Well, it’s fall and you know what that means. Time to get out the fat pants and the butter tarts.
But it also means the celebration of that olde tyme gay pagan holiday where men in ancient times would dress up as Cleopatra. You love it. You know it. Let’s welcome back, Halloween.
I know it’s still a couple of weeks away, but time to get planning. Fellas, there are outfits to be bought, shoes to try on, spangles to be sewn. Girls, it’s time to put the top up on the Miata.
For the boys, it’s all dresses and sparkles and high heels, camp costumes and boas. For the ladies it’s all waiting in line to get into Slack’s behind three Chers, a giant condom and a 6′ 3″ JonBenet Ramsey.
Ah, Halloween, derived from the Latin “halo,” which means “candycorn,” and the word “ween” which means “ick.” But it’s not just “Ick! Candycorn!” anymore. Not when the gays get at it.
It all caps off on Halloween night with a fun, festive march up and down Church St with boys in costume and three girls dressed as Elvis. Last year I saw a gal who looked like Abe Lincoln. But I don’t think she was in costume. That might have just been her own look.
I love that promenade up and down the strip. A little bell should ring when you get to one end and then you pivot around the corner like a ride at the Ex and head back down. It’s classic.
I’m not saying we, the gals, are a bit lacking in this holiday tradition, but we are rather lacklustre and disproportionate in our participation. This year I want to see more of us lezzie ladies in costume. To help you out, I have come up with some suggestions about how to get more into the spirit of Halloween.
Why not come dressed as your favourite tennis player, Martina Navratilova? Tennis whites and a mop on your head — you’re done!
How about Gertrude Stein? A man’s suit and a mop on your head — you’re done.
Kd lang? Kimono. Mop. Done.
Do you see where I’m going with this?
Or maybe you could dress up in pairs. The boys all know a thing or two about the fun of a double dress-up. I’ve seen enough Alexis and Krystles or Paris and Nicoles to attest to that.
Someone could go as Angelina Jolie and someone else could go as “yourself” and you could make out with each other. Cross that off your Ellen life-list.
Someone go as Nigella Lawson and someone else as a leftover turkey from the fridge and also make out with each other. I swear, that woman’s ratings are so high not because of her ability to make trifle or her summer treats created next to the “don’t sit down on a blanket” pebbly English beach. Seriously, who watches for the recipes? I admit the eating is a smidge over the top, a bit heavy on the devour. Kind of like if you ever give the dog a piece of birthday cake. But I love her. I don’t know any gay gal who would kick her out of bed for eating crackers… and lemon meringue pie. And cheese fondue. Dipped with bread. And chocolate sauce. And perogies smeared with marmalade… all at once.
Why not go out dressed as famous woman-lovers from history: Emily Dickinson, Virginia Woolf or Stephen Harper’s wife, Lurleen or whatever the fuck that dingbat’s name is. I’m not saying she’s gay. I’m just saying she’s a friend of Sappho’s.
(And I’m not saying Stephen Harper is gay. I’m just saying he gets girlie-like crushes on his male friends, loves a Broadway musical and when having sex has been know to shout out, “I love you, Jude Law!”
As an aside, if Stephen Harper gets any fatter he’s going to have to be removed from his house by the jaws of life and Richard Simmons. He looks like a shoplifter trying to leave Future Shop with a television set under his coat.)
But I digress! Back to Halloween.
* Don’t get too drunk. Nothing sadder than the sight of a wasted Joan Collins heading home down Dundonald teetering on one broken heel, eating a pepperoni pizza slice
* Maintain the illusion till you get home. Two blocks later the same Joan Collins whipped it out to have a tinkle on a patch of grass. It rather broke the spell, although confirmed what I had always suspected about Joan Collins
* Have a peek under the mask; you want to make sure Batman isn’t your mailman.
Whatever you do, have fun. And if you see Emily Dickinson making out with Nigella, I will have done my job.