Who knew Fonzie and Shirley would end up together?

Right now I’m thinking about the incredible love my parents have for each other, even after 40 years of marriage.

When my dad was courting my mother, her parents wouldn’t grant him their blessing until he paid off all of his debt. I don’t remember all of the details as well as I’d like to but, as I recall, Dad sold his vintage Corvette to pay off his bills, and to buy Mom an engagement ring. Soon after they were hitched they started a life–complete with a mortgage and a baby boy–that couldn’t afford them the luxury of a car any more pimpin’ than a seventh generation Thuderbird (sounds cool, but it was pretty much a sedan).

Fast forward 15 years, my mom picked up some extra work and saved every penny for nearly two years to buy my father a brand new Corvette convertible for their anniversary, to replace the one he gave up to have her almost two decades before.

Honestly, that car had never been anything but trouble, but my father babies it as though it were one of his children. I don’t think he’ll ever sell it, and to be honest, I love seeing it around when I visit. It’s a reminder that my dad was willing to sacrifice everything sacred to the 23 year old car mechanic he was, and that my mother knew what he gave up and never forgot it.

So today, I toast my folks: A couple of crazy in love kids who still completely mortify my brother and me with their affection for each other. I hope I’ve inherited an ounce of the open-hearted giving nature of my dad and the shy, soulful understanding of my mom. Happy V-day. Love you both. See you soon. Here’s a song for you. xo

No other Catholic seems to have had the same All Souls’ Day experience as my brother and I did as kids. I can only assume my mother made up the tradition of leaving our shoes behind our bedroom doors the night of November 1, to wake with them filled with gifts from our ancestors who returned to earth the previous night to check in and protect us.

As I’ve read more about the history and traditions of All Souls’ Day, I’ve come to wonder if my mother changed the real meaning of the holiday around to be more comforting to my brother and me, and to be a way to teach us about our ancestors and deceased family members in a nurturing way. If not, that’s cool, Mom; if so, even cooler. Our celebration of All Souls’ Day inspired in me a deep curiosity and sincere connectivity to my great-grandparents and fostered a life-long interest in my cultural heritage and family history.

Anyway, because All Souls’ Day was regularly honored in my home, I’ve always been interested in Dia de los Muertos. For my first Day of the Dead in Los Angeles, I joined Ryan and some of his friends on a visit to Olvera Street, the oldest street in Los Angeles, and the epicenter of Latin American culture in Los Angeles.

Olvera Street, and Los Angeles, celebrate Dia de los Muertos for a full week, and on the night we went there were stunning family shrines, a religious procession of locals in full Day of the Dead regalia, and traditional Aztec dancing.

It was an incredible party and spectacle, but for me the most memorable part of it was the most modest of shrines. There were family shrines that were 10 feet tall, covered in marigolds, jewel encrusted skulls, religious icons, fruits, and flags. But the unassuming beauty of the shrine to Rodolfo Ernesto Gonzalez has haunted me for days.

Gone from his shrine was the pomp and pageantry of the other memorials. His was one that welcomed you into the life of a man that was so clearly simple in his love for his family and the love they gave back to him. R and I spent a good 10 minutes looking at his shrine, and fully feeling the meaning of the day and what it meant to the Gonzalez family.

Sappy, I know, but it’s the best kind of sappy possible. I promise you that. Oh, stop looking at me that way. I promise my next post will be edgier.

Our Halloween weekend started with my driving back home from a week in San Francisco and Berkeley. Ryan is a huge film geek and an even bigger horror film geek (Addendum: Said dude reasons that, though he loves horror films, he hasn’t quite reached horror film geek status. It’s not that he’s ashamed for me to call him one, but he doesn’t feel he has earned the title. I must respect his modesty, but I do think conversing with him about the horror genre will leave you impressed). Although I do love horror films, I guess I need some schooling; he had a full evening of cinematic slasher education and revelry planned for us.

But, as we started to assemble the living room into couch potato headquarters, I began to feel pangs of regret for eschewing a night of costumed, paganistic revelry for another night cozying up on the couch. I mean we can act like old people when we’re old, right? And considering we’re both pretty close to old, I figure we only have a few more years to party without throwing our backs out.

Thankfully, my fantastic housemates—and one honorary housemate—invited us to tag along for their evening plans. And with those plans came a wisdom, which I will now impart on you: Should you EVER be invited to a film industry art department Halloween party, ditch all other plans and go!

This party was, in a word, sick: Two parties, across the street from each other, bound by streams of costume detritus, howling guests, and post-punk dance music. And the costumes were amazing. The Jesus H. Christ costume (complete with bloodied reed slashes, a loin cloth, and a life-sized crucifix) caused people to fall to their knees in prostrate; the Teen Wolf costume made jaws drop in awe; the life-sized Muscle and Fitness magazine made us salivate for a protein drink; and the used car lot balloony thing made all in attendance somehow feel the urge to buy a questionable clunker, with the utmost confidence they’d get an excellent financing rate. OMG, it was such a fun party.

The thing about Los Angeles, particularly at Halloween parties thrown and attended by industry folk (though I should note I don’t think a single actor was in attendance), is the attention to costume—and character—detail. These people arrived in character and didn’t break once all evening. You got the feeling people planned their costumes for months in advance, but it was more about inhabiting a character than dressing up and they were fully committed to bringing their characters to life.

Refreshingly, I didn’t see one store-bought “Slutty Dorothy” or “Slutty Sherlock Holmes” all night, but if I had I’m sure they would have been the most convincing sluts I’ve ever seen.

Ryan and I, shamefully, didn’t bring our cameras to the party (that’s the liability of only owning an SLR), so we had a “morning-after photo shoot.” He was a thoroughly convincing Bob Dylan (as evidenced by the 30 or so chicks who fawned over him the night before); I was some 60s starlet or something. What? I planned on spending the night on the couch. I did my best!

Anyway, both costumes lend themselves well to a morning-after shoot. Here are some outtakes.
*Disclaimer: There were some other shots that made more sense in context, but they had to be taken down. The photo of Ryan is prior to his Dylan transformation; it’s more of the experimental costuming phase, if you will.