EMMETT: A Halloweird Reflection

Let’s recap. If a certifiable blizzard isn’t enough to impede a stampede of “nurses” and “kittens” from night crawling this weekend, I really don’t know what is. Maybe a closeout sale at Madewell? Despite the frosted flakes, everyone tricked and treated their way around town after pillaging Goodwill or waiting in line at a costume shop that smells like B.O. and silicon. Standing around for an hour only to choose from a very generous set of ponchos and plastic boobs is how I like to warm up for the night. As it turns out, mixing and matching costumes is a creative alternative to skanking it up. Grab a set of Austin Powers’ teeth and a blonde wig and who have you got? Jewel! A black fedora and murderous face paint? Charlie Sheen!

From what I gather, when the line at Mr. Costume proved too long, the majority of students went to Baby Gap. Throw animal ears on that nighty and call yourself an endangered species. For the record, those “boos” you heard weren’t to scare you. Wearing your boxer briefs on top of your pants does not warrant you to be called “Captain” anything.

If you ventured downtown at any point this weekend you may have noticed the lack of Halloween shenanigans. Apparently, there’s a designated zone for face painting and hair dying and once you leave it you’re subject to unwelcome stares and muffled nay saying. Swanky clubs in Boston are outside the “Halloweentown” realm, which I realized immediately after stepping out of the cab. Note to future Halloween clubbers: a gaggle of finely dressed men in pea coats and Armani scarves are not in costume. They’re Persian. They dress like that the other 364 days a year. Your Black Swan crazy eyes and velvet leotard are not going to blend well with bottle service and a 6’8” security leviathan named Gilgamesh.  Save yourself a cover charge and bring your sideshow back to Allston. I will say it wasn’t all a bust – I was privy to a fight between a Milk Man and Clark Kent. Ironically, I’m pretty sure Clark got his collarbone cracked by the calcium proponent.

And so, after a brief stint downtown, we ventured back to the land of masks and honey. I think every weekend would be more thrilling if bars required ID and costume for entry. Instead of a cover charge, they could demand a crowd speckled with Katy Perrys and Fly Emirate soccer players. A drunk celebrity is exponentially more compelling than a drunk college student. The bar scene was festive but at times unsettling. Watching Rev. Jesse Jackson’s look-alike down shots of Jäger seemed beneath him.

The Halloween parties were less spooky and more sketchy. A basement dance party is risky enough but throw in dry ice and a net of spider webs and you’ve got yourself a fire hazard. Hats off to the kid who played “Monster Mash” – there’s nothing quite like watching your peers get low to “the party had just begun (ashoop-a-woo), the guests included Wolfman, Dracula and his son.” Unfortunately, there’s generally nothing frightening about Halloween parties. You want a scary party? Head down to Louisiana and kick it with the swamp people for a night or two.

Some of the more ingenious costumes I saw were a Meth-maker handing out little baggies filled with pop rocks, a Port-a-Party, and a very convincing homeless man who may, in fact, have been just that. In an attempt to be Black Eyed Peas, my roommate and I wore green sweaters and black eye makeup. Inevitably, we were mistaken for domestic abuse victims and failed to get anyone love drunk off our humps.

Sunday morning was a post-holiday massacre if I’ve ever seen one. Someone’s Elmo fur had shed all over the road turning it into a Sesame Street crime scene. Either the Cookie Monster went on a carnivorous rampage or Big Bird was sick of Elmo getting all the tickling.  Then the marching started. I’ll let your Pretty Woman costume slide the night before, but staggering home by the light of day is pushing it.

On a weird, harmonious note it was nice to see animosity abandoned as super heroes went home with their villainous foils the night before. It’s one weekend where a giant baby can hook up with a politician and there’s no ensuing trial.  As it turns out, dressing up like a cat brings out the best and heck, gives you a test run at beastiality. Here’s to next year’s Halloween – may you leave your childhood Jasmine costume in the closet where it belongs. Or slap a seat cushion on the bottom and go as a Kardashian.

Kacy Emmett is a senior in the College of Communication and a weekly columnist for The Daily Free Press. She can be reached at kcemmett@bu.edu.