Hey Mr. DJ...

Hello Friends.

 

I’m sure I’ve mentioned how working the concession counter at the movies would be the worst job because everybody hates you for circumstances beyond your control. The nicest kid in the world could take your order and you say, “I’ll have a popcorn and Coke, please” and the kid says, “Okay, that’s twelve dollars,” and you go black in the eyes and scream, “WHAT? WHAT? NO! WHAT THE F IS WRONG?! WHAT IS WRONG?!?” and the poor kid just stands there.

I’d like to posit now that the concessions kid has a slightly less-abused brother in arms. I’m talking about the DJ at the bar. We love this guy (or girl) until we HATE them. I’m talking about bars where dance floors figure prominently, and I suppose that’s more typical of gay bars than straight, but I’m sure the same thing happens at both places. Let’s say the DJ plays a remix of Katy Perry’s Walking On Air (or, if you’re in a straight bar, Save A Horse, Ride A Cowboy). The crowd cheers! The DJ transitions this seamlessly into Daft Punk’s Get Lucky (straight people, uh… I don’t know, is there a song called Dust on the Bottle? Whatever that shit is). The crowd cheers even louder! Emboldened, DJ puts on Move by Mausi (or, let’s see… Cotton Eye Joe) and everybody turns INSTANTLY! I love Mausi, but nobody knows/cares about that song, so the floor clears! Al the goodwill built up towards the DJ disappears as soon as the wrong song comes on. 

I was on a completely full dance floor at a gay bar once, probably doing that move where it looks like I’m unloading the overhead compartment, and the DJ comes on the mic to say he just married his boyfriend last week. We all cheered! Marriage! Gay stuff! Hurray! So then he says, “I’d like to dedicate this track to Laird (or whatever his gay name was. Dante. Criss)” and puts on this.  And the floor cleared completely. Like nobody was there, except maybe poor Laird. As a Sade fan, I have no specific problem with this cover, but I can’t do my Rusty Gate move to something so slow!

I was thinking about this recently when the Doc and I hosted a friend for drinks. This was decidedly more lowkey than a dance floor, but after a few compliments from our guest about how good our background was, I began to take the task VERY seriously. I left our conversation for long stretches to lengthen the iTunes playlist playing on my compy. Could I get away with two Miles Davis tracks in a row? Was now the time to bring in some Brubeck? Was Charlie Brown Christmas too cutesy? What about some Wet Wet Wet? Decisions, decisions! But it didn’t matter what I put on, I wasn’t going to incur the wrath of a hundred sweaty dancers. The point is, I quite enjoyed choosing the music when the stakes were low. Maybe I could turn that into a new career path.

Dream: Become a DJ on the radio.

Goal: Achievable? Probably, right? Terrestrial radio (as opposed to satellite radio) has taken a real hit in recent years. Frankly, I don’t know anyone who listens to the radio proper anymore. So being a DJ on the radio must be pretty chill. I could do that.

Plan: List the pros and cons of the job to determine if I would be suitable.

Pro: DJs must necessarily remain upbeat and cheerful. I could benefit from that. If I had to be sunny in my job, maybe I’d take a more positive attitude in life. I used to have an old radio in my bathroom that I would play when I showered in the morning. I hate getting up in the morning, but was often bolstered by the pleasant but inane chattering of the morning zoo crew.

Con: DJs must necessarily remain upbeat and cheerful. God, that would be the worst. I bet the morning zoo crew I used to listen to still all work together and fucking hate each other. Everywhere I’ve lived, there’s always been a morning radio duo or trio with names like Alana and Crazy Dave or Buzz and Bam-Bam in the Mornin’ or Cracky and Zoloft AM Pit Stop. Cool it, guys.

Pro: Radio personalities get invited everywhere as they are beloved in the community.

Con: Radio personalities are always “coming atcha!” from somewhere. Why are you coming at me? And it’s usually the parking lot of an electronics store, or the parking lot of an auto dealership. TOUGH one!

