If it turns out to be the last, it was a fine sendoff.
My default All Hallows' Eve plan for over a decade now has been All the Saints' Halloween parade and with rumors flying that this, the thirteenth, might well be the last for organizer Lilly, the urgency to be part of it was even stronger. Like every year, there was a funereal theme - funeral march for the patriarchy - but also an exultant one - a celebration of the divine feminine.
Don't even think about trying to stop me from being part of that tribute given how highly I think of my gender. Especially after a couple of glasses of Mont Gravet Rose. Gloriously warm weather didn't hurt, either.
Mac was back for her third year and Mr. Wright had signed on to have his Halloween parade cherry popped, so I made sure we were in Monroe Park by 6:30 so we could have first crack at choosing signs to carry. Once upon a time, aka the first few years of the parade, I dutifully carried one of the enormous puppets or banners, but I have since moved on to a more manageable sign and since I'm smart enough to show up early, I have that option.
Naturally, I've taught my acolytes to do the same.
Almost immediately, organizer Lilly wrapped me in her arms in a bear hug and thanked me for being there. "You came!" she laughed. Of course I did.
I was greeted by Jameson and Laney of Lobo Marino, both of whom were acting as parade marshals, telling people what was happening and encouraging them to participate. Laney roamed the side of the line of people, calling out, "Who wants to carry a puppet or banner? This parade is not a spectator sport!"
As one who has walked it shivering in frigid temperatures, perspired non-stop on humid, sweaty nights and everything in between, I can assure you that watching the parade is not the way to experience it. No, to fully embrace the spirit of the thing, you need to be part of the line of humanity - estimates were 2,000 participants last year and that's without spectators - that marches through Oregon Hill to cheers and people snapping photographs and videos from all sides.
Lilly walked by with a costumed mummy in tow, asking if anyone had seen the Zombie String Band, which we had, because they'd just walked by, blood dripping down their dead faces. Several of us indicated that they'd gone that-a-way and the mummy was whisked away.
Waiting for things to get started, a long-time museum friend sporting a snail head caught sight of me and ran over to chat. "Be careful I don't slime you!" she laughed, hugging me. "But lots of people will want to slime you. Be discerning!"
If Mr. Wright hadn't already been in place with Mac just ahead of the Trans Remembrance puppets in front of me, I'd have introduced her so she would stop worrying about me being approached by slimeballs.
Instead, I helped Jameson by handing him his elaborate, fringed mask, drum and drumsticks after he mounted a gigantic puppet on his shoulders and could no longer bend over. Gradually, the rest of the drums laying on the ground were claimed by others and I soon found myself positioned just ahead of what one drummer referred to as "Kind of like my high school drum line."
Jameson quickly amended that with, "A really strange drum line."
The black, coffin-shaped sign I chose read, "Here lies humanity: Death by patriarchy," and you'd better believe I not only held it high but, given my place in front of the drum line, also moved it in time to the beat, making for a parade essentially dancing the whole way.
When the parade cleared Monroe Park and turned on to Laurel Street, we were hit with a gusty wind blowing up from the river that about took down some of the biggest banners and puppets with its force. When what you're carrying is 12' tall, it essentially becomes a sail when the wind starts gusting. But people held on and righted their puppets so they could keep going and the wind settled down.
I have to admit, much as I love being part of the Halloween parade, I've never adjusted to the onslaught of picture taking, so I manage by holding my sign in front of my face and dancing it side to side to avoid eye contact with the cheering masses. It's a way of creating my own little world while surrounded by strangers, a stilt-walker and drunk people.
But because I'm not maintaining sight lines beyond the feet of the Trans Remembrance carriers in front of me so I don't step on their heels, I was occasionally jolted by a roller skating ghoul doing figure eights in my vicinity. Talk about an adrenaline rush, try having someone suddenly zip past you and your sign with no warning.
After the U-turn at the overlook on the river, we made our way back up Pine Street as I jumped ahead and joined Mac and Mr. Wright to see how they were holding up. You don't bring people to the parade and not make sure they're representing you well. Fortunately, they were.
It will be a shame if Lilly bows out of the parade after 13 years, although I certainly understand wanting to cede all that work making puppets, banners and signs and organizing thousands of people to someone new. If you ask me, her spark leading the parade - along with No BS Brass Band - is the heart and soul of Halloween in Richmond.
When we finally got to the lot where the parade ends, the three of us leaned on our signs to listen to No BS play some covers under the moonlight as those marching behind us continued to fill up the grassy lot.
If anything could be more satisfying than listening to "Thriller" played live on Halloween night followed by fireworks after walking my divine feminine self through Oregon Hill, it's not something I'm going to blog about.
And just for the record, the slime warning was unnecessary. No one messes with a dancing coffin.
Showing posts with label Halloween parade. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Halloween parade. Show all posts
Thursday, November 1, 2018
Tuesday, October 31, 2017
Hit Parade
If ever there was a time to finally bury the Confederacy, that time is now.
And if ever All the Saints Theater Company had been looking for a relevant theme for this year's Halloween parade, they'd have been hard pressed to do better than Funeral for the Confederacy.
Let's bury it and move on, shall we?
Besides remembering 2017 as the year parade organizers had no choice but to to address the nightmare that is race relations in this country, I'll also remember it as the year the parade set up on the steps of Cathedral of the Sacred Heart rather than across the street in Monroe Park - fenced off due to renovations and tree murder - like the past 11 years.
