I've never been a big fan of Halloween. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy getting free candy as much as the next fella, but I've never really enjoyed the costume part. Maybe it's because, as an actor, wearing costumes isn't that much of a novelty. Or it could be the fact that, as a kid, my costumes always sucked.
Not always. There were a few decent ideas. In fifth grade, I went as a Union Soldier from the Civil War. Complete with wool blanket bedroll and authentic, reproduction musket rifle that I'd picked up when my family went to Gettysburg that summer. My mom helped stipple on a black beard and created a bloody bandage for my arm. And in the sixth grade I went as Groucho Marx, which involved a lot of eyebrow raising, which I always enjoy. But those are the only two that I can think of that don't make me cringe.
As little kids, my siblings and I were subject to the store-bought, plastic outfits of whatever movie characters we wanted to be that year. The kind that came with a plastic, vision-imparing mask and outift that wasn't designed to look like clothing, but rather was an advertisement for the movie. I remember a Stormtrooper costume that had the black and white mask, but the "suit" was a blue and gold jumpsuit that said "Star Wars" on it and had a picture of an X-Wing fighter on it. Sheesh.
The worst though, without a shadow of a doubt, was the year I went as Buckwheat. I hesitate to say any more than this. But I suppose I should explain. It was the early 80's and Eddie Murphy was doing Buckwheat on Saturday Night Live. It was very funny. Youtube it if you have no idea what I mean. Especially the "Buckwheat gets assasinated" sketch.
Anyhow, my cousin, Chad, was going as Alfalfa. He looked great. The black hair with the one, lone spike in the back. The freckles. He was dead on. Me, in a moment of inspiration, decided that we would get even more loot if we teamed up and hit the houses together. And who better to join Alfalfa than Buckwheat? Never mind the fact that I probably could have picked any of the other Little Rascals and done just as well. But Buckwheat was the only other one I could think of thanks to watching Saturday Night Live.
I don't come from a theatrical family. We don't have boxes of costumes and make-up sitting around our house. But my mom had always helped out with the church plays we did every year, so she was pretty good at improvising an outfit. Need a shepard in a flowing robe? No problem. A couple of bed sheets, some rope and cotton balls for a beard and presto! So when I went to her and said I wanted to be Buckwheat, she never blinked.
Again, let me reiterate, that this is the early 80's. Political correctness hasn't really come into effect yet. Oh, and I grew up in a small, farm community that was about as diverse as a bag of Wonder Bread.
Finding the outfit wasn't all that hard. Someone had an old pair of overalls. We made ragged an old flannel shirt. Easy stuff. The challenges came from making my blondish brown hair curly and black. And, well, my skin tone.
The hair was accomplished by using an old wig that my grandmother had. A black, woman's wig. Notice the placement of that comma. It had wavy hair. My mom tried using her curling iron on it, but it just melted. So it was going to have to work as it was.
The darkening of my face and hands was easier to achieve. My mother simply took Hershey's chocolate baking powder and mixed it with Crisco. Then smeared it on. I'll give you a second to catch your breath.
All right? Good.
That's right, My mother turned me into a walking confection. And what teenage boy doesn't want gobs of Crisco slathered onto his face to help his complextion? I remember sweating A Lot. But it didn't deter me. I thought I looked good. Real good. Even with the braces that glimmered when I'd strike a pose and say "O'tay!".
Needless to say, my plan fell apart very quickly. Alfalfa and I became separated in the throngs a greedy, candy-hungry urchins. The sweat caused the chocolate-flavored lard to run into my eyes. And no matter how many times I said "O'Tay!" everyone just stared blankly at me after they asked "Who are you supposed to be?" Everyone thought I was, maybe, a homeless Jamacian child? I think I gave up after a couple dozen homes. My spirit was broken. And that was the last time I went out trick-or-treating.
But don't feel bad for me. I've had plenty of opportunities since then to get back on the Halloween Costumed Horse. The office where I work a has big party every year where they award big prizes for the best dressed. And when I say big, think airline tickets. I won an iPod two years ago and I only came in third! I tend to wait until the last minute to decide my costume, so whatever I am it has to be something I can create out of my closet. The iPod winning costume consisted of a red-checked flannel shirt, black, leather pants, a cowboy hat, work boots and my face painted like Ace Freely from KISS. (I was "A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock-n-Roll") This year, I'm just a nerd. White socks with the black pants and shoes, greased down hair with a cowlick in the back (ala Alfalfa), a bow-tie, maybe my shirt tail sticking out of my zipper. I'll let you know how I do.
And I'll see if I can't scare up some pictures from my ill fated Little Rascals episode. Cause I know you're dying to see them.
UPDATE: I got fourth place at the office and took home $50! Who says waiting until the last minute doesn't pay?
- "Pssst. Lemme tell you a secret", he said, leaning over in his seat so that his shoulder was pressing against mine. "If you squint your eyes just right the buildings look like they're made of flames." He pointed to the skyline as the train slowly rolled away from downtown. Away from the offices and over-priced shops. Away from the collective depression of a million soul-sick workers. The bright orange glow of the setting sun was reflecting off the glass walls of the buildings that had held us captive for the last eight and a half hours. I squinted my eyes and followed his finger, the outlines of the skyscrapers blurring into a flickering orange glow that did, sort of, resemble fire in a cheap theatrical kind of way. I nodded my head and leaned back into him, getting close enough to smell the day's work on his skin. "I've got a secret for you," I said, my lips so close to his ear I could taste his daydreams. "The woman across the aisle isn't wearing any underwear." His eyes reflexively glanced at the woman in question and he reared away from me to look into my face. "You shouldn't be looking at such things", he said straightening himself out in his seat. "It isn't polite." I smiled. "Well, neither is whispering secrets on a crowded train, but I thought we were having a moment." He didn't answer me, his attention now focused on a crossword puzzle. I thought about apologizing and sharing a different, less offensive secret with him, but instead decided to try and reflect the light off my watch-face up the young woman's skirt for a better view.
- Jesus Christ was put on trail by the Gods of yore. The long list of charges included Inciting Disbelief, Failure to Pay Homage and Egotism. All punishable by death. As was expected, he defended himself, with Zeus prosiding and Cronus prosecuting. Things weren't looking good for the young savior until he called Eros as a suprise witness and questioned him as to his whereabouts on the night of March 15th, 1 B.C. When Eros finally admitted that it was he who had impregnated Mary the courtroom erupted. Zeus, no longer capable of commanding the heavens thanks in part to Jesus' popularity, beat his gavel until it finally broke before order was restored. "I rest my case", Jesus said with a wink at Zeus that would have warranted a lightning bolt back in his heyday. He closed his briefcase and strode from the courtroom, his sandals squeaking on the hardwood floor. All eyes were on Eros. He looked at the crowd of Gods and lesser gods, Thor, Dilga, Kon, Yum Kaax, Utu, Huitzilopchtli. "What can I say?" Eros shrugged. "She had a nice ass."
