Every five or six years, Halloween will fall on a weekend, but until then, the weekend before serves as the primary party and costume opportunity. Enter The Hideout around midnight on Saturday, and there’s a party, but the costumed crowd here is a bit arbitrary. Sure—you’ll walk past a shorter version of Weird Al near the front steps, and yes—the bartenders are dressed as a lumberjack and a tree (complete with large branches, leaves and birds in the hair), yet the general attire for the night is a mess of items never suitable for everyday wear, but obnoxious enough for this one day out of the year. The comfortably cramped crowd dances, gripping cans of cheap beer, a guy with a bra affixed to his hair bobs his head slowly and a waitress on actual roller skates skillfully slides back and forth.
“So…what are you? Are those snowpants??” one dancing-pre-party-thrift-store-scavenger asks another.
“Yeah, they were my grandpas!” he shouts, stretching the suspenders holding up thick, red pants that cover his flailing legs that are kicking out of rhythm with the eighties and nineties hits that have been playing all night. He spins around, losing balance and trips over a large speaker—sending it, and his body, flying off the two-foot stage. A somersault and partial headstand land him amidst a group of alarmed patrons on the dancefloor below, and without hesitation, he climbs back on the stage and continues his flailing, unphased and even more rapturous. Here comes Halloween, indeed. (Stephanie Ratanas)
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