Halloween
Halloween
Off work late. Get home to finish my new costume, but there's no time. I guess I'll be a Box of Raisins again. Jesse's friends come over. They aren't wearing costumes, but it's ok, they're from Mexico City. Make them masks. Olive Oyl for her; Popeye for him.
Go to Zebulon. Our friend Forrest is putting on a play - his version of Stevenson's Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde. Forrest's plays are an unhinged theater of the absurd with wonderfully gaudy Grand Guiginol effects, so Halloween and Jekyll and Hyde are perfect fits for Forrest.
Bar is crowded. Too crowded. My Box of Raisins costume is bulky. I stand on a booth to see the play. I'm still pissed that I didn't have time to make my refrigerator costume, but whatever.
The play ends and the group of us head outside. Andrea is Frieda Kahlo, complete with a braids, an external paper heart, a white dress, and a disturbingly real unibrow and mustache. Caris is The Artful Dodger, but I mistake her for Charlie Chaplin - it's been years since I've read Dickens and I don't remember him at all - I definitely don't remember The Artful Dodger. Benjamin shows up as a beatnik and Audrey shows up as a chimney sweep - again, I mistake a dirty 19th. c. workman as Charlie Chaplin. Audrey's friend is a beautiful Victorian dead woman, seemingly from a Tim Burton movie or Charles Addams cartoon and her boyfriend looks like a normal prom king until you see his throat is viciously slashed open. Hannah is a stork and I'm sure these dry descriptions are only interesting to me, but I lost my camera, damnit, and this is the best I can do until other people send me their pictures!
We start the annoying NY Party Drive, in which we flit from party to party hoping to find something great. The group fragments with Andrea and her tall blonde think tank going to Manhattan, Jesse and his international crowd going home, Audrey and her tall brunette crowd going to eat, and me, Bolt and DHB's crowd piling into a car like a group of clowns (which is what we look like) and driving to the next party. Bolt nearly gets us lost in Greenpoint and we finally end up in some residential Polish street.
Two beefy bouncer looking guys stand on the sidewalk. There is no entrance. "Um," I start to say.
"100 Sutten?" a beefy bouncer looking guy asks.
"Yeah," Bolt blurts.
"Through the alleyway," and the beefy bouncer nods towards a dark entrance, "and up the stairs."
The alleyway is lit by a solitary candle and seems to go forever. It dead-ends in a darkened fenced-in area. Around the corner another candle lights a dark doorway. Inside, another candle lights a stairwell. Up the candle-lit stairs and through another darkened door and to a fire exit and back to yet another dank door, and finally a well-lit table with two more beefy guys. "Shit," DHB says, "You guys secretly brought me here to 'get rid of me.'"
Bolt and I rush in. We meet Melissa, a slutty doctor, who gives us a bottle of Jim Beam. Then she takes us to the bar. We notice DHB and the crew isn't behind us. We call and they tell us they took off. The beefy guys at the door wanted them to pay.
Dawn of the Dead is projected on one massive wall and the place is beautiful. It's called Shangri-la and the name fits. It's a photo studio and it's a huge loft - bigger than the big lofts that predominated Williamsburg's glory days. The crowd is surprisingly hardcore and a punk classic rages over the speakers. Some band obviously just finished playing and a crowd is jovially screaming at the stage - someone is doing something - stripping by the sound of it. We can't see, so Bolt and I explore.
In the back we find a well lit studio, big, white and empty. Three of my apartments could fit inside. We duck into a blindingly-lit side room with photographer lights and I tell Bolt that I wish she wasn't my honorary sister. Instead, I say, I wish she was some hot girl that I was making out with. I tell her, This is the perfect place for a dirty fuck. She says, I know, you little fuck. I want someone here I could fuck. And we channel our horny energy with the camera. Soon we have slut-flu and are channeling American Apparel and Terry Richardson. I have my pants down and she has her skirt off. I'm wearing blue tighties and she's wearing fishnets.
Suddenly, a muscular military guy comes in with a real-looking M16. Quickly we're roleplaying and I'm a dirty terrorist held at gunpoint, my hands behind my head, and Bolt's the white girl in need of rescue. I start riffing from Saving Private Ryan, telling the soldier how much I love the U S of A and The Mickey Mouse, and Fuck Osama, and awkwardly singing the "Star Spangled Banner," but he can't hold character, starts laughing and leaves.
A tattooed guy and goth girl comes in and soon I'm pouring beer in her mouth, down her dress, and she's splayed on the floor while tattooed guy and Bolt fake hump, Bolt in panties, tattooed guy shirtless, pants pulled down showing the top of his cock, all of us laughing, taking pictures. Some brightly colored girl comes in and becomes The Photographer, ordering us about, talking dirty. Her and Bolt body slam, but the girl's tits are huge and Bolt bounces off like a little kid on a giant red rubber ball. Soon they're "cunt slamming" and the cameras (and us) are going wild.
I keep thinking that it should be my camera taking these pictures instead of Bolt's. And in the back of my mind I wonder if I can find some one to make out with 'cause I'm really turned on, but the night ends, the people leave, numbers are exchanged and I go home.
But good times.