In the HBO series, Bored to Death, Ted Danson’s magazine-editing character hears that the board of his publication has voted to cut his column — to which he responds, “I am my column. I mean, I’m writing it in my mind, all the time.” Similarly, I too write my column in my mind, all the time. However, most of it has to be edited out for lack of clarity and common appeal. And for this reason, I’ve taken a hiatus these past few weeks, only to return more powerful than you can possibly imagine and with a more precisely edited and logically progressing take on life. In the meantime, as you might have inferred from the previous sentence, I have been watching a lot of Star Wars clips on YouTube. My column is as follows:
As a kid I was invariably told an adaptation of the following aphorism: “you can do anything you want, if you put your mind to it.” Probably true for some people (despicable people). There is a loophole for humanity, however. There exists one day of the year when you can be anybody, or anything, that you put your mind to (note: as long as you have a credit card and order the costume at least a week in advance). And on this day, you are also rewarded for your efforts with candy. Of course, I am talking about Ash Wednesday.
Halloween costumes are divisible into three categories that I refer to as the following: standard, comical and wish-fulfillment.
A standard is the prototypical Halloween costume such as a pumpkin, witch or demon. Standard is often worn by children and adults. Comical is also self-explanatory. It is the most popular dress among college students. There are a number of overlapping subcategories within comical which are, among others: self-deprecation, group, celebrity, media characters and foodstuffs. Each of these can be worn with varying levels of offensiveness and sexuality. Wish-fulfillment entails a costume that is worn for personal satisfaction alone. Often these outfits convey the wearer’s childlike desire that, normally hidden from view, is extricated to the public. Additionally, the wearer can play it off as a “comical” suit when in fact it really is the wearer’s secret fetish. There also exists a hybrid between comical and wish-fulfillment. This occurs when a wearer of a comedic outfit, say as Tom Cruise from Risky Business, looks in the mirror and says, “wow, I look good.” Comedy is a formal practice premised on pure acts of self-deprecation. Respect this institution, dammit. To satisfy the ego in this way is unacceptable. Give it up. Furthermore, Risky Business is only original in the levels of its unoriginality.
As a kid, my alternate persona was the X-man, Wolverine. In retrospect, I find this choice of hero odd because I never really read X-Men comics or watched the show. I did, however, own a plastic cup from which I drank orange juice every morning with a drawing of Wolverine bearing his claws on it, exhaling a frosty breath. I blame this cup for all my flaws and insecurities. I wore that tight Wolverine outfit frequently. I enjoyed the alternate reality of a world in which I was an exceptional being with unimaginable strength and predatory amenities. It was an easier and more enjoyable life as an immortal man-wolf, certainly one much better than the average human child. Initially it was my parents who informed me that I could not go to school daily in that outfit. A few years later, I came to realize why this made sense for social reasons. It was a somber day that I packed my Wolverine leotard, mask and claws and went to the bin to place it in my building’s basement for storage. As I recall, I held the costume up. The bare bulb behind the yellow fabric cast an ethereal glow across the shadowy 10-foot-deep, 3-foot-wide room. I said to it, “we’ll always have Halloween,” and walked away. I am positive that’s how it went.
Of course, I do not still wear Wolverine. Obviously this is because I am over the anthropomorphic thing (and maybe partly because I outgrew the costume). And I certainly have not considered going to Anthrocon, the annual conference for people who like to dress up like animals. Instead I prefer wearing a variation on the comedy costume.
But there is still a little bit of me that really wants to be Wolverine. I suppress my id, however. Freud would have had a hay-day for this holiday. Is it just a coincidence when an overweight person dresses as a skeleton? Or when a disgruntled and socially dejected individual dresses as an all-powerful, justice-dealing villain? I will not be too specific here, out of respect to a number of individuals of the Middlebury student body. But consider it as you peruse the Halloween Facebook albums.
Dressing up your subconcious
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