Sadly, I’ve never had much flair for costumes. I believe this is rooted in my memory of going to Kindergarten on Halloween dressed up as Cinderella. Halloween had been explained to me as the one day you could dress up as someone you were not. I was not a princess, but I thought it would be fun to be one for a day. Imagine the surprises that awaited me on the playground.
These days, one of the surest signs that I’ve become a grumpy old man is my disdain for adult costume parties. I know people who plan them for months, painstakingly settling on a theme, tirelessly schlepping around town long before the first leaves begin to turn, searching for the perfect accessory. I know people for whom the year is divided into two halves, differentiated precisely by the day they stop talking about what they were for Halloween last year and start talking about what they’re going to be. Adults in costumes is just a bad idea, I think. The whole act of dressing up is a precursor for spouse swapping, or making out with your best friend or your brother-in-law, or the husband “accidentally” slipping into a pair of his wife’s undies once the lights are out for the night.
So rather than grouse about it I just stay home and hand out candy at the front door. I drop candy bars into plastic pumpkins or decorated shopping bags and then toss a bar or two to the adult who stands on the sidewalk. It’s usually quite festive in my neighborhood, an evening full of friendly banter with people I almost never see even though they live close by. This year, a group of teenagers showed up in a collective costume, a performance piece, you might say: they were dressed as The Recession. One of them held a cardboard sign that said I NEAD WORK. Another told me he’d just been released from the clinker. Later, two guys, late 20s, early 30s perhaps, thudded up onto the porch, each holding a baby, one of whom clenched a sippy cup and gazed at me expectantly. How sweet, I thought. “We’re just a couple of drunk uncles with babies,” one of them slurred. “Dude, the Ducks kicked ass today!” The Ducks are a college football team in Oregon. “Are you a Duck?” asked the other uncle. “Or are you a Beav?”
I gave the two uncles two candy bars each, not just because they were sexy but because it was getting late and I had a lot of candy left. I bought four bags of Hershey bars – they were only two bucks each at that quantity – and I had a lot left to give. It was mild in Portland over the weekend, and Saturday night was dry, but people freaked, I believe, about the swine flu. I don’t really blame them, given the hysteria. Every day last week, Halloween was used as a hook for the ongoing swine flu story. If this flu epidemic does indeed turn out to be the beginning of the end of humanity, I will never forgive myself for wishing the news people would stop injecting everyone with anxiety, which I think is deadlier than any virus. One of the network affiliates in Portland put the national news people to shame last week when it comes to testing the limits of my belief in freedom of the press. After an interview with a hospital administrator who explained that he’s looking into using vacant offices in case his facilities are overwhelmed with swine flu patients, the screen filled with footage of the New Orleans convention center overrun with the recently homeless shortly after Hurricane Katrina. We want to be on the safe side, the anchors explained, and secure extra space before it becomes a medical emergency. See the connection? We do not want something like that to happen here, and just the fantasy of the headlines we could write if something like that did happen here is far scarier than any costume party for adults I’ve ever missed.
These days, one of the surest signs that I’ve become a grumpy old man is my disdain for adult costume parties. I know people who plan them for months, painstakingly settling on a theme, tirelessly schlepping around town long before the first leaves begin to turn, searching for the perfect accessory. I know people for whom the year is divided into two halves, differentiated precisely by the day they stop talking about what they were for Halloween last year and start talking about what they’re going to be. Adults in costumes is just a bad idea, I think. The whole act of dressing up is a precursor for spouse swapping, or making out with your best friend or your brother-in-law, or the husband “accidentally” slipping into a pair of his wife’s undies once the lights are out for the night.
So rather than grouse about it I just stay home and hand out candy at the front door. I drop candy bars into plastic pumpkins or decorated shopping bags and then toss a bar or two to the adult who stands on the sidewalk. It’s usually quite festive in my neighborhood, an evening full of friendly banter with people I almost never see even though they live close by. This year, a group of teenagers showed up in a collective costume, a performance piece, you might say: they were dressed as The Recession. One of them held a cardboard sign that said I NEAD WORK. Another told me he’d just been released from the clinker. Later, two guys, late 20s, early 30s perhaps, thudded up onto the porch, each holding a baby, one of whom clenched a sippy cup and gazed at me expectantly. How sweet, I thought. “We’re just a couple of drunk uncles with babies,” one of them slurred. “Dude, the Ducks kicked ass today!” The Ducks are a college football team in Oregon. “Are you a Duck?” asked the other uncle. “Or are you a Beav?”
I gave the two uncles two candy bars each, not just because they were sexy but because it was getting late and I had a lot of candy left. I bought four bags of Hershey bars – they were only two bucks each at that quantity – and I had a lot left to give. It was mild in Portland over the weekend, and Saturday night was dry, but people freaked, I believe, about the swine flu. I don’t really blame them, given the hysteria. Every day last week, Halloween was used as a hook for the ongoing swine flu story. If this flu epidemic does indeed turn out to be the beginning of the end of humanity, I will never forgive myself for wishing the news people would stop injecting everyone with anxiety, which I think is deadlier than any virus. One of the network affiliates in Portland put the national news people to shame last week when it comes to testing the limits of my belief in freedom of the press. After an interview with a hospital administrator who explained that he’s looking into using vacant offices in case his facilities are overwhelmed with swine flu patients, the screen filled with footage of the New Orleans convention center overrun with the recently homeless shortly after Hurricane Katrina. We want to be on the safe side, the anchors explained, and secure extra space before it becomes a medical emergency. See the connection? We do not want something like that to happen here, and just the fantasy of the headlines we could write if something like that did happen here is far scarier than any costume party for adults I’ve ever missed.