Pro: DJs don’t choose the songs that they play. That’s got to take ninety percent of the work out of it! Apparently, it’s all determined by computerized algorithm, which also ensures here in Canada that we get a certain percentage of Canadian content. This accounts for the career of Roch Voisine.

Con: DJs don’t even get to pick their own songs! I knew a DJ who hosted the five o’clock drive time show on a pop station, and he said he puts on a couple of tracks in a row, turns the volume off in his booth, then puts on his iPod and listens to music of his own choosing. He’s not opposed to pop radio, but the playlists are so completely limited and repeated so many times that he’s sick of all of it.

Pros: Radio predates all other forms of our current media and can be a comfort in troubling times. A battery operated radio during a power outage is a savior, as is a traffic update on a treacherous roadtrip. I remember listening to the radio during a morning shower on September 11, 2001. The same morning zoo crew I was talking shit about earlier really stepped it up. They cut into whatever song was playing and said, “We don’t know exactly what’s going on right now, but we’ve got the best news team in the business! In just a few moments we’re going to cut into their broadcast and they’ll be able to tell you what’s going on.” I thought that was a straightforward, humble way to handle a mess of a news day. “I may not be able to make sense of this, but here’s someone who can.” Kudos.

Cons: Sometimes the wrong person gets the news bulletin. The Doc and I were driving somewhere 

shortly after Chris Brown was arrested for beating up Rihanna. The DJs were discussing it, perhaps not with due solemnity, but they were pretty shocked. Then the girl of the zoo crew said, “You guys, we don’t know the whole story! Come on, Chris Brown is a sweetheart! I love him!” I’d like to think we pulled the car over in this moment, but I don’t think we did. Her comment went unanswered and a song quickly came on. Jon called the radio station later in the day to complain about such insane insensitivity.

There is still some great terrestrial radio being made today, although I admit that I listen to most of it when it’s podcast-ready. Fresh Air with Terry Gross is the best interview program of any medium. She is probing, insightful, unbelievably well read, and an hour with her flies by. Ross Porter, formerly of CBC’s After Hours and now on Jazz FM 91, sounds JUST like you want your jazz DJ to be. I find Jian Ghomeshi quite pleased with himself and I don’t think he always listens to his guests when they are talking (his follow-up questions almost never follow up), but when he’s engaged in his topic, he’s pretty great. I’ll always have a place in my heart for… I want to say his name is Tyler Glenn, who used to work for Z99 when I listened as a teen in Regina. As I listened one day in 1997, as the countdown drew to it’s inevitable number one song which was still My Heart Will Go On by Celine Dion, Tyler began his spiel in earnest and then deteriorated. “And once again, the number one song in the city from the number one movie at the box office, it’s… shit. Fuck. I can’t do this.” Then the song played! That went out live on the air! I wish I had been with someone who could confirm what had just happened. There was no comment about it after the song, nor ever again as far as I knew.

Tyler Glenn, you have a common name and will probably never read this if you Google yourself. But if this does find a way into your eyes, what happened there? Was that a take they weren’t supposed to use? Or were you live on the air? What “couldn’t you do?” Play that song again? Force enthusiasm for something so banal? Or be a DJ anymore? I was fourteen when I heard that, and it was thrilling! Not just for the swearing, but because of your total on air breakdown. It was fantastic, Saskatchewan version of “I’m mad as hell and I’m not gonna take it anymore.” If I ever become a DJ, you’re welcome to co-host with me as long as you want, or at least until you can’t fucking do this anymore.

Dream State...

Hello Friends.

