Nothing says Halloween like a plug-in plastic punkin.
I used to love Halloween. It was my favorite holiday by far. Who doesn't want to be someone or something else for at least one day per annum?
Look! Up in the sky! It's a bird ... it's a plane ... no, it's The Kid with the Giant Head!
Mom made more than a few costumes for me: Superman, Mike "Sea Hunt" Nelson, even one of my own cartoon characters, Loadedman.
I can't remember how the hell I talked her into that one. Surely I never let her read any of the comics. They did not promise a future of fame and fortune for Your Humble Narrator.
Eventually I started cobbling together my own getups, but found my options limited by my everyday appearance, which was long on hair. The pirate thing is easy, but gets boring after a few voyages.
So I stretched myself a bit. I was Chihuahua Guevara one year, and Jesus another. The Che getup was easy — basically pirate, but with assault rifle and beret instead of cutlass and bandana — but the Prince of Peace required a little more skull sweat.
Chihuahua Guevara, Fido Castro, take your pick.
It was a combo act. A newpaper colleague and I planned to crash a divinity-school party as the Deities from New Jersey, with accents to match.
Robes and halos were a snap, and I used green trash-bag ties to fashion a crown of thorns, but we couldn't talk anyone into joining us as the Holy Ghost. Something about "blasphemy."
Yeah, right. Like we weren't already going to Hell for running an afternoon newspaper.
One aspect short of a Trinity, we were forced to improvise and adapt. In short, to evolve. We bought a white helium-filled balloon and slapped a happy-face sticker on it. Hallelujah. The Lord helps those who help themselves.
At another newspaper I managed to catch the publisher napping one All Hallows' Eve. I throttled back my prodigious beard, then braided my hair and stuffed it down the collar of a very pro dress shirt. Took out the earring, added tie, slacks, and footwear, and went to work.
Well sir, I don't mind telling you the publisher was impressed. Shook my hand and congratulated me on finally joining the human race.
Later I left for lunch and returned clad in motorcycle-outlaw finery — all hair and earring and black boots and denim, including a vest with homemade "Hell's Editors" colors on the back and a "No Morals" button on the front.
The publisher subsequently went dotty. I like to think I contributed in my own small way.
These days I mostly play it straight. We hang around the house and wait for all the little goblins to pop round, screeching for sugar.
If anybody asks what I'm doing for Halloween I tell them I'm going as an old white guy. I can't imagine anything scarier.
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