No one seemed to know if we actually had permission to stage the parade there, but at least the bishop didn't come out shaking his fist at us and telling us whippersnappers to get off his steps.
As happens every year, it took a while to get everything assigned to willing volunteers, mainly because so many people who showed up were unwilling to carry a sign or puppet. One friend, date in tow, gave me the lame excuse he doesn't like to carry anything ("That's why I use a backpack"), but he was only one of scores of people too lazy? too cool? too busy talking to their friends? to bother carrying one of the 100 pieces that All the Saints had crafted for display in the parade.
But Halloween is not about judging, so I'll just let their lack of effort slide for now.
My choice was a yard-long sign about defeating white supremacy. A woman dressed as a hooker in a fur jacket, daisy dukes and thigh-high red boots graciously agreed to carry one of the mouths that followed the white supremacist pizza in an attempt to gobble it up. But as it took longer and longer for the parade to get set up, she got impatient.
"Look, this is wasting time and time is money for me. I get $100 an hour and we're on my dime now. I should be flat on my back." She was kidding. I think.
Finally, No BS Brass Band kicked into high gear and organizer Lilly of All the Saints started waving her enormous yellow flag to signal that this year's parade was officially on the move under a waxing gibbous moon.
The pizza, mouths and I were just behind the Imperial Presidency group with multiple puppets of President No One and just in front of the Bones of Resistance and the Zombie String Band. Where we were particularly lucky was with the weather, which was neither too warm and sticky (2009), nor too windy (2010), nor raining (2011). It was Goldilocks just right.
Good thing, too, given the abundance of scanty costumes marching through Oregon Hill, like the woman in front of me wearing sheer black tights, lavender satin underwear on top of them, a crop top and silver glitter platforms. I've got no clue what she was supposed to be - a fashion disaster, perhaps? - but there wasn't much between her and a chilly breeze off the river.
Probably the cleverest costume I saw was a guy in a white trash can, the lid perched atop his head to complete his "white trash" disguise. How appropriate given the theme and the neighborhood's roots.
I caught up to my former neighbors to see that she was dressed as a broken doll and he - unwillingly and under duress - was going for an "undead" look with a white face, mussed hair and a heavy overcoat, the latter having been discovered by his wife in the closet of an old house 40 years ago. Surely there's something creepy about that.
One of the women carrying a mouth told me that she lives in California and was here visiting family when they told her about the parade. But it wasn't until she came down tonight that she discovered that there was a political theme to it and she was thrilled.
"That makes it so much more meaningful," she gushed. "I love that I can share my activism by being in a parade. This is just the coolest thing." She turned out to be one of the most animated mouths, too, eagerly trying to obliterate the evil pizza dancing in front of us.
A guy in front of me wore a kilt and carried his baby in a chest carrier and some drunken bystander down by the river spotted the kid and began shrieking in terror. "It's real!" he said, clearly surprised or perhaps just going for effect.
As we made the U-turn by the Oregon Hill overlook, a group of masked, black-clad people joined the parade just in front of me and the pizza gang. Before long, they were chanting, "No Trump! No KKK! No fascist USA!" and another chant about remembering Charlottesville victim Heather Heyer.
A few people looked put out by their injection of Antifa sentiment into the parade, but I've no doubt that Lilly would have welcomed more political commentary. They weren't being violent or even unpleasant, just chanting their concerns. I had no problem walking with them.
But then, I've been doing this parade since it was me and 60 people in 2008 and last year it was me and 1800. This was the first year I saw a drone flying above the parade with a ghost hanging from its undercarriage.
"No more drones! No more drones!" someone began chanting. "No more ghosts! No more ghosts!" another group called out. Why hadn't they chanted, "No more bubbles! No more bubbles! " when we'd walked through a fog of bubbles being generated earlier?
Well, duh, because who doesn't love bubbles? For that matter, who doesn't love a parade? Especially one committed to moving Richmond beyond the legacy of the *#!*! Confederacy.
For crying out loud, a woman in thigh high red boots was so determined to be part of tonight's funeral, she took time off from work to carry a mouth and march for the cause (Rest in shame, Confederacy).
(Cue American flag blowing in the breeze)
We should all be so willing to give of ourselves. Honey, those were four inch heels.
And if ever All the Saints Theater Company had been looking for a relevant theme for this year's Halloween parade, they'd have been hard pressed to do better than Funeral for the Confederacy.
Let's bury it and move on, shall we?
Besides remembering 2017 as the year parade organizers had no choice but to to address the nightmare that is race relations in this country, I'll also remember it as the year the parade set up on the steps of Cathedral of the Sacred Heart rather than across the street in Monroe Park - fenced off due to renovations and tree murder - like the past 11 years.
No one seemed to know if we actually had permission to stage the parade there, but at least the bishop didn't come out shaking his fist at us and telling us whippersnappers to get off his steps.
As happens every year, it took a while to get everything assigned to willing volunteers, mainly because so many people who showed up were unwilling to carry a sign or puppet. One friend, date in tow, gave me the lame excuse he doesn't like to carry anything ("That's why I use a backpack"), but he was only one of scores of people too lazy? too cool? too busy talking to their friends? to bother carrying one of the 100 pieces that All the Saints had crafted for display in the parade.
But Halloween is not about judging, so I'll just let their lack of effort slide for now.