They say we’re supposed to sleep eight hours in a 24 hour day. I always find that statistic startling, not only because I hardly ever achieve eight full hours of sleep, but it means I spend sixteen hours a day doing stuff. That can’t be right, sixteen? I feel like I wake up, drink coffee, go to work, eat something, look up Dianne Weist on the internet and go to bed again. But anyway, here is what’s interesting:

I have, so far, never heard of a movement or a school of thought or a religious sect or any kind of group that contends that our sleeping life is more important or significant than our waking life. Nobody says, “When we are asleep, that’s when we are truly alive! Your waking life is dull and predictable, sleep presents an existence of heightened circumstance, emotion, and opportunity! Forgot about your conscious mind, your subconscious is where it’s at!” Think what relief that could potentially provide to someone. People living in prisons, for instance, might see their captivity as an inconvenience to be sure, but they could see their dream life as one of limitless potential! Maybe it’s cruel to think these things, but I hope labourers in factories have vivid, thrilling, exciting dreams every night. It’s only fair that their subconscious minds compensate them for a lousy day-to-day, y’know?

Of course, there is a much darker side to such a notion. If you devote yourself to your dream state and don’t care for your waking life, nothing can keep you from behaving amorally. If you think, “Doesn’t matter what I do every day, it’s every night that truly counts!” what’s to stop you from stealing and murdering? You might welcome a prison term, even solitary confinement (more time to sleep!).

This preamble is all to say that I haven’t been especially productive or fulfilled in my working life lately. A few writing opportunities have dried up, a couple of contracts have expired, and there is little traction in anything I have recently applied for. Plus, my day job is becoming necessarily more task-oriented as the holidays draw closer and there are more shoppers, requiring a faster, more impersonal approach to the increasing busyness. I had a great visit with my folks last weekend, and have been in touch with friends and everything, I don’t mean to paint a picture of depression or unhappiness, just a lack of creative thought lately. Consequently, though, my dreams have been amazing.

Dream: Glean wisdom and insight from my dreamlife to aid my waking life.

Goal: Achievable. I’ve heard of novelists dreaming of a plot or a character before writing it down, or painters dreaming of an image and then creating great art as they attempt to paint it. Surely attempting to record my dreams will open a well of creativity I can waste on tweets or whatever.

Plan: Write an account of recent dreams exactly as I remember them.

First Dream: I am at an unfamiliar airport but I know that it’s an airport. I’m just wandering around, though, apparently not coming off of a plane or trying to board one. Then I see an old friend we’ll call Sandy, who works for an airline IRL (in real life, which is a necessary acronym to learn, here) and appears to be working at this airport. I try to avoid her in the dream because IRL (see?), Sandy and I don’t keep in touch. Our friendship ended kind of abruptly, as I recall. We had been coworkers and gotten together socially, but she began to break off plans for future get-togethers, then quit the job, then never returned phone calls or email messages from me. I never knew if she put up distance because of something I said or did, or if she associated me with the former job and therefore didn’t want to maintain any connections, or if I simply valued a relationship that didn’t really exist. Maybe we didn’t connect the way that I thought we had and maybe what I saw as a friendship was what she saw as a way to waste time during the workday. So that’s why, in the dream, I turn away and try to leave. She spots me, though, comes over, and we talk. I wish I knew what we talked about, but it was just like it used to be. She realizes her flight is boarding. Before she leaves, she acknowledges that we haven’t been in touch and that she feels really bad about that and hopes we can be friends again, then she hugs and kisses me and goes back to work and that’s all I remember of the dream.

Significance: Well, pretty obvious, I guess. I’m still mystified by the end of my friendship with Sandy (which, by the way, was YEARS ago) and this dream closure is the closest I’ll ever come to resolving it as I wouldn’t know how to contact Sandy even if I wanted to. I think we have this tendency to assume all friendship is loose and malleable. That we don’t necessarily have to keep in touch to stay friends, but I don’t think that’s always true. I have closer friends I don’t speak to as much as I’d like, but we’re still friends and always will be. That’s not the case with everybody. But seeing Dream Sandy in the Dream Airport made me really happy. The fondness with which I recall this dream and my experience with Sandy belies my “all’s well that ends well” attitude.

