Your parents finally trusted you. You’ve been a boy scout all year.
Took out the trash when nobody asked you. Walked the dog when nobody asked you. Even mowed the lawn when nobody asked you.
Was there no end to you? Last time you noticed, goodness was flying out of your fingertips.
So of course you could throw a Halloween Party.
The parents were heading to Palm Springs. You had the house to yourself.
A few friends – don’t use the China or silver – leave the place the way you found it – no 45s on the stereo.
Your brain went into overtime; how do you throw one of these things?
Not a clue. So you consulted Playboy for some pointers.
The idea hit you – the theme for the party was Playboy After Dark.
You’ve been practicing being suave and debonair all semester.
Started wearing Dickies and drenching yourself in Jade East.
You were on a crash course to becoming a ladies man. Only if they knew.
So you told your friends about your plan – they all got excited.
What do they come as? James Bond, or course.
That meant Martinis. How do you make those?
Sparky, the guy with an answer for everything, proudly told you he knew how. He saw his dad make them all the time. Piece of cake. Could make them in his sleep.
You needed Gin though. Your parents didn’t drink, except for those bottles of Welch’s Grape Wine your mom used the empties for making lamps with.
Sparky announced it was no problem. He was in direct contact with several bottles of Gordon’s Gin and he guaranteed to be the life of the party.
Who to invite?
Girls was the obvious answer. You had no phone numbers.
Invitations – pass out at school – make conversation.
With a fistful of 3×5 cards and the Playboy logo stamped on each one and a hastily scrawled message announcing a Playboy After Dark Halloween Party and the address, you swooped down on the lunch court passing out invitations.
A lot wound up getting tossed on the ground, but a lot were grabbed and held on to.
Particularly one which got in the hands of Sharon, a ninth grader who towered over you, but beamed enthusiastic. She asked what she should come as.
Not missing a beat, you blurted out “a bunny”. Sharon, who was one of the faster “developers” in ninth grade would have made your entire life if she did.
Thinking she would grimace and question my motives, she gave an enthusiastic nod, adding her friend would come as bunnies too.
At the risk of fainting dead away, you smiled like you won an all-expense paid vacation to a Nudist camp. It was going to be a night to remember.
With the parents heading to The Desert Sands, you and your friends quickly started putting the party together. Having no clue how to make anything like hors d’oeuvres, the best you could do was make a mountain of popcorn and five bags of potato chips. Sparky managed to find a bowl big enough to pour all the gin he managed to squander from his dad’s garage. He poured a bag of ice and Vermouth in. Stirring the concoction which gave off the unmistakable aroma of gasoline. He was the Master of the Martini and who were you to argue? No Martini glasses, Dixie Cups were the best you could do.
You located a smoking jacket in your dad’s closet and a pipe to complete the attempted Hugh Hefner. You wandered over to the Sacred Stereo console, flicked on the FM Tuner and located KBCA, the Jazz station to end all Jazz stations with an announcers voice that was lower than the threshold of hearing – the speakers still rattled anyway. The atmosphere was starting to come together.
Outside, the street was echoing to the din of small voices yelling “Trick or Treat”, as wave after wave marched past your house. Nobody was stopping by. You quickly realized you didn’t have the porch light on so nobody was going to go begging at the front door of a dark house.
You flicked the light on and within minutes there was a clamor of feet and pounding on the front door, accompanied by a female chorus belting out “alms for the poor!”.
You flung open the door and came face to face with four girls in enormous Easter Bunny costumes. The tallest one shrieked “We’re here!”. You suddenly realized the voice belonged to Sharon and the “bunnies” standing in front of you were the “friends” she invited. Together, they were of the Loony Tunes variety and not even remotely sexy. They stormed into the living room, emptying bags of Snickers, Mars Bars, Three Musketeers Bars and Butterfingers all over the coffee table and dining room table. The shortest one made a bee-line to the stereo – flicked off the dulcet tones of KBCA and switched to KHJ, where she proceeded to crank the volume up to borderline distortion.
You gave out an audible gasp. Your friends were busy negotiating the high Octane potion Sparky had conjured and were getting bombed by the mouthful. The festive turn of the mellow Playboy After Dark now took on the atmosphere of a Frat house Toga party.
Within minutes, the house filled to capacity with cowboys, Werewolves, Snoopy, half a dozen Snow Whites, dwarves of all shapes and one or two Abraham Lincolns – everyone else came as something nobody could recognize. A bunch showed up with six-packs of Schlitz and Busch Bavarian – everybody was competing with 93 KHJ and Dancing turned into demolition Derby as people bumped into each other in the already packed living room. A pile of 45’s appeared and someone dressed as Engineer Bill commandeered the Stereo turning it into a disco, with strains of “I Go Crazy” by Bocky and the Visions pushing the overburdened console speakers to their limits.
You don’t remember for how long, but you were busy in the back of house, making out with Sharon. How that happened, you will never know. Why that happened was anybody’s guess.
All you know was when she got ready to leave you were covered in hickeys and your lips had swollen to the size of Basketballs.
She promised a whole lot of tomorrows. They evaporated by Monday morning.
Everybody left and the party was over – it was three in the morning.
The house bore the unmistakable resemblance to an Atomic Test Site; the one where Department store dummies were fried but still surprised and smiling.
The sacred console stereo was dead, it let out a muffled wheeze of distortion – confused, helpless and in need of major repairs.
The china had been commandeered for ashtray duty while the silver was variously used to saw off chunks of cheese which somebody brought along with a five pound tub of Peanut butter, which from the looks of the dining room walls, served as ground Zero for a food fight or two.
The party got out of hand and you missed it. You were knee-deep in living out fantasies and savoring life’s possibilities.
Except the part where you fell asleep and woke up to the sound of your mother screaming that someone destroyed the house.
You had some explaining to do – a LOT of explaining.
And as a reminder that 1965 was a busy year, here’s a half hour’s worth of Tommy Vance at KHJ from October 16, 1965
