You know it’s time to go home on Halloween when it’s 3:30 in the morning, and after locking yourself in the bathroom, then downing three more drinks than your body weight allows, you find yourself hitting on a 20-year-old. Of the same gender.
That was my cue and I took it. But then, I am excused from being such a mess since Halloween lasted four achingly long days this year. Too lazy to come up with more than one outfit (I was Uma Thurman‘s overdosing coke-whore character Mia, from Pulp Fiction), I felt stuck in a longer version of Groundhog Day, where the soundtrack was not “I Got You Babe” but “Blue Monday,” and fake blood trickled forever from my nose.
It all started on Friday with the Bowery Ballroom Depeche Mode
show. I wasn’t obsessed as a teen, but I did enjoy the encore, “Enjoy the Silence.” I also enjoyed singer Dave Gahan‘s washboard abs, as did all the girls in attendance—and at least one boy. Carlos D. explained why he was not joining
Moby and Martin Gore at the after-party at the Gansevoort: “I already met my life’s goal and told Dave Gahan he’s the sexiest man on earth.” At night’s end we wound up at Motherfucker, which had been derailed from the Roxy to the Delancey. The police had shut the Roxy before the party started, at 10, allegedly for underage drinking. The club reopened for Saturday’s Junior Vasquez bash, but Monday’s Halloween party was relocated to Crobar.
On Saturday, at Scissor Sisters‘ Jake Shears‘s biannual Monkey Island party co-hosted by Deitch Projects, a man was dressed as club-kid-turned-Heatherette-designer Richie Rich. He was such an exact Richie replica that he spooked Heatherette’s Aimee Phillips and Macky Dugan and Paper mag’s Mickey Boardman (who came as Richard Simmons). Later that weekend, the fake Richie, Jason Kaplan, won a costume contest. The prize is a trip to the Virgin Islands, and he’s threatening to bring the real Richie with him. Double spooky! Fellow Scissor Sister Baby Daddy was a Big Pussy with his head popping out of the labial folds, his noggin topped by a furry muff, while Shears danced to multimedia band Leslie and the Lys wearing a disturbing rainbow clown costume with a painted ghoulish visage. I’m gonna have nightmares forever!
On Halloween proper, I spent the evening with Fischerspooner
and their publicist Space Ghost (one Jason Roth), who was a strapping vision of Styrofoam muscles and broad shoulders, and who had to fish his wallet out of his butt every time he bought a drink. Before the band went on, The Gates (four people wearing big orange contraptions and drinking beer) beat out a human chandelier and Olive Oyl by a landslide in the costume contest, as decided via audience shouts. Amber Ray, dressed as an orange-and-black butterfly, did not enter, but should have won every costume contest in town. On all four days. Someone give her something.
FS might be over with downtown dorks, but Casey Spooner proves he’s the frontman he always pretended to be when they were doing the performance art thing. Now when is their boneheaded label going to release “Never Win” and make them true stars? At the FS after-party at the Maritime’s Hiro Ballroom, co-hosted by Sophie Dahl, Boo!—a collaboration with Adam Dugas, his Citizen’s Band mates Jorjee Douglas and Sarah Sophie Flicker, and Kembra of the Voluptuous Horror of Karen Black—performed two sets. Michael Stipe was supposed to sing, but alas, his apartment caught fire. I know, priorities.
The last stop was new Rivington mega-bar Fat Baby, which is not even a week old and had its hipster cherry popped thanks to the all-star L.E.S. party, which included the Tribeca Grand’s Tommy Saleh, Benjamin Cho, the MisShapes, model Anouk Lepere, Jefferson Hack, Spencer Product, Sophia Lamar, Michael T, Mandy Coon, and Henry Lau. No wonder I was driven to drink.
This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on November 1, 2005