Vol. 1, Issue No. 8: A ghost story of my own
Vol. 1, Issue No. 8: A ghost story of my own
On Halloween, getting in trouble, the bliss of costumes, and growing up.
There was a time in my life — the bulk of my childhood, let’s say, so ages three or four to 13 or 14 — when Halloween and the weeks leading up to it made up the most important period of the year. I thought it was the best holiday ever. I loved the black and orange scheme of it all; the ghosts and skeletons and goblins and ghouls. One time, I was given an orange Rubbermaid tub filled to the brim with Halloween decorations by my Halloween-obsessed aunt. For Christmas, no less. It was awesome.
I made it my mission to decorate the house from foundation to roof with decorative snakes and rats; pumpkins, of course, were a must. The limbs of a plastic skeleton with stakes on the end were planted in the front yard, organized in the pattern that made it appear half-buried. I took this stuff very seriously; if you were the kind of person who believed a hoodie and a beanie could double as a costume, you were turned away at my house. Those were the rules. They were unflinchingly rigid.
And they remained that way for a while. The decorations were a yearly tradition; trick-or-treating with the neighborhood pals eventually evolved into an evening of silly, if-borderline illegal shenanigans with my group of friends from high school (nothing too crazy, mom, I swear). But the costumes remained, the candy was collected, and the memories made were bound to last quite some time. (Excuse me, the cheesiness of what I just wrote is doing worse things to my stomach than a dozen Twix bars.)
But kids grow up. The costumes become less and less extravagant, turning more and more into a game of “hmm… what in my closet can help me pass as a ‘football coach’ or ‘rock star’?” I’ve resorted to the former before. It’s not hard to dress up as Sean McDermott when you already own a Bills hoodie, hat, a pair of grey chinos, and a Playstation’s headset. Another recent costume of mine? Jim Halpert. Well, three-hole punch Jim. I cut out three circles from a black piece of construction paper, taped them to the left side of my button-up shirt, and called it a day. Lame, I know.
Even lamer: that Jim Halpert’s poor efforts on Halloween became my benchmark. Not intentionally, I assure you, but just because I suppose that’s what happened over time. I’m quite confident that I never really “grew up,” but I suppose I prioritized different things as I aged. I still judge those who believe a hoodie and pillowcase can pass for “robber,” but I am definitely going to support my roommate when he cosplays as Nick Miller from New Girl tonight. What does that outfit consist of, you ask? I have a feeling it will be some combination of the following items: unzipped hoodie, a checkered flannel, a henley, a blank t-shirt, jeans, khakis, sneakers, and a lack of ambition.
My “costume”? Schmidt from New Girl. We’re really going all out.
Halloween hasn’t died for me. Just certain aspects of it. I haven’t trick-or-treated in years, obviously, but I also can’t recall the last time that I did — not even back when I was a kid. I mentioned one night that was spent with friends from high school; I bet that was when we were freshmen, because by sophomore year, Halloween had become an excuse for everyone I knew to sneak into liquor cabinets they’d otherwise never think to infiltrate. The spirit of the holiday, as it existed around me for so long, had evaporated entirely. I started staying in and watching movies as opposed to attending parties. At the very least, I wanted to encounter those that still appreciated what I had adored for so long.
Which I realize sounds curmudgeonly. And probably is curmudgeonly. But alas, when something you love is suddenly so different to all those in your orbit, what is a boy to do? I should’ve persisted with the passion. Perhaps I should’ve started a club. Instead, I’ll dream of the days when I dressed up shamelessly and carried around a plastic pumpkin for lollipops and Tootsie Rolls to be placed en masse. And I’ll imagine the days when I have children of my own to plan costumes with. Here’s the dream: I’m Shrek, my future kid is Donkey. I think we can make it work.
I’ll leave you with this, as I’m sure you’ll want to start inhaling M&M’s soon. When I was in fourth grade, I remember spending far too much time on a survey for my classmates, none of whom participated willingly. I asked a very simple question that I took far too seriously: what’s your favorite candy? I passed it around and got quite a few responses. The results of this survey were incredibly vital to the balance of State Road Elementary.
One problem: I conducted this survey during a lesson on multiplication tables. I was very disruptive. And I was sent to the principal’s office. I would’ve rather been sent to a room with Michael Myers, Freddy Krueger, and Pennywise the Clown. It would’ve been a significantly less stressful environment. I don’t think I got detention, but I’m pretty sure I cried a ton. Perhaps that’s how I got out of it.
Or, perhaps it was because the authorities recognized my passion for this holiday, and how all I wanted to do was share it with my classmates. Sure. Let’s go with that, shall we?
Happy Halloween, folks. Don’t you dare let your imagination wither away. Dress up to your heart’s content.
Consumption Corner
I (somehow) find time to read a lot, watch a lot, and listen to a lot throughout my weeks here on the internet. Consumption Corner is where I’ll recommend some of the things I appreciated the most. They may be old, or they may be new, but from shows to films to books, I figure the least I can do is lend some insight into the things that make me the cultured young man that I am.
The Reading List:
His N.B.A. Dream Was Right There. Then He Couldn’t Move His Legs. by David Gardner (The New York Times)
Fast, but not loose: James Borrego has LaMelo Ball and the Hornets flying out of the gate by James Herbert (CBS Sports)
God Bless You, Mr. Dubois by Frank Falisi (Bright Wall/Dark Room)
Is Amazon Changing the Novel? by Parul Sehgal (The New Yorker)
How Immanuel Quickley Became the Exciting New Name at Madison Square Garden by Mirin Fader (The Ringer)
A movie I recommend you see in the theater, NOT on the streaming service its distributor happens to own: Here’s what I need you to do. Find the biggest theater, with the loudest speakers, and let Denis Villeneuve’s Dune wash over you. This is not a film made for your television screens, nor your iPads. It’s a masterpiece, a stunning sci-fi epic that beckons viewing on a screen to match its spectacle. It’s my favorite film of the year, and I’m fully aware that this feeling may be based entirely on the IMAX experience in which I witnessed it for the first time.
I haven’t felt this way about a film since I first saw Star Wars or Harry Potter; so enthralled by the world being built before my eyes, and so enamored with the characters within. There’s a reason that this tale — adapted from Frank Herbert’s 1965 novel of the same name — took so long to adapt as perfectly as Villeneueve has here. As Ed Park wrote in The New Yorker, “Villeneuve and all of his players intuitively understand why “Dune” has remained so resonant for generations—they deliver a maximal teen-age power trip, made more believable by all-too-human details.”
Bring on part two. Sooner rather than later, if that’s alright.
A goodbye tweet:
Stay safe this weekend, all. Hope to see you back here in just a few days.