Having missed Halloween in China last year I overcompensated this weekend. Excess requires sand, and though I'm full of sand, it's not as tightly packt as in the previous years. Let's start with Friday, which was spent not working and was an absolute delight. I spent nearly the entire day drinking gin martinis with jalapeno olives, and ironing out the wrinkles in my forthcoming novelization of "The Rice Papers." Going through the journals and reliving each day, being able to expand on certain things, rephrase with wisdom footnotes, remeeting that little fireball Erin Rock in word form....all challenging bliss.
Night fell and then plummeted towards morning. I got talked into attending a party with vomiting 16 year olds at Ionna and John's place. The BB gun, while in plain sight, was never used and most of us adults sequestered ourselves in the front bedroom waiting for the pubescent chaos to blow over.
Saturday I worked in my 80's rocker garb, complete with Nigel Tufnel mullet and matching wristband/headband set. A tableful of elderly churchgoers thought I was a pirate and remarked at the close of the meal, "Everything was fine, but you didn't have to point that knife at us." I was baffled. I had no knife, and since when did a pirate wear a red windbreaker material jumpsuit? Someone's been dosing their tapioca, or lacing the pages of their Bibles with a lemon juice LSD mixture. Next time they come in I'll examine their thumbs.
At last my shift was over and Lisa dropped me off down at the Southgate House, where hordes of Bohemian freaks were assembling for the city's most important party of the year: Hogscraper, my heroes and friends. Surgeons, peacocks, mass murderers, obscure film characters, etc. milled cattle-like on all three floors and packed the ballroom. I headed up to the parlour to observe the Barnyard Burlesque and wiggled my way eventually into viewing range. What lacked in choreography was more than made up for in costume and conceptualization. (Choreography flaws may have had something to do with the size of the stage, so who am I to nitpick that which so much hard work went into?) She-devils battled angels, a femme cop conducted her own strip search, two women ping-ponged a grind between a horse-headed stud in Princely lace, and Hank himself (from Hogscraper) was given a lapdance treatment by headmistress Stacy. I especially enjoyed the three girls of the "Pigs in Space" segment whom entered straddling a giant silver phallus rocket, then ritually danced around its aloft vertical monolith. It was an inspired and genius bacchanalian ritual, reminiscent of the saucier bits from "The Wicker Man." The finale, in which a nurse with surgical tubing in her hair rubbed bloody excelsior on herself and a roadkill victim, who then tries to dryhump her to death, was a great touch. This was interspersed with vaudeville signs held up for the crowd to "scream" "applaud" or "show us your tits."
A guy I was wedged aganist for the performance commented on some of the girls and was impressed I knew them, especially Megan. This garnered me some guanxi. He bent down, fished in a baggie, said "Want some mushrooms?" I thought for a moment, then shrugged. Why not? I popped a few caps, nothing too drastic, just enough to unleash some giggles. They got stuck on my molars and I desperately needed a beer to wash the taste out, but there was no way in hell I was giving up my place near the stage. The parlour was SRO, so I rode out my bitter palate until after the finale.
Megan and I went down into the ballroom. I was designated to be her boyfriend decoy to keep lecherous bastards at bay. I got a can of high life, we made our way up towards the front. There was a film before Hogscraper started, a stylish intercut of dancing in the graveyard, barn whatnot, spiders dabbing at blood droplets, Lariat and a burlesque gal making out with bloody mouths, you know, wholesome stuff. The mushrooms had started to kick in (stomach tightness, giddy light-headed cackling) when a lummox appeared in front of us. He was so tall and broad, wherever he stood was the best seat in the house, yet he had to plant his girth squarely in our vision. We shifted right, so did he. A space opened up next to him and we quickly sidled in, but damn if he didn't try to squirm back in front.
The show began with a curtain drop, the loud strains of "Planet Drive-Thru" rattling my skull and setting all happybuttons to eleven. A band I never thought I'd see live again, back from the ashes and better than before. More theatrical, louder, eviller... it was a scene so beautiful I could have cried. They're back and they're rocking me, re-establishing my belief in all things creative. This intense wave of happiness overtook the more physically-oriented in the crowd and a mosh pit tried to blossom near us. The lummox shoved the flailers back into the fray like they were beachballs with elbows, but we feared the size of the crowd would eventually engulf our enemy/protector and then us, so we bolted for the safety of the balcony.
I laughed the wide high laugh of joy as we filed past the costumed masses and found a delicious vantage point. My roommate as Borat stayed in character far beyond the point of becoming eerie and kept disappearing throughout the show. While Hogscarper doled out their masterful jugband macabre, I danced and shouted and sang and shook my head and slapped my thighs like a man in the throes of voodoo ritual. They blazed through "Old Man Scratch," "Pussum Poacher," "Death Polka," and "Tied By the Neck" all while framed by their own crucified effigies and lit by the red floodlights that seemed to emanate from Hell's own furnaces.
