Halloween rises from the soil, undead again

Christianity may have stifled the pagans, but that doesn't mean we can't still use them as an excuse to have more fun than we otherwise have during the winter. Three A&E ghouls grab their costumes and toilet paper and exhume some twisted Halloween lore.

They only come out at night

Let the wild spirits dance and roar. It is Halloween, when evil is legitimized, man reverts to his beastly heritage, and Yale students celebrate by drinking, cursing and costuming themselves. Hail, hail! For those of you who require more than oblique rambling, I will now profile five events, all at least semi-official in nature, that mark this year's frightful howliday right here at Yale.

The Yale Film Society rings in the ghouls on Sat., Oct. 30, with a screening of that countercultural classic, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, in a luscious 16-millimeter print. The screening takes place in the Stiles dining hall at 11:59 p.m., and it's sure to draw legions of film buffs dressed as characters from the film. More exciting for the kinesthetically gifted among us, Rocky Horror contains several big dance numbers—principally the maniacal "Time Warp"—which are sure to get the crowd up and bumping booties. Prior to the screening, a frightful rock video by Pearly Sweets & the Platonics will premiere, in which drummer Carl Ehrhardt, TC '00, is chased around by his fang-bearing bandmates. Those fangs were awfully uncomfortable!

After the film, seniors will glide over to Silliman's dining hall for the Senior Masquerade Ball at 10 p.m. This annual event is a sweaty but tasteful good time, featuring an open bar. There is also more cheese than you can shake a stick at. So be prepared to roll out the door, much like the cheese rounds from which you will have been gluttonously slicing.

Use the daylight hours on Sun., Oct. 31 to recover. In any case, Sunday morning should be spent in church, praying for deliverance from the ghoulish spirits whose wrath you will have been arousing with your heretical Xena the Warrior Princess costume. Starting at approximately 8 p.m., sophomores in various colleges will be hosting what is unofficially called "Liquor Treat" (lascivious alternate spelling: "Lick-or-Treat"). Students proceed from room to room, consuming a different alcoholic specialty at each stop.

Liquor Treat should be chased with a giddy stumble over to Pierson, site of the notorious Pierson Inferno, which runs from 9 p.m. to midnight. While not as hoity-toity as the Senior Masquerade Ball, this event is certainly kinkier and more dangerous. Those tempted to dismiss the Inferno as just another college party may find it notable that last year, one enthusiastic junior, temporarily slowed by a broken leg, became so possessed by demons that he swung his crutches wantonly through the air and decapitated his dance partner, who obviously would not return his phone calls for weeks.

The Yale Symphony Orchestra (YSO) will perform at midnight in Woolsey Hall—but be sure to get your tickets in advance, because they won't be sold at the door this year. Historically, the concert has been exceptionally popular and has sported a boisterous crowd. A humorous video, starring YSO-ers and brave Yale administrators, accompanies the music. Keep your ears peeled for drunken freshmen vainly trying to locate their lost suitemates by screaming their names into the unresponsive mass. If this does not amuse you, feel free to enjoy the program, and remember that Halloween comes only once a year. So turn into a werewolf and eat somebody's heart out.

—Abraham Levitan

Ain't no second chance against the thing with 40 eyes

Where do you go to find the undead at Yale? You could hit CCL at 12:45 a.m. on any given weeknight and find several zombie Yalies, but I wanted the real thing. With "The Dead Shall Be Raised" engraved on its main gate, the Grove Street Cemetery seemed the best place to investigate.

I made my first trip during the daytime to speak with Superintendent William M. Cameron Jr., who looks and behaves exactly as you'd expect a superintendent of a cemetery to look and behave—like a villain out of Scooby Doo. It's hard to just ask someone point-blank if they have ever seen a ghost, so I hedged the issue by asking if he'd "ever seen some strange shit, people breaking in, having sex, etc." Mr. Cameron must have misconstrued my question and assumed that I meant to break, enter, and fornicate later that evening. To discourage a return visit, he barked, "We have security! They'll find ya and arrest ya!" Guiding me out, he thrust a History of Grove Street Cemetery pamphlet into my hand and sent me on my way.

