PoBoy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
Trick
Or
Treat
Double, double toil and trouble; fire burn
and cauldron bubble…. By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way
comes… Open, locks, whoever knocks.” Shakespeare
This year we’re going to go ‘Trick or
Treating’ dressed as a couple of old people, which should be easy because we
ARE a couple of old people; our theme will be “On a Weekend Pass From the Apple
Farm Nursing Home which is run by the Sisters of Stump jumping and Cow Tilting Exuberance.” Our costumes will be woolen, garishly printed
bathrobes over stylish flannel pajamas (footwear, naturally, fuzzy slippers);
I’ll wear a watch cap and maybe Deb will have her hair in curlers. We’ll be
just like your grandparents; times ten. We’ll also be pretending to be extraterrestrials
that aren’t aware of Earth customs like ‘costuming and cajoling for candy at complete
stranger’s houses under the cover of darkness yearly ritual’; a unique concept,
considering.
As
inquisitive aliens, we’ll follow kids around wanting to know where they’re
going; the kids will love us (who wouldn’t) and will think that it’s fun to
have us along (we’ll bribe them with cash). They might even think that we are
kids dressed up as old people, which
is how we feel most often ourselves; they’ll humor us.
First
of all we’ll want to know why kids are in costume, in groups of four or more
and why there are grownups suspiciously hovering in the background; the kids
will laugh at us and tell us that it’s for fun and sugar, which, although
dubious, will seem plausible. When they knock on your door, we will be ready to
save them from any unsavory bi or quadraped being who might be behind that portal
when it opens; and when the little darlings shout: “TRICK OR TREAT!!!” in
unison, we’ll jump like there is a clear and present danger. Naturally you’ll
give us candy also, although a cocktail is more what we have in mind.
We’ll
want to know your names, if you’re married, have children of your own, names, ages
and sexes; where they are at this hour and possibly if we could have a tour of
your house. At this point the kids are satisfied with their haul and are
already headed to the next house, parents lagging behind in biorhythm alcohol
withdrawals, looking forward to an adult beverage after this costumed chaos and
possibly regretting giving up smoking and anti-depressants. Us? We’re lovin’
it!
“What
are you watching on TV? Do you have cable? Can you get the Disney channel? How
much does it cost? Whatcha doin’? Your bookcase needs dusting, didja know? I
could get that stain out for you. Whaddya think of swiffers?”
“Do
you have any bottled water in your fridge? Can I look? Where’s the bathroom? Do
you have a pool? Can I have a sandwich instead of candy? Did you watch the news
tonight? Who is that a photo of? Are they still alive? What kind of gummies are
those?”
“Do
you have any pets? What’s their names? Who’s your vet? Is that your car? Does
it work? What kind of mileage do you get? My cell phone needs charging; can I
use your phone? What’s that smell? Who’s your doctor? You need a mint.
Halloween
in New Orleans is not only for the kiddies, just check out the French Quarter
where jouissance, jubilation and jolly times reign; they ain’t looking for
candy out there; they’re usually looking to get seriously inebriated and
possibly casually laid. This year it falls on a Friday which means the whole
weekend will be nucking futs; a regular body fluid extravaganza. The Marigny,
Bywater, even Gentilly will be crazy; and, upwardly mobile uptowners will try
to be decadent as well, although they haven’t the experience or the stamina
that Quarter Rats do. Treme should be relatively quiet, I suspect.
Generally
speaking, real New Orleanians’ houses and apartments have closets just for
costumes; and they’re not considered costumes, they’re ‘clothing for occasions’.
I do, of course, have an alternate attire collection. I’m ready for Christmas
season, Carnival, Jazz Fest, Decadence, generic festivals (crawfish,
strawberry, po-boy, tomato etc.), Saint Anne (IYKYK) and Saint Patrick. I have
yet to be in the Red Dress Drunk Run or the one where women on skates chase you
with bludgeons as you run screaming like gulls through the French Quarter (The
Running of the Bulls); those would, as well, require their own wardrobe.
I
love dressing up. Naturally I have my Saints game day good luck and Dead Bean
outfits. I also have fancy cocktail attire; overalls for outdoor manly mayhem; work
uniforms, formal suit-ups and of course, pertinent accessories. And, you wanna
talk about shoes? I’ve collected everything from bed slippers to blue suede;
Tony Lamas to Chuck Taylor; Wellingtons to Dansko; and more; my passion borders
on deviant behavior.
In
New Orleans and the surrounding parishes there’s pretty near a celebration four
times in any month; in fact, you can’t swing a cat (a saying.. just a saying ) at your calendar without
hitting a festival date. Plus our weekly music, food and Second Line excesses.
It’s exhilaratingly exhausting, and reasons enough to live here.
So,
say goodnight Gracie, as we trundle home feeling more like Fred and Ginger than
Ma and Pa Kettle; holding hands, dancing down the street singing: “Smelling like a brewery, looking like a
tramp; ain’t got a quarter, got a postage stamp. Been five o’clock shadow
boxing all over town, talking with the old man sleeping on the ground…” (Tom Waits). Happy Weenie.
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