Halloween 2009

Mrs. Memphis and I were invited to a Halloween party this year. The party was in a part of town where, when I was younger, everyone always wished to live. It's up on top of a steep hill, with perfect houses, all very large, and everyone and everything up on that hill somehow just better. They were the rich people up on that hill, the privileged, the elite.

Going up there is a bit like shifting into low gear and driving your car right up into Heaven. Except that you hit a Stop sign at the top. And then we had to hang a right, and then the first left, and just over the rise there is the house on the left. OK, so Heaven has detailed instructions. You could Mapquest it.

I wanted to go as something practical, which meant no latex masks covering my face like I'd worn for so many Halloweens in the past. And I wanted something that everyone would like, so no politicians or celebrities. Most of all, I wanted people to be happy when they saw me coming.

So, I thought it over, and I decided that the only logical choice was for me to go to the party dressed as Captain Morgan, the pirate on the rum bottle. There's always rum when you're Captain Morgan!


Mrs. Memphis, for reasons known only to her, had always wanted to go to a Halloween party dressed as a witch.

My costume cost a good bit of money. It would have been cheaper to piece it together and rent most of it, but I didn't know that until it was too late. All the individual accessories - 2 musket pistols, sword, boots, belt, etc - had to be purchased separately. Luckily, I'm a packrat and a freak. I already had a perfect pair of boots. I also had a real cavalry sword. My niece asked me about it as I was getting ready for the party.

"Where'd you get the costume?"

"I bought the coat and hat and these floppy things that slip over my boots to give the floppy boot-top effect."

"What about that sword?" she asked.

"I already had the sword."

"Oh, of course you did," she said sarcastically. Yes, because who doesn't have a sword lying around, right?

Mrs. Memphis' witch dress looked like hell. Luckily she had a skin tight little black dress that I had bought for her years ago that worked just fine. And it looked a hell of a lot better, too. Other than the dress, all a witch needs is hose, black shoes, and a hat. She was ready in no time flat.

We arrived at the party right on time. There was a 1940 supercharged, emergency orange, flamed Chevrolet coupe parked in the drive in front of the house. There was no way you could miss the house with that car out front.

We entered through the front door. A few younger partiers were upstairs, scarfing up all the food in the kitchen. We quickly moved past them to the stairs and went down into the den, where the real party was.

In the den was a large open room with fireplace, and a well-stocked bar complete with Angela the bartender. Angela is a real bartender, a pro. Life has sure changed since college days when we just grabbed whatever was behind the bar or drank straight from the keg.

There was also a band. It was made up of the husbands of various women I knew at the party. But this was no ordinary band. Everyone in the band was, either in the 1980s or '90s, in some semi-famous band, and has actually made a good chunk of change working as rock stars. That's all over now, and they mostly play for fun, although they do still get paid. When they played, it was serious business. And the drunker I got, and less able to get off the bar stool, the more I began to realize just how different it was to have professional rockers playing a party instead of some friends from school who just like to knock around with guitars and drums and shit. They were awesome. I felt like I should flick a lighter or something. If I'd had a bra, I'd have thrown it at them.

Out in back was a large inground pool, a pool house, and a large 3-car garage. There were a few tables and chairs outside and a fire pit blazing away. There were costumed people everywhere, most of whom I had never met before. And of course, every woman, no matter what her costume, was dressed as a slut. This is the greatest thing about Halloween, really, the way every woman in the world expresses her inner slut as best as she can. There were several slutty witches, slutty superheroes, slutty movie characters, etc. There were slutty moms who brought their slutty teenaged daughters mixing with slutty twenty-somethings and slutty thirty-somethings. There was even a woman who must be at least 50, with a perpetual cigarette blazing and a cigarette laugh that rolls like thunder and can be heard for miles. She was a slutty something or other, too.

At one point a gang of pirates arrived, all theater people, all very shiny and dramatic with their entrance. I knew 2 of them from a birthday party I had attended a few months before at their very own house. It was just down the street at the opposite end of this fabulous neighborhood up in drive-in Heaven. They are married to one another, he being a super-successful executive and she being one of the most charismatic and beautiful women I have ever met in my life. And wouldn't you know it, their swords were real, too? Naturally we took a few pirate photos together after briefly discussing the possibility of looting and pillaging. Someone suggested some raping, it may have even been me, but the pretty pirate seemed far too enthused about the idea in a way that made us all nervous, so we nixed the raping. And then we hid her sword.

Both Mrs. Memphis and I had the time of our lives. We talked to people we knew, people we didn't know until that night, and people we still don't know and can barely remember. And once we were thoroughly sloshed, we enjoyed watching several intoxicated men all trying their best to seduce a French-Canadian model from Montreal who looked good enough to eat. She was tres hawt. And those poor guys got nowhere with her. Oh, but it was sooo much fun to watch them try. We laughed and laughed. Alcohol may have been a factor in how much and how loudly we laughed, but the music was so loud that they never heard us.

