The Halloween Carnaval has been drawing crowds to the streets of West Hollywood since 1987 (with a couple years taken off during the COVID-19 pandemic).
Is it a parade? Well, not exactly—because there's no determined order of the participants and people walk in both directions.
But is it really a carnival? Well, there's definitely some masquerading and "riotous excess."
I like to describe it as kind of a walkabout.
I like to walk—both to see and be seen—from my home near the western end of the festivities, down Santa Monica Boulevard for the one-mile stretch to La Cienega Boulevard (where it officially ends, but the party generally continues a bit farther east).
This year, dressed as a creepy clown (a "general" one, not a specific one like the Terrifier pictured above), I ambled my way down to The Lucky Tiki, a tiki bar speakeasy that opened this year above Tail O' the Pup.
It's good to have a spot to rest and refuel (namely, with rum) before heading back west down the boulevard, that historic stretch that once was better known as Route 66.
Some people are so well-costumed, they don't have to move at all.
They can just remain stationary and let the cameras flash their way with the passing of each subsequent photographer.
Unfortunately, the person wearing my favorite costume—Greta, the sexpot in Gremlins 2—didn't want to be photographed and put her hand up in front of my lens. (Out of respect for her, I won't publish that photo.)
Others were more than pleased to pose.
Some years, there's a clear trend among the costumes—but this year was a mixed bag, with lots of pop culture nods intermingling with elaborate horror.
After all, on Halloween, we're all creatures of the night...
...of one sort or another.
But who are we really, under all that makeup and wardrobing?
What does our choice of costume say about our true selves?
Or about who we want to be?
How other people see us?
Maintaining any identity is exhausting. It's nice to take a break from the trappings of our daily selves at least one night a year.
But perhaps with every costume, a little bit of it stays with us—even as the lipstick rubs off and the mascara runs.
Like the lash glue I couldn't scrape off my eyelids this morning. Or the fake blood that showed up on an alcohol pad this afternoon despite seeming to disappear from my forehead with the sweep of a makeup remover-soaked paper towel last night.
Or that kindred feeling with carnies and sideshow freaks.
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