Shocktober

The pants left no room to breathe.

With the slightest move I could feel the stitches preparing to give way. The tree trunks, also known as my legs, were ready to bust out of their polyester prison. Forget Zombie Prom King, I felt like the Hulk on the verge of a massive blow-up...

This weekend I hope to find my new look for Halloween 2007. I pray for the inspiration to create a memorable costume that could very well top last year's. Last weekend I made a premature purchase at the Spirit Halloween Store in Marina Del Rey, a shredded powder-blue tuxedo with a black corsage (makeup included): Zombie Prom King. I tried on the shirt and jacket knowing full well that the material was as cheap as a box of bargain-bin mac-and-cheese. The fabric, most likely hand-stitched in a Guatamalan sweatshop, was so flimsy and (possibly) flammable I'd have to hide from the tiniest of open flames to avoid becoming an actual cadaver. Since the store had no dressing rooms (how convenient), I attempted to slip on the pants over my jeans. No such luck, but I went ahead with the assessment that they were the right length and would be snug on the ass - but doable nonetheless.

We're at that time of year when I usually go on about the splatterfests I watch on TV to get myself ready for the sexyscary candyfest we all-consuming Americans call Halloween. This is also when I desperately search for the perfect costume, something original - none of that hot cop/hot fireman/hot cowboy bullshit. Last year's costume, Snakes on a Pilot, got raves from random people on the street as I walked down Santa Monica Boulevard during the annual West Hollywood Carnivale. Granted, it wasn't entirely "hot," just creative and relevant, a gimmick that fit in with the zeitgeist at the time.

But what now? I can already predict how many guys are going to don some drapes, grab a helmet and sword and pray for instant rock-hard abs as they walk the street shouting, "THIS. IS. SPARTA!"

No thanks. Muy obviouso. Plus, my ab roller's in the shop.

I've considered putting on a gold headdress, laying on the mascara, and stepping out as Generic Eqyptian Dude. It would be kind of retro, a throwback to the 70s, when people seemed to have had an obsession with all things hieroglyphic (Or was it just my family back in New York, where King Tut's tomb made its American debut at the Museum of Natural History and stirred up Mummy Mania?). My mom is a card-carrying member of the Tut Fan Club. Give her a piece of cow dung with imprints of an ankh or the face of Anubis, and she'll treasure it as if it were a real archaelogical find.

But back to the drawing board, or in this case, the crowded costume shops and novelty boutiques across greater Los Angeles. The clock is ticking; nearly three weeks until the big bash in Encino (See Saving the Date). Must. Get. Costume.

I have yet to understand the indifference some people have towards the holiday. On the surface, yes, it's all about collecting candy while parading around the neighborhood, a night for kiddies. However, as I've gotten older, I have realized it's more about the opportunity to live out a fantasy, a chance to step outside one's self and assume an entirely different and exciting new identity. It's a time when demure librarians can go goth, when shy techies can turn jock, and when homecoming queens can emulate Ugly Betty (but will usually opt for a Slutty Anything). It's that one time of the year when you have no obligation to be yourself. The fakers, for once, have their day.

I will now leave the floor open for costume suggestions. However, please refrain from recommending anything like a Freudian Slip (a nightgown covered with headshots of Sigmund) or The Devil Wears Prada (use your imagination there). The winning suggestion shall receive a nice, shiny can of Red Bull along with a copy of my latest mix CD, compiled especially for the party.

Happy Friday, y'all.

And yes, 80 more shopping days 'til Christmas.

H.P.M.