Halloween!
Ooooo, it’s almost time for Halloween. Funny how Hollywood and Halloween are such similar words… we should have a specific word for the stuff you see down on S&M Boulevard (Santa Monica Blvd, that is) at Halloween. We should call it Hallowood.
I toyed with calling it Holly-ween instead of Hallowood, but considering that around here it’s the official holiday of gay men with a lot of money and creativity and few inhibitions, there’s something just too good about a word that simultaneously suggests references to religion and erections. Let me tell you, Halloween on Santa Monica is like venturing into the Versailles section of an intergallactic arcade. The costumes are postively arresting (literally, as there is something about Halloween that brings out the handcuff fetish in certain neighborhoods.)
Last year at Halloween, my mother was visiting from the glacial purity of her cabin in the upper peninsula of Michigan. I decided to take her down to “see the pretty costumes” on S&M Blvd. Until that night, her nearest brush with decadence had involved slot machines. We camped out at a bar called Mickey’s and Mom got to see Hallowood, up close and personal. A guy in buttless chaps brought her a beer, and she accepted it graciously, though she looked like a startled prairie dog all night. Ah, that was fun night. You’re never too old to enjoy shocking mom.
This year, I’m trying to figure out what to do for Hallowood. I’ve finally found an apartment in Weho, so I’ll be near enough to walk to the festivities. If I were ten pounds thinner, I swear I’d squeeze into a black leather Trinity-from-the-Matrix outfit. As it is, however, perhaps I’ll just grab a beer and a camera, and send Mom some pictures from this year’s promenade of sin. There are a few pairs of buttocks she just might recognize from last year.