My choice was a yard-long sign about defeating white supremacy. A woman dressed as a hooker in a fur jacket, daisy dukes and thigh-high red boots graciously agreed to carry one of the mouths that followed the white supremacist pizza in an attempt to gobble it up. But as it took longer and longer for the parade to get set up, she got impatient.
"Look, this is wasting time and time is money for me. I get $100 an hour and we're on my dime now. I should be flat on my back." She was kidding. I think.
Finally, No BS Brass Band kicked into high gear and organizer Lilly of All the Saints started waving her enormous yellow flag to signal that this year's parade was officially on the move under a waxing gibbous moon.
The pizza, mouths and I were just behind the Imperial Presidency group with multiple puppets of President No One and just in front of the Bones of Resistance and the Zombie String Band. Where we were particularly lucky was with the weather, which was neither too warm and sticky (2009), nor too windy (2010), nor raining (2011). It was Goldilocks just right.
Good thing, too, given the abundance of scanty costumes marching through Oregon Hill, like the woman in front of me wearing sheer black tights, lavender satin underwear on top of them, a crop top and silver glitter platforms. I've got no clue what she was supposed to be - a fashion disaster, perhaps? - but there wasn't much between her and a chilly breeze off the river.
Probably the cleverest costume I saw was a guy in a white trash can, the lid perched atop his head to complete his "white trash" disguise. How appropriate given the theme and the neighborhood's roots.
I caught up to my former neighbors to see that she was dressed as a broken doll and he - unwillingly and under duress - was going for an "undead" look with a white face, mussed hair and a heavy overcoat, the latter having been discovered by his wife in the closet of an old house 40 years ago. Surely there's something creepy about that.
One of the women carrying a mouth told me that she lives in California and was here visiting family when they told her about the parade. But it wasn't until she came down tonight that she discovered that there was a political theme to it and she was thrilled.
"That makes it so much more meaningful," she gushed. "I love that I can share my activism by being in a parade. This is just the coolest thing." She turned out to be one of the most animated mouths, too, eagerly trying to obliterate the evil pizza dancing in front of us.
A guy in front of me wore a kilt and carried his baby in a chest carrier and some drunken bystander down by the river spotted the kid and began shrieking in terror. "It's real!" he said, clearly surprised or perhaps just going for effect.
As we made the U-turn by the Oregon Hill overlook, a group of masked, black-clad people joined the parade just in front of me and the pizza gang. Before long, they were chanting, "No Trump! No KKK! No fascist USA!" and another chant about remembering Charlottesville victim Heather Heyer.
A few people looked put out by their injection of Antifa sentiment into the parade, but I've no doubt that Lilly would have welcomed more political commentary. They weren't being violent or even unpleasant, just chanting their concerns. I had no problem walking with them.
But then, I've been doing this parade since it was me and 60 people in 2008 and last year it was me and 1800. This was the first year I saw a drone flying above the parade with a ghost hanging from its undercarriage.
"No more drones! No more drones!" someone began chanting. "No more ghosts! No more ghosts!" another group called out. Why hadn't they chanted, "No more bubbles! No more bubbles! " when we'd walked through a fog of bubbles being generated earlier?
Well, duh, because who doesn't love bubbles? For that matter, who doesn't love a parade? Especially one committed to moving Richmond beyond the legacy of the *#!*! Confederacy.
For crying out loud, a woman in thigh high red boots was so determined to be part of tonight's funeral, she took time off from work to carry a mouth and march for the cause (Rest in shame, Confederacy).
(Cue American flag blowing in the breeze)
We should all be so willing to give of ourselves. Honey, those were four inch heels.
Monday, October 31, 2016
Confessions of a Tardy Filmgoer
I remember my first All the Saints Halloween party like it was yesterday and not 2008.
The responsibility of carrying one of puppet-maker Lily's hefty creations. The recognition of familiar faces among the barely 50 or so marchers. The scattered Oregon Hill-ites who deigned to sit on their porches and watch. The simplicity of it all.
With each subsequent year I became part of the parade - 2009, 2010, 2013, 2014 - I fine-tuned the experience.
No more puppets for me (too heavy) but I can work a banner or sign all night long. Dress lighter than you think you need to in order to compensate for carrying weighty objects and near non-stop walking. Wear comfortable shoes.
One of the high points is always organizer Lily coming by in her painted skeleton face and white satin robe to squeal my name, tell me she loves me and thank me for coming.
This year, I had three people with me (two marching, one paralleling the parade with canine in tow) gaping at costumes, admiring myriad skeleton window coverings and getting a front row view of the eclectic audience (an outhouse, a guy in a barrel going over the falls, Elvis with a spangled cape and gold platforms) for the funeral march for the demons of the day.
But as the parade has also taken on a life of its own with masses of spectators, I've also had to adjust to it.
A continuous mega-watt smile is essential because at practically every step, people are taking our picture or shooting video. It's a truly weird experience if you're not used to it.
The crowds viewing the parade currently begin at Monroe Park where the parade is staged and started, when we used to not see crowds until we were across Cary and headed into the bowels of O-Hill.
We somehow lucked into being behind a bagpiper, making for some inspiring marching music as we made our way toward the river, a stiff breeze reminding us how close we were. When he'd give his cheeks a rest, I could hear No BS Brass band playing in front of me or Lobo Marino or the Zombie String Band behind us.
