I was a Woolworth ghoul. Each year, as a kid, my mom would take me to the Woolworth store and get me a treat (a candy wax harmonica I would almost play before devouring). Next she let me pick out my favorite monster mask -- kind of how I imagine a normal kid got to pick out a puppy. Sometimes I was a werewolf, other years Frankenstein's monster. They were my heroes -- and for one day a year I could look like a freak and not be teased. It didn’t matter that my hair wasn’t combed under the mask. Sure it was sweaty, it smelled like my face had been shoved into the vinyl dashboard of a 57 Buick and I couldn’t see crap -- but I was a happy freak.
I wore it to school with pride and sat next to the normal, lame kids -- you know, the ones without imagination -- like the chick who dressed as Pippi Longstocking -- AGAIN. Wow, pipe cleaners in her hair and a couple of fake freckles -- good costume, Sally. She wore in every year until she was like forty: the costume had gone from cute to genuinely disturbing.
In Jr, High a trauma happen that stopped me from ever wanting to dress up again. The principle decided to throw a Halloween party. At that age I was becoming an artsy-fartsy rebel and thought it was really stupid being humiliated to dress up like a little kid and parade around for the amusement of the teachers. So I didn’t dress the hell up. Well, they have ways in prison camps of breaking the hardest spirit: no costume, no party. The rebels like myself, who refused to play their game, had to sit in a cold room for the two hours that the normal kids (who had caved in) were off partying. Ironic: the people who were freaks 24/7 couldn’t go to the party celebrating THEIR holiday. It was only the one-day-a-year fake freaks who could go.
I didn’t want to dress up ever again. I would never go to a Halloween party ever. In my twisted teenage mind it was as if I was black and Halloween parties were minstrel shows to make fun of MY people. Those people in masks weren’t real freaks, like me -- they were insulting cartoons of my heroes and my culture. We had a Christmas party that year and I have often wondered, did the same brains responsible for the Halloween party rules have a special room for the Jewish, Muslim and Atheist kids while we celebrated the spirit of old Saint Nick? You can see why they put me in a “special” room to protect the normal kids. My questions have always gotten me in trouble. They still do.
This year Diva told me I had to dress up and go with her to a Halloween party. I didn’t hesitate, of coursed I’d go. Love prunes the dead branches of our lives.
After a few false starts I decided to choose the German expressionist movie The Cabinet of Dr Caligari. I would not be the good doctor. I would be the murderess thing in his box. As I applied the white and black make-up I felt free. I didn’t look like me. When Diva showed up, she was genuinely freaked out. I decided not to wear my glasses as we went from place to place since it destroyed the effect. We had a blast at our first two stops. It was getting rather late and Diva wanted to drop by a party thrown by someone from school that she hardly knew. The person gave her the address but no directions.
In Rochester street house numbers are a joke. 1223 6th Ave may be in front of you and you are looking for 1224 6th Ave. That is probably twenty miles away: a suspicious tar paper shack in the country where people have entered and have never been seen again.
Diva was bound and determine to find the Gein residence so we could burst in the door and be bludgeoned to death. I was game and all, but realized that without my glasses, I was getting motion sickness. As we spun around corner after corner, all I saw were blurry lights like someone was swinging a Christmas tree around me while spinning my chair. I kept burping and trying not to lose it. After a half an hour, Diva said she needed gas.
As she got out, she said. “And I’ll ask for directions!”
“No -- burp -- gurgle -- I think I’m going to be sick!!”
We went straight home, I took a shower, got the makeup off and tried to settle my stomach. If the night had gone flawlessly it wouldn’t have been me, now would it? The way it ended was so Vincent. I later found out that Diva’s favorite holiday is also Halloween -- but because of some traumas of her own, she hadn’t celebrated it in years either. Despite the whirling sensation and all, we got it back that night. Freaks in love is a wonderful thing.
I wore it to school with pride and sat next to the normal, lame kids -- you know, the ones without imagination -- like the chick who dressed as Pippi Longstocking -- AGAIN. Wow, pipe cleaners in her hair and a couple of fake freckles -- good costume, Sally. She wore in every year until she was like forty: the costume had gone from cute to genuinely disturbing.
In Jr, High a trauma happen that stopped me from ever wanting to dress up again. The principle decided to throw a Halloween party. At that age I was becoming an artsy-fartsy rebel and thought it was really stupid being humiliated to dress up like a little kid and parade around for the amusement of the teachers. So I didn’t dress the hell up. Well, they have ways in prison camps of breaking the hardest spirit: no costume, no party. The rebels like myself, who refused to play their game, had to sit in a cold room for the two hours that the normal kids (who had caved in) were off partying. Ironic: the people who were freaks 24/7 couldn’t go to the party celebrating THEIR holiday. It was only the one-day-a-year fake freaks who could go.
I didn’t want to dress up ever again. I would never go to a Halloween party ever. In my twisted teenage mind it was as if I was black and Halloween parties were minstrel shows to make fun of MY people. Those people in masks weren’t real freaks, like me -- they were insulting cartoons of my heroes and my culture. We had a Christmas party that year and I have often wondered, did the same brains responsible for the Halloween party rules have a special room for the Jewish, Muslim and Atheist kids while we celebrated the spirit of old Saint Nick? You can see why they put me in a “special” room to protect the normal kids. My questions have always gotten me in trouble. They still do.
This year Diva told me I had to dress up and go with her to a Halloween party. I didn’t hesitate, of coursed I’d go. Love prunes the dead branches of our lives.
After a few false starts I decided to choose the German expressionist movie The Cabinet of Dr Caligari. I would not be the good doctor. I would be the murderess thing in his box. As I applied the white and black make-up I felt free. I didn’t look like me. When Diva showed up, she was genuinely freaked out. I decided not to wear my glasses as we went from place to place since it destroyed the effect. We had a blast at our first two stops. It was getting rather late and Diva wanted to drop by a party thrown by someone from school that she hardly knew. The person gave her the address but no directions.
In Rochester street house numbers are a joke. 1223 6th Ave may be in front of you and you are looking for 1224 6th Ave. That is probably twenty miles away: a suspicious tar paper shack in the country where people have entered and have never been seen again.
Diva was bound and determine to find the Gein residence so we could burst in the door and be bludgeoned to death. I was game and all, but realized that without my glasses, I was getting motion sickness. As we spun around corner after corner, all I saw were blurry lights like someone was swinging a Christmas tree around me while spinning my chair. I kept burping and trying not to lose it. After a half an hour, Diva said she needed gas.
As she got out, she said. “And I’ll ask for directions!”
“No -- burp -- gurgle -- I think I’m going to be sick!!”
We went straight home, I took a shower, got the makeup off and tried to settle my stomach. If the night had gone flawlessly it wouldn’t have been me, now would it? The way it ended was so Vincent. I later found out that Diva’s favorite holiday is also Halloween -- but because of some traumas of her own, she hadn’t celebrated it in years either. Despite the whirling sensation and all, we got it back that night. Freaks in love is a wonderful thing.
Fake freaks I love it!
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