I had waited a whole year for this kind of Halloween debauchery and it had at last come. Doug and Pete Brown (looking a little like the Kipper Kids in their hillbilly beards) joined them onstage for the triple-threat closer of "Arkansas Toothpick," "Chrome Lady" and "Sons of Adam." I clapped myself red-handed, screamed my throat hoarse, didn't want them to stop, but they did and the houselights came up, decked-out rogues left in droves and we the geeked-out stragglers stayed behind to congratulate our heroes to the tune of impatient bouncers sweetly entreating us to "get the fuck OUT."
I thanked Larry and Hank, got directions from Jason/Pigfoot for the afterparty, then Megan, Borat and I went to White Castle for "sustenance." Outside was a limo with a man dressed like Gene Simmons in the back. The White Castle was brightly lit and packed to the gills with drunken hordes. I started to get the Fear. Some punk rockers dressed in "I just got beaten up" makeup seethed in one corner, a crew of high-fiving rednecks in another, and just on their way out, some frat 'tards bellowing that it was the REAL Gene Simmons outside in the limo. Idiots. First off, the real Gene Simmons was probably filming another of his VH1 reality show in England or doing lines of coke out of a Vegas stripper's cleavage. Second, the real Gene Simmons would never need to hire these meathead douchebags to go out and convince people of his authenticity. Real celebrities beg for anonymity. Thirdly, what the fuckest of fucks would Gene Simmons be doing at White Castle?!
As if to hammer home my point, "Gene" came in and announced himself to the yawning hungry drunks who paid him the slightest bit of attention on his way out the door with his triumphant bag of sliders. He was just another freak, and not even the most interesting. We discussed the reasoning behind the ploy of renting a limo and having one's ogre friend wear Kiss makeup. "Perhaps they think it will get them pussy," I said nonchalantly.
"Does that work?" Megan asked. "Do they honestly think that's going to get them pussy?"
We all agreed no. My order got skipped, so while Megan and Borat munched their fried goodness, I had my ear talked off by some long-haired kid who looked like he spent his primary school years huffing gas and worshipping Kirk Hammett. I tried to shake the Fear so I missed a lot of what he said, but here are some highlights:
HE: "I told her the front row was no good in a movie theater but she wanted to sit there and then I realized, man, no one can SEE you up there. The movie started and she took her pants off. I threw popcorn at the screen."
I: "She took her pants off and all you did was throw popcorn?"
HE:"Well, I did other stuff too."
HE: "I saw this guy at the show tonight and he recognized me and he was the guy who beat my ass at the last two Dillinger Escape Plan shows. This time he bought me a beer."
I: "He didn't kick your ass this time?"
HE:"No, that guy's cool."
I stood and the chatter continued and I weighed the options of further marination in the Fear versus demanding my two dollars back. They eventually realized I'd been skipped, gave me four cheeseburgers instead of the 4 hamburgers I'd ordered. They meant it as an upgrade but how were they to know I was trying to avoid dairy? I ate them anyway, as I earned them and justified that there can't be much dairy in that cheese anyway.
We skipped the afterparty since the grueling White Castle affair had taken its toll. Sunday I woke up with not much headache, went to Shake It(as per usual) picked up the Simpsons 5th season on DVD used. Jenn called and said she had passes for King's Island, and that beats the hell out of a movie at the levee any day, so off we went.
It was not that crowded and Steve, Jenn and I rode just about everything we wanted (Drop Zone was axed thankfully, for time reasons. That ride terrifies me because there's no way to ground myself, get above my center of gravity. I think I'm like a cat in that respect, always writhing to get above my center, and having much discomfort when I can't do it.) Just before the park closed, Jenn and I got on the Beast, which as anyone knows is the best rollercoaster made, and even better at night because by the end of the day, the brakes have lessened a considerable degree, and half the fun of the Beast is the ugly fun of feeling the carriage try to rip itself off the wooden tracks.
There was no line when we pulled into the stops, so we rode again like idiots. The first time was a blast, a full-throttle shake and rush through the dark and wind. The second time rattled our skeletons so severely, we both complained of pain in our ribs.
Home again, jiggedy jig for some Simpsons and martinis, then passing out. Then comes Monday, officially Halloween, but since the whole weekend has already happened, it's like an afterthought and formality. The great ballerina whale had beached itself and flailed for two days and nights, and now here we were standing on the beach of Monday, poking at its bloated corpse with sticks. I worked a double with a bit of a headache, and for the second bartending half of it, I dressed in my "disco Arab" costume. There was supposed to be a pub crawl, but only 5 cotumed hooligans came in at five minutes before close, guzzled their beers with urgency and then left as quickly.
Borat waited out the last minutes with me, then we picked up Ionna, went to Top Cat's for some rock-n-roll karaoke. I buy some Jell-O shots, start in on a Long Island, sing "Rocket" by Def Leppard then wait for my turn again. And wait. And wait. And wait. I notice one guy had sung four times already and when pressed, the DJ said I was up in 9 people. That's bullshit. Disgusted with the whole thing, (Borat's song had unwelcome accompaniment and he had to fight off a reveler for control of a microphone) we head to the Golden Lions, inadvertently win 2nd and 3rd in their costume contest. I dance for a bit, but exhaustion and the shots started engaging a battle royale in my stomach, so at closing, we retreat to the environs of home. Home where sleep, as well as November, finally arrives.
Faux-rat:
