Brooklyn Day Three: Lefty O'Ghoul

They closed Isabella Boulevard to cars on Halloween day and night, and by the time the sun had almost gone down the crowds began arriving. There were haunted houses and stage shows and bands and trick or treaters, everyone in a costume of one sort or another, some tossed together at the last moment and some that must have taken weeks to sew.

Like The UPS Driver and her friends, the Train Conductor and The Shark.



And the Statue of Liberty.



The Great California Fish Hat.



Nacho el Supremo, who lots of people recognized as a Lucha Libre wrestler.



The Pharoah TutenDuckin.



The glamorous Hollywood stylist.



Earlier in the day there was a trip to the Flea Market on Lafayette Street, where Bellybone had her fortune read.



Amazingly enough, all the kids stayed up all day and trick or treated at night, then came back to the house to play, and never acted up. None of them really recognized the names of the candy bars they were dropping in the big bag, nor realized what a bonanza they had collected that, if they were older, they would have to fight over. What they loved was wearing costumes and getting to run around in the streets with their parents at night. What an adventure.



Plotnik and Ducknik would normally have been on their own stoop back in Saint Plotniko, handing out hundreds of pieces of candy to Bay Area kids, but tonight they got to walk around and look at people and places and things.

Halloween is America's most multicultural holiday. There's no hard assed religion to get in the way nor an ounce of historical relevance. It's about candy. Every culture loves it.

You could say Halloween is the Celebration of Irrelevance. Nothing matters, nothing is sacred, nobody's feelings can get hurt because nothing is real. The only thing that counts is having fun. What a country.



But it's past midnight and everyone has gone to sleep but Plotnik, who is sitting in the living room listening to the winding-down sounds below, a few car horns honking, a few people shouting every now and then, and now he can hear bagpipes piping Auld Lang Zyne from somewhere down on Isabella Boulevard. The bagpipes sound eerie, as if they're playing the Exit Cue for what are now yesterday's ghouls, goblins, ghosts, zombies, walking dead and curious living. And in Brooklyn, as well as everywhere else across America, we all just became one hour younger.