Halloween Hardships

Halloween has never been my favorite holiday. It’s not that I have any moral objections to demanding candy from people; that would be a bit overly principled, even for Baptists. No, I think it stems from my timid demeanor as a child.

I was always a shy kid around people I didn’t know. Thus, the idea of walking around and asking complete strangers to give me sugar seemed completely ludicrous. I made my parents come with me (not just with, up to the door) until I was 13 years old.

The goal of most kids was to look as scary as possible. Not me. I tried to dress as cute as possible, that way my neighbors would just say, “Awww,” and give me the candy without me having to utter a word. Other kids started at dogs and progressed to Scream masks. I went from Mickey Mouse to an M&M in eight moves.

I mean, it’s only three words: Trick or Treat. I could say other phrases only three words long no problem: “I am hungry,” “Hippos are fat,” “Gym is stupid,” “That’s my pipe.” I suppose it's kind of ironic then that I ended up a writer. I couldn’t even beg for food the one day people are dying (wham! Halloween pun) to give it away. How am I supposed to do it as part of my living?

But that’s the past. Here in college the object is not to look scary and get candy. It’s to look like a slut and get laid. Nurses, witches, cats, police: all with cleavage and most certainly wearing stockings. If not one of the top four, your costume is designed around what would look absolutely ridiculous when you’re completely trashed at the end of the night. Let’s just say there was definitely a Winnie the Pooh stumbling its way around the World Series riots last year in Kenmore Square.

Yet old habits die hard and I’m still going with the cute angle today. For the party tonight, I’m dressed as someone protesting how Mother Nature decided to skip fall and go straight to winter this year. So yes, that means I don’t have a costume. However, it also means I’m always cute. Result!

I arrived twenty minutes late, like usual. Someone buzzed me in and I climbed the stairs to apartment 3. The door was open and I walked right in. The apartment was dark but I could not see any sign of a party.

“Hello?” I asked.
“Salutations,” a voice responded, a voice I’d heard somewhere before.
“Is this the No Dressing Up party?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Where is everyone?”
“This is everyone.”
“Are you trying to be difficult?”
“Sorry. Wait, why am I apologizing? I’m the killer.”

And then I remembered where I’d heard that voice before. It was Jigsaw from the movie Saw.

“What do you want from me?” I pleaded.
“To kill you, of course.”
“But I haven’t done anything. Don’t you normally kill people who are leading their lives wrongly? What’s your name, anyhow?”
“Todd.”
“Well, Todd, I think you’ve made a mistake. I’m an angel.”
“I was too. But then I went to a doctor who was also a veterinarian. He got confused between animals and humans one day. I was spayed.”
“That’s awful!”
“I got off lucky. He put my brother down.”
“I’m sorry, but what do I have to do with this?”
“You are a Pre-Med student.”
“Were. I dropped it within a month of starting freshman year.”
“Oh. Bugger.”

By this time I had found a light switch and discovered the door and windows to be locked. There was a Mr. Potato Head doll lying on a couch with a knife through it’s, er, skull, I guess you would call it.

“I’m such a failure. Now they’ll never let me star in the Saw spin-off, Chisel.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, Todd. The Horror genre is so creatively bankrupt anyway. Showing your emotional side is sure to garner you some buzz.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ve always dreamed of being a respectable dramatic actor like Val Kilmer.”

Silence ensued. I felt the minutes tick by as I waited for my mystery host to release me.

“So what do we do now?” I questioned after awhile.
“I don’t know, have a party I suppose.”
“Will there be balloons?”
“Oh yes, there will be balloons.”
“Great.”
“You want some Candy Corn?”

At the mention of this, Candy Corn shot out of the walls and pelted my non-costumed frame.

“Ow, fuck, man. That hurts.”
“Sorry.”
“Besides, nobody actually eats Candy Corn. It’s an element, like Phosphorus or Titanium. There was a certain amount of it here on Earth when time began and people just keeps offering it to everyone else. It never gets eaten, just passed around.”
“I see. Sorry I ruined your holiday.”
“Don’t worry about it. I always wanted to be tops at the box office.”