At around 1 a.m., with Superintendent Cameron's caveat echoing in my mind, a late-night excursion into a graveyard was seeming less and less appealing. A look through the cemetery fence was enough to tell me there were no zombies strolling about. Returning to the pamphlet Mr. Cameron gave me, an interesting fact came to my attention: "For the first 160-odd years of her history, New Haven buried the dead in a common burying ground beneath and behind what is now Center Church on the Green." When the Grove Street Cemetery was erected, the tombstones from the Green were moved—but not the cadavers. They were still there.

When I arrived, the New Haven Green was crawling with paranormality. Corpses were strewn everywhere, clothed in thrift-store rags and clutching bottles of Captain Morgan. As I prodded them with a branch to see if they were actual zombies or merely apparitions, they unleashed unearthly moans that sent shivers through my bones. A group of maybe five zombies surrounded me, asking for change. I panicked, racking my brain for a way to escape the inevitable brain-chomping. Finally, it came to me: Thriller. As I pranced and shuffled, shouting, "Come on guys, you know the moves!," the crowd of undead stepped away cautiously. While the zombies didn't follow my lead as I had hoped, my theatrics were enough to provide the distraction I needed to beat a hasty retreat.

Looking back, I think I'd have had more success had I been dressed in the red leather jumpsuit Michael Jackson wore. At least they would have recognized me as their leader.

—Robby O'Connor

Dutch Treat

The Dutch knew trick or treating. "Having then provided for the temporary security of New Amsterdam and guarded it against any sudden surprise, the gallant Peter took a hearty pinch of snuff, and, snapping his fingers, set the great council of Amphictyons and their champion, the redoubtable Alicxsander Partridg, at defiance. In the meantime, the moss-troopers of Connecticut, the warriors of New Haven and Hartford, and Pyquag, otherwise called Weathersfield, famous for its onions and its witches, and of all the other border towns, were in a prodigious turmoil, furbishing up their rusty weapons, shouting aloud for war, and anticipating easy conquests and glorious rummaging of the little fat Dutch villages."

This transcript is taken from Diedrich Knickerbocker's 1809 book, A History of New York. Like the contents of any history book, its significance lies in its relation to the current time; in our case, Halloween. The Dutch have long been exploited and pillaged for their superior chocolate confections, and, in 1809, their American villages were about to be looted and destroyed by the past inhabitants of New Haven—witches.

This places our own weekend activities in perspective. Many a Yalie may shudder at the thought of actually going out on a weeknight evening, with Halloween falling on a Sunday this year. Some numbskulls will probably stay in, either for their love of books or the shame of not having constructed a costume. However, with its references to witchcraft, Halloween is a time-honored reconstruction of our revolutionary history. Participation, then, is in some way obligatory to the preservation of our past.

Since we reside in New Haven, we're in the "ghoul" camp; our goal is looting the "Dutch" households for artificially sweetened foodstuffs. Although our activities are not as critical as those of our ancestors, traditions of logic must be maintained. If you were going to rob a bank or Dutch village, wouldn't you wear a disguise? Our ancestors sure as hell would have, and they didn't have to contend with surveillance cameras and alarm systems.

You'd be even better off if your costume was a touch more offbeat than a ski mask. Blow off work for another two or three days and do something that would at least be memorable to your victims—visions of you could haunt them for life. Outside the YSO concert last year, some clever moss-troopers dressed as the Beastie Boys from the "Intergalactic" video and actually assembled a robot. Had they used their robot to travel back in time, history would be drastically altered—the Dutch would have spent their remaining days starving, plagued by the image of rap-guys from a future time, the chorus of "Intergalactic" lodged in their craniums.

It'd be their loss. We'd be fat and elated in modern times, gorged on the spoils of the best Halloween ever.

—Sara Edward-Corbett

Graphic by Shawn Cheng.

Back to A&E...