hosted by James Roven and a few of his pals – the usual cadre of New York hotties were there, showing body parts usually verboten on secular holidays. We also ran into Gill, who was on his last drink of a hilarious four-day bender, and was actually leaving early (you heard it here first).
And our costumes? Glad you asked. Tessa was a Disgruntled Texas Housewife From 1971, and I was a Fat Fucking Tenor. Don’t say we never do anything to keep you entertained, BITCH!
not my real belly