I set a pretty high standard for myself when it comes to Halloween. In 2007, I went as a Jackson Pollock painting, in head-to-toe white, drip splattered with paint. In 2008, as Dynamite in Bed, with burned holes on a TNT t-shirt and a miniature leopard-print bed strapped to my back.
This year? Some possible candidates. My girlfriend is on crutches due to an unfortunate bike accident; the situation lends itself to a couple specific costumes:
- Scrooge and Tiny Tim – She can do a good Cockney accent, and would trail behind me at the party while I ignored her and mumbled “bah humbug.” If there wasn’t an execrable Robert Zemeckis movie coming to theatres, I’d endorse this one.
- Nancy Kerrigan and Attacker Shane Stant – She’d don the figure skater’s outfit, and I’d periodically interrupt her conversations by attacking her shin. Tears, “Why? Why?”, pathos, etc. (Too soon?)
- Terrible Night in Vegas – Her in a cheap wedding dress, me in a powder-blue tux. We’d sleep in our clothes, forego showers, and maybe give each other shiners. I don’t know why but I love the idea of dressing very specifically around a story and then refusing to talk about it. But if anyone insinuates a connection to “The Hangover,” the whole thing’s ruined.