Second Dream: I’m cast in a family-friendly musical revue that’s in a theme park or a cruise ship or something, with John Stamos as the lead. It’s a broad, silly show aimed at kids and I’m Stamos’ second banana with lines like, “Any more bright ideas?!” and “That went well!” We rehearse quickly and it’s clear that Stamos is taking this very seriously. He’s giving me constant direction and it’s kind of chapping my ass, but I’m aware that he’s a big star and this is a good opportunity. Suddenly it’s opening night and the auditorium is packed with kids and their parents. I think I’m dressed as a dog, and Stamos is a pirate. We take the stage and everything goes completely wrong. Everyone is dropping lines, I’m forgetting large sections of the play, the other actors are a mess, the children are restless and angry, parents are walking out. Incredibly, Stamos is still committed a million percent. I’m fearful because I think he’s going to scream at everyone, but he’s just out there trying harder and harder. He does the final number by himself and I’m aware that I’m just standing onstage, not doing anything. The curtain falls and I’m petrified that we’ll be eaten alive by this 80’s sitcom mainstay and ageless heartthrob. Instead, he’s surprisingly upbeat. He acknowledges that it didn’t go as well as it could have, but we just have to keep rehearsing. He’s confident we’re going to be a smash. That’s all I remember.

Significance: This one is tougher to analyze. I remember watching Full House as a kid and realizing, maybe for the first time, that these were characters as portrayed by actors. The names in the opening credits were real people and the characters on tv were fake. I remember thinking that if I was an actor, I could be a character on a show and have that dual existence, as a person in the real world and in the tv world. This is not to say that Stamos made me want to become an actor, but maybe he did. It wasn’t Coulier, that’s for goddamn sure. And it’s also true that the few professional acting credits I do have are in children’s theatre. But I’ve never worked with a star, or been in a show that’s completely fallen apart onstage, or met Stamos. But perhaps I miss the youthful naiveté with which I once regarded creative things. How do actors or writers do what they do? How can you be so inspired by something you know nothing about?

Third Dream: The Doc and I are walking back from a beach to a place that I’ve never been before IRL, but I understand is where we are vacationing in the dream. It’s a huge beach house that I approach with a towel around my waist and nothing else, as if to suggest that we were skinny-dipping. I open the door and realize that all of my extended family and friends are there waiting for me. Everyone I’ve ever met in my entire life is in one room or another of this beach house. Aunts and uncles and cousins and high school friends and old and new coworkers, everybody. They’re all sitting down to eat, but each group is in a separate but equally beautiful room. For instance, my father’s side of the family is sitting in one room all together, coworkers from Blockbuster video take up another table in another room.  For some reason, I’m only slightly inconvenienced by the fact that I’m in a towel, and nobody comments on it. I run upstairs, change into clothes, come downstairs and try to decide where to sit. The thing I can’t emphasize enough was how beautiful it all looked. These were gorgeous, airy, light-filled rooms and everyone was fantastically turned-out and well-dressed and happy and healthy. Each room of people sitting down to dinner looked like a Ralph Lauren ad or a Norman Rockwell painting. I feel like I’m supposed to choose a table to sit at, but of course, I can’t decide. I want to see and talk to everyone, but everywhere I turn, there’s someone else who wants me to join them. I don’t know where to sit and consider my options but don’t make a decision and that’s all I remember.

Significance: I’m sure everyone has had a version of this metaphor-fest of a dream. Any psychologist worth their salt would have started the meter when I mentioned I was only wearing a towel and send me a bill at the end of this blog. The thing about the dream and the choice at the end was that it wasn’t agonizing because every prospect was pleasant. I didn’t feel pressure to choose friends over family, old acquaintances over new ones. I just couldn’t decide where to park, but I wasn’t panicked by it. I probably have a sense of that now, being in a newish place that I feel no connection to in terms of people. Sure, I have friends and the Doc here, but feel pulls to several other places where friends and family are. I often think if I had my druthers that I’d be able to travel easily and frequently to visit all the people I’ve been promising visits to for years.

