I had a very enjoyable time yesterday, all in all. The day began with my lovely friend Thom, satisfying my craving for a warm, steamy breakfast burrito down the street. I'm not sure what sort of salsa they use, but as a crybaby who turns tail at the notion of anything too spicy, it's got just the perfect amount of spice for me- delicious, salty, and just a leeeetle bit of sting- just enough to make your nose run a little. Ooh, and big tomato chunks. Mmmmm.
After gorging ourselves into a food stupor we drove up to the toy shop, which, since its relocation a year or so ago, has seemingly quadrupled in size. The sight of all those costumes and wigs and hats and crazy screaming bat-winged skulls-on-a-string (which I decided is what I want to come back as in my next life) restored my vitality and I ran around like a maniac, exclaiming over everything and, I'm sure, bring total chaos to what little order the staff had managed arrange things in. I tried on a Viking hat (while singing Wagner, of course), a peasant's cap (adorable but too expensive), a bobby hat, and, best of all, a hat that was the gigantic blue noggin of Horton (the one that heard the Who). After much deliberation on a costume, however, I finally decided to leave empty-handed, go home, and make my own, as I do every year.
Before I could start, however, I had a prior engagement: Maureen and I had volunteered at the Audubon Society's annual Haunted Trails, a children's event featuring stories by bonfire, face painting (that was us), and lots of grownups popping out the forest dressed as various nocturnal creatures. Memorable masterpieces included a skunk, an alien, a little girl who wanted to be a Ninja Warrior, and about fifty million pumpkins. It was really a lot of fun and something I'd like too do more often. Plus there was candy and hot cider.
Around 8:30 I hightailed it home and flung open my closet doors, opened the trunks, and flipped the lids off my hat boxes once again. Remembering a splendid costume idea that the dashing Jack had mentioned, I blatantly ripped it off and decided that this year I would dress as a Victorian Savage. Dragging out my grossest, rattiest corset, I whipped up a steamy bucket of scarlet-purple Rit dye and plopped it in, hoping to transform its stained, splotchy pink into something a little more opulent. For good measure (and fashion sense) I added a silky scarf and a ruffled lace shirt to the batch as well.
Then it was up with the knit stockings, courtesy of 18th and 19th century re-creationist Jas. Townsend ; the union suit (courtesy of Dan Ventresca ); and on with the ratty but still quite elegant Victorian embroidered under-dress. As I waited impatiently for the corset to drip-dry I turned on Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, unearthed the natty dreadlocks from my crustier days, and braided and wove them back in. A string of snake vertebrae, the mysterious pointy fish jawbone, and a long steel septum tusk completed the ensemble. Then I painted my face white and drew a moko-style chin tattoo with liquid eyeliner. Thom, my Halloween partner in crime, had decided to be Jack the Ripper, then a vampire, then Jack the Ripper again. But whatever he was, he was very handsome in a high-collared shirt, a vest, frock coat and one of my top hats.
Although there wasn't much happening locally, we made the most of a late night at a nearby Inn with a motley assortment of Jack Sparrows, 70's porn stars, princesses and skulking devilocked Misfits look-alikes (who turned out weren't actually in costume at all). Much red wine was consumed and, at some point, a raucous full-room chorus of Rage Against the Machine's Killing in the Name of was shouted. Eventually, alas, enough was enough and Thom and I called it a night. It was, I decided, just the right amount of fun.
Tonight I have three pieces up at Mercury Tattoo's "Pushing up Pumpkins" exhibition, so I should take my leave about now and get there before all the good beverages have been imbibed. Happy Halloween, loves.
After gorging ourselves into a food stupor we drove up to the toy shop, which, since its relocation a year or so ago, has seemingly quadrupled in size. The sight of all those costumes and wigs and hats and crazy screaming bat-winged skulls-on-a-string (which I decided is what I want to come back as in my next life) restored my vitality and I ran around like a maniac, exclaiming over everything and, I'm sure, bring total chaos to what little order the staff had managed arrange things in. I tried on a Viking hat (while singing Wagner, of course), a peasant's cap (adorable but too expensive), a bobby hat, and, best of all, a hat that was the gigantic blue noggin of Horton (the one that heard the Who). After much deliberation on a costume, however, I finally decided to leave empty-handed, go home, and make my own, as I do every year.
Before I could start, however, I had a prior engagement: Maureen and I had volunteered at the Audubon Society's annual Haunted Trails, a children's event featuring stories by bonfire, face painting (that was us), and lots of grownups popping out the forest dressed as various nocturnal creatures. Memorable masterpieces included a skunk, an alien, a little girl who wanted to be a Ninja Warrior, and about fifty million pumpkins. It was really a lot of fun and something I'd like too do more often. Plus there was candy and hot cider.
Around 8:30 I hightailed it home and flung open my closet doors, opened the trunks, and flipped the lids off my hat boxes once again. Remembering a splendid costume idea that the dashing Jack had mentioned, I blatantly ripped it off and decided that this year I would dress as a Victorian Savage. Dragging out my grossest, rattiest corset, I whipped up a steamy bucket of scarlet-purple Rit dye and plopped it in, hoping to transform its stained, splotchy pink into something a little more opulent. For good measure (and fashion sense) I added a silky scarf and a ruffled lace shirt to the batch as well.
Then it was up with the knit stockings, courtesy of 18th and 19th century re-creationist Jas. Townsend ; the union suit (courtesy of Dan Ventresca ); and on with the ratty but still quite elegant Victorian embroidered under-dress. As I waited impatiently for the corset to drip-dry I turned on Tim Burton's Corpse Bride, unearthed the natty dreadlocks from my crustier days, and braided and wove them back in. A string of snake vertebrae, the mysterious pointy fish jawbone, and a long steel septum tusk completed the ensemble. Then I painted my face white and drew a moko-style chin tattoo with liquid eyeliner. Thom, my Halloween partner in crime, had decided to be Jack the Ripper, then a vampire, then Jack the Ripper again. But whatever he was, he was very handsome in a high-collared shirt, a vest, frock coat and one of my top hats.
Although there wasn't much happening locally, we made the most of a late night at a nearby Inn with a motley assortment of Jack Sparrows, 70's porn stars, princesses and skulking devilocked Misfits look-alikes (who turned out weren't actually in costume at all). Much red wine was consumed and, at some point, a raucous full-room chorus of Rage Against the Machine's Killing in the Name of was shouted. Eventually, alas, enough was enough and Thom and I called it a night. It was, I decided, just the right amount of fun.
Tonight I have three pieces up at Mercury Tattoo's "Pushing up Pumpkins" exhibition, so I should take my leave about now and get there before all the good beverages have been imbibed. Happy Halloween, loves.