wit and witches and suchnot

My love affair with Halloween is, fundamentally, about two things:  candy corn, and costumes.

Regular readers know I feel eating locally and seasonally is important. I consider candy corn seasonal to October and, like cherries in June, I do my best to consume enough during their short season to tide me over the long months between.

I think my delight in the costume aspect comes from time dating a clown.  To be sure, I dated a number of men who could qualify for the title, but only one who made a portion of his living at it.  Frankie T, aka Crossroad the Clown, was a great entertainer and an inspired costumer.

Every now and then I got to join in on one of his gigs, and I thought it was honestly about the most fun you could have with your clothes, or rather someone else’s, on.

Nowadays I only do it once a year, but I haven’t missed a Halloween in ages.  Somewhere in a shoebox is a collection of photos over the years, and someday maybe I’ll track it down and give my brother, the tech gadget king, the opportunity to run ‘em through his groovy new ultra-tech scanner so I can share the love and the silliness.

There was the classic “Madonna with Child” — or perhaps not so classic, involving as it did a diapered baby doll and coned Blonde Ambition Tour bustier.  My date was, naturally, the Holey Ghost.  (A woman of paralyzing Catholic faith hissed at me, “That’s not funny.”  Um, au contraire, Your Righteousness.)

Marge from Kissimmee Florida, complete with dyed red hair, 30 extra pounds stuffed into her capris, and spectacular cankles.

Miss Conception, whose one-piece bathing suit showed off her baby bulge (aka my bike helmet).

Gritty the Thru-Hiker, with full facial hair and a blonde female companion of astonishingly ugly persuasion (that would be the MPM).

The list is long, and without photos I won’t bore you further with my self-proclaimed cleveritude.

So indeed, I’ve been to a lot of Halloween parties over the decades. But I have to say, none even close to holding a candle to the one that we’ve found ourselves lucky enough to be invited to the last couple years.  There are easily a couple hundred attendees, and nary a one sans costume.

And not any old lame costume, either.  As with ‘Ween parties everywhere, you can’t swing a bloody ax without hittin cleavage, of course, but there’s also plenty of wit and style, not to mention time and effort. Honestly, you might think you were in New York or L.A. rather than little ole backwoods small Southern city us.

The house decorations are nothing short of incredible, the hosts are prodigiously generous with their food and bar offerings, and I’m thinking it’s entirely possible they imported the DJ from a much bigger city.  He worked his boyscout-uniformed behind off and the dance floor was packed the entire night.

Costumes and liquor drinks are a dangerous combination for me, as is, admittedly, dancing and liquor in most any form.  Long after Cinderella had taken off in her pumpkin coach, I’d worn out the MPM and resorted to a sturdier companion:

that robot can dance!

And in case you’re wondering what the heck kind of costume is THAT, Miss All-About-Halloween, this may clear it up:

achoo!

When you lack cleavage of illustrious proportion, you gotta go with the wit.  What a fun night.  (Thanks to Katie, aka Glinda the Good, for the photos!)

OMG:  I just Googled “Crossroad the Clown” and found a video about him and his son, and his 30 years’ volunteering with Camp Good Days & Special Times in upstate New York.  It’s not great, but I had to include it.  Just because.  My friends used to refer to him as “The Voice.”  20-some years ago he had, let’s just say, a lot more hair on his head (and a lot less on his ARMS??!!?), but the voice, yes The Voice, is the same.

OMG, Part II: Through the power of Facebook… I bring you Crossroad the Clown, 2009! What a riot.