Mrs. Memphis spent half the night talking to the French-Canadian model, who was dressed as a slutty witch just like my wife was, before I ever got a chance to meet her myself. She turned out to be fun to talk to and very entertaining. And she made the blood rush to my happy places when she leaned in close to speak in my ear over the sound of the live music. But I have had enough experience with French-Canadian women to know that, no matter how smokin' hot their bodies may be, no matter what they may agree to do to you, they are usually a lot of trouble. And by trouble, I mean drama and flying furniture and kicks in the groin and tears and handcuffs and leather whips and police and chain smoking and pole dancing and more police and a mug shot and a restraining order and changing your phone number and moving and praying to God she never finds you again. Elle est ennui très mauvais.

So deep down inside, even though she was gorgeous, I was glad Mrs. Memphis was with me. And also that I had a sword, a real sword, which might be used to fend off an intoxicated and beautiful French-Canadian model should the need arise.


My friends who hosted the party had once told me that they were big tequila and vodka drinkers. I drained them of Jagermeister and vodka before the night was through, but I brought them some Captain Morgan spiced rum as my contribution to the party. I was pleased when they told me later in the week that they'd loved the rum and were adding it to their list of drinks they enjoy.

I had driven Mrs. Memphis and I to the party. A beautiful female friend, the woman through whom I had met almost every single one of the other people at the party, apparently wanted to get me drunk because she steadily filled me with Jager and Vodka all night long. Her husband was busy playing guitar in the band and she had time on her hands, I suppose, so getting me sloshed became her primary focus. She worked hard on this while my wife was away somewhere chatting up the French Canadian model prior to introducing her to me. Anyway, after the party was over, Mrs. Memphis drove us home again, which was lucky for me. I didn't want to drive, but I don't normally have my own "desitooted" driver. Besides, you should try driving a car while wearing an Ozzie Osbourne/Jamaican hippie wig, pirate hat, boots, and sword. It wasn't easy getting us there while in full costume and I wasn't all that anxious to try it again getting us home.

This was the best Halloween party I have ever attended. And even better, when the host was ending the party, he announced that everyone who had been invited to this year's party, as in every previous party, has a standing invitation to their annual Halloween party for life. You can be sure I'll be going back next year.

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Memphis Area House Party Lands Three Cops, One Fireman in Big Trouble

Bartlett, Tennessee - The party was at the Bartlett home of Carrie and Brandon Faulkner, and it apparently was a good one. Carrie is a Bartlett cop and Brandon is Redneckville fireman. Now both of them have been suspended from their jobs with pay and Brandon Faulkner is fighting to stay out of jail.

Dunt dunt duuuuh!

A neighbor who went to their weekend party says Brandon Faulkner raped her.

Oh snap!

The party at the Faulkners Saturday night changed a lot of lives. Ten year Bartlett police veteran Carey Faulkner, who hosted the party with her husband, still has a chance to keep her job. But this is not her first time being called before the bosses. Inside her personnel file, that praises her for professionalism, timeliness and following rules, there are also a few black marks, all involving the sort of public nudity and drunkeness that would make her a star on Girls Gone Wild.

In 1999, she and four other officers were given negative behavior reports for an incident at a local pool that involved nude bathing.

My kind of girl.

Then in 2002, she was suspended for 18 days and put on one year's probation for what happened at the Christie's Cabaret club. Witnesses say she was dancing nude on stage with a club employee.

No one seemed to mind, and soon after, Carey was invited to more parties than ever.


The other officers at Saturday's party aren't talking, now that they're sober. But Jack Fullwood and Jonathan Poe haven't been with the force long enough to get a regular review. They were still on probation when they were fired, which really sort of sucks seeing as they were just doing what all the other officers were doing.

"The other police officers stayed and behaved in a manner unbecoming a police officer (I.E. drunk and naked while dancing to gay disco songs and videotaped for a starring role on YouTube). They are given the duties they had to uphold. They didn't do that." says Bartlett Mayor Keith McDonald, who was miffed at not having been invited to this latest party and who is rumored to have a 'thing' for Carrie and her habit of getting naked every time she takes a drink.

Carey Faulkner's husband Brandon has gotten high marks as a Redneckville fireman. But he has also been reprimanded for being late to work and not reporting to an emergency response. Now he is charged with rape.

Doh!

Brandon Faulkner got out of jail on 50-thousand dollars bond Wednesday morning after being arrested for rape, sexual assault and sexual battery yesterday. He will be back in court August 29th.