Despite being an air sign, this year I led the "water" section of the parade with my blue sign reading, "Water," just behind the Goddesses contingent (Bruno was the Goddess of Old Friends while the goddess of twerking did exactly that, causing an O-Hill resident standing next to her kids in the bed of a pick-up to ask rhetorically, "Is she jacking off under there?") and at the start of the Elements groupings, just behind the tooth fairy waving the purple banner perilously close to our heads.
My sign was read by enough people that I got used to hearing such things called out as, "Gotta have water!" and, "We all need water!" as I passed by with it high in the air, working every muscle in my arms while Mac waved an upside down banner next to me.
Two women dressed as Peter Pan flitted in a zigzag pattern throughout the length of the participant line toward the front while a guy on a BMX bike tried to ride through it against the grain. When we got down to make the U-turn near the overlook, the tooth fairy turned and pointed back at the scores of marchers coming down the hill toward us.
"Look at how many people!" It truly was an impressive mass of humanity.
As we walked up Pine Street, I spotted the outline of chef David Shannon against L'Opossum's kitchen door, a huge grin on his face. But of course a man with bad clown paintings in his bathroom would appreciate the oddities of this parade.
Those oddities were nothing compared to Gallery 5's holiday offering, "The Thingy: Confessions of a Teenage Placenta," part of the Troma film series and half of tonight's Halloween double feature. Except that the film was listed as starting at 9:30 and when we arrived at 9:20, it was already in progress.
To be honest, I hate it when I miss the beginning of a film, much less the beginning of a Belgian horror/comedy film with little discernible plot and no way of catching up, but we gave it our all.
Luke the placenta was coming of age and made squishy noises wherever he went, left a slime trail behind him and used his umbilical cord to paste pictures from cigarette packs in his scrapbook.
He was the sweetest teenage placenta a mother could hope for.
But why did Mom have one giant overly-muscular arm? Who was Luke's mysterious father, anyway, Darth Vader? Why did his first date bite him ravenously after kissing him? Why did the priest torture Luke by tickling him (and, yes, it's torture, my Mom always said tickling was a form of torture)? Who thought a dog nursing at the breast of a woman was anything but repellent?
And why, oh, why, did Luke have to shoot all the newborns in the hospital nursery?
Because it's a Troma film, because the violence is so cartoonish, because...probably because of something that happened in those first 20 minutes we missed.
Placentas come and go, but the real accomplishment here is me getting my sixth Halloween parade notch on my belt, as always, marching to the beat of a different Halloween drummer.
Costume not required, attitude a plus.
The responsibility of carrying one of puppet-maker Lily's hefty creations. The recognition of familiar faces among the barely 50 or so marchers. The scattered Oregon Hill-ites who deigned to sit on their porches and watch. The simplicity of it all.
With each subsequent year I became part of the parade - 2009, 2010, 2013, 2014 - I fine-tuned the experience.
No more puppets for me (too heavy) but I can work a banner or sign all night long. Dress lighter than you think you need to in order to compensate for carrying weighty objects and near non-stop walking. Wear comfortable shoes.
One of the high points is always organizer Lily coming by in her painted skeleton face and white satin robe to squeal my name, tell me she loves me and thank me for coming.
This year, I had three people with me (two marching, one paralleling the parade with canine in tow) gaping at costumes, admiring myriad skeleton window coverings and getting a front row view of the eclectic audience (an outhouse, a guy in a barrel going over the falls, Elvis with a spangled cape and gold platforms) for the funeral march for the demons of the day.
But as the parade has also taken on a life of its own with masses of spectators, I've also had to adjust to it.
A continuous mega-watt smile is essential because at practically every step, people are taking our picture or shooting video. It's a truly weird experience if you're not used to it.
The crowds viewing the parade currently begin at Monroe Park where the parade is staged and started, when we used to not see crowds until we were across Cary and headed into the bowels of O-Hill.
We somehow lucked into being behind a bagpiper, making for some inspiring marching music as we made our way toward the river, a stiff breeze reminding us how close we were. When he'd give his cheeks a rest, I could hear No BS Brass band playing in front of me or Lobo Marino or the Zombie String Band behind us.
Despite being an air sign, this year I led the "water" section of the parade with my blue sign reading, "Water," just behind the Goddesses contingent (Bruno was the Goddess of Old Friends while the goddess of twerking did exactly that, causing an O-Hill resident standing next to her kids in the bed of a pick-up to ask rhetorically, "Is she jacking off under there?") and at the start of the Elements groupings, just behind the tooth fairy waving the purple banner perilously close to our heads.
My sign was read by enough people that I got used to hearing such things called out as, "Gotta have water!" and, "We all need water!" as I passed by with it high in the air, working every muscle in my arms while Mac waved an upside down banner next to me.
Two women dressed as Peter Pan flitted in a zigzag pattern throughout the length of the participant line toward the front while a guy on a BMX bike tried to ride through it against the grain. When we got down to make the U-turn near the overlook, the tooth fairy turned and pointed back at the scores of marchers coming down the hill toward us.
"Look at how many people!" It truly was an impressive mass of humanity.
As we walked up Pine Street, I spotted the outline of chef David Shannon against L'Opossum's kitchen door, a huge grin on his face. But of course a man with bad clown paintings in his bathroom would appreciate the oddities of this parade.
Those oddities were nothing compared to Gallery 5's holiday offering, "The Thingy: Confessions of a Teenage Placenta," part of the Troma film series and half of tonight's Halloween double feature. Except that the film was listed as starting at 9:30 and when we arrived at 9:20, it was already in progress.