The thing about living to dream, or spending too long in your subconscious, is that everything would cave in on itself. Much like the computer geek who forgoes experience in the real world to create a vivid online one becomes isolated and weird, someone giving too much credence to dreams suffers a pretty bleak reality. I’m sure the balance will right itself for me again soon. I’ll be able to work smarter, not harder, get time and opportunity to travel, pitch my children’s show to Stamos, and reconnect in person with all of you. Until then, I’ll see you in my Dreams.  

Here Now the News...

Hello Friends.

A news cycle is fascinating, isn’t it? I had Tuesday and Wednesday off this week, just as Rob Ford mumbled something about smoking crack and I became interested, engrossed, obsessed, saturated, over-saturated, sick, hungry, bored, and then vaguely interested again in about two hours. People said, “This is nuts!” And I thought, “Yeah! It IS nuts!” But then people said, “I’m sick of hearing about this! There’s more important things going on in this country!” And I thought, “Yeah! I’m sick of this too!” But then people said, “But he’s a mayor of a major city and he’s SMOKING CRACK! What is this if not a major news story worthy of coverage?” And I thought, “Stop yelling at me, everyone.”

The trouble with the news media is that they’ve simultaneously got too much and too little to do. They have column inches and Twitter feeds and 24 hour channels and blog posts to fill, but everything has to be short, punchy and palatable. For instance, I’m sure Syria is in some kind of trouble right now, but since there doesn’t seem to be a quick, clever way to convey what is surely a complex problem, I have no idea what’s going on over there. Journalism has to be a very different occupation now than it ever was. An investigative piece must necessarily have a turnaround time of a couple of hours. There’s no time to achieve complexity there, no room for depth or alternative perspectives. While multiple news media platforms is a good thing, its demand for “content” surely creates greater quantity than quality. Maybe news should be more than something quickly dashed off “in a drunken stupor.” It’s time for a change.

Dream: Reform the news media.

Goal: Achievable. I am not a Powerful or Influential person, but I am a consumer, and surely news is ruled by the almighty dollar. Since I don’t pay for any news, though, that’s a problem. However, surely online news sources get revenue from page views. Actually, sidebar, check this shit out! I tried to freelance for Yahoo! last year, shocked to learn that Yahoo! was still a thing after 1997. They liked my samples and forwarded me their rates. Are you ready for this? If I were to write for Yahoo! News, I’d get $2.00 for every 20 000 pageviews! WHAT THE WHAT WHAT?! That means even if a million people read something I wrote, I would only earn $100. For a news website. That is shocking. I mean, isn’t it? Maybe it isn’t, what do I know what newsman make?

But somebody is earning money every time we click a Facebook link or something off our Twitter feeds, or at least somebody is using that pattern of clicks and Likes to determine what content gets published, promoted, and consumed. I don’t have the power to change what those things are, but I do know how to make the news better for myself.

Plan: Become a more critical thinker and discerning consumer of news media. Here are some filters I really try to use when I wake up in the morning, scroll past some headlines, and decide where to park.

I consider the source. If someone like me can potentially write for Yahoo!, then surely journalistic integrity isn’t the highest priority. Often, I’ll be reading a piece that someone posted on their Facebook page and find a comma splice, spelling error, or unfinished. I was reading what I thought was an article about Michael Jackson and somebody said that the release of the album Thriller “cemented his job as a worldwide icon.” What does that mean? How do you cement a job? That’s not a thing you do. Anyway, the same is true of more substantial pieces about politics or whatever. There is often a slant or bias, facts are peppered with opinions. I don’t need my mind made up before I make up my mind, y’know?

