When I was a kid, my sister and I weren’t allowed to buy Halloween costumes. Certain small things could be purchased at the store, namely face paint, but everything else we had to make our selves. This might seem like something my parents did as an exercise in creativity or an effort to instill some kind self reliance, but in reality it was just a way to save money.
All the the other neighborhood children went to the store and bought costumes, which, at the time, were little more than plastic masks held up with a thin elastic cord and a wispy sheet of vinyl with holes for your head and limbs. I know these were shit costumes. Cheap, unimaginative, utter crap. But when you are six years old and have assembled a Spiderman outfit comprised of a pair of your sisters blue tights, an Underoos t-shirt and your Grandmother’s lipstick, well, you get deflated pretty fuckin’ quick when your best friend comes over ready to trick-or-treat wearing a sweet, store bought He-Man costume.
Of all the my ill-conceived get ups, one stands tall above the rest. I was four years old and absolutely captivated by The Incredible Hulk. Between him and The Duke Brothers—whose flannel shirts informed my every day clothing—nothing seemed impossible. All of life’s problem could be jumped over, smashed, or out run. All you needed behind you was a just cause and maybe a moonshine running codger of an uncle.
So on my fourth Halloween, I decided to be The Hulk. An easy costume, almost impossible to screw up. A face covered in green paint and a shirt stuffed full of socks later, I was ready to go. Just before embarking on our little candy hajj, my father, who next to Beau, Luke and David Banner was still the most powerful man on the planet says to me, “Why don’t you put a pair of panty hose over your head?” which I did, never stopping for an instant to question why The Incredible Hulk might decide to stuff his head in a pair L’eggs for the evening.
Many a Halloween came and went after that night and though I hadn’t ever forgotten about the incident, I never stopped to think about it for very long. Finally, when I was maybe 20 years old and Halloween had become more about where to get drunk than it was about dressing up, I had a revelation; my Dad’s suggestion was nothing more than a way for him to amuse himself.
I can see him now, doubled over in laughter as I approached each successive house, him nearly engorged with self satisfaction at having provided a night of guffaws for himself and probably years of stifled chuckles and suppressed smiles any time the thought crossed his mind.
So thanks for the memories, Dad. And the humiliation. And the complex. And the thin scrim of nylon through which I have to look back on my formative years with.
Brilliant. The best part for me is that I was there when he was figuring out his dad’s intentions.
I have no good Halloween stories. Halloween has always been an exercise in failure and disappointment for me, with the lone shining exception being when I was in first grade and I won the school-wide costume competition as a pirate. I won a ceramic jack-o-latern, which I still have to this day. Since then, it has been year after year of regret, anger, and some fairly serious burns.
For your enjoyment, a quick rundown of three highlights:
1. Dead Payne Stewart - This was just a month or two after Payne Stewart died, and being a young asshole, I did up the golfer’s outfit with the socks and the hat and the whole nine. No one got it. I was asked several times why I was a British Zombie carrying a golf club. The one girl who got it was horribly offended, and said I should be ashamed of myself. She’s probably dead now too (I tell myself when I am in bed and unable to sleep).
2. A Plumbing Accident - By far my most ambitious, and likely a subconscious attempt to put the demons behind me. I had just finished remodeling my bathroom, and thought I would go as the general state of that remodel. The plan included copper pipes, a lot of soldering (or ‘sweating the pipes’ as the plumbers call it, which isn’t nearly as sexy as it sounds), a working water pump driving water from a bucket up the pipes to a leak over my head, and some burn makeup. The costume cost over $200, and took 6 hours to make, but I never managed to make the whole rig work as intended. I was close, but the water wouldn’t hit the bucket, or the battery pack to power the pump kept coming disconnected. By the time I realized I may not win this battle, the party I was to attend was already 2 hours old. So I went as the story of my failed costume. I made a sandwich board and added pictures of the whole ordeal set up as a storyboard of my day, with the final result being the sandwich board I was wearing at the party. Not ideal, but not terrible, and certainly respect-worthy given the pinch I was in.
What I didn’t consider is the fact that the party would be somewhat dark, and no one would be able to read the storyboard. So they would get in real close, stare for a few minutes, I’d try to explain the concept, and they would say ‘Hmm’ and excuse themselves, and I would continue to hate Halloween.
3. Will Ferrell as Robert Goulet - Suck it, this one kicked ass. Specifically, I was Ferrell as Goulet in the skit ‘Coconut Bangers’ Ball - It’s a Rap!’. Goddamned glorious. This was in 2004 (holy shit 5 years ago oh my god), so I was in Atlanta, fat as hell, and this was still somewhat topical. I did the whole nine on the costume, and had the impression down pat. I even bought a bunch of jewel cases and made the graphic below and handed them out at the party:
See? Goddamned magic.
This was a hipster party in Atlanta in 2002, so basically take how much you hate the stereotypical hipster, and multiply that by the wait time at one of their beloved Waffle Houses at 2am on a Saturday. These people had NO sense of humor whatsoever. Most of the costumes were terrible ‘play on words oh god I am so clever look at me’ jobs. I am not kidding when I tell you one person was there as a ‘dangling participle’, and one person was ‘a fountain of useless knowledge’. Real hoots, these kids.
So, yeah, no one got it. I was asked if I was a ‘70’s porn producer’. First of all, bite me, second of all, porn producer? Not an actor or a director, but specifically a producer? I was asked who Robert Goulet was, who Will Ferrell was, and told that I forgot to put a CD in the case, and I really should or else tell her when I am playing around Emory because it would be a really cool show and she’d love to see it.
In closing, I am going trick-or-treating this year with pantyhose on my head. And nothing else. I’ll be a 60’s porn producer.
UPDATE: Here is the skit, in case you haven’t seen it (and might therefore be a d-bag).