To be honest, I hate it when I miss the beginning of a film, much less the beginning of a Belgian horror/comedy film with little discernible plot and no way of catching up, but we gave it our all.
Luke the placenta was coming of age and made squishy noises wherever he went, left a slime trail behind him and used his umbilical cord to paste pictures from cigarette packs in his scrapbook.
He was the sweetest teenage placenta a mother could hope for.
But why did Mom have one giant overly-muscular arm? Who was Luke's mysterious father, anyway, Darth Vader? Why did his first date bite him ravenously after kissing him? Why did the priest torture Luke by tickling him (and, yes, it's torture, my Mom always said tickling was a form of torture)? Who thought a dog nursing at the breast of a woman was anything but repellent?
And why, oh, why, did Luke have to shoot all the newborns in the hospital nursery?
Because it's a Troma film, because the violence is so cartoonish, because...probably because of something that happened in those first 20 minutes we missed.
Placentas come and go, but the real accomplishment here is me getting my sixth Halloween parade notch on my belt, as always, marching to the beat of a different Halloween drummer.
Costume not required, attitude a plus.
Friday, November 1, 2013
Parading the Sinners
I love a parade when I get to be in it.
Tonight's Halloween parade's theme was a "Funeral march for free love, free speech and free thinking," three frees I wouldn't want to live without.
I've been doing the Halloween parade practically every year since 2008, so I knew to show up in Monroe Park, grab a sign to carry (the enormous puppets are just too heavy for me) and follow No BS Brass band as they march through Oregon Hill.
Speaking of, trombonist Reggie looked amazing with African face painting adorning that smiling face.
This year, I chose a sign that read, "Welcome All Saints and Sinners" and a pair of cardboard wings with skulls and flowers on them and took my place in front of the giant pumpkin heads.
Fortunately for me, I wasn't asked to declare myself a sinner or saint in order to qualify to carry the sign.
Traipsing through Oregon Hill's streets lined with onlookers is always a hoot, with everything from people shouting at us (I repeatedly had people yelling what my sign said to me), others throwing candy (I was tempted to pick up a Tootsie Roll, but refrained) and a certain VCU professor dressed as a bee passing out canned "refreshments" to those she knew (not my beverage).
Because it's O-Hill, you see things like an entire family sitting in the bed of their pickup truck watching the parade, Mom and Dad sending one of the three kids inside when they need another beer.
You see darkened porches where the only sign of life is a glowing cigarette butt clenched in someone's teeth.
Mostly you see people with red party cups in one hand and their phone in front of their faces with the other as they watch the parade through a tiny lens.
Don't get me started.
To their credit, one guy in a blue satin dress skated the entire way and another wore curved, metal stilts that looked a lot like the artificial legs of former Olympian Oscar Pistorius.
For a while, I marched next to a girl in a Scarlet O'Hara-by-way-of-Carol-Burnett dress, complete with curtain rod going through the shoulders of the dress.
Another girl complimented her on how pretty it was and she cheekily replied, "I saw it in the window and just had to have it."
Also walking next to me was the infamous Serena Sparkles, who, like me, was immediately suspicious that they knew the source material.
Bolder than me this time, she leaned in, all glittery lips and platform shoes, and asked, "You do know what that costume's from, right?"
One claimed to (the wearer) and the other was clueless.
Someone's got to right the cultural literacy wrongs surrounding us and who better than a drag queen?
As we moved down the hill, I heard hellos from lots of people I knew- servers, DJs, guitarists, artists, organizers - both in the parade and watching from the street.
Even the man-about-town participated, and while masked, it's always pretty easy to spot "The Hat."
As in past years, it's crazy to be part of something where all eyes are on you and cameras are always going off.
No BS are the heart and soul of the parade's energy, though, and after a while I realized I was stepping in time to their music, as were many of the puppet and sign carriers.
After we finished our march, everyone mingled before disbursing to parties and shows. I was meeting friends at Bistro 27 for a much more low-key end to my evening.
We met at the bar in an almost empty restaurant, meaning it was easy to hear the music and took no time at all for us to get wine and dinner salads while we watched the crowds of costumed people walk by the big glass windows.
It's like our own, private freak show.
"Is that a man or woman?" someone asked about a scantily-clad person stumbling drunkenly across Broad Street.
"With that much back hair, you better hope it's a man!" another cracked.
For no reason, we got off on youthful memories, like the first time your college boyfriend sleeps over in the guest room and you get caught by your strict father sneaking back to your bedroom naked in the morning.
"Good morning, sir," was all the guilty party could manage, which sent the rest of us into hysterics.
No recriminations, no apologies, just a civilized greeting. In other words, pretty saintly behavior for a sinner.
I wouldn't know from saintly. I never got caught.
Tonight's Halloween parade's theme was a "Funeral march for free love, free speech and free thinking," three frees I wouldn't want to live without.
I've been doing the Halloween parade practically every year since 2008, so I knew to show up in Monroe Park, grab a sign to carry (the enormous puppets are just too heavy for me) and follow No BS Brass band as they march through Oregon Hill.
Speaking of, trombonist Reggie looked amazing with African face painting adorning that smiling face.
This year, I chose a sign that read, "Welcome All Saints and Sinners" and a pair of cardboard wings with skulls and flowers on them and took my place in front of the giant pumpkin heads.
