Halloween weekend has come and gone, and while my mood was less merry going into this year's holiday than the past few (not to mention how disjointed it was! I didn't even get to meet up with Jimmy, Amanda, Nelson, Heidi nor Bunche), I still put on my black DVF dress, a red power jacket and the finest evil clown makeup CVS had to offer in order to become a mash-up of this year's most cliched costumes: Sarah Palin and Heath Ledger's Joker. Sarah Palin is a bigger joke than 911 could ever be, after all.
For what I missed in quality I made up for in quantity, burning up plenty of cardio points by criss-crossing the Lower East Side on foot with Tessa. After meeting up on Houston St., where my friend Dannielle graciously coifed my hair into a Palin-esque up-do, we hoofed over to Sixth Avenue to catch a brief glimpse of the Halloween Village Parade that started over a half hour prior. Tessa, who is visiting from Atlanta, borrowed some props from me for her costume, and though she originally planned to be the Twitter mascot, we soon determined her long blonde wig and aqua-blue sequined Betsey Johnson bolero worked best as "Typical Halloween Slut," which did shockingly well in inspiring guys everywhere to high-five her over her choice.
Though I was tempted to stop applying makeup after I'd given myself "black metal" dark blue-shadowed eyes, I found an obscene little joy in applying red lipstick so far outside the intended lines. I also soon learned that guys want to hate-fuck clowns as much as they do Sarah Palin. Even as early as 9 pm, I started getting hit on by guys who wanted me to "earn" their votes.
We soon got word that friends were hanging out on Avenue C, but by the time we got to Second Ave and St. Mark's, it was decided that a stop at San Loco was in order; both to line my stomach with a catfish taco loco in preparation of absorbing copious amounts of whiskey, but also to use their bathroom to adjust makeup and take creepy photos. On our way in, I witnessed my favorite moment of the night: a 40-something-year-old man sitting in a parked Mercedes doing a Whippit out his open window.
"Was he just doing what I think he was?" I ask Tessa.
"Yes! I didn't think people even did Whippits anymore," she answered, somewhat mystified.
When we left the restaurant more than 20 minutes later, he was still sitting in his Benz, laughing his ass off at the Super Marios, sexy Wizard of Oz Dorothys, and even sluttier pirates walking by. He even gave my outfit a thumbs up! But no hit off the canister. Oh well. He could've been sugar-daddy material.
Soon our craving for whiskey got the best of us and we settled for Jack and Gingers at Doc Holliday's where the adorable bartenders were decked out as different incarnations of Dolly Parton. By the time we finally made it to Ave C, we'd seen some elaborate Tetris get-ups, more sexy pirates and some very played-out Amy Winehouses before meeting up with some Star Wars characters, a faux American and some other guy with a beard at 40C. In retrospect, we should have stayed with the pub crawlers instead of heading to Williamsburg for a party, but even that journey turned into a fun ride.
Despite the fact that we were on a train full of costumed hipsters (including a pretty awesome Beavis & Butthead couple), for some reason I was the one targeted for a quick one-on-one interview with a Katie Couric acolyte. At this point, however, I'd been consulting with my media advisor, Jack Daniel, so I was able to make it through the interview in character and even announced my next children's names were going to be "Pre-Cal" for a boy, and "Dander" if it's a girl. Dander Palin, it totally sounds right.
Though the Williamsburg party was definitely happening, it was maybe too happening, so we didnt stick around long. We decided to rejoin the pub crawl, which had now moved its way up to Avenue A. On our way back to the L, I saw my favorite costume of the night from afar.
"Hey! Are you an asshole?" I shout at the stranger. Tessa, shocked, had no idea I was asking if the guy was dressed as Kurt Vonnegut's famous anal sketch. And he was! With that happy coincidence, it was time to head back to Manhattan. It was on the way back that I got the most Palin rage. "Where's your retarded baby?" asked the drunk jerk at the Bedford stop. "Don't you hunt wolves?"
"Umm, that's moose! You betcha!" I yelled back, trying not to get too confrontational over someone I'm clearly, well, clowning.
Four more drinks, two bars and a risque photo op with a Bill Clinton later, my feet let me know it was time to call it a night. Only 363 more days to perfect next year's costume! I'm thinking either Ville Valo or "sexy" air traffic controller.