My night unofficially ended at 2:40 am, when I stood outside my Bleecker Street apartment wondering if the spins would ever stop. At that moment, an Eastern European man in his late 20s approached me and said, “Excuse me, sir. You have toilet?” He held out two dollars, his face looked pained and he was definitely not in costume or character. “No. Dude, just no,” I managed to blurt out, and I headed upstairs to crash harder than Billy Joel. Ho, snap, girlfriend, a Billy Joel joke! I’m so fresh. What’s next, something about Paris Hilton?

My night officially began before 8 pm, when I stood bare-chested inside my Bleecker Street apartment wondering how drunk I could possibly get on a weeknight and still wake up in time for work. Kenny Alias was the first to arrive, “fresh from Deer Creek.” He had just wandered the West Village streets whispering “doses” and looking for a sixer of “phatty Sammy Smiths,” making his way up to my place early to tell me what a disaster the current crop of Tweezers have been. “Things were way better before the hiatus,” he lamented, never breaking his jaded vet character once.

The party had yet to start in earnest, but guests began to trickle in. “Hey, you wanna hit a bowl before more people get here?” I offered Kenny.

Without missing a beat, Kenny responded, “Nah, I’ve gotta work on an insane Motion for Reconsideration tomorrow.” You can take the wook out of the federal judge clerkship, but you can’t take the federal judge clerkship out of the wook.

The best non-music-related costume of the night belonged to my buddy Lukas, who went as Richardson from Deadwood. Maybe one of every 100 people knew who he was, but for those of us that actually watch the show, it was by far and away the best effort of the night. Here’s Lukas and me:

I’m not entirely sure what the hell he was, but here’s a little video of my cohort Donnie Fiedler, who wore this thing and freaked everyone the fuck out:

And just to show what kind of night it was around the Village, here’s a group of street performers that actually performed in the street throughout the night. Sidewalks are for pussies, they tell me:

Halloween, you bastard. It’s tired in here.