I consider the scope. Speaking of articles rife with errors, I never know when to use “affect” or “effect” (and don’t you dare try explaining it to me, I’ll fucking scream!), but I like to know what effect something reported on the news has on other things. I do think Rob Ford smoking crack is worth extensive discussion because how did this guy get to be mayor? Surely we have reason to question his effectiveness (efficacy? There it is again!) as leader. But sometimes I binge on something supposedly newsworthy that has no affect (?) on me whatsoever. Like Miley Cyrus can do whatever the fuck she wants. She doesn’t lead a city or determine policy or threatened to murder people. Reading “think pieces” about her is like filling up on popcorn. Like it or not, we’re all fed a steady media diet, so it’s probably in our best interest to make healthier choices. To that end…

I’m not an old person, but I feel like I have a delicate constitution or something. Too much upsetting information will throw me off for days. I wish I could stomach information about how our food is made, about child sex slaves, about rebel soldiers literally eating each other’s hearts out, but I can’t. Maybe this is willful ignorance, maybe I’m a crappy ostrich sticking his head in the sand, maybe I want to think the world is a nicer place than it is. I think maybe tough news is easier to take depending on the packaging. I try to read The Guardian online, or watch BBC World News because the Brits have an excellent remove in their reportage. They speak with calm authority about genocides or droughts and somehow the information is more palatable in this way.

I use the news as a springboard to learn stuff. More than anyone, the Doc has taught me how to do this. You know how sometimes you get in a YouTube vortex, where viewing one video leads to another leads to another and suddenly you’re watching Miss America 1987 and it’s two in the morning? Jon does that with news. On a Friday night, for instance, I go to bed earlier than he does because I often work Saturdays. So last Friday we were talking about the possible suspension of Pamela Wallin, Patrick Brazeau and Mike Duffy before I went to bed. When I woke up, there were dozens of windows open on the laptop, linked to dozens of articles about senators, past and present, similar scandals in other countries, different laws which set different precedence and on and on and on. Jon is far and away the most intellectually curious person I have ever met and makes his consumption of media a kind of sport. Watching CPAC on his lunch hour just fuels his tank. It’s inspiring to watch, but exhausting too. It’s like he’s never seen a dog on a skateboard video in his whole life.

Finally, sometimes it’s good to remember that you can turn the news off. I know it’s important to stay informant, but we don’t have to be vigilant. For instance tonight, instead of trolling the blogosphere, I’m tucking in early to read more of a novella I’m in the middle of where this couple married 30 years is headed to divorce, but decide to spend their last weekend together in a Niagara Falls casino. Impulsively, they decide to gamble what’s left of their joint savings on one roll of the roulette wheel on the last night of their trip. If they win, the book suggests, the dividends on that payout could sustain them and get them out of debt. If they lose, they will cut their losses and divorce. It’s a small book with a simple premise but it’s far more engrossing than any cracked-out mayor. There is more than all the news that’s fit to print out there. If I miss a big story, someone will catch me up on it eventually. For now, though, it’s snowy and blowy and my bed is warm and my book is waiting and if there’s anything more inviting than that, well, it would be news to me.

Adults-Only Halloween…

Hello Friends.

 

It’s time to put away childish things. I really can’t abide contemporaries who cling to the preferences of their youth. Kid’s movies, for example. I fully exempt friends of mine who are parents of children (by the way, most parents are parents of children). You watch what they watch, you can appreciate a girl who says, “It’s fluffy!” or some nonsense like that. But the rest of you! Look at yourselves! What attracts you to this? The bright colours? The funny voices? The fart jokes? Let’s expect more from our entertainment. The other night, I went to the ten o’clock showing of Enough Said, a really smart comedy-drama where Julia Louis-Dreyfus contemplates a summer romance with James Gandolfini as her daughter prepares to head off for college. The theatre was nearly deserted and the sound bled over from the screening next door; Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs 2 in 3D. That theatre was full and, considering the time of night that it was, it was likely full of adults. You know what’s wrong with that situation? Everything.

I digress, and am perhaps, a Grumposaurus. By the time you read this, I will have spent Halloween day at work, informing children that we have, unfortunately, run out of candy. I should mention that I work in an adult upscale clothing store that has nothing to offer children but, because this store is in a mall, children will move store to store in costume, with their parents, asking for candy. Not door to door, but store to store. This is what passes for Halloween now, apparently. I know it’s cold out. I know there are kidnappers lurking behind every rosebush. But do we really have to rob kids of the experience of going door-to-door? Meeting neighbours? Getting cold but powering through because there’s CANDY to be had?!

