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October 31, 2005

A Leatherman, Little Bo-Peep, and a Man Dressed As Boxed Wine Are All Sitting In This Bar. . .

Halloween, my erstwhile favorite holiday, rolls around again. "Erstwhile" because while, in theory, Halloween is still tops-- think: free candy, a reason to re-watch Ernest Scared Stupid and The Worst Witch, license to play dress up, and best of all, the thing that makes this holiday different from all others, no family obligations, no relatives to endure or phone calls to make-- I have had a running streak bad Halloween luck.

It started when I was seventeen, a senior in high school, and my nervous breakdown reached its zenith-- or rather, its nadir-- on the morning of Halloween. Of course, I was sick all that autumn and much (no, all) of the preceeding summer, had been resisting (read: flushing) my meds, and sleeping about three hours per night, so it wasn't just Halloween. But I have a memory of finally just losing my shit and not going to school after a tiff that morning with my friend about our Angela (her) and Rayanne (me) costumes.

Then there was The Nightmare On Castro Street, that Onion Slayer could tell you about. I am not a girl easily frightened in urban situations. Onion Slayer and I have traipsed distant parts of the globe with one another and I pride myself on being a child of the city, always at ease, always calm, reliable, sturdy and knowing. But I was clinging to Onion Slayer like a wet cat clings to-- to, well, something dry. This, for me, was unthinkable. Not only am I child of Manhattan, I am also the product of a Chelsea and Greenwich Village rearing. I am not easily made uncomfortable by extravagant displays of homosexual raunch nor by suggestive tableux of homosexual affections! However, it seems, I can be made quite uncomfortable by liberal public displays of heterosexuality.

I had been under the impression going to Castro that the Castro Halloween raunch would be much like the Greenwich Village Raunch with which I feel so at home.

Not so!

Scads of lascivious, menacing lads eyed us leeringly and befouled our ears with the basest of comments and most vulgar of epithets. Lest you think we dressed as Strippers or Naughty Nurses, know that we were positively chaste in our costuming: Onion Slayer was Frida Kahlo, I was Mia Farrow from Rosemary's Baby. If a pregnant, short-haired woman and a moustached woman can't walk arm in arm and pass as lesbians in the Castro, then what, I ask you, has the world come to? The men in the traffic island getting blown by drunk chicks was a nice touch.

Last Halloween, I, dressed as Joan Crawford, spent much of the evening wasting neglected on the couch. I sulked and pouted while boyfriend, in the throes in depression, finsihed a philosophy paper.

So this year I am keeping my expectations low. If I don't wind up in a gutter with my throat slit, I'll consider the night a success. The good thing is that I will be attending a party in a Castro Street apartment, where I can take in the sights unruffled from my lofty perch above the crowd. The bad thing is that the apartment is that of the ex-boyfriend's. Oh, well.

Also, San Francisco is sold out of blonde wigs. I've checked all the places within reasonable walking distance (i.e. within a three block radius of my building), and nothing! This put a crimp in my original costume idea: J.T. Leroy. I scratched that, though, in favor of Salome, which is probably a good thing, as I have no idea where I would have acquired a penis bone necklace and because these days I am feeling more brutal than clever.

Posted by hissycat at October 31, 2005 02:00 PM

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