Death By Mixtape

Bonzoween XXVI: revenge of the booty.

With the inarguable exception of New Year's Eve, Halloween is the most heavy metal holiday on the calendar. If it happens to fall on a Friday or Saturday, Hulkifying into the raging, hedonistic leviathan known as Halloweekend, you have absolutely no reason to meet the technical definition of "alive" on Sundayunless you have to compose a weekly music column due first thing Monday morning.

It's precisely that kind of "open up and say 'ahh' . . . but don't swallow" mind-set a fundamental commitment to actually showing up at the office every daythat stifles this column (let's let the fact that I'd never heard an Elliott Smith song until this weekend slide). Moderation insecurity aside, I was fairly giddy about Halloweekend 2003, my first October cap without the baggage of 26 years of straight-edge piety (Speaking of which, I didn't hear Minor Threat until I graduated college five years agoshit! What is this, Truth Serum Day?!) "Anything" could happen, but I approached the night with a hard- to-fudge, Green Day-simple, two-pronged goal: to (1a) dance, and (1b) do so alongside others in festive garb.

Note, re 1b: self-costuming was, more accurately, Strokes-simple. My inability to obtain a simple skeleton bodysuit to complete a transformation into Donnie Darko ignited a daylong panic attack during which I bandied about Carrie, post-Load Lars Ulrich, a hipster zombie, and a Jack White zombie (not too much of a stretch) as parachute solutions before settling on Gina Gershon's Showgirls ├╝berbitch, Crystal.

Note, re 1a: Yes, I opted to dance, not rock. Since Nirvana invented rock and roll in 1991, I've stubbornly chosen to spend the majority of each dawn of the dead at a concert. Not this time. Now that I drink, etc., I also dance. Well, "dance." It just happens, like that Lambda/Mu party in Revenge of the Nerds where they pan down to Poindexter's nether regions during "Thriller," and he's inexplicably, joyfully, um, thrusting.

Enough stalling. Halloweekend didn't start off very heavy metal unless you count getting a jaywalking (!) ticket on the Ave, crumpling it up the second the cop handed it to me, then . . . dutifully stuffing it in my pocket (actually, it is kinda Lars v.2003). This experience at the very least necessitated a revision to 1b: not to party in the fucking U District. Luckily, my friend Jolene had to meet a classmate in Pioneer Square, so I hopped the No. 10 with J and her roommate to Larry's Nightclub, which spawned the following bug-eyed day-after question, ad infinitum: What the fuck is Larry's? For the wretched few among you who don't scour Eight Nights every week, Larry's is indeed a nightclub in Pioneer Square that caters, quite successfully, I presume, to Pioneer Squarianswhich I will someday expound upon in the inevitable "Mixtape Gets Eaten by P-Square Tape Deck" column.

Until then, know that the brunt of the evening consisted of "booty dancing" to the hits specifically, Warren G., 50 Cent, Outkast, Missy, Snoop, Chingy, and other KUBE jams. I was asked at one point, midhump, whether I was dancing like a girl or a guy and had no answer. The sight of undulating lipstick thespians surely titillated many a jock voyeur, until they got a glimpse of my pit hair. Otherwise, it was a nice, merely physically rigorous, drama-free helliday. As to the implied drug abuse and local rock star ogling that generally permeates this space, no go. Four cocktails, booty dancing, end of story. Not as orgiastic as you were anticipating? Consider these ghosts of Bonzoweens past:


Bought sky blue trucker shirt, grew "Amish beard," Kool-Aided hair orange, and didn't leave my neighborhood, trick-or-treating in pure, irony-free homage as Stone Temple Pilots' frontman Scott Weiland. I, and you, only wish I were joking.


Eschewing KSU's annual Halloween campus block party, a thrilling festival of public defecation and statutory (etc.) rape, friend Tony and I bragged to sorority girls that we were going to lose our shit at a Today Is the Day show, and did just that . . . all alone, all night.


Fully embracing KSU's annual Halloween campus block party, I attended my first frat party, headlined by local grungy quartet Canis Major. Midshow highlight: A wasted blonde hauled my Yoda mask off, exclaimed, "You're a little hottie under there, aren't you?" kissed me, doubled over, then barfed. Please note: Kiss preceded barf.


"Dealt with" temporary breakup with then- girlfriend by quietly sobbing on pavilion bleachers, as Ministry sang about "drinkin' the blood of Jesus."


"Dealt with" not willfully communicating with another human once during entirety of Murder City Devils going-away Halloween extravaganza by quietly sobbing in Showbox bathroom.

This year, things were not awful. See you next 10/31, after I win the lottery and pay Botch $100,000 to reunite and headline my loge at Seahawks Stadium.

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