Fortunately for me, I wasn't asked to declare myself a sinner or saint in order to qualify to carry the sign.
Traipsing through Oregon Hill's streets lined with onlookers is always a hoot, with everything from people shouting at us (I repeatedly had people yelling what my sign said to me), others throwing candy (I was tempted to pick up a Tootsie Roll, but refrained) and a certain VCU professor dressed as a bee passing out canned "refreshments" to those she knew (not my beverage).
Because it's O-Hill, you see things like an entire family sitting in the bed of their pickup truck watching the parade, Mom and Dad sending one of the three kids inside when they need another beer.
You see darkened porches where the only sign of life is a glowing cigarette butt clenched in someone's teeth.
Mostly you see people with red party cups in one hand and their phone in front of their faces with the other as they watch the parade through a tiny lens.
Don't get me started.
To their credit, one guy in a blue satin dress skated the entire way and another wore curved, metal stilts that looked a lot like the artificial legs of former Olympian Oscar Pistorius.
For a while, I marched next to a girl in a Scarlet O'Hara-by-way-of-Carol-Burnett dress, complete with curtain rod going through the shoulders of the dress.
Another girl complimented her on how pretty it was and she cheekily replied, "I saw it in the window and just had to have it."
Also walking next to me was the infamous Serena Sparkles, who, like me, was immediately suspicious that they knew the source material.
Bolder than me this time, she leaned in, all glittery lips and platform shoes, and asked, "You do know what that costume's from, right?"
One claimed to (the wearer) and the other was clueless.
Someone's got to right the cultural literacy wrongs surrounding us and who better than a drag queen?
As we moved down the hill, I heard hellos from lots of people I knew- servers, DJs, guitarists, artists, organizers - both in the parade and watching from the street.
Even the man-about-town participated, and while masked, it's always pretty easy to spot "The Hat."
As in past years, it's crazy to be part of something where all eyes are on you and cameras are always going off.
No BS are the heart and soul of the parade's energy, though, and after a while I realized I was stepping in time to their music, as were many of the puppet and sign carriers.
After we finished our march, everyone mingled before disbursing to parties and shows. I was meeting friends at Bistro 27 for a much more low-key end to my evening.
We met at the bar in an almost empty restaurant, meaning it was easy to hear the music and took no time at all for us to get wine and dinner salads while we watched the crowds of costumed people walk by the big glass windows.
It's like our own, private freak show.
"Is that a man or woman?" someone asked about a scantily-clad person stumbling drunkenly across Broad Street.
"With that much back hair, you better hope it's a man!" another cracked.
For no reason, we got off on youthful memories, like the first time your college boyfriend sleeps over in the guest room and you get caught by your strict father sneaking back to your bedroom naked in the morning.
"Good morning, sir," was all the guilty party could manage, which sent the rest of us into hysterics.
No recriminations, no apologies, just a civilized greeting. In other words, pretty saintly behavior for a sinner.
I wouldn't know from saintly. I never got caught.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Get Started, Start a Fire
Let me say right up front that I was a weather wimp.
For the first time since 2007, I didn't march in the Halloween parade.
And why? Because it was raining.
Actually it was raining pretty steadily at 7:00, the meeting time in Monroe Park for the parade. I looked outside, I saw the puddles and I wimped out.
For all I know, they merely delayed the start of the Joan of Arc-themed parade, but either way, I didn't show up and I'm feeling pretty lame about that now.
That's a capital "L" on lame.
So instead of being part of a funeral march for Joan of Arc, I ended up at 821 eating nachos with a fellow nacho-lover.
And chuckling over his beer choice: Clown Shoes "Tramp Stamp" Belgian IPA and, yes, there was a girl's backside with the requisite slut tag on the label.
The nachos were their usual multi-layered perfection but the surprise tonight was the music.
I don't think I've ever been in 821 and not heard thrash or some sort of head-banging music.
Tonight I heard Hall and Oates' "One on One." I kid you not; I almost fell off my stool.
I'm hoping it was played for ironic reasons but I fear it's part of the 20-something obsession with the '80s.
Not all of them, though. My dining companion shared that he was in a bar recently when Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" came on and he chose to walk outside to escape the cheesy classic and mass singalong.
"I appreciate the musicianship," he allowed, "But I can't stand the songs." Amen. But he was the lone holdout.
Besides, if they're going to revere '80s music, let it be something worthwhile like Graham Parker.
Joan of Arc was burning at the stake
Somebody had made a big mistake
She had lit a cigarette in an airport where you get
All your fingers taken off for smoking
Meanwhile up the road a factory's choking
The ones who killed her work there, I'm not joking
Gee, I wonder what put that song in my head tonight? Not that it's not a great song.
Joan, I'm sorry I missed your funeral march. If it's any consolation, my regret is all-consuming.
Kind of like a fire.
For the first time since 2007, I didn't march in the Halloween parade.
And why? Because it was raining.
Actually it was raining pretty steadily at 7:00, the meeting time in Monroe Park for the parade. I looked outside, I saw the puddles and I wimped out.
For all I know, they merely delayed the start of the Joan of Arc-themed parade, but either way, I didn't show up and I'm feeling pretty lame about that now.
That's a capital "L" on lame.
So instead of being part of a funeral march for Joan of Arc, I ended up at 821 eating nachos with a fellow nacho-lover.
