Halloween is a laugh in the face of mortality, the gluttonous consumption of candy a spit on the Grim Reaper's loafers. Still, the spitting's done from behind the eyes of a costume; it's hard to look in the mirror and know time is limited.
This year I raise a toast to River Phoenix, who died on a sidewalk in front of The Viper Room in L.A., a blossoming mortal plucked just in time for All Soul's Day like a handful of marigolds. River overdosed 18 years ago this Halloween.
I was a skinny, bruise-kneed, 12-year-old girl when River was in his prime, but I read about his death in a glossy spread in People magazine and felt sorry for the boy I knew from Indiana Jones. I wasn't familiar with River's heavier movies yet, but he met me at mile-markers in my life like poor Mike from My Own Private Idaho, and is still hitching a ride in my heart.
Today, this Day of the Dead, I give you Grant Lee Buffalo singing our love for River, still fresh in sorrow as we've passed any age he'll ever reach.
You were like my own James Byron Dean
Private Idaho was my East of Eden
Hit me like a stone when I heard you passed on Halloween
Let that full bassline and the golden vocals of Grant carry you, full sadness and ebullient celebration.
Oh, River...
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