“It’s late and we are sleepy,
The air is cold and still.
Our jack-o-lantern grins at us
Upon the windowsill.
We’re stuffed with cake and candy
And we’ve had a lot of fun,
But now it’s time to go to bed
And dream of all we’ve done.”
We came out as goblins, we came out as ghosts, we came out as pirates, princesses and, the Brokeback mountain boys. The funny thing about Halloween in Hollywood is that until the next day, when everyone is wearing their regular clothing, you don’t know who’s dressed up for Halloween and who’s simply dressed for everyday. The man standing still for hours in a gold sequined suit, face painted, waiting for you to put a dollar in his hat so he can move, is still waiting for that dollar on Halloween; alongside Cinderella and Marilyn Monroe and now, more often than not, Michael Jackson.
The day after Halloween there are remnants. The fake cotton cobwebs clinging to bushes, signs threatening use of silly-string ($1,000 fine) nailed to neighborhood poles, front lawn decorations still lit. There are people shuffling out of friends houses in bright satin muumuu’s, angling to get to their car as fast as possible.
As concerns my night, even I, who remain firmly stuck in the mud when it comes to dressing for Halloween, came around. Though a true cliché, I was a pirate. A fancy one; with lots of bangles and bracelets, an eye-popping earring and numerous dangling seashells. I buckled my boots, tied my bandana and partied with the rest of them until the wee hours. I saw a pantless banana, met Miss Menopause (hormonal induced mustache and all), drank vodka with Catwoman and danced with a cowboy.
NO SAINTS IN L.A. 
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