If you’re anything like me, Halloween officially marks the start of the rainy party season. I come by my love of Halloween parties honestly: over the course of about 30 years, my parents hosted absolutely raging Halloween bashes. Their first Halloween hootenanny was in 1969, when they lived in an apartment on Harwood Street. A couple dozen costumed couples showed up and went West End wild.
When our young family moved to West Van in the 1970s, my parents’ Halloween parties swelled, often cramming 80 or more partiers into our home. So many people would show up that my folks sometimes didn’t even recognize the “B-List-ers”.
My childhood memories of the Halloween bashes are distinct: I would lay awake in my bed when I should have been asleep, listening to the festivities raging forth. I’d strain to pick up on the bawdy jokes and ribald conversation. Occasionally, I’d be startled by someone stumbling into my room in a Raggedy Ann, Al Capone, or Labatt stubby costume, as they drunkenly searched for the bathroom. I’d drift off to sleep to a white noise of laughter, shouted conversation, and cranked Rolling Stones records.
For better or worse, the costumes at those parties often reflected both the laissez faire attitude of the 1970s, and the afterglow of the sexual revolution. I remember lots of exposed skin, like the couple in the outrageously skimpy Tarzan and Jane loincloth and bikini. I also remember the gender-bending: men would dress as a nun, a cowgirl, or Wonder Woman, and women would dress as a priest, a cowboy, or Superman. Freud would have loved it.
Looking back at our family photos albums, I can’t help but cringe at the brazen get-ups people would show up in, costumes that these days would be considered so intensely politically incorrect, so utterly appropriated, and so racially charged, you’d be publicly shamed so fast on social media it’d make your giant afro wig spin. But hey, it was West Van in the ‘70s, it was anything goes. Nowadays, you can’t even wear a clown costume, thanks to this “creepy clown” phenomenon.
I was shielded from the most sexually perverse costumes of the roaring Halloween parties. One year, my dad’s best friend showed up in his regular business attire (probably looking a lot like a modern-day Donald Trump). When my dad gave him the gears about not wearing a costume, his pal whipped open his trenchcoat to reveal a massive prosthetic penis. He proceeded to flash and rub it up against everyone throughout the night (also, arguably, a lot like a modern-day Donald Trump).
The morning after, my little sister and I would plunder through the Halloween party wreckage, eagerly searching for evidence between the empties. We’d find leftover swords, wigs, gavels, guns, and one year, even a tiny Tarzan loincloth(?!). We’d surprise our sleeping parents by bursting into their bedroom wearing the leftover costumes. Luckily, we never found the giant prosthetic penis.
Happy Halloween, but remember, when selecting this year’s costume, it ain’t 1976 anymore.