Soap Wars: The Phantom Playoff

It’s been a few days. Reality is starting to set in and I can see things have changed. These next few weeks will be different. How frighteningly different they would be I could never have imagined

It’s mid October and the Red Sox are not playing the Yankees in the American League Championship Series. Worse than that, neither team is playing at all. They’ve both gone home, destined to “wait ‘til next year.”

At first, I thought maybe neither team advancing was a good thing. I’m rather busy with schoolwork right now so the added distraction of a playoff race was not helping my grades. Now if only America’s Next Top Model would go off the air.

In addition to that, people’s feelings got hurt last year. When the Yankees were up 3-0, their fans were rubbing it in the Sox fans’ faces. Then the Sox fans returned the favor after each of the next eight games. I told myself that Boston University and the northeast corridor of the United States in general will be a much happier and less confrontational place than it had been the past two Octobers.

But things haven’t been that peachy, nor have they been peary, orangey, or appley either. No fruit-related adjective could describe the situation. Grapefruity might be the closest you can get because it’s sour, but I am quite partial to grapefruit thus ruining the necessary negative connotation.

Everyone here has this pent up aggression needing to be released. They’ve stockpiled all this vindictive energy for precisely this time of year, but now there is nowhere for it to go. Instead of yelling at televisions and denying our opponents service at respectable institutions like Jamba Juice, the fans are arguing vehemently over petty differences. This scene erupted on my floor just the other day:

“Hey, guys, look at this kid. He’s gonna shower using Irish Spring soap. That’s so lame.”
“Irish Spring has been the classiest soap since it was introduced in 1972. It’s much better than your worthless Lever 2000.”
“Irish Spring hasn’t won the National Soap Award since 2000.”
“But it has won more National Soap Awards than any other bar.”
“Yeah, well, when you’re owned by the Evil Empire, Colgate, you can afford to buy off those judges.”
“There you go with that Evil Empire crap again. Just because we’re good businessmen and are part of a mega conglomerate that will rake in more profits, our soap is somehow tainted. The next thing you’re going to tell me is that No Doubt’s best CD was Return of Saturn.”
“It was a big step forward for them.”
“Everybody knows that Tragic Kingdom was, is, and forever will be the best thing No Doubt have ever done.”

And on and on it went until a full-scale gang war ensued. It had it all: choreography, snapping, a Puerto Rican named Bernardo, everything. I tried to play it cool, but it was just too hard.

Now commissioner Selig, I know you are reading your copy of The Daily Free Press while digesting your morning dose of Fruity Pebbles and Ensure, and I implore you to do something.

The Northeast cannot survive the winter without some sort of playoff between these two teams. Why don’t we have a losers’ bracket? There’s no clear third or fourth in the American League now. The White Sox are first and the Angels are second, but how do we know who is third and who is fourth? The Red Sox and Yankees can’t tie for anything. Even when they both had the exact same regular season record, the Yanks were given the AL East title.

It may seem insignificant now, but this crisis will escalate. Folgers versus Maxwell House, Sesame Street versus Fraggle Rock, Reuben versus Clay, shirts versus skins (ok maybe that one wouldn’t be all bad): life as we know it will crumble in the face of unending competition.

And why is it that competition is so important to us? Why do we raise our children to embrace these rivalries and hold prejudices against people who cheer differently? I am afraid to bring a life into this world if he’ll be persecuted for the Triceratops being his favorite dinosaur or she’ll be ridiculed for not wanting to say Hello to Kitty. Things need to change before I produce someone that will perpetuate this system.

So, please, hear my plea, Bud. The well-being of millions of people relies on what you choose to do in this hour of dire need, especially me because I happen to prefer Zest.

*Published in The Daily Free Press on Friday, October 21st, 2005*