Dusty junk and junkies on dust. Value Village on just an average day is a fiendish freak show of desperate creatures. A purgatory for discarded garments and discounted wares. I wonder how much of this junk once belonged to dead people. When a person expires, their loved ones feverishly devour their valuables and donate the leftovers to merchants of death like Value Village. I had the misfortune of being there right before Halloween night. It was a low budget consumerist orgy of ghouls and goblins only making themselves redundant by donning scary masks, makeup and costumes. 

It was a dark and dreary Halloween night. I quickly pieced together an 80’s outfit mostly using clothing I still wear today which made me wonder if I might need to update my wardrobe. Or maybe the world really just needs to slow down. I heard the angry horn blast of an approaching train mingled with the far off scream of sirens. I hightailed it out the door, navigating my black beast of a bicycle through wet weather. Soaked with pink electricity, the neon expectation of a good night  was waiting for me at Jonathan’s, downtown by the Elsinore Theatre. Shaking off the cold, I was met by a thirsty throng of 80’s throwbacks and assorted night crawlers all waiting to board ‘The Party Bus.’ 

MGMT “Electric Feel” was on blast. I took a shot and shot the shit with vaguely familiar faces about random topics from 3-D glasses to my 3-speed internal hub bicycle to 3rd world countries. What does a 1980’s themed Halloween party look like for a bunch of Mongolian nomads or Arabian sheiks? Does pop culture define their decades?

Bones looks like Spicoli from Fast Times. He didn’t bring his ID. Who does that? He ran home to grab it before the party bus showed up. I was expecting one of those limousine company party buses that look similar to retirement home transportation and aren’t that big, or cool. When ‘The Party Bus’ stormed up to the front of the bar in the pouring rain, I was pleasantly surprised and mildly concerned. Its a huge old fashioned looking Greyhound sized bus painted black with wet chrome everywhere and hung with funky purple looking lights. The giant front grill looked like a medieval mask, and the engine roared like a dragon. 

All aboard the Party Bus! Bones turns up with his ID just in time. A sexy blond nurse greets us at the door and administers jello shot syringes. I slalom around stripper poles and the dancing dead to the back, taking a seat alongside Elvis and a buffet of unsavory types.  A greasy rocker looking kid with a bandanna wrapped around his long frizzy hair, a pointy Mediterranean face and tight leather pants introduces me to his autistic brother Ben. I don’t think the rocker kid dressed up for Halloween. I like Ben. 

Loud bad music hammers my skull, girls are dancing and trying really hard to be sexy. Odd containers of unidentified booze are shared freely with little concern for orally transmitted disease. An off-balanced vintage Brett Michaels is weaving towards the back of the bus, spilling pitchers of beer mostly into thirsty plastic cups. Discarded shot syringes pile up. The greasy rocker kid is bugging because can’t find his joint.

The vibe was glowing blues and purples outlined with florescent white. By the time I finished my second cup of beer, we were being hurried off the bus at the McNary Estates clubhouse. Jamalia is the headliner tonight. After making the best of countless shows all over this town, I was prepared for this to be like going to a Denny’s restaurant in the early AM. My old buddy Peter Pan is loitering out front, smoking a wet cigarette. His ninja turtle must be getting cold out here in those green tights. 

My girlfriend’s apartment is less then quarter mile from here. She hasn’t been out since she almost died and her busty stripper friend from Nevada is visiting. Somehow her friend got her all-natural DD’s through the airports without any ID. So I figured she wouldn’t have any problem getting into this little venue. Her little sister doesn’t have ID either and she wants to come too. I was wrong, the bartenders are girls so big tits don’t work, the girls got shut down flat by a bouncer dressed like a police officer. Or maybe it was a police officer?

They retreated as Jamalia started to heat things up on stage. Peter Pan was dancing wildly, flinging some drunk chick around the dance floor like a rag doll. She kept losing her balance, tripping over the floor monitor and falling into the band. It was hilarious watching them dodge her flying carcass without skipping a beat. My ‘Flashdance’ themed girlfriend returned with her ID in hand, and we enjoyed the craziness whirling around the room, moving in rhythm with the music. 

A pretty older woman with blond hair and a wealthy heir was slowly making her way across the dance floor, followed by a distinguished gentleman with an ascot. My girlfriend punched me in the arm and said, “Is that Jane Fonda?” I was looking around the room for some chick in a Barbarella costume or maybe a leopard skin mini skirt. “No you dummy, right in front of you!” I looked at the wealthy looking older lady again, I didn’t really know who it was, just some old good lookin’ rich lady.

A few minutes later, a friend comes up and says, “I just met Jane Fonda! I think she might’ve touched my ass.” 

Happy Halloween!