News
August 31
Halloween makes me sick. Weeks before the holiday makes its haunting arrival in our homes and streets in all its ghoulish glory, waves of nausea pass through me like a specter through solid walls. It is as if I've consumed a bag full of Charleston Chews and followed it with a dozen rolls of Necco wafers. My illness has nothing to do with plastic-pumpkin-bucketfuls of scary Snickers, grotesque Gobstoppers, and shocking Sugar Babies. What ought to be a wonderful holiday, glowing with frightening fun in my youthful soul like a perfectly carved jack-o-lantern, is horribly marred, like a warm mushy Milky Way, by a long history of hideous costume experiences. Of course, there have been other factors: incidents from my past that have contributed to my loathing Oct. 31. There was that one time my brother convinced me that pumpkins were living animals and that when I carved them, the inside pulp was their blood and veins; I cried and he took the mess and rubbed it in my face. There was that time I got upset after watching Nightmare on Elm Street one evening; my father tried to comfort me: "Don't worry Rob, Freddy only goes after nice little Jewish boys from New England once they've fallen asleep, oh wait, never mind...Well, good night then." And of course there was that dream I had in which I - an interplanetary explorer of the 22nd century - happen upon a planet ruled entirely by those scary M&M cartoons from TV commercials, those damned dirty candies. Once in their evil clutches I become their slave and am forced to carry out endless backbreaking, soul-deadening tasks to serve their every whim. In all honesty, though, the endless stream of costume debacles has gotten to me over the years. I can't remember one single positive Halloween outfit I've worn in my lifetime. The continued extreme disappointment has been scarring. (Not scarring as in a mark left on your skin from a past injury, but scarring as in permanent mental damage caused by a traumatic social experience leaving the victim, me, forever unable to deal with certain commonplace public interactions without going totally nuts.) Maybe I just haven't thought them through entirely, but my costumes inevitably fail miserably, leaving me, the young impressionable human creature behind that miserable failure of a facade, sad and dejected. What have I been thinking? PAISLEY GHOST (1986) - I just wanted to be a ghost. Not a terribly difficult request, is it? But of course, the few white bed sheets at the Lott household were either in use, dirty, or too nice to cut eyeholes in. So my mom found what she claimed to be the next best thing: a green, paisley-patterned sheet. I really don't think I looked anything like a ghost, and if I did, it was one of the extremely style-conscious, non-threatening sort. HAPPINESS (1991) - I was a really joyful 11-year old. I went up and down the street all smiley and in bright clothing. I sang, danced, clapped my hands, and shook my head furiously with joy and pleasure. Of course, in retrospect the idea seems to have been a little too intangible and heady for most candy-giving adults.Man: And what are you supposed to be? Some kind of idiot?Woman: No, honey, I think he actually is mentally disabled. Poor kid. Just give him some Twizzlers and he'll go away. TELL-TALE HEART (1994) - This year a friend and I got interested in the work of Edgar Allen Poe. My buddy dressed up like a raven, all in black with wide wings, sharp talons, and a menacing beak. He would walk up to everyone's doors and say, "Nevermore." Everyone got it right away and thought he was sooooo clever, giving him extra candy and a pat on the feathers. I went as the titular disembodied organ from what is perhaps Poe's most famous and chilling short story. I covered myself in a gooey red blood-like substance and attached what appeared to be a number of severed arteries all over myself. I walked around and said, deeply, "thump thump thump," you know, like the guilt-inducing beat of a bloody heart buried deep beneath someone's floorboards. CLOCKWORK ORANGE (1996) - I had just seen Kubrick's film version of A Clockwork Orange and was convinced I had to go dressed up as one of those ultraviolent droogies searching for some real horrorshow fun. I spent a good month or two searching for the perfect codpiece to match the ones they wore in the film. Of course, before I knew it the evening had arrived and, having spent so much time on only one part of my costume, I had nothing else to go with it. So what, I thought. Right? I went out there wearing my every day jeans and a sweatshirt with this tremendous white shiny round cup over my yarbles. I don't know if they were having trouble making the connection to the film or what. Either way, I just felt like a big dick. MIGHTY MORPHIN POWER RANGER (2000) - So, had I gone dressed up as a Power Ranger in '96 I probably would have been right on target. Had I gone in '98 people may have thought the costume was a bit dated and I was a bit weird. But of course here we were many years after the fact and, as the latest, coolest way to go these days is retro, I thought my costume would elicit laughs and smiles, warm memories and wistful daydreams of years past. No such luck. Most people couldn't figure out what exactly I was. Those who could usually responded only by asking me if I realized that "those Ranger dudes had long dropped off the cultural radar a good three or four years ago?" "Retro, baby, retro!" I'd respond, "Ain't it cool?" I'd ask. Evidently, the answer was no. So what is a seriously disturbed young man to do when this holiday of goblins and werewolves spooks and howls its way into our thoughts during the days preceding the 31st? I think I will shut off my lights, refuse to go out trick-or-treating, bury my head below my paisley-patterned pillow, and just hope that none of those sugary sweet, disgustingly cheery, candy-grubbing youngsters comes rapping, rapping at my chamber door. I won't take it. Nevermore.