Many years ago during Key West’s Fantasy Fest celebration, a local doctor friend of mine went crazy. Renowned for healing people in pain, Doc Oscar (not his real name, for reasons that will become clear) shaved all the fur off his dog Tabasco (not HIS real name, either) and painted his own skin to match the dog’s motley markings.
Then he donned a brief Speedo and pranced across a stage, leading a bewildered Tabasco, in front of 2,000 spectators.
He hadn’t lost his marbles, Doc Oscar later reassured me — and other patients who questioned his peculiar behavior. He was simply trying to win first prize in the pet/owner lookalike category of the Fantasy Fest Pet Masquerade, a madcap costume contest for animals and their people. (Spoiler alert: He didn’t.)
For more than 35 years, I’ve been involved in Fantasy Fest’s 10-day costuming and masking revelry. Decades ago I was on the festival staff, working with the irrepressible (and irreplaceable) Ann Dickinson and marketing genius Linda O’Brien, who staged the extravaganza each year — coordinating sponsors, permits, local business participation, the logistics of over-the-top costume contests and dozens of events including a lavish Duval Street parade with massive floats.
Key West notables Judi Bradford, Betsy Dietz, Rita Brown, Vicki Roush, Mimi McDonald, Gordon Ross, Norice James, Barb Wright and scores of others assisted with the mayhem.
And there was always mayhem. Over the years we were accused of promoting devil worship. We frantically rearranged events as a hurricane approached. We saved a “spaceman” whose flying saucer nearly crashed on Duval Street. We faced evangelical wrath over scanty costuming, and we wrangled hordes of costumed barbarians who insisted on marauding through town.
Some incidents were less ominous, but still memorable — like the time my husband David, a local mortgage banker, agreed to portray a medieval sword carrier for a group entry in a costume contest. The entry was arranged by our friend Marilyn (definitely not her real name) and featured her Borzoi hound, who was dressed as a princess and accompanied by a corps of swordsmen.
David’s costume, selected by Marilyn, included a large sword, fake armor and purple body paint applied liberally to his skin and hair. Unfortunately, after the contest we discovered the body paint didn’t wash off very well.
David flew to New York City the next day to attend a high-level national mortgage conference. While other participants discussed intricate financing strategies, he spent the entire conference explaining why he was purple.
Following my years on the Fantasy Fest staff, I began covering the festival for newspapers and other media outlets. That meant attending the most significant events, interviewing attendees in bizarre costumes and writing colorful descriptions of the festivities.
Of course, the highlight parade down Duval Street was the most media-worthy event, so that’s where much of my energy was concentrated.
On one unforgettable occasion, my article featured an actual marriage ceremony held on a float during the parade. The bride and groom, costumed in devilish red finery and surrounded by a weirdly garbed “wedding party,” exchanged rings and rubber chickens to symbolize their commitment.
A 60-something husband and wife from Omaha were perhaps the most engaging parade spectators I ever interviewed. They wore matching fish-printed sarong skirts and bright green sequined headdresses, their naked torsos adorned with aquatic-inspired body art.
“I lost my pasties — I didn’t have adequate pasty glue,” confessed the husband, who told me he was a professor at the University of Nebraska. “When you prepare for Fantasy Fest, you should bring one more bottle of glue than you need.”
