H'ween Redux
No place - no place in the world I've ever seen - does Halloween quite as well as New Orleans.
Back in my jetset days when Ben and I were on the road more than off it, we would always schedule to be home on Halloween weekend, no matter the cost.
Having said that, no place but New Orleans on Halloween will leave one with the distinct feeling of having been run over by a convoy of eighteen-wheelers. She is a cruel mistress, Miss 31st Oct. in New Orleans. A bitch goddess: she giveth, and she taketh away.
A coherent narrative of last night would have been impossible had I not saddled myself with my good camera. I knew the low-light atmosphere of wherever-the-night-would-lead-me would confound my poor little iPhone's lens, so while it was cumbersome to tote a big ole camera bag, I'm glad I did.
I didn't have a costume planned out. Weirdly lax for me. I'll habitually spend days/weeks/months cobbling together a themed ahn-sahm-blah, most often testing the limited limits of my sewing prowess. This year - not so much. I wasn't completely lazy though. I aided Paul and Ben in their costumes a bit, so I feel like I've tossed my creative coin into the Halloween-Bitch-Goddess fountain.
Me, I was simply Something Dark And Spewkee, made spewkeeier when accessorized with a live python.
Ben was, "Haaaaay!" As in: "What do gay horses eat?"
Yes, my house looks like a barn now. Hay fucking everywhere. Ben promises he'll Hoover. We'll see, we'll see.
Our Vegas friend Stephen showed up at Manderley and we hoofed it to poisonpen's rented shotgun on Esplanade. I don't know what I was picturing when she said she rented a little house on the edge of the Quarter, but when Scott opened the door and the ladies were posed like a Victorian receiving line, my breath caught in my throat. I knew it was going to be a beautiful night.
We cocktailed and people-watched from the porch swing on the stoop for awhile there.
Don't know this guy, but love the robot outfit.
Debbie showed up as Lizzie Borden.
We left Château Fabyewluss for the Ursulines Party, a house I've heard of for ages but never been. Sean Yseult invited me, as she was performing with Rik and the gang. I couldn't miss a Halloween performance of Rock City Morgue.
This house was tricked out beyond belief. Sprawling courtyards, stone fountains, tents, spooky accoutrements, waiters carrying trays of delicious little things, a tended (open) bar. Sadly, I never met our host, to whom I wished to pay reverent respects for throwing such a do.
And so many well-turned-out ladies and gentlemen in some of the best costumes I've seen.
Sean and Johnny Hotwheels. Explaining the dead bird in her hair, she stated simply, "It died."
Chris Lee and Jay Yeunger.
Eddie the Frog.
Laura Laws.
Sean and Stephen.
Jay and Rik Slave.
A great Dee Snyder.
A boarish/bullish woman who was in love with Scully (wrapped around her arm here).
And of course Paul as John Hurt in that one movie.
After the splendor of the Ursulines Affair, I trotted home to ditch my cape and change my shoes. And pee. And get a drink. Then met up with oh-just-everyone on the Lower D.
marrus and Jay at Pravda.
Weirdly, Paul and victorine's costumes somehow matched.
Tried to go to the Gothypooh thang at the dyke bar, but they were a)charging at the door, and b)carding 40 year olds. Paul (wisely) didn't have his passport on him, so fuck it - to the Not-Hideout insead, where we ran into Aria, which is always a dangerous thing.
I had been playing phone tag with Dorian Rush all night. Finally we connected. She invited us up to Joe's house above Angeli for a private party with a smashing view of Decatur off the balcony.
Plus, I love running into Dorian who always makes any event 47% more fabulous.
Here's "Octopussy," in two parts.
Dorian, Paul, and Kurt Cobain with a needle in his arm.
It was around this time that people started losing things. Janell was holding my snake, but I kept forgetting that and panicking when I realized Scully wasn't on my arm or around my neck.
Paul had Rhiannon's lost phone, which we lost again, calling it over and over. "I can hear it, but where is it?"
Turned out it was under Kurt Cobain's ass.
I stumbled home eventually without incident (I think, I assume, I hope!). Made some 4am pasta (or so the kitchen evidence tells me), and went to bed (at least, I woke up in bed, so it's an assumption).
Liz and Co. rang the bell at noon - well, 11am with the time change last night - and in my dream I answered the door. But then it kept ringing. Because dreams aren't real.
They dropped their luggage off here for me to hold for a few hours before their flight back to SF.
