I used to enjoy Halloween for the obvious early-twenties, collegiate tramp reasons:
It was really my favorite.
A free pass to do what I did anyway: getting sloshed and dressing skeazy.
Back then, I couldn’t tell you why I enjoyed the mix of spooky and slutty so much. But I assume it had to do with Elvira – that one T.V. host who was like Morticia Addams channeling Pam Anderson. Once I learned that Halloween was an acceptable time to educe one’s inner slut, I took it and ran. We (me and whoever I’d recruit as my prostitutey partner in crime) would wait until the last minute, hit the costume store, and come home to pre-game in order to feel secure enough about actually putting on the sleazy ensemble we’d just bought.
The interesting thing about the whole routine – is that every time the costume was something I could have made at home (using three hair ribbons, one sheet of toilet paper, and half a Q-tip). But, somehow, by actually purchasing something that someone else had patched together – that meant it’d been pre-issued a green light of societal approval as something that could be worn in public by human women. Didn’t matter that I didn’t know the dude. Rando dude had morally validated my lifestyle choices. And what more do we we really need than that? Thus, via the blessings of a stranger (and the help of a sweatshop worker, no doubt), I could feel justified in dressing like the next house on my trick or treat itinerary was Hugh Hefner’s.
(Actually I could recycle the middle one and answer the door as Elle Driver this year.
Anyone gotta patch I can borrow? And a black mamba?
It’s for the children. Come on. Don’t be greedy)
I’m kind of glad this isn’t as exciting for me anymore.
While I obviously want to stay young forever, I can’t force it. I also can’t ignore that that’s a lifestyle I can’t indulge anymore. I’ve seen the transformation of carefree-and-slutty turn into old-crone-chemical-receptacle double quick, living in L.A. It happens fast and it’s not cute. And when you see it, you just want to reach out a hand, pet the strung out 40 year old porn star sat in front of you in her “Bo Peep” costume– sadly sipping Jim Beam from the bottle (which the bartender unfortunately knew to have ready for her when she walked in), and say, “There, there”. Desperately hoping it won’t happen to you.
And knowing you need a big life-change in order to ensure that.
It may’ve taken me a while, but I’m in the middle of that change. Not planning, not saying “tomorrow” – just avoiding the kinda life that ends up in washed up old-biddery one day at a time. Avoiding becoming post-menopausal and kyphotic – awkwardly clopping like a Clydesdale in wedges, as if chasing after a youth-carrot on a stick. Stumbling due to body-neglect induced early onset osteoporosis. Bewildered, blood-shot and jaundiced eyes. Tresses like chewed through wires. Skin tanned till it looks like the top layer of lentil soup I forgot on the burner after passing out with a highball in hand. This is the real fright of Halloween. People hanging around, out of their element, like a dried up wallflower that should be pressed fneatly between the pages of its own photo album.
Is that the motive? Hoping the youth of the party scene will rub off?
I was never good at listening to anything that followed the word “don’t” in my formative years. (I’d say yes to your face and then find a workaround to see for myself). But you can’t delete the file visual in your cognitive computer of someone who’s frowned from the come-down so much that they have an irreversible Klingon forehead. Or former supermodels so brain-blown that they permanently speak like Ozzy Osbourne. The ex-football stars who wanders through life with his mouth ever ajar – just enough to never be relieved of spittle perpetually present in its corners. Mmmyes. Having these more tangible, memorable examples of where I could be headed stuck beautifully with me. Especially near Halloween this year, when I start to get nostalgic about dressing like a slut and schwilling spirits like a sailor.
Besides, I’ve got all these new toys to comfort me.
Which I love because they bring about that oh-so-sweet sound of children…
Crying.
Like this remote controlled toy:
It’s excellent. But the design falls short of impressive. We could fix this.
Like a remote control version of this guy:
Cute teddy bear when the kids walk up and touch him, and then at the last minute, he rips his face off and starts chattering his jaw around like Ecstasy Teddy Ruxpin. And then levitates at your child.
And I’m adding this just because of the half assed (half-limbed?) attempt they made:
First, that’s some excellent penmanship for being written in your own rosy life-oil that I’m assuming you don’t have much left of. Mostly because you’re using it to write on windows. Second, how are the feet and hands staying strung from those chains? That doesn’t make any sense. There’s a free end there. They’d fall off, right? Can we agree on that? Imagine if the guy from “Saw” or “127 Hours” dude had done all that work, hacking off bits of their body to get free, only to realize that science and logic stop applying once you hack off your limbs?
And this:
A. They spelled the name “Will” wrong.
B. Plus, I checked Murderpedia. Jeffrey didn’t eat anyone called Will.
Speaking of dude-eating, how cool’d this be – all filled with fruit?
Mmmm fruit. That’s where my brain’s at these days.
In fact, I’mma go gussy up to do my trick or treating right now – at Wegmans.
(If I flash the cashier a little leg, sometimes he gives me a discount.)
#oldwhorebitsdiehard