Scaaarily Poorly Thought Out Halloween Costumes

October 30 , 2003

Today is the day to make your own fake blood.

Only a few more days before my guest editorship at Opium ends. Who's up today?

If you live in Austin, please pick up a copy of the fine publication Two Note Solo, since I've got a little piece in it about beards. Or, if you don't live in Austin, you can check it out here (page 24.)

And now, today, as promised:

Scaaarily Poorly Thought Out Halloween Costumes

From Amy Blair:
I was a hypodermic needle in 6th grade. This was
disastrous on two levels.

1. Everyone thought I was a freak.

2. The whole thing was made of cardboard, and I
couldn't sit down all day.

Overall, I still kind of think it was a brilliant costume.

From Lisa Scanlon:
When I was about 11 or 12, my mom made me a fantastic M&M Halloween costume (green, of course) out of two hoola hoops and a lot of felt. The only problem was that she didn't make any arm holes, so I had to keep my hands inside the M&M (which made collecting candy difficult). Still, the lack of arms wasn't a big deal until, as I was standing near the edge of someone's railingless porch, I lost my balance. Since I was armless, I was unable to prevent myself from pitching backwards and falling head-first into some bushes. Since I didn't have any arms, the people at the house and my friends then had to drag me out of the bushes by my feet. Amazingly, the episode didn't stop me from loving M&Ms.

From Maven Quibble:
'Twas a spooky Halloween afternoon, sometime during Clinton's first term.

Fading orange light. I receive a call from a snobby acquaintance. I'm invited to a Monster Mash.

Thanks for the ample notice!

I dress casually after deciding to go as an echo. I arrive. Frankenstein says, "Hey, who are you supposed to be?" I say, "Supposed to be? Upposed to be? Upposed to be? Upposed to be?" A vampire says, "I think this guy's ripped." I say, "Ink this guy's ripped. S'guy's ripped. S'guy's ripped.
S'guy's ripped."

The following year, I wasn't invited.

From Meghan Haynes:
I wouldn't say this was so much a failed costume so much as it was a "it's-late-in-the-game-and-your-mother-is-lazy-so-she-invents-a-costume-for- you" costume: I was a "teenager" in 5th grade, which basically meant I got to wear one of her tops and lots of red lipstick...but my classmate Kirk Williams liked it, and I've got pictures to prove it!

From Miles Raymer:
Last year I originally wanted to go as a Gay Vampire, which would've involved a velvet frock coat, a manicure, a constant martini in one hand, and a cigarette holder. When I ended up working overtime during the entire period I had planned on putting my costume together, I came up with a couple of alternatives. One was going as Homicide In The American Workplace, which would simply be me covered in the blood of my murdered coworkers. Less felonious was my idea to go as The Enduring Allure Of Suicide. The costume: a black button-down shirt, a Gucci tie in a noose over my shoulder, a blinged-out pistol on a platinum chain, and a tight pair of black cords. In the end it never came about due to a surprising lack of affordable handgun charms in the jewelry stores on Chicago Ave and because I was going to give up entirely on Halloween because I was depressed over my ex-girlfriend. I ended up going as My Bloated Sense Of Entitlement, which was just me showing up at the party
drunk.

From Donnie Bowman:
I was about five years old and I was going to be a tiger. It was going to be really really cool. My aunt who was all into painting was going to paint my face. I was going to be awesome, even though I didn't really like tigers. I just figured that a tiger wouldn't be too hard to get her to do, and I wanted to be a zookeeper when I grew up. I needed to get used to being/being around animals that I wasn't too fond of, since if you're a zookeeper you have to be around ALL the animals. How I thought I would actually ever need to BE one of these animals, I don't know. I really wanted to take care of the penguins and the seals. They weren't too cool to dress up as. People know about tigers. That's what people like to see on Halloween- things they know about, things that are fun. I had dressed up as a Smurf the year before. That was fun, and it was the shit. Smurfs were cool. But they were played out. Like tigers. But not like painted-up tigers! That was the crux of the costume! It was paint. My aunt did a decent job, but there was a hurricane that year. Lots of wind. I only got to go to about 5 houses to trick-or-treat. I got a Snickers,
some M&M's, and some candy corn. My dad had to go to the store to buy me some candy because he felt like he had failed as a parent because of the hurricane.
I didn't paint my face ever again.