A coworker at this same store mentioned offhandedly that he didn’t like Halloween. My reaction was an almost visceral disgust. “You don’t like HALLOWEEN?! But it’s so fun! You’re allergic to fun!” I accused.  But the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was right. Like kid’s movies, if you’re a childless adult, what is the appeal?

Dream: Create an adults-only Halloween.

Goal: Achievable. I know what some of you are thinking. “But James!” you object, your mouth full of Jello shots, “Adults-only Halloween does exist! And it’s fun!” NOPE. No. I know the Halloween you’re referring to, the drunken, slutty, pay extra at the bar, elbow past three Heath Ledger’s Jokers to get a spot at the goddamn urinal, can’t do it. I’m talking about a truly adult Halloween. Where October 31^st is a celebration of maturity, responsibility and good decision-making.

Plan: Upend every aspect of this popular holiday to make it more grown-up (and also less fun). For instance…

Let’s stop eating candy. I read that as you get older, your tastebuds actually change. This transformation accounts for the fact that we crave Kool Aid as a kid and beer as an adult (well, that, and the alcohol content in beer is considerably higher). The same must be true for the sweetness of candy. Have you purchased anything besides gum on the little rack up at the front of a convenience store lately? Like a chocolate bar? Goddamn, what happened to chocolate bars? Religious zealots on campus were handing out Three Musketeers as incentive to go to their God Rally or whatever it was, and I took one while waiting for my bus. Good GOD, the tooth-aching sugar bomb of it all! One bite and I felt it zing to the back of my throat. I don’t deny myself sweets, I like cake and ice cream and sugar in my coffee and stuff, but this was like having a can of frosting thrown at my face. Anyway, I propose on Adult Halloween, that we celebrate the savoury! Won’t it be great to pay a call on your neighbours for a Bloody Mary or small piece of jerky? “Oh, don’t you two look adorable! Here’s some lamb.”

That’s another point, the costumes. Boy, I’d love buy one of those Hallloween Megastores just to burn it to the ground. Where’s the creativity in taking a costume from out of a box? Adult Halloween demands costumes be homemade, witty, and relevant. I will bake and give an entire Duncan Hines chocolate cake  to a fat guy tomorrow if he comes to my store dressed as Mike Duffy, for example. A story. One time I worked in an office with a bunch of slovenly writers. Our department was alongside the sales department, which was filled with slickest, dudelist, broliest, dude-bros you ever saw. These were hair-gelled, tailored suited, Glengarry Glen Ross meets the cast of Entourage, all spewing insufferable sales jargon into their hands-free phones every day, while we schlubby scribes wrote marketing copy for the very deals they were hoping to score. Anyway, we writers planned Dude Bro Friday, where we planned to dress and behave like our salesman neighbours for the entire day to see if anyone noticed. Man, was that fun. I slicked back my hair and wore a blazer. My friend Marisa wore heels, a pencil skirt, and too much makeup. Pat stuck up his hair and wore dogtags (he may have misunderstood the assignment). Anyway, no reprimands were issued, the sales team didn’t even notice, but I don’t think I had a more enjoyable working Friday. The point is, by rote costumes are boring, but dressing up can be so fun. Let’s all work a little harder.

Finally, I’m going to keep Halloween alcohol-free. It’s on a Thursday, after all. But even last weekend, the Doc and I begged off a house party we were invited to, partly in fear of gay drunks (the worst kind of drunks). I wonder about my need for booze, and whether I could simply go without it (but that’s another blog). I also wonder if I’m allergic to fun. What do I care if people my own age go to kids’ movies, get sloppily drunk, and unimaginatively dress like pimps and hos? Maybe it’s because we get so few chances as grown-ups to pretend to be something that we’re not. It’s so easy to play into our roles, consume whatever we’re being spoon-fed, and not ask more of ourselves than we do of our children. Maybe that’s the scariest thing of all.