Unfortunately, I can’t make it to Homo-ween on Beacon Hill
because cabs are unreliable on Halloween weekend. I hope that the
hundred costumed gays can forgive me. Instead, I’m at Scaraoke,
admiring the smoke machine, drinking viciously powerful punch that
makes your face feel like it’s on fire from within. People are dressed
as Civil War soldiers, road-killed joggers, and Amy Winehouse. Someone
belts out the Pixies and the White Stripes. I could stay all night, but
there are parties everywhere.
At the Spooktacular, there’s a haunted basement, cupcakes, DJ
Short Round scaring up some rhythm, and a delicious home brew that goes
faster than a bowl full of fun-sized Snickers. I meet a Rat City
Rollergirl, a Spartan from 300, Amy Winehouse again, and someone
who shaved his chest hair into the Man-O-Lantern from The
40-Year-Old Virgin. A woman on the dance floor literally dances her
dress off and keeps going, wearing nothing but a tiny black pair of
underwear and high heels.
There’s also Costume Dodgeball at Cal Anderson Park, wherein
people are shit-talking a leprechaun and Spider-Man is pretty good at
dodging anything that Elvis tosses his way. A high point of the weekend
comes when Orkestar Zirkonium plays in the middle of Pine Street at
two in the morning, leading a drunken, dancing army to stop
traffic. Someone comes out of R Place, climbs onto a pickup truck, and
strips to his skivvies while a cheerleader cheers him on. Everyone boos
like ghosts when the cops try to restore order. I wish every week could
be Halloween. 
Want The Stranger to notice four Amy Winehouses and only
two specifically “slutty” costumes at your house party?
E-mail the date, place, time, and party
details to partycrasher@thestranger.com