From Andrew Ralls (with photographic proof!)

From Jory John:
I decided -- weeks in advance -- that I would dress up as Guns N' Roses front man Axl Rose for the big night out. Not that I was a fan of the band, necessarily. Or a fan of Axl. Or the other guy, Smash or Slash or whatever. It just seemed like a good idea at the time, because I owned a blonde wig, and I was kind of into portraying a rock star, regardless of who the star happened to be, or what he stood for, or how he sounded, or what he did, or which group of people he hated. In my booklet, it was all about appearance and originality. (I found out later, of course, that Axl Rose didn't even have blonde hair. It was more of a reddish/brown tint, but I might still be wrong. Maybe it's completely red. I haven't seen the guy in a while. Basically, I found out that, while my originality might've been intact, for the most part, my appearance-factor was completely off. Were there no pictures available? Where were all the pictures and why didn't I find one and look at it and discover that I looked nothing like Axl Rose? This is a question I cannot answer. I looked nothing like him, down to the last detail. The last detail was my wristwatch, which I forgot to take off. I should've realized that most rock stars have no need for a Timex.)

Anyhoo, the rest of my costume consisted of these items and/or body parts: 1.) A (fake) rose tattoo, which went on my right shoulder, prominently displayed because I was wearing 2.) a black, sleeveless shirt, which would allow me to be both a.) cold and b.) slightly muscular -- in my opinion, at least -- throughout the Halloween night. The shirt was worn above 3.) a dirty, ripped pair of jeans. In summary: a tank top, a pair of pants and an off-color wig. Ta-da. My outfit was complete.

There was nothing, actually -- besides maybe the fake tattoo -- to signify who I was. And even that was unclear. Especially in the midst of a dark Halloween night, when nobody is looking at -- nor caring about -- fake tattoos. I realized, early on, that subtlety doesn't play very well during a 30 second conversation on a stranger's porch. You don't want to spend your entire night explaining who you are, or justifying your choice, or attempting to do a weak impression when asked, or defending someone you know nothing about. (Before I left the house, that evening, my mom had shown me a little Axl-footage she happened to have on tape. The scene was Axl Rose dancing and singing with Mick Jagger at a Rolling Stones concert. I thought, by watching it once, that I'd be able to do that snaky "hip sway" thing he was celebrated for. Of course, when I tried it on a cluttered porch, with hopes of maybe a little extra candy or some appreciative applause or some knowing laughter, it was a very good thing that I didn't injure a cat or knock over a houseplant. I was clunky. My "hip sway" was more moose-like, than anything. It looked -- and I could only say this years later, in a moment of post-sitcom reflection -- like Elaine on "Seinfeld."

And nobody knew who I was. Not a single person, the entire night. Not even the guy (this is true) who was blasting "Welcome to the Jungle" through his window. "Who are you supposed to be?" was the question I received most often, slightly ahead of "What are you? Like, a chick, or something? Are you a girl? Is that what you are?"

"I'm Axl Rose," I would reply, proudly at first, moosing my hips. Later, I would respond with a bit of hesitation, and then -- toward the end of the evening -- I gave up and just sort of agreed that I was, indeed, supposed to be some sort of chick with a tattoo, give me candy already and let me go home.

Of course, "home" was not on my group's immediate agenda and I was stuck without a ride. Everybody wanted to go to this party where the theme was "wear something scary." I immediately sensed that I would be out-of-place. I was less "scary" and more "in the process of ruining the chances that I would ever have a girlfriend." Still, I went, because I had to, because I didn't own a car. When I got there, even the people who knew who I was supposed to be -- I had bragged about my impending Halloween Glory in English class -- were confused as to who I was supposed to be. I sensed defeat. I went and sat on the couch and thought about the fact that I couldn't even sing one Guns N' Roses song, all the way through. I thought about the fact that if I met Axl Rose on the street, he would probably punch me, or at least be very mean. He didn't deserve my tribute, no matter how faulty the presentation.

Finally, my friends drove me home, where I ate my bittersweet -- possibly undeserved -- candy and decided that the next year, I was going to be a ninja or a pirate or a ghost, or something, originality be damned.