The best place to party is San Francisco where, in the words of political satirist Will Durst, Halloween is redundant. But if you can't make it there, have an awesome time anywhere on October 31st. Just keep it current, cool and creepy.
Long gone are the nights where Halloween parties meant haunted houses, bloody-beer-based witches brew, devil's food cake with eyeball chasers, hairy spiders hanging over the dinner table, and assorted creepy crawlies dangling and dancing from the ceiling. It meant ghastly screams from Jamie Lee Curtis (you don't really think that's Activia she's eating, do you?), living zombies from central casting, but no more Leatherface impersonators; they've been replaced by the Glorious Undead wearing a Glenn Beck mask.
Gone are your standard vampires of yesteryear like Bela Lugosi, unceremoniously usurped by vamp hunks like Stephen Moyer and Alex O'Loughlin. Gone are your basic skeletons and skulls, replaced by body masks of Filippa Hamilton as seen through the eyes of Ralph Lauren. Gone are your average hunchbacks, replaced by a Marty Feldman facemask emitting an eerie vocal by Steve Buscemi impersonating Jack Nicholson.
The only surviving Halloween party staple, aside from the always-popular, dead-or-alive Michael Jackson face, is Peter Boyle as Frankenstein's monster, screaming "Hi, I'm Billy Mays!"
Where once the King of Halloween confection was Candy Corn (selling 8.3 billion kernels a year -- that's almost as much as the Arbor Day bonus for Goldman-Sachs's CEO), planners of today's Halloween parties lobby their new faves, the latest in gross and disgusting party food:
Zit Poppers: 
"There are no simple pimples. Plump & Ripe!" (Chef Ghoul-licious)
Gummy Body Parts: 
"Different, Gruesome, Gummier" (Frankford Candies)
Box of Boogers: 
"Sssnot Your Regular Gummy. Tangy gummy boogers that look and feel real" (Flix Candy)
Scab-a-roni: 
"Peel and eat gummy scabs and scars" (Chef Ghoul-licious)
These sweets give new dimension to the meaning of Bluto's food fights, Hannibal Lecter's lunch box content, and Jeffrey Dahmer's preferred dessert.
You might consider accessorizing your house with a medieval iron maiden, dripping kettles of Balloon Boy vomit, and a douche bag meter for nay-saying Republicans. If you don't care for these suggestions, get yourself a date with Will Durst and head for San Francisco.