The coming of November means that Halloween is over.
If you have ever swung by our house come October, you’ll understand why the passing of the 10th month brings a tear to my eye. For years, my basement has been to Halloween supplies what the Yucca Mountains are to toxic waste. With boxes, bags, and used futons filled with Halloween gags, our lowest floor is a veritable wonderland of ghouls and ghosts, something that would make Stephen King grin from ear to ear.
Who’s fault is this? Have my parents raised me on Wicca and witchcraft? Is there some hunchbacked troll that lives under our stairs, nipping Halloween decorations from the neighbors and tossing them into the dark and dank of the basement?
Uh, no — at least, not to my knowledge. If anything, this hoarding of all things terrifying is a family affair, a Michel effort (Micheffort?), a pitched team stab at bringing horror and capitalism together as one. My Dad has headed up the effort for some time, tying fluorescent ghosts to our living room fan, cloaking ladders with robes and red-eyed skulls, creeping out our neighbors and bringing an unhealthy smile to my face. Coupled with my Mom’s ‘be-a-smart-shopper-and-stock-up-on-Halloween-goodies-on-Nov. 1’ mentality, my family was a force to be reckoned with come Halloween. Even the pets get in on the action:
The tradition has continued at the house this year, although I think it stems more from my Mom going off the rocker in Norwood's absence than anything else:
Our house was one of the block’s jewels, and when you consider that my (in hindsight, blasphemous) Catholic elementary school put on the district’s top haunted house — to this day, I recall my best friend’s witch-Mom bringing me to tears — it’s no surprise that my affinity for Halloween has surpassed normal bounds. As Tracy today reminded me, not everyone continues to trick-or-treat into their 20s, nor do many take pride when their dorm room unsettles visitors. Fortunately, last year Aunt Mary bankrolled my attempts at decorating the room, to great success.
So when I first arrived in July and felt the brisk, cool night air, a part of me lit up with anticipation of Halloween’s imminent arrival. The cutting breeze, the open sky, and the presence of candy all conspired to get my hopes up that this year’s Halloween would be the greatest yet — better than my Frankenstein night at McMenamin’s, my freshman-year haunted house fright (where my Mom entrusted Katie Northcott with our lives), or last year’s floor-wide trick-or-treating extravaganza.
Since I love dumb jokes, I’ll give you a hint how it went:
Question: What noise does an Australian Halloween make?
Answer: A spook-tacluar flop.
Yep, that’s right. Like Bob Dole from the podium, the Australian Halloween fell from its perceived perch, and will now live in ignominious infamy (but, thankfully, no Viagra commercials). I knew the Aussies were lax when it came to most things — work, chores, healthy livers — but their apathy toward this greatest of holidays bordered on sacrilege.
There was not a single Halloween decoration on campus, nor could I find any downtown. Hotel lobbies were clean, underground pubs were the same, and the McDonalds were filled not with candy corn or Fun-Sized Snickers, but Christmas trees. In October. (And I thought Americans were bad).
Australia, my friend, you have sincerely and regrettably dropped the ball, and for that, you will remain shamed.
Fortunately, with Americans comes a spirit that is not easily doused, a desire to dress as ghastly (or promiscuously) as humanly possible on the 31st of October. We’ve grown up with this holiday, shared in its screams and frights, and come to expect it like a Yankees fan expects the playoffs. (Oh, wait….) We were not about to let the disdain of the Aussies get in the way of some fake blood and vampire teeth, and seemingly of one mind — or maybe it was just Facebook — a Halloween party emerged.
Four hours and 18 wrong directions after setting out yesterday, me and Noah from Arizona found a costume shop to survey. After deciding against Cher, a bumblebee, and Batman — why would I want to go as myself? — I settled on a simple, historically accurate outfit. I would be Thor, Norse Viking, wielder of plastic axes and red mullets. (Once the pictures are online, I’ll be sure to send them along.) Noah settled on Kurt Cobain, much to the glee of our checkout lady’s boyfriend, and just like that, Halloween was returned to the land.
The Halloween party that evening was, to use a parlance of our times, ‘off the hook.’ Never have I seen so many college-aged she-devils, pajama’d cows, or break-dancing Jokers in my life. People enjoyed Thor’s mullet, and, unfortunately, his ax, which ended up being broken (talk about a blow to my Viking ego). Alas, the party was too good to be true — two non-residents couldn’t decide whose costume was better, and came to blows in defense of their tailors. Cops came, flashlights shone, and buzzes were killed.
And you want to know the worst part?
The cops didn’t even have candy.
Video of the day!
In the end, I wound up back at my house, watching this clip and counting down the days until next year:
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