It's Time Again For My Hipster Snapshot Of The Week.

Obscure Hipster Halloween Costume Party — A Kitchen Somewhere In Williamsburg, Oct. 31, 2002

"Dude! Is that an eyebrow on your chin?"
"No man, it's a beard!"
"Oh, what are you? Like Hitler or somethin'?"
"No, I'm Trotsky. You know, Leon Trotsy."
He fingered his faux-bearded chin as thoughtfully as he could.
"Oh sweet."
"Thanks. What are you?"
"I'm a dictator dude! Check it out!"
He slung open his beige trench coat to reveal a coat hanger bent awkwardly around his waist and a potato impaled on the end, hovering just over his crotch.
"Get it dude? Dick-Tater,"
"Oh man, very subtle," said Trotsky.
"Right on dude. I read War and Peace a few years ago in college, it fuckin' rules!"
"That's Tolstoy, actually. I'm Trotsky."
"Oh," said the Dictator. "Sorry dude."
"Did somebody say Tolstoy?"
A guy came trotting over wearing what looked like a discarded Santa Claus beard and a big sheet of muslin with a hole cut in the top.
"That's me!" he said chewing on a little corncob pipe.
"Dude!" said the Dictator. "You look like that old freaky guy from Home Alone! You guys remember that shit? Oh man, I took this film class one time and we fucking watched that! That guy shoulda won an Oscar! Scared the shit outta me."
"Yeah?" said Tolstoy thoughtfully. "Roberts Blossom. He played Dr. Gatz in the Great Gatsby. He was also in Slaughterhouse Five. Where'd you go to school?"
"Bennington," said the Dicatator.
"No shit. I went to Wesleyan."
"Right on bro," said the Dictator.
"Yeah, it was a John Hughes film. Man, can he put together a family comedy! Great fucking commentary on the Modern American Family," said Tolstoy. "I wrote a paper about it in my Cinema of the Suburbs course. He directed Pretty In Pink too."
"No shit?" said the Dictator.
"Actually," said Trotsky breaking in. "John Hughes wrote Home Alone. Chris Columbus directed it."
"Oh, you're right! How could I forget that," said Tolstoy.
"Did somebody say Columbus?"
Another guy in a chopped-up muslin sheet walked over to the group. But he had a long peace pipe and a plastic Indian headdress and was wearing brown leather moccasins. His face and body were splattered with gooey fake blood and he had a shiny plastic tomahawk with fake skin dangling off of it.
"Columbus was a fucking slave trader!" said the Indian. "He killed my people! He filled our blankets with white man's diseases and poisoned our berries, Tatonka!"
"What dude?" said the Dictator.
The Indian was pumping the keg and smoking a cigarette. "Man, haven't you ever seen Dances with Wolves dumbass! It means Buffalo in Indian."
"Actually it's Sioux," said Trotsky.
"Whatever," said the Indian.
"Who exactly are you supposed to be?" asked Tolstoy.
"I'm Sacagawea man! The fucking Indian warrior!"
"More like sack-a-the-weed-a, dude!" said the Dictator.
"You got any?" said the Indian. "I need something to fill this peace pipe with."
"Sacagawea was a woman, actually," said Tolstoy. "And I think you of all people should refer to them as Native Americans rather than Indians."
"Where's fucking Columbus man! I'll kick his Spanish ass!"
"Actually we were talking about Chris Columbus," said Tolstoy.
"And?" said the Indian.
"No. We're talking about Chris Columbus the film director."
"Who the fuck would name their kid that?" said the Indian.
"You're a moron," said Tolstoy.
"Whatever, Mr. Fucking fascist," said the Indian.
"Tolstoy wasn't a fascist, dipshit."
"Did somebody say Fascist?"
Another guy walked up. He was wearing a scratchy looking dark green army uniform with little red patches at the shoulders and shiny combat boots. He had a giant crooked fake nose with a bushy moustache perched above it and a long wooden smoking pipe.
"I'm the original fascist dudes!"
The Dictator slung his arm around Joseph Stalin.
"See, this guy is the real shit man!" he said, flicking the crooked nose affectionately. "Where's your glasses man?"
"What?" asked Stalin.
Then the Dictator danced a little Vaudeville swagger and put on a swanky voice: "You know: 'I never forget a face, but in your case I'll be glad to make an exception!'"
"Fuck off," said Stalin.
"No dude," said the Dictator. "You're Groucho Marx right?"
"Jesus Christ Dude! I'm fucking Stalin."
"I'll say your stallin' man, where's the fucking weeed dude!" said the Indian.
"Did somebody say Marx?"
Up walked a guy with a big puffy moustache and beard and a wooden tobacco pipe.
"What's up St. Nick!" said the Indian.
Marx just glowered at him.
Then Trotsky, Tolstoy and Marx all filed off together into the living room leaving the Indian and the Dictator pouring great pitchers of Budweiser foam from the dying keg into the sink.

"It kinda sucks that nobody recognizes my costume," said Trotsky.
"Tell me about it," said Tolstoy. "I wrote the first novel for fuck's sake."
"That ain't shit," said Marx. "I'm even recognizable and nobody gets it."
"Maybe you should just paint a giant hammer and sickle on your face," said Tolstoy.
"Yeah, and you can just dress as a goddamn copy of Anna Karenina."
"Fuck off," said Tolstoy. "Just cause these fucking retards don't get it doesn't mean they're not good costumes."
"That fucking Dictator … " said Trotsky.
"Hey, what's shakin' guys!"
Another guy walked over to the group. He was wearing a stiff looking heavy gray woolen jacket and puffing on a wooden tobacco pipe. The collar was up and he had a black band around his bicep.
"What up," said Trotsky gesturing limply.
"Oh, just chillin," he said. "Like my costume?"
He took a little fashion twirl and then shot his skinny clenched fist into the air ala Black Power.
"Umm, yeah," said Marx. "Very cool jacket."
"Totally, I like the armband." said Tolstoy.
"Who are you supposed to be?" asked Trotsky.
"I'm Henryk Erlich!" he said. "You know? The Bundist!"
"Oh, yeah," said Marx. "That's cool."
"Yeah," said Tolstoy. "The Bund and all that, right?"
"Isn't that like a Russian thing?" asked Trotsky.
Then Henryk pulled a thin pile of papers from his small bag and handed them out to the group. On the sheet was a small black and white photo of Erlich and a short biography.
"Great fucking idea," said Marx. "I'm doing that next year."
"Totally," said Tolstoy.
And they all chomped their pipes and read silently.