And chuckling over his beer choice: Clown Shoes "Tramp Stamp" Belgian IPA and, yes, there was a girl's backside with the requisite slut tag on the label.
The nachos were their usual multi-layered perfection but the surprise tonight was the music.
I don't think I've ever been in 821 and not heard thrash or some sort of head-banging music.
Tonight I heard Hall and Oates' "One on One." I kid you not; I almost fell off my stool.
I'm hoping it was played for ironic reasons but I fear it's part of the 20-something obsession with the '80s.
Not all of them, though. My dining companion shared that he was in a bar recently when Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" came on and he chose to walk outside to escape the cheesy classic and mass singalong.
"I appreciate the musicianship," he allowed, "But I can't stand the songs." Amen. But he was the lone holdout.
Besides, if they're going to revere '80s music, let it be something worthwhile like Graham Parker.
Joan of Arc was burning at the stake
Somebody had made a big mistake
She had lit a cigarette in an airport where you get
All your fingers taken off for smoking
Meanwhile up the road a factory's choking
The ones who killed her work there, I'm not joking
Gee, I wonder what put that song in my head tonight? Not that it's not a great song.
Joan, I'm sorry I missed your funeral march. If it's any consolation, my regret is all-consuming.
Kind of like a fire.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Dead Doings
Tonight was Richmond's 5th Annual Halloween parade, and like the last two, yours truly was a part of the march through Oregon Hill. The theme was "A Funeral March for the Dead" but the mood was anything funereal.
It always starts in Monroe Park where participants, costumed and otherwise (I felt like my Parisian Leo tights were enough), choose masks, puppets, signs and other effects to carry. After making the mistake of choosing something too heavy the first year, I now opt for a more manageable sign. But I carry it really well, if I do say so myself.
A stranger immediately greeted me and after bit of chatting, I learned that it was his first parade, so I answered his questions about the parade process. Organizer Lily saw me and came over, saying, "Karen, I love you!' the best possible greeting I could have hoped for.
This year's sign said, "We fight for the people and we die anyway" which I learned made me "Iraqi girl" when an organizer referred to me that way to the people following me. I was right behind the two people each wearing the giant skull heads that went down past their shoulders and in front of an enormous puppet that was carried aloft by three people.
I was joined by two musician friends, one playing accordion and the other a sort of panpipe, so I had musical accompaniment to hoist my sign to. Let me tell you, after moving that sign up and down rhythmically to the music for an hour, I was more than ready to lose it.
But the parading is so much fun and the crowds so enthusiastic that the time passes quickly. Periodically we'd be showered with bubbles and occasionally the wind would kick up, challenging my ability to keep my sign upright (it was like a sail going down in the wind), bur mostly we just smiled and had our pictures taken by onlookers. And they cheered a lot for us, but then, almost all of them had a drink in hand.
And it wasn't just the crowds who were snapping pictures and shooting video. A guy dressed as Prince, complete with toy guitar, and walking near me, shot photos of more than one colorful- looking O-Hill resident as we passed by.
I almost ran into him when he stopped short to shoot a neighbor in a mu-mu with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a can of Schlitz in her hand; when she smiled for the camera, she revealed as many missing teeth as those present. Say cheese.
When we reached the endpoint, we dropped our parade paraphernalia to listen to the music and mingle with other parade walkers for a bit. You never know who's in the parade behind you until the end of it all. And that's when everybody checks with everybody else to see who's going where next.
I'd already decided that my next stop would be the Night of the Living Dead bands show at Strange Matter. Just this afternoon, I'd run into a friend in Carytown who was also planning to go and a musician friend was one of the performers in Led Zepplica. No way I could pass this up.
The place was a zoo by the time I walked back from Oregon Hill, with a core group of non-stop fist-pumpers and even moshing up front. I'm not positive who was performing, although it may well have been the Misfits cover band. Or maybe Bad Religion.
In any case, when their ear-bleedingly loud set ended and the thrashing stopped, I asked a nearby fan if I'd missed Led Zepplica and was told I had. Sad face. I'd missed my opportunity to hear my beautiful music-loving friend do his best classic rock imitation and who knows when an opportunity like that will present itself again?
When he'd first told me about it, he'd presented it as " a show you'd probably rather skip." As you might guess, he's a new friend and doesn't know me very well yet.
But he'll learn. I don't skip many shows when someone I know is playing. There's no telling what I might see or hear that would enable me to give him endless crap about.
And isn't that the stuff friendships are made of?
It always starts in Monroe Park where participants, costumed and otherwise (I felt like my Parisian Leo tights were enough), choose masks, puppets, signs and other effects to carry. After making the mistake of choosing something too heavy the first year, I now opt for a more manageable sign. But I carry it really well, if I do say so myself.
A stranger immediately greeted me and after bit of chatting, I learned that it was his first parade, so I answered his questions about the parade process. Organizer Lily saw me and came over, saying, "Karen, I love you!' the best possible greeting I could have hoped for.
This year's sign said, "We fight for the people and we die anyway" which I learned made me "Iraqi girl" when an organizer referred to me that way to the people following me. I was right behind the two people each wearing the giant skull heads that went down past their shoulders and in front of an enormous puppet that was carried aloft by three people.
I was joined by two musician friends, one playing accordion and the other a sort of panpipe, so I had musical accompaniment to hoist my sign to. Let me tell you, after moving that sign up and down rhythmically to the music for an hour, I was more than ready to lose it.
