Sometimes I take it personally that I was born in the most miserable month of the year (based on my latitude). I might’ve even been the result of Valentine’s Day plans gone awry. Ick.
On Halloween, I became Oogie Boogie. I identify with his hatred for Christmas.
I may have put more thought into this costume than my parents did that fateful Valentine’s Day 1983. At the same time, there was a crucial component of the costume that I gave zero thought to: wearability.
I’d only just started getting accustomed to my manicured claws. Now, I was about to wriggle into an extremely hot, restrictive jumpsuit, sandwiching myself between felt and two layers of jute. I was also to plant my head into a large cone constructed from the same jute/felt combo as the suit. Inside this cone was a built-in mask made from Model Magic and a dollar store Jason hockey mask. It was boiling. My head shrank 2% and my field of vision contracted to 20 degrees.
While everybody (except for Matt) appreciated the dedication and work I put into making my costume, my swagger had been reduced to a waddle. As I carefully shuffled to the side of the room towards the snack table, I realized I’d also complicated the act of eating. I could have snuck some chips underneath my jute neck skirt, but they were sour cream and onion.
I wanted salt and vinegar.
Among the thinly disguised guests was at least one other person who could empathize with my struggles. Matt had separated himself from everyone with an inch-thick barrier of pumpkin, in which he only cut himself a pair of obtuse triangles to see through.
I wasn’t committed enough to the illusion to miss out on the magic show. I pulled off my scratchy dunce cap and set it on my lap for the next hour as magician Andrew Brimstone freaked us out with telepathy.
I took a seat in the front row, where Alexa had settled her iPad on the floor so that I could follow what was happening via a live transcription app. I figured this would make me less appealing as a volunteer to the magician. But, no. I was among the first four volunteers to be summoned. The four of us were ordered by Mr. Brimstone to write our biggest fear on the back of the business card he’d handed each of us.
I blanked out: what was I the most afraid of? War? Global warming? Mind readers? Moths LOL?
Moths LOL was one of the other volunteers’ terror. I wanted to respect the magician’s craft, so I wrote down a serious answer and passed my card to a volunteer, who shuffled them.
Mr. Brimstone turned over the cards one by one, matching the fear to the person. He correctly assumed I was not the type to write down Moths LOL. He incorrectly assumed I’d written Closed Spaces, although he wasn’t far off.
With the last card still face down, and as the only volunteer left, Mr. Brimstone opted to reveal my fear through a Pictionary-style sketch.
In less than a minute, my fear was revealed on one of the pages of his sketchpad as two large opposing brackets, each with directional arrows pointing to a stick figure placed in the middle.
Mr. Brimstone took the last card from the volunteer and turned it over: Being Crushed.
Sometimes I imagine it happening as I walk under scaffolding, other times my imagination assumes the POV of an ant and I see a giant shoe rapidly coming down on me. I imagine being crushed to death in both a realistic and fantastical way. Hopefully, Mr. Brimstone didn’t read too much of my mind that evening.
After the show, I hurried back to the snack table side of the room. Along one of the walls at the venue was a chest-level ledge on which I could write. Above the ledge where I’d stationed myself was a conversation starter: a corkboard decorated with a rainbow of cards with names and birthdays written on them.
Where do I even start? A trio of Arloses, all born on September? Brinley? Balkan? There was a Maverick, but Burger’s hat is blocking it in the photo above.
Budding Kalabarian, Burger pointed to Noah and said, “This one is definitely Catholic.”
In response, I tapped Teddy’s card, “Definitely a bear.”
Burger started laughing so hard that his eye makeup ran.
I must give Burger a pass for half-assing his costume. For starters, he does not have the space in his trailer to full-ass a costume (or pretty much anything). He compensated for his weak getup by bringing a level of energy to the party that nobody would expect from a gothic lifeguard, whereas I was the one who spent a good chunk of time standing in a corner making fun of children’s names like the monster I am.
My last three Halloween costumes were a total miss. I dressed as a Senior Proctor for the NXIVM cult all three years. My satin scarf was not a hit the first year I wore it–the year NXIVM was probably the most relevant. Of the three Halloweens as a Senior Proctor, only one person understood my costume.
More disappointing was the year I dressed as Megavolt from Darkwing Duck. I devoted a significant amount of attention to the details, only to realize, come Halloween, how obscure the character actually was.
I didn’t think I was making the same mistake with Oogie Boogie, but it was to my great fright to learn how many people hadn’t seen The Nightmare Before Christmas. It’s a Halloween AND Christmas movie rolled into one!
“Potato sack monster!”
Look up Tim Burton, you uncultured swine! Why must a Tim Burton character be Johnny Depp to be memorable?
Even the transcribing app on my phone decided the movie was called Tim Horton’s Nightmare Before Christmas. Tim Burton is the hockey player synonymous with donuts.
My biggest compliment of the night was Daniel’s confession that Oogie Boogie scared the shit out of 10-year-old him.
10-year-old Laura only needed a three-second-long scene to fuel her nightmares:
I would have loved to share more pictures of the other creative garbs, but my costume was restrictive on so many levels. I planned to delight the other revellers by dispensing gummy worms from a fanny pack via the sleeves. Alas, I hadn’t made the torso wide enough. It looked more like I was fighting to escape a straitjacket than about to give out candy. Revellers stopped revelling and asked me if I was okay. When I was able to finally produce a fistful of worms in a gloved hand, they rejoiced.
Around 11pm, to nobody’s knowledge, I began nodding off on one of the couches. I tried to perk up by gobbling five fun-sized Coffee Crisps in quick succession, only to realize I was making myself stay awake for… karaoke?! At least, the fun-sized hit of caffeine gave me the energy needed to change back into my civvies and walk home.
It was a challenging yet fun night, and I got to don my costume for the second night in a row when I stumbled up the back stairs to my landlord’s balcony, this time carrying the gummy worms in a bowl. The landlord had extended an invitation to his themed Halloween party three days after I’d gotten started on my costume. To my relief, the theme was: Muppets, Monsters, and Monty Python.
Going to bed at 11:30pm after binging on sugar the previous night left me with very little desire to be social. Still, it would mean getting more mileage out of my costume, access to more sugary snacks, and admiration, all at the cost of going around the back and travelling up a flight of stairs.
It turns out that my landlord is not only extremely popular, but he also has friends who are as dedicated to Halloween as Jack Skellington. Among the best-dressed guests were several versions of Sir Galahad the Pure, Oscar the Grouch, a wolf in sheep’s clothing, one of the Knights who say “NI!”, and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew with Beaker. A cake walk passed through the room where I had settled, and I was in awe of all the coolness surrounding me. Without any miniature bars of Coffee Crisp nearby or Burger’s innate level of hype, I furtively gobbled down a slice of cake before slinking back downstairs to my suite.
As for Oogie Boogie, he might make another appearance around Christmas time.
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