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.
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