It is unknown at this time whether Carrie will be throwing any more parties, but after reading the initial news stories it is believed that most of the officials in all the cities surrounding and including Memphis have been calling her begging for an invitation to the next one.

"Good Lord, these people know how to throw-down. They are the shit!" said a local mayor who wish to remain anonymous.

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Duckaphobic Feminist

We went for a bike ride tonight. It was an amazing day overall, or appeared to be at first. All through the neighborhoods, as we pedalled along, I'd wave to people, even attractive female people, and they'd wave back and smile. I was stunned. This has never happened before in the entire 8 years that we have lived here in Redneckville.

We passed a lonely man sitting on his front porch. He was listening to Journey on his radio. He looked oddly similar to Rooster, my neighbor, only with short hair. He didn't wave back.

Out on the main street, 2 girls were standing on the sidewalk talking and trying to see what sort of boy-reaction they could get without being obvious. 4 boys in a convertible Mustang passed them. They revved the engine and shouted "Woooo!"

The girls smiled in obvious satisfaction.

We biked all the way down to Wolf River, about 6 miles away, and stopped for a rest. There were other people there already, sitting on the benches and looking out at the water. Slowly, I became aware that everyone else there was a couple, like us, and about our same age. Two of the couples had kids. One couple had a little dog. We had nothing. The couples with kids looked healthy, happy, and fullfilled. The couple with the little dog looked old, defeated, tired and out of place. And we, we looked as we do, whatever that means.

We biked back towards home again. At Wolf River Park we took time to bike around the lake. We passed a fat woman who had 3 kids with her. I couldn't help but notice them because the 2 girls were screaming in terror.

I quickly looked around to see what was going on. They were screaming in terror at the ducks, who were running from the woman. The woman was ranting about rape and misogyny and all sorts of feminist bumpersticker bullshit. She was urging the girls to kill the male duck. The girls were trying to kill him as she had instructed, in between screaming and running from him whenever he turned around. The poor girls believed the ugly woman's madness to be reality. They had no way of knowing that this adult woman was a lunatic. They were terrorized by her 'gender lens' as it was being applied to the ducks, who were simply attempting to mate as God intended. One girl nearly ran straight into me on my bike as I rode through their screaming crime scene.

The woman, now seeing me, grew instantly silent, shushing her girls and standing stone still as I passed. Apparently, despite her feminist madness, she was at least aware enough of reality to be ashamed of what she was doing when other adults were around. Her girls, being no older than 6 or so, could not so easily turn off the terror she had filled them with. They kept screaming. I could see in their eyes that their terror was very real and very intense. They were crying.

I rode through slowly, as it was difficult to navigate through the chaos that this truly ugly woman was causing. I got a good look at her. She had a redish-brown ponytail, no makeup, glasses, crazed blue eyes of hate, and she was fat. She was ugly from the inside out. The 3 children with her all had beautiful blonde hair and blue eyes. If these were her kids, they bore only a vague resemblance to her.

I looked back at them as I passed. They immediately returned to trying to kill the duck, with the fat bitch now yelling "leave her alone" at the male duck. Apparently it never occurred to her to ask the female duck how she felt about all of this. The female duck was running from the woman and the girls, too. In fact, all the female ducks were running from these terrorists. The male duck trying to mate with one of them seemed to be the very least of their concerns.

I came to a bridge. A black couple was walking away from it. The woman said to me, "there's a snake on the bridge. We just turned around."

I had a feminist lunatic behind me and a snake in front of me. I had to choose.

I rode for the snake.

I pedalled faster, crossing the bridge in record time, rolling over the snake without even looking at it. It paid me little attention as my knobby tires pounded harmlessly over its' back. I continued on. So did the snake.

I rounded the lake and rode to the opposite side. I could see the feminist and her brood still standing in the midst of the ducks, still terrorizing them. I stopped and watched.

The woman was now looking around to make sure no one saw what she was doing. Up to this point she had only made brief attempts to kick and stomp the male duck, trying to be discrete about her cruelty to animals, if not her hatred for males. She had been mostly using the children to do her dirty work. But now, looking up and down the path and seeing no one watching her, she pushed the girls aside and began chasing her feathered male victim entirely by herself. She ran as a madwoman around the path, into the grass, and finally deep into the woods, where all the ducks, male and female alike, had fled in an attempt to escape this crazed, man-hating, homocidal maniac. She was screaming, "LEAVE HER ALONE" as if the ducks' perfectly natural act of reproduction was some sort of horrific crime, a horrible spectacle of the mythical epidemic of violence against women, or women ducks as it were.