And that concludes another unforgettable Halloween in the gem of all decadent places which we like to call New Orleeeeans.
Back in my jetset days when Ben and I were on the road more than off it, we would always schedule to be home on Halloween weekend, no matter the cost.
Having said that, no place but New Orleans on Halloween will leave one with the distinct feeling of having been run over by a convoy of eighteen-wheelers. She is a cruel mistress, Miss 31st Oct. in New Orleans. A bitch goddess: she giveth, and she taketh away.
A coherent narrative of last night would have been impossible had I not saddled myself with my good camera. I knew the low-light atmosphere of wherever-the-night-would-lead-me would confound my poor little iPhone's lens, so while it was cumbersome to tote a big ole camera bag, I'm glad I did.
I didn't have a costume planned out. Weirdly lax for me. I'll habitually spend days/weeks/months cobbling together a themed ahn-sahm-blah, most often testing the limited limits of my sewing prowess. This year - not so much. I wasn't completely lazy though. I aided Paul and Ben in their costumes a bit, so I feel like I've tossed my creative coin into the Halloween-Bitch-Goddess fountain.
Me, I was simply Something Dark And Spewkee, made spewkeeier when accessorized with a live python.
Ben was, "Haaaaay!" As in: "What do gay horses eat?"
Yes, my house looks like a barn now. Hay fucking everywhere. Ben promises he'll Hoover. We'll see, we'll see.
Our Vegas friend Stephen showed up at Manderley and we hoofed it to poisonpen's rented shotgun on Esplanade. I don't know what I was picturing when she said she rented a little house on the edge of the Quarter, but when Scott opened the door and the ladies were posed like a Victorian receiving line, my breath caught in my throat. I knew it was going to be a beautiful night.
We cocktailed and people-watched from the porch swing on the stoop for awhile there.
Don't know this guy, but love the robot outfit.
Debbie showed up as Lizzie Borden.
We left Château Fabyewluss for the Ursulines Party, a house I've heard of for ages but never been. Sean Yseult invited me, as she was performing with Rik and the gang. I couldn't miss a Halloween performance of Rock City Morgue.
This house was tricked out beyond belief. Sprawling courtyards, stone fountains, tents, spooky accoutrements, waiters carrying trays of delicious little things, a tended (open) bar. Sadly, I never met our host, to whom I wished to pay reverent respects for throwing such a do.
And so many well-turned-out ladies and gentlemen in some of the best costumes I've seen.
Sean and Johnny Hotwheels. Explaining the dead bird in her hair, she stated simply, "It died."
Chris Lee and Jay Yeunger.
Eddie the Frog.
Laura Laws.
Sean and Stephen.
Jay and Rik Slave.
A great Dee Snyder.
A boarish/bullish woman who was in love with Scully (wrapped around her arm here).
And of course Paul as John Hurt in that one movie.
After the splendor of the Ursulines Affair, I trotted home to ditch my cape and change my shoes. And pee. And get a drink. Then met up with oh-just-everyone on the Lower D.
marrus and Jay at Pravda.
Weirdly, Paul and victorine's costumes somehow matched.
Tried to go to the Gothypooh thang at the dyke bar, but they were a)charging at the door, and b)carding 40 year olds. Paul (wisely) didn't have his passport on him, so fuck it - to the Not-Hideout insead, where we ran into Aria, which is always a dangerous thing.
I had been playing phone tag with Dorian Rush all night. Finally we connected. She invited us up to Joe's house above Angeli for a private party with a smashing view of Decatur off the balcony.
Plus, I love running into Dorian who always makes any event 47% more fabulous.
Here's "Octopussy," in two parts.
Dorian, Paul, and Kurt Cobain with a needle in his arm.
It was around this time that people started losing things. Janell was holding my snake, but I kept forgetting that and panicking when I realized Scully wasn't on my arm or around my neck.
Paul had Rhiannon's lost phone, which we lost again, calling it over and over. "I can hear it, but where is it?"
Turned out it was under Kurt Cobain's ass.
I stumbled home eventually without incident (I think, I assume, I hope!). Made some 4am pasta (or so the kitchen evidence tells me), and went to bed (at least, I woke up in bed, so it's an assumption).
Liz and Co. rang the bell at noon - well, 11am with the time change last night - and in my dream I answered the door. But then it kept ringing. Because dreams aren't real.
They dropped their luggage off here for me to hold for a few hours before their flight back to SF.
And that concludes another unforgettable Halloween in the gem of all decadent places which we like to call New Orleeeeans.