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You know Frank—he's been writing about menswear, sales, television, new shops, the recession, Lisa Loeb, the Golden Girls and getting blasted for Racked and Racked New York for over a year. Well, we think it's time you got to know him and his quirky-irreverent views on life and fashion (which—as far as he's concerned—are essentially the same thing) even better with his brand new column: Love, Frank. Taking the form of an open letter and always signed with love, Frank will rant about whatever style-related conundrum he encounters in a given week. So buckle your two-toned leather Moschino belts, folks, it's going to be ? Something.
Image via All Products.
Don't get us wrong, you're a good time. We've had some fun Halloweens. We've worn some good costumes. Plus, candy corn (they're fat free) and miniature candy bars (in our tiny convoluted world tiny candy calories don't count). But, we're really glad it's over.
We didn't dress up this year. Frankly, we allowed ourselves one holiday treat and it came down to choosing between a Paul Smith cardigan or going all out on some big crazy Halloween costume. Which is basically a total no brainer.
Saturday night we hung around a Brooklyn bar with a bunch of Hassids, a peacock, Little Red Riding Hood, the ladies of Absolutely Fabulous, the cast of Rocky Horror (or was it Glee channeling Rocky Horror?), a vampire, a mummy, a couple of lesbian bikers, and some other crazy characters the vodka erased from our collective memories. Granted, we could've just described the check-out line at a Williamsburg grocery store—but, we digress.
We shopped our closet for a sort of new wave/'80s/goth look exclusively for the pass it granted us in terms of our own costume negligence. We stayed out of people's photos; we choked down a terrible well shot; we called it a night—end of story.
We left the house Sunday morning smiling—it was a gorgeous day made even more splendid by our new Paul Smith sweater. The streets were luxuriously quiet and we couldn't help but revel in the signifiers of another Halloween past (glory be!): Cheap wig hair and drained road sodas in every gutter and scattered across the subway platform.
But no—of course not—actually Halloween was Sunday. Saturday was merely adult-debaucherous-weekend-Halloween observed. Here we go again ?
Bonus: We had to be in Times Square.
Times Square isn't really much fun anytime ever unless maybe you don't live here in which case it could be kind of fun for as long as it takes to take some photos and maybe go to a really gigantic version of your favorite mall store. So just imagine it on Halloween. A sea of Snookis, zombies, Lady Gagas, people in Scream masks (either really slow on the uptake or a super-early adopters depending on what installment of the saga a given person has been inspired by), a guy wearing a giant Federal Express box, a billion dudes in drag, and so, so many vampires.
It begs the question: What kind of tourist packs a Halloween costume? Like, really? You're obviously trying to keep your luggage limited to carry-ons—we know this, we've been stuck two rows behind you on every flight we've taken in our lives—and you're going to pack a costume before a extra pair of shoes and a tertiary knit layering piece?
Whatever—if you can't beat 'em (and you just can't, you can't beat the mobs, even the 20 million not-excited-to-be-in-Times-Square-on-Halloween-or-really-ever cops couldn't do anything about crowds that vast), join 'em. For nachos at the Hard Rock Café.
Thanks Halloween, you forced us into eating at the Hard Rock Café. To a soundtrack of Shinedown and Coldplay and a bitter, bigoted, whining waiter from New Jersey with violently gelled hair.
· Love, Frank [RNA]