Halloween Memories
Good thing I was taking pictures
Posted by: John Chandler on Nov 03, 2009 at 11:00AM
8 Comments
Me, aka the Bar Pilot, aka Pabst Man, the people’s superhero.
View Slideshow »Calamity Jane and Pabst Man, still dangerously sober.
View Slideshow »The Halloween party was highlighted by shakin’ tunes provided by DJ T-Sully.
View Slideshow »As soon as we left the party, strange citizens began to materialize. This astronaut is clearly lost in space.
View Slideshow »We barely escaped the luchador and the Jolly Green Giant. The big green guy tried to climb into our car!
View Slideshow »Our next destination: Gold Dust Meridian on SE Hawthorne.
View Slideshow »Our waitress was the very model of efficiency. Not bad for a gal with an ice pick in her noggin.
View Slideshow »This guy is still trying to figure out why his audition for the Blue Man Group was a flop.
View Slideshow »The poor fellow couldn’t persuade anyone to dance with him.
View Slideshow »A friendly stewardess points out the emergency exits to a flapper and a lumberjack.
View Slideshow »Zombie boy scout and his lady fair helped us across the street.
View Slideshow »By this time, people were giving us a pretty wide birth.
View Slideshow »What the—? Pabst Man doesn’t need a sidekick!
View Slideshow »A man of the cloth flirts with temptation outside the Space Room.
View Slideshow »Ah, a Space Punch and a flame-thrower hot bloody Mary. Just in time.
View Slideshow »Sometimes even Pabst Man needs to change things up drinkwise.
View Slideshow »The Space Room takes a turn for the weird.
View Slideshow »What the hell was in that drink? Time to go home.
Halloween is my favorite holiday, hands down. Christmas and Thanksgiving are not without their charms, but both involve stressful family get-togethers with their attendant mind-numbingly tedious mealtime conversations. My brother’s gag concerning the whereabouts of the gravy boat (“I think it ran aground!”) got big laughs the first time he said it—back in 1974. Now it’s a teeth-grinding, anticipatory nightmare, like an imminent tax deadline or waiting for a physical examination conducted by Dr. Chillyhands.
And don’t get me started on Christmas shopping! The Bataan death march was a cakewalk in comparison. At least those sorry souls could look forward to a cessation of suffering and the arrival of sweet oblivion. They didn’t have to hang around after the march’s conclusion listening to relatives gripe about “the miserable haul this year” and their inevitable trip to the Target “returns” counter. “An army of sneezing brats drooling all over the place; might as well book a cruise on a plague ship,” is a popular post-Yuletide sentiment heard around our tree. This now concludes the whine portion of the blog post.
Halloween is an enthusiastic embrace of mischief, pageantry, and good-natured deviltry. We don fantasy garb and slip out under the cover of darkness to let our inner wolves sniff a few butts, eat fun-size Snickers bars till our choppers beg for mercy, and howl a bit with the rest of the pack. And with this Halloween taking place on a Saturday night, it was all just too perfect.
I was dressed as Pabst Man, the people’s superhero. I wiggled into my Pabst union suit, stuck a Pabst cap on my head, and filled my backpack with cans of PBR. I handed these out to everyone I met, intoning, “Please enjoy this complimentary beverage from Pabst Brewing. Drink responsibly.” Pabst, it should be known, is currently without a spokesman. Consider this my audition.
My friends and I went to a swinging cocktail party where we went through a bottle of Kahlua while listening to our host’s awesome collection of 45s. We then departed around 11:30 to ramble the streets and mingle with our fellow revelers. As we sauntered up SE Hawthorne, we couldn’t help but notice the abundance of zombies, witches, flappers, mummies, kitty cats, Martians, and pirates out parading in their seasonal finery. The air was thick with a Mardi Gras-like aroma of friendly intoxication, and we recklessly struck up conversations with total strangers. It was, after all, Halloween. One night of the year that we didn’t have to be our cowering, banal selves. We could be anyone behind these masks.
Is it possible I’ve been watching too much Dexter on Netflix?
Here then, is my web-exclusive slideshow from Halloween night on Hawthorne. Now it’s all coming back to me. If you feel so moved, share some fond Halloween memories with me and the drinking buddies.
Note to the general public: If you happen to find yourself as an unwilling participant in this slideshow, please contact me at jchandler@portlandmonthlymag.com and we’ll do our best to blur you out of the picture.
Tags: Slideshow Holiday Events
…I was born in 1974. Things that came into being in that glorious year should never be disparaged. However, I appreciate your vigor with which you celebrate goons and goblins. I think the best comment to leave here would be for each of us to share our Halloween costume—or reminisce about a favorite from whenever. This year I was a wet blanket. My favorite all time costume was a princess costume that I had when I was five. Mom made the crown out of a refashioned clothes hanger and beads. And my gown was also Mom-made. The ensemble was to die for. But then, I lack the imagination of some others. I know a fellow who once dressed up as the blue Care Bear (called Lucky), and then proceeded to get drunk while asking all the ladies if they wanted to get Lucky. His costume was also Mom-made. To each their own…
What is it with you and the Pabst?
X, I am a corporate spokesperson in desperate need of sponsorship.
Ok, but must you live in the Pabst to accomplish this?
I can assure you the long johns get a vigorous wash every few months.
This is just the format I have been waiting for to share my horrifying tale. Twas 1977 in a small town on a little street with a real scary name. My sister always helped me with my Halloween costumes, and this year she would dress me as the Bride of Frankenstein. But due to the poverty of our childhood, we would be forced to improvise beyond human imagination. Stealing a sheet out of my mommy dearest’s closet, the horror of Halloween began in June, when mosquito bites were plentiful and so was the blood that came from picking them. Each time me or my sister would scratch off the scabs from June through October, she would carefully dab the wound with the stolen white sheet. By the time Halloween came, I was dressed in the bloodiest, most realistic looking costume (at least in my young eyes) ever. And yet after all this effort and creativity, I still did not win the costume contest that year.
GREEN MAN! Check out It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, John. You won’t regret it.
Alvin, that is a grisly and deeply moving story. Oh the bloody sheet!