But the parading is so much fun and the crowds so enthusiastic that the time passes quickly. Periodically we'd be showered with bubbles and occasionally the wind would kick up, challenging my ability to keep my sign upright (it was like a sail going down in the wind), bur mostly we just smiled and had our pictures taken by onlookers. And they cheered a lot for us, but then, almost all of them had a drink in hand.
And it wasn't just the crowds who were snapping pictures and shooting video. A guy dressed as Prince, complete with toy guitar, and walking near me, shot photos of more than one colorful- looking O-Hill resident as we passed by.
I almost ran into him when he stopped short to shoot a neighbor in a mu-mu with a cigarette dangling from her lips and a can of Schlitz in her hand; when she smiled for the camera, she revealed as many missing teeth as those present. Say cheese.
When we reached the endpoint, we dropped our parade paraphernalia to listen to the music and mingle with other parade walkers for a bit. You never know who's in the parade behind you until the end of it all. And that's when everybody checks with everybody else to see who's going where next.
I'd already decided that my next stop would be the Night of the Living Dead bands show at Strange Matter. Just this afternoon, I'd run into a friend in Carytown who was also planning to go and a musician friend was one of the performers in Led Zepplica. No way I could pass this up.
The place was a zoo by the time I walked back from Oregon Hill, with a core group of non-stop fist-pumpers and even moshing up front. I'm not positive who was performing, although it may well have been the Misfits cover band. Or maybe Bad Religion.
In any case, when their ear-bleedingly loud set ended and the thrashing stopped, I asked a nearby fan if I'd missed Led Zepplica and was told I had. Sad face. I'd missed my opportunity to hear my beautiful music-loving friend do his best classic rock imitation and who knows when an opportunity like that will present itself again?
When he'd first told me about it, he'd presented it as " a show you'd probably rather skip." As you might guess, he's a new friend and doesn't know me very well yet.
But he'll learn. I don't skip many shows when someone I know is playing. There's no telling what I might see or hear that would enable me to give him endless crap about.
And isn't that the stuff friendships are made of?
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Halloween Parade Veteran Fans Own Flames
The weather for Richmond's Halloween parade tonight was as warm and humid as that of a New Orleans' Mardi Gras parade.
At least according to several of the participants near me.
We were all in our black "burning building" costumes, complete with cardboard flames for our arms.
Our position in the parade was right behind the stovepipe hats but in front of the red, white and blue cars.
Lily, the master puppet-maker and parade organizer, told us to keep the fires burning, (which I made a point to do despite my arms feeling like lead after the first 45 minutes), although I did notice several other of the burning buildings being a bit lazy about their fires. Just saying.
We left Monroe Park just after 7 and headed into Oregon Hill where the anticipatory crowds awaited us.
This was my third parade in a year and still I'm not used to having photographers jump in front of me to take pictures every few steps.
I must not be a good candidate for being famous and stalked by the paparazzi.
Photographer Ashe Daniel was there, shooting for Brick, and we caught up; I also saw two other photogs I'd met at the recent James River Filmmakers' Forum, one of whom snapped my picture the second I pulled that hot costume off at parade's end.
The caption should read, "Ah, sweet relief!!"
After an hour and a quarter of parading, I needed a treat, so next up was Garnett's for chocolate pecan pie.
The corner spot afforded a little police drama during my dessert respite, with three cop cars screeching to the intersection to arrest someone.
The woman next to me at the counter sipping her to-go cup of water glanced over and nonchalantly commented, "Well, she won't be home 'til Monday."
And somehow, she looked like the type person who would know that.
And now I'm off to Gallery 5 for the Carnival of 5 Fires to have my fortune read, watch the fire performers and listen to the bands.
After all, we get an extra hour tonight to enjoy that big, beautiful moon and whatever it brings.
I'm ready.
At least according to several of the participants near me.
We were all in our black "burning building" costumes, complete with cardboard flames for our arms.
Our position in the parade was right behind the stovepipe hats but in front of the red, white and blue cars.
Lily, the master puppet-maker and parade organizer, told us to keep the fires burning, (which I made a point to do despite my arms feeling like lead after the first 45 minutes), although I did notice several other of the burning buildings being a bit lazy about their fires. Just saying.
We left Monroe Park just after 7 and headed into Oregon Hill where the anticipatory crowds awaited us.
This was my third parade in a year and still I'm not used to having photographers jump in front of me to take pictures every few steps.
I must not be a good candidate for being famous and stalked by the paparazzi.
Photographer Ashe Daniel was there, shooting for Brick, and we caught up; I also saw two other photogs I'd met at the recent James River Filmmakers' Forum, one of whom snapped my picture the second I pulled that hot costume off at parade's end.
The caption should read, "Ah, sweet relief!!"
After an hour and a quarter of parading, I needed a treat, so next up was Garnett's for chocolate pecan pie.
The corner spot afforded a little police drama during my dessert respite, with three cop cars screeching to the intersection to arrest someone.
The woman next to me at the counter sipping her to-go cup of water glanced over and nonchalantly commented, "Well, she won't be home 'til Monday."
And somehow, she looked like the type person who would know that.
And now I'm off to Gallery 5 for the Carnival of 5 Fires to have my fortune read, watch the fire performers and listen to the bands.
After all, we get an extra hour tonight to enjoy that big, beautiful moon and whatever it brings.
I'm ready.
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