Just as the mind gets stripped clean under perfect circumstances, so, too, this street, the day after Halloween eve. But nothing happens overnight. So early that morning, with tricks and treats trumped by sunlight shooting up and down, the creatures and creations and cretins are still there, loafing about and rotting, proper rakes on the rise. The people themselves have gone asleep or are plumb gone or gone loco, in a world of goners now inhabited by insects, debris and freshly served newspapers tossed askew on spiraling steps and dewy lawns.

Only hours earlier (it seemed), the communal multitudes of flesh and blood had densed up this street and themselves to ridiculous degree, as they do every year, in this one L.A. heightened trendy diverse community, on this one particular block, which is normally normal, but across which both manufactured and homespun holiday attractions do show their faces only the day prior, like warnings to the wise, popping up like poppies.

The joggers and walkers of October 30 are the first to see the tell-tales of what’s to come (and go), but by October 31 this slim sector will be roped off and packed like a Mardi Gras-scaled tailgating party, though there’s almost certainly nothing lascivious going down, and sin is only barely hinted at (or perhaps utterly denied) through the vehicle and ellipsis of mock horror. Ridiculous outfits probably outnumber and certainly outweigh those of dismay, shock, death and unease. Farce, meet dread.

The homes themselves are rigged creatively with fake fright, a reassuringly safe sight. The peoples who have come know this; they come from miles away, most all bringing families, though the lil ones are taken close by to a tad more homey and far more quiet block a short distance away... maybe, if lucky, to be taken here, too.

Older kids from the local high school, the young adults, crowd in tandems, moving at a far swifter pace than their younger and older kin. They wander and likely wonder why their own fright night costumes increasingly seem less provocative -- more easily donned and shed with disinterest.

If anything is missing, it may be the major gay population of this neighborhood. Such treasured resources and responsible citizens could be here, but best bets place the bulk as being at the miles-away West Hollywood festivities, which make the news with annual abandon. Here, though, on this one block, while there is hardly room to breathe that one night, order won’t be breached.

Folks eventually leave, laughter dimming and squeals of scaredies and friendly recognition dying. The clock ticks off the tempo of closing time for these temples of horror. The doom of doom resurfaces. The mechanized chasings of ghosts and goblins are shut down, turned off with the lights inside the faux haunted houses. Diurnal life is reappointed top dog.

But these proper guardians still remain, at least into the next day’s warm welcome. As au natural as bleached bones in a Western ghost town. Like patio furniture after a rare rain, or costumed sets left over from a cancelled series at the last lingering studios, with the temporary glow of all things at rest yet restless still. They are not comatose, nor even desiccated, neither dissolute nor even rigored with remorse; rather, they are quietly statuesque, selfless in their