Dressed Up to Get Down

Oh the tangled webs we weave on Halloween! We were getting together – the coworkers and I – for a night of shenanigans. Our first. As a team. As a collective singular heartbeat of revelry and camaraderie. Location: Adams Morgan. Pizza to start. Drinks to finish. The rest we would make up as we went along. And went along we did.

photo courtesy of We Go West

The players: A Waldo (a la Where’s Waldo?), a sock monkey (moi), Sgt. Slutty (i.e., Army Barbie), a JAP (Jewish American Princess), and Sonny & Cher. The night could only go upwards.

As soon as we debuted onto the street, it was “Waldo! Waldo! We found Waldo!” Waldo posing with kids. Waldo taking pictures. Waldo signing autographs. We even developed a sketch wherein we chased Waldo shouting “Waldo! Come back! We found you!” We got sick of his fame soon enough though and started to spurn him. “Waldo doesn’t put out!” “Yeah, yeah, it’s Waldo. BFD.”

First stop: The Reef. We get inside. Start laying game. Sock Monkey whips a few people with her tail. I use the term ‘whips’ loosely. It could have been construed as a tap. We make friends with the Fanta girls. Cher got her picture with them. Indiana Jones. A Care Bear. And the best costume of the night: The Ipod guy. He is dressed all in black except for the Ipod that he has on. He has framed himself against a green background (paperboard attached to his backside) and he dances around frenetically like the Ipod silhouettes in those commercials. Freaking genius. We spot the Pope. A rabbi. Elton John. Yawn. We are ready to move on.

Next stop: En route to Madam’s Organ, I hug a gentleman for about 5 minutes. We meet. We hug. We move on. It was the shortest relationship I’ve ever had. He promised a followup, and I said “That’s a likely story.” Madam’s Organ had all kinds of rock/punk types. I stop outside the bar post-hug session to chat with the old-timers sitting out on the porch of the bar. They are into watching a sock monkey dancing. Even the blind guy (I hold his hand while I dance). I twirl around for them. I shimmy my tail. They dig it. I make friends with two more guys on my way into the bar. “What are you? You’re nothing!” This is what one of them shouts at me. “I’m a SOCK Monkey!” I yell back, perplexed but tipsy. “And you!” I point at him accusingly. “You’re a DREAM killer!” He guffaws. He likes me immediately. “You’re my favorite.” His friend agrees wholeheartedly. “You must be the sexiest man alive,” I tell him. They’re both won over.

I enter the bar. I see a doctor who gives free breast exams. We do the whole ‘nother round of drinks thing. And then we leave. And we bump into, none other than, the Wu Tang Clan. They are surprisingly attracted to Sock Monkeys. In fact, they try and bearhug Waldo into seducing the Sock Monkey back over to them. I refuse to tell them my name, going only by the tricky moniker ‘Sock Monkey.’ We escape the likes of Lil Jon and DMX, and continue onwards to Tom Toms.

Sgt. Slutsky keeps up the good work, planting a kiss on the right bouncer to get to the front of the line. Waldo is similarly let ahead because of notoriety. Imagine saying Waldo is in your establishment. The people will not be able to get enough of it. Waldo gets digits as soon as he gets in the door. The rest of us get shoved and pushed around. Some mafia men tell Waldo “Hey, we ain’t sayin’ nothin’ but somethin’ might go down, you know what i’m sayin’?”

Tom Tom’s fizzled out quickly. We saw some Heinekens, the Afghan pride assembly, the Blues Brothers. We shake it. Or rather, are shaken. The night wraps up. Sock Monkey’s lipstick is starting to look more like the remnants of Parkinson’s disease.

The only thing better than the night itself was discussing it over brunch the next day. Will there be a sequel? Yes, please.

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