There were four of them in all. There was the woman, consumed with her hatred of men and sex and reproduction and, apparently, male ducks. There was the oldest girl, who appeared to be 6 or older, with beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair, a future heartbreaker to be sure. There was the younger girl, who also had beautiful blue eyes and blonde hair. The two girls had been running around and screaming. I had seen only the terror and tears in their eyes as I passed. And then there was the last one, the boy. He was tiny. He was sitting on a little 4 wheeled toy that he pushed along with his feet. He was no older than 2 or 3. He, too, had blue eyes and blonde hair. He had not been screaming. He had been sitting quietly, with his fingers in his mouth and a look in his eyes of both sadness and fear. He hadn't moved the entire time. He was forgotten. He was completely ignored by the madwoman whom I can only assume to be his mother. He wasn't watching the ducks or his sisters. He had been watching the madwoman. He was looking at her and making an expression of a child on the verge of tears. But he did not cry. He never made a sound or shed a tear. He simply sat alone and chewed his fingers in silence, watching the woman run away from him, off into the woods on her quest to kill the male duck.

The snake had crossed the bridge. I could see people jumping off the path as it came towards them and slithered past, heading in the direction of the madwoman and her ducks. In fact, it appeared to be heading straight for the boy.

No one did anything. I watched them as they leaped aside, watched the snake go past, then looked back at the boy and made expressions of horror. But then they did nothing. They just let it go and waited to see what would happen.

The woman was still ranting and running through the woods. I checked my pockets for a cell phone. I wanted to call the police and have her arrested and perhaps have the children taken from her. I had no phone. And there was no one nearby to ask for one. I turned back to watching the boy.

The snake was virtually on top of him now. He was uniquely vulernable, being so small and sitting so close to the ground on his little toy. He was an easy target. He sat in complete silence, still eating his fingers, still looking as if he wanted to cry but knew it to be useless. He had his back to the snake.

The woman was barely visible now. She and the girls were so deep into the woods that they were now only silhouettes, shrinking off into the distance. They had abandoned the boy completely.

The snake was right behind him. I wanted to shout, but there was no one to shout to. No one was nearby.

And then, suddenly, the boy leaped up from his little toy. He ran in a panic with arms outstretched after his mother, the same woman who had left him all alone in a public park, sitting on a path next to a large lake, with complete strangers and terrorized ducks.

And a snake.

I rode on, wishing for a cell phone and cursing my luck at not having one.

It was an odd ride home. Again, friendly people waved at us. No one ever waves in Redneckville. Never. This is one of the reasons we have always wanted to leave. It has always been so unfriendly. Shit, if it had been friendly before we'd have simply moved to a larger home right here instead of heading out into the Boondocks.

After 5 of 6 miles, we were back in our own neighborhood. 2 attractive girls and their boyfriends/husands were sitting in their driveway looking at their motorcycles and talking. I waved. They waved back.

This is so weird.

Then I passed the lonely guy, the guy who reminded me oddly of Rooster, the guy who had been listening to an old song by Journey when we had passed by an hour or so before. He was drunk now. He screamed something about "JD." I waved. He thrust his finger in my direction and screamed again, "mumble mumble JD!" Yeah, whatever, dude.

I turned onto my street. I looked to my right and saw the entire gang that had been partying over at Roosters on Friday. They were partying in the driveway of another house. I saw all the usual guys, and I saw the 2 girls. The girl with the long blonde hair I don't know. The other girl, the beautiful girl with long dark hair, I know very well. She's my neighbor. Her mother has beautiful red hair and is very nice. They're good people. I'll miss them when we move. She's a cheerleader, probably a senior by now, perhaps just graduated. The blonde girl is probably a friend of hers. Between the two of them, they keep the guys jumping. I have a feeling that the 2 girls run the show. There used to be a third girl, also very pretty, but she's gone to live with her dad. So it's just the 2 girls and a whole army of guys. It's summer and they're just hanging out, some getting ready to head off to college soon. Others having to go back to school here in Redneckville in the fall.

As I write this they're slowly gathering again over at Rooster's, just across the street. The guys usually show up first. The girls show up later. But it's Sunday night and many of them have to work tomorrow. This party may not be as big as Friday's.

I'm going to bed. But before I do, I'll probably pray for that little boy. Unless a miracle occurs and he is taken from that woman, he hasn't got a prayer in this world.

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Party

It's nearly midnight and there's a party going on over at Rooster's house across the street. Chad is there with him. Every high school and college kid in the neighborhood is there smoking and drinking and hanging out. Chad is at least 25. Rooster is over 45. Everone else is somewhere around Chad's age or younger, I think. I recognize many of them.

I keep peeking out the window at them. I think they see me and it sort of annoys them. I guess they assume I disapprove or want to call the law or something.

You know what I really want?

I want to go join the party.

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