Halloween Party

A fellow law student invited me to his Halloween party in Calabasas. For those of you out of the loop, Calabasas is East of Malibu. It’s the main hideout for rich whites in Los Angeles to seek refuge from the Urban Bizzarnival : The Smell Trapeze of Poor People, People of Color Exploding Bullwhips, Man Dykes, Wild Horses, Drug Charmers, Crime peddlers, the Misshapen Siamese Twins “Filth and Grime,” Police Brutality Sheiks and of course the rising tide of Hollywood Bullshit. Hence the portmanteau, “Cala-blackless.” Ha, ha. But it’s true though, homie. In Spanish Calabasas means “Pumpkins,” but most people consider the Mexican claim to this land long since gone. See Adverse Possession and War Booty.

My buddy’s dad is a surgeon who does a little plastic surgery on the side. So the scuttlebutt around the school is that this dude’s set up might be “pretty sweet.”

Or course it was.

When I showed up at the security gate I knew I was near money. First, the security gate actually had a live body manning the booth. Some people live in a gated community and all they have is box to enter a code, which every pizza hut delivery schmuck knows. This is known as a “gated community.” But when someone has an actual guard, in a uniform, that speaks English, and has a clipboard, this is a “Gated community,” that is, with a capital “G.” (W is trying to achieve this Gated community thing across the Southern Border. Hmmmm. Maybe we should nail one up North to keep the Canadians out so they can’t send their Schleppy Emissaries like Celine Dion.)

If he has a live body guarding the gate, then you have a rich friend. If your car offends the guard’s sensibilities then you’re poor as Wesley Snipes. Never mind that this slagheap probably drove to this booth in a Mothballed Hyundai, he raised his eyebrows at my Nissan Sentra. So what that it’s a ’97? So what I got Buddhist crap hanging from my mirror? So what I have to reinflate my driverside rear tire? So what my side mirro has been MIA for two years? Bastard. The only people more snobby than really rich people, are the people who work for really rich people.

He made me “flash my ID.” Which I hate doing because my photo was taken during dark times when I served in the Filipino Navy. It’s bad when your ID actually makes people MORE suspicious of you. BTW, my buddy lives across the street from Marcia Clark. Don’t bother, I already ran down the list of questions. According to them she knew when she got the case that she would lose because that’s what her bosses told her. She did not throw back any margaritas with us.

I don’t know why I thought my George Bush costume would go over well with my Pepperdine Peeps. Perhaps I thought that W had been such and abysmal failure that Republicans have already divorced themselves from Bush. But, to no avail. There was a very angry little Italian Chap who proclaimed that he started the young republicans club at his University. He asked someone if they were Christian, and she said yes, and he said, “Good for you sweetie.” I had my mask on, and when I said, “The only person who loves white women more the George W Bush, is Condi Rice.” He didn’t laugh. In fact none of the partiers really laughed when I asked them if they knew “Where the president could score tonight,” or “Call Karl Rove, the president needs his Doctor’s Bag.” The only people who seemed to enjoy were a few Jewish friends and the foreign exchange students. Everyone else treated me like an elephant in the room. Like an alcoholic, drug-addled father. Like an unfulfilled romantic relationship. It was a great costume.

But the Calabasas types love to party. A man dressed like Merlin played Beer Pong against a man dressed as a Shower (Homage to Karate Kid for those not in the know).

Beer Pong:
Get a table. Get two alcoholics. Get two ping pong balls. Set up 10 red party cups at each end. Align them as if they were pool balls that were just “Racked.” Pour beer into those cups boys. The players stand at each end and captain sky hook a pong ball into the other side’s cup. If a basket is made then its “Drink Motherfucker.” When the ball lands on the floor, they wash the ball in a separate beer cup, or the pool as was the case this night. The winner is the one who makes the other guy drink all his beer first. But isn’t the winner also the guy who drinks all the beer? I say yea.

Alas, the shower was overcome in a deluge of belligerence. He unilaterally made up rules, and blocked the pong ball form landing in his cup, Merlin protested and the shower whipped the pong ball at him. Then shower belched and started downing his beer in forfeit and asked the wizard “Isn’t the point to get fucked up?” Later the shower would zigzag around the party like a dredle with a flag of puke clearly visible through the transparent rubber ducky shower curtain. Later that night Merlin’s would abandon talking and shouted everything. He was wrecked. He wouldn’t believe me or Ali G that Ian McKellan was gay. At one point, a skeleton was arguing with the Italian Young Republican about the merits of a Lieberman McCain tricket. (I know, disgusting) and I would see Merlin grab She-Devil’s trident and WHIP the skeleton in the dick. No shit. According to reports, Merlin woke up in the backyard, face down in a wizard’s robe, his arm around a pumpkin at 7AM the next morning wondering how he got there, and where everyone was.

Sincerely,

Medicine Bear