By Gary Huerta
Published: Wednesday, October 21, 2009
I’m not real enthusiastic about dressing up for Halloween. For some reason, I just can’t seem to muster the energy required to get it together, even though there’s still more than a week to prepare. About the best I can do this year is wear a terry cloth robe and scraggly beard like my favorite Coen Brothers underachiever, Jeffrey Lebowski.
I must point out that I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I enjoyed Halloween. I was brought up with a much higher respect for the day than I now display. My parents were legendary costumer makers in their own right, and that tradition was impressed upon me from an early age.
I remember my mom making an elaborate Martian costume for me in first grade. It had a bizarre head piece using a hard plastic lampshade and sequined fabric — my clothes a long, flowing green gown. I vividly recall the hard plastic lampshade digging into my forehead and wandering blindly around the playground, bumping into other kids like some visually impaired ET. Good times.
In fourth grade, I was a clown. Not a scary monster clown, but rather a festive, jovial Bozo. I remember when my mom went to the fabric store to buy the pattern, I begged her to put the torturous lampshade back on my head so the older kids wouldn’t kill me.
Note to parents: Your fourth-grade son does not want to be a festive, jovial clown. He wants to be a deadly ninja. Listen to him. If nothing else it will keep him from having his clown feet stomped on by the sixth-grade boys. Trust me on this one.
In sixth grade, I was a pirate. Another homemade costume complete with balsa wood sabre and silk eye patch. I don’t know what it was with my mom trying to cover my eyes during Halloween. Were I less secure, I’d think she was trying to do me in. But those were different times. We didn’t have glow sticks and flame-proof costumes. You got too close to a flame and you went up like a Roman candle. We were a tougher breed than today’s youth.
The Long John Silver get-up was fun until it came time to walk around in the dark.
Second note to parents: Covering a child’s eye with a patch seriously reduces their depth perception and makes it really easy for them to run into lamp posts. On the upside, the kids they trick-or-treat with will think it’s h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s.
Childhood aside, I do have some fond memories. Like the time in college when I went to a party in Long Beach and ended up having so much fun I had to spend the night. Of course the light of day was a little more sobering. I had to drive back to Glendale and needed to stop for gas in a less than friendly looking section of South Gate. Oh. I forgot to mention that I had dressed up that year as a ballerina. I also forgot to bring a change of clothes.
A brief recap of Halloween 1986: South Gate. Daylight. Gas station. Ballerina costume. Bikers. Awkward.
More recently, there was the time six years ago when I went to a party in Glendale dressed as a very well-known local Realtor — a woman. My rationale? I wanted to dress as the scariest thing I could think of.
And because she sold me a defective house that year, it seemed frightening and funny at the time.
My not-so-subtle irony was well-received among friends who knew the back story. Among one particular stranger it was even more popular, and I spent the majority of the night being pursued by a rather obnoxious Zorro, who thought I looked quite fetching.
Note to men: If you’re going to dress as a woman, try very, very hard to look unattractive, unless your intent is to woo Zorro.
So I guess it’s settled. I either go as a complete slacker or stay home and hand out candy.
Note to self: I shouldn’t have any problem fending off the women in my unkempt beard and bath robe.I’m not real enthusiastic about dressing up for Halloween. For some reason, I just can’t seem to muster the energy required to get it together, even though there’s still more than a week to prepare. About the best I can do this year is wear a terry cloth robe and scraggly beard like my favorite Coen Brothers underachiever, Jeffrey Lebowski.
I must point out that I wasn’t always this way. There was a time when I enjoyed Halloween. I was brought up with a much higher respect for the day than I now display. My parents were legendary costume makers in their own right, and that tradition was impressed upon me from an early age.
I remember my mom making an elaborate Martian costume for me in first grade. It had a bizarre head piece using a hard plastic lampshade and sequined fabric — my clothes a long, flowing green gown. I vividly recall the hard plastic lampshade digging into my forehead and wandering blindly around the playground, bumping into other kids like some visually impaired ET. Good times.
In fourth grade, I was a clown. Not a scary monster clown, but rather a festive, jovial Bozo. I remember when my mom went to the fabric store to buy the pattern, I begged her to put the torturous lampshade back on my head so the older kids wouldn’t kill me.
<!–
–> Note to parents: Your fourth-grade son does not want to be a festive, jovial clown. He wants to be a deadly ninja. Listen to him. If nothing else it will keep him from having his clown feet stomped on by the sixth-grade boys. Trust me on this one.
In sixth grade, I was a pirate. Another homemade costume complete with balsa wood sabre and silk eye patch. I don’t know what it was with my mom trying to cover my eyes during Halloween. Were I less secure, I’d think she was trying to do me in. But those were different times. We didn’t have glow sticks and flame-proof costumes. You got too close to a flame and you went up like a Roman candle. We were a tougher breed than today’s youth.
The Long John Silver get-up was fun until it came time to walk around in the dark.
Second note to parents: Covering a child’s eye with a patch seriously reduces their depth perception and makes it really easy for them to run into lamp posts. On the upside, the kids they trick-or-treat with will think it’s h-i-l-a-r-i-o-u-s.
Childhood aside, I do have some fond memories. Like the time in college when I went to a party in Long Beach and ended up having so much fun I had to spend the night. Of course the light of day was a little more sobering. I had to drive back to Glendale and needed to stop for gas in a less than friendly looking section of South Gate. Oh. I forgot to mention that I had dressed up that year as a ballerina. I also forgot to bring a change of clothes.
A brief recap of Halloween 1986: South Gate. Daylight. Gas station. Ballerina costume. Bikers. Awkward.
More recently, there was the time six years ago when I went to a party in Glendale dressed as a very well-known local Realtor — a woman. My rationale? I wanted to dress as the scariest thing I could think of.
And because she sold me a defective house that year, it seemed frightening and funny at the time.
My not-so-subtle irony was well-received among friends who knew the back story. Among one particular stranger it was even more popular, and I spent the majority of the night being pursued by a rather obnoxious Zorro, who thought I looked quite fetching.
Note to men: If you’re going to dress as a woman, try very, very hard to look unattractive, unless your intent is to woo Zorro.
So I guess it’s settled. I either go as a complete slacker or stay home and hand out candy.
Note to self: I shouldn’t have any problem fending off the women in my unkempt beard and bath robe.
Times Community News
Gary Huerta
