Oct 31

Oct 31 Frightful in NYC

“I was working in the lab, late one night
When my eyes beheld an eerie sight
For my monster from his slab, began to rise
And suddenly to my surprise

[Chorus]
(He did the mash) He did the monster mash
(The monster mash) It was a graveyard smash
”

— Monster Mash, Bobby 'Boris' Pickett and the Crypt-Kickers (1962)

Autumn came late this year, with the leaves first hitting the wet pavement during October’s waning days. The calendar, however, sets the date for Halloween, not nature’s ebb and flow. Once again, I headed to New York City for the annual Village Halloween Parade—this year celebrating its 50th anniversary.

The parade organizers paid tribute to the late Lou Reed, who was the consummate New Yorker. Lou regularly could be seen on the streets of New York, but his snarl signaled that it was best not to approach. Obviously, he couldn’t serve as the parade’s Grand Marshal, so the organizers opted for Laurie Anderson, Reed’s widow and one of the great conceptual artists of our time. Anyone who doubts such praise obviously missed the Hirschhorn’s recent exhibit featuring work from her long and lustrous career. While I understand why the organizers chose Reed—the man who not only penned Take a Walk on the Wild Side, but who made it a lifestyle choice—Anderson plays second fiddle to no one.

For the 50th anniversary theme, the organizers opted for Upside Down/Inside Out, which signaled a return to normalcy after COVID’s three-year rampage. Of course, nothing has returned to normalcy, which is why Halloween offers up a gratefully-needed respite. Specifically, Donald Trump is haunts us, but thankfully I only saw one Trump impersonator during this evening’s parade.

This afternoon, when I stopped by the parade’s headquarters in an old theater on Dominick Street, just west of Sixth Avenue, I had only one question. Hesitantly, I asked whether there were any hints that pro-Israeli or pro-Palestinian forces planned to disrupt everyone’s momentary diversion from that the gruesome and vexing conflict dominating the news, streets, and college campuses for the last month. I was told that there would be extra police presence this year, but that the police had no indication that any group intended to crash the party. Over the course of the evening, I looked for Palestinian or Israel flags, but saw none. I hope the partisans decided that there is a time and place for everything, and tonight was not their night.

As in prior years, I explored the West Village this morning, enjoying and photographing the elaborate decorations affixed to brownstone walls and wrought-iron fencing, and lining the steps leading to doorways. I then headed back to my hotel for final camera preparations, grabbed a quick salad at Eataly, and then headed back to the intersection at Canal and Sixth Avenue. I spent the next ninety minutes mingling with bands, puppet-masters, ghouls, and cultural icons that persist decades after their first appearances on television, in film, and across newspaper front pages, which are now an anachronism. The Ghostbusters, Freddy Krueger, and Beetlejuice once again prowled Sixth Avenue tonight.

According to the organizers, there were two million people lining Sixth Avenue. Despite that impressive number, I was somewhat disappointed this year with the crowds. In past years, many more spectators dressed for the occasion. This year most just showed up as themselves.

There is one possible explanation. Each year, in addition to the floats and marching bands, the parade’s organizers offer members of the public the opportunity to fill in the gaps. In prior years, these ghosts and goblins were spread out. Tonight, however, those who pre-registered to march came at me in three dense waves. It was virtually impossible to capture images as I walked against this flow of humanity. I suspect many of these people may have been behind the bicycle barricades in year’s past.

Nevertheless, the parade offered up many delights, including the crowd-pleasing Michael Jackson Thriller revue; the Fogo Azul all-women Brazilian Samba Reggae marching band; the Tilted Axes marching band; the two-story-tall skeletons manipulated by puppeteers; the cadre of painted, topless women (and at least one man this year) who are more amusing than shocking; and the low-rider cars, filled with vampire nuns.

But when all is said and done, I love the individual efforts. Granted some of the masks are store-bought, but many participants spend countless hours designing their handmade costumes. This year, I loved the Mad Hatter; the woman carrying a sign complaining about high rent while she was wearing a dress in lined with U.S. currency; the two men dressed as Gilligan and the Skipper, with character-appropriate body types; and the one couple who came as Ken and Barbie. Much to my surprise, there were not dozens of Kens or Barbies. I saw no one dressed as Robert Oppenheimer, even though he was the father of a device that could easily be responsible for many of the other mutants prowling the parade route.

After two hours and forty-nine minutes on my clock, the parade concluded—at least I passed the last group of marchers. Every year, I promise myself that I will walk the streets photographing the afterparty. But moving against the flow of floats, bands, and people, I always succumb to my desire for some solitude, so I headed south for dinner at Odeon, which was my official restaurant on this trip.

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