I've lived in the same Los Angeles neighborhood for 15 Halloweens—and for almost half of them, I've spent the night of October 31 at the West Hollywood Halloween Carnaval.
I've spent a few years not going to it—in 2012 at Cicada Club, in 2015 at some weird secret party in an undisclosed location, in 2016 at the Howe-Waffle House, in 2017 at The Coconut Club Party at Pacific Seas at Clifton's, and in 2018 at Smilin' Jack. But I always loved that it was there, right around the corner.
But then it shut down during the COVID-19 pandemic and didn't come back right away, even when other activities resumed—and I really missed it. Now that it's back—once again taking over a mile of Santa Monica Boulevard—I've gone for the last three years in a row.
It has changed over the last 15 years somewhat—becoming more of a destination for spectators who don't bother to dress up, many of them from other neighborhoods or even other countries. This year, more attendees than ever were on their phones, recording the spectacle rather than really participating in it.
But for many of us, it's still an opportunity to strut our stuff in a collective movement of pageantry and fashion...
...when we're allowed to costume ourselves in a way that society doesn't necessarily accept on an everyday basis...
...and discover and express some version of ourselves through our wardrobe choices.
After all, if you're a sexy bear, why not let everybody know it?
Same goes for scary bears, too. 
What is it that we wear every day, but a costume? The uniform of a character we've chosen to be at the workplace, among our friends, while shopping at the grocery store. A cosplay of "normality."
In those everyday clothes, we might run from a camera that's pointed in our direction. But as a scary clown, the camera invites scary behavior.
Too many of us leave our crowns at home, waiting for an occasion that will feel special enough to wear it.
And instead, we don our invisible masks of acceptability. We long for cloaks of invisibility.
We cry on the inside, for fear that our makeup will run down our faces.
We smile despite feeling no joy.
We are imprisoned by responsibility and decency.
We don't want to be too rude, too loud, too funny, too "look at me."
I've tried very hard to be "normal" and "appropriate" for decades now, shopping for workwear and "grown-up" clothing that would accurately reflect my age and professional positions.
But I feel much more comfortable sporting a pink tutu or dancing around in a light-up Christmas tree dress.
It took me a long time to realize it, after years of skipping the full-on Halloween costume and just slapping on a pair of wings or a headband.
But since 2010, Halloween has been like prom night for me. I spend months planning for it— assembling costume pieces, trying them on, scrapping ideas and starting over, and burning myself with a glue gun.
This year's costume was deferred from last year, when I had to pivot to a creepy clown to fit the theme of a house party I was attending. Which is probably the longest I've ever spent working on a costume.
The Mothman was worth waiting for. And how interesting it was to interact with people who couldn't make eye contact with me, who couldn't see me smile, and who didn't even expect me to speak to them! I simply curled my talons at them and they gestured in kind back at me.
I walked differently in my monster feet (which I made by glueing some claws onto black furry raver sandals). My body language morphed, too: I led with my beak. I tilted my head to aim my antennae.
I wanted to lightly scratch the skin of everyone who passed by me.
And at the end of the night, I wasn't relieved to take everything off—though the plastic bird mask made my face sweat, and the crushed velvet bodysuit was scraping against my inner thighs. I missed it.
After all, when dressed as Mothman, I didn't have to worry about looking pretty, or about the size of my body. Mothman is supposed to be big and scary.
But as I sat sipping a whiskey through a straw and dancing to 80s music at the Troubadour at the end of my night, I also bemoaned the fact that when you're dressed as Mothman, no one can tell you're pretty or sexy or available or even smart or interesting.
You're just a bird. Or an insect. Or a monster. Or a fantasy. No one is quite sure what you are.
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