Midwestern Gothic

I’ve had difficulty the past few years in selecting appropriate attire for Halloween. It’s a bit of an all-or-nothing proposition in my book. Ideally, I’d like to have a wonderful topical and/or thematic costume that most people would recognize and on which they would compliment me. However, when drawing a blank as the occasion arrived the last few years, I’ve scrapped the entire plan to dress up. Fortunately, I managed to avoid being the only moron without a costume (I think it’s shameful to be that person) by finding a couple fellow unadorned friends and/or acquaintances with whom to party, or avoiding the party scene altogether, like last year, when Halloween was on a Wednesday (I felt the need to mention that to indicate that I wasn’t being a square and skipping the weekend Halloween fun).

This year, as Halloween approached, I was racking my brain again, trying to summon an acceptable collection of items in which to clothe myself for the big day. In earlier years, I had considered the possibility of scavenging at a thrift or second-hand store to find inspiration. In 2002, in fact, this is exactly what I did. I was able to procure some tight blue polyester disco-looking pants, an African-patterned tunic-type shirt, and a big afro from a second-hand store with a great selection of these items. I also found a really awesome big and shiny pair of sunglasses. I did all this after being persuaded to check out the place by a friend of mine who worked there, come to think of it, probably because I was stuck with the same costume block that I’ve had in subsequent years.

So without conjuring any plan for a full costume in an appropriate time frame, I reminded myself of the success I had that year. Concurrently, my brain noted the existence of discount second-hand stores around my neighborhood, most especially the Salvation Army thrift store on Manhattan Avenue just an 8-10 minute walk from the crib. I took a trip there on the Wednesday of the upcoming Halloween weekend. When I arrived, I considered the advantages of selecting one’s costume at this type of establishment: there are endless combinations of items, allowing you to create your own or emulate a theme you have seen; there are countless possibilities in pants, shirts, jackets, hats, shoes and more; and the stuff is as cheap as it gets. You might have to screen a few of the things you want for suspect smells or stains, but it’s a negligible drawback in the whole scheme of things. As with any reputable garment vendor, there are available mirrors, albeit hidden away and not in a dressing room, so trying on pants is out of the question unless you are quite immodest. However, this is another minor problem, as the adventure involved with selecting one’s items is half the fun in the process of creating the ensemble.

The first rack I looked upon closely during this trip was men’s coats, as in dinner jackets, blazers, sports coats, and what-have-yous. I concluded they had a fine untapped selection at this establishment as I thumbed through a number of jackets colorful and plain, corduroy and linen, patterned and solid, 60’s-accented and 70’s-accented - you get the picture. I began to formulate an idea in my head as I was successfully trying on a minimalist brown corduroy sport coat. I hopped over to an adjacent aisle, found a ragtag basket of assorted hats and picked through a few of them until I found a lightweight, small-brimmed women’s sun hat. I tried it on in front of the mirror, and felt things were coming together. As I turned around on my way to examine the pants, I had barely finished rotating before I was confronted with a rather extensive collection of white and off-white tropical-weight slacks. I was undeterred that this was the women’s pants rack, as I absolutely convinced myself that I could withstand any minor complications a pair presented since I thought they would be the right choice. I settled on a 3/4-length pair in a size made for a big girl, but which were equipped with a handy drawstring. On a lark, I went back to the hat basket, and dug further. I found exactly what my outfit beckoned: a wide-brimmed, heavy cotton sailor’s hat with an adjustable cord.

I was proud of the job I had done. As if to approve of my efforts, I received a cosmic sign in the form of being informed at the register that all items in the store were 50% off that day. My total was a mere eight dollars, give or take a few cents. Though I considered going shirtless, I borrowed a ribbed sleeveless tank top from Linda to complete my appearance once I returned home.

I urge everyone to consider patronizing the nearest thrift store when confronted with this dilemma for Halloween. I know I will end up there many more times in the future.

My Halloween costume:

Let’s just say the mute button gets some work in our household. Meaning not only for in-game interviews and sideline reporters’ conversations with coaches or managers devoid of any shred of meaningful information.

I’m not the only one who gets a little creeped out by the parade of military personnel doing their rendition of “God Bless America” during the seventh inning of each World Series game. I long for the days of the simple seventh-inning stretch accompanied by “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” I like the levity that it brings to the ballpark, which is an entirely appropriate venue for such a feeling. I don’t need to be constantly reminded about the resulting military endeavors of our armed forces because of our militaristic government’s policies around the world. I would rather be able to decide on my own how to support our armed forces, and I would especially rather do it somewhere other than the ballpark. We already have the National Anthem sung at the beginning of every single contest - there appears to be no legitimate reason to have “God Bless America” for each of them as well. The “God Bless America” edict for the seventh inning stems from September 11, which was somewhat appropriate then. By now, only the New York Yankees still participate in this every game. Even the New York Mets don’t do it all the time (I believe that Major League Baseball still requires it to be sung all Sundays and holidays for every team), which certainly equals one advantage for the Mets if I, a New York City resident, were confronted with the decision of attending either a Yankees or a Mets game. In a frighteningly fascist move, the Yankees even took it a step further, by restricting movement during not only the National Anthem, but “God Bless America” too, totally disregarding the nature of the seventh-inning stretch. Inevitably, something like this was bound to happen.

Singing the National Anthem doesn’t get off scot-free with me either. Witness the travesty of Patti Labelle’s performance preceding game 4 on Sunday night. I am always appreciative of any singer, whether he/she be a big name star or just a local vocalist, who simply belts it out how it was written. I like our National Anthem - it’s short, sweet, and never sounds any better than how it was intended to be. Watch international soccer games, especially at the World Cup (watch every country’s, in fact; appreciate them all, not just ours) - it’s monumentally better when there is no individual singer butchering it, and the crowd can sing along and in turn get excited to root for their country. I just want to know why the folks in charge of singer selection keep rolling out these egomaniacs who have to put their own spin on the song. It’s the National Anthem, it’s not about you and how silly you can make it sound in your dumb reinterpretation. From where did this idea originally come? Who was the moron who started it? I want that person to pay dearly, even though that person is probably already dead. Too bad.

In general, I am bothered by all of this. I hate having things shoved down my throat, or being told how I have to observe respect. Thinking about this overload of nationalist zealotry in the form of music played at baseball games and how it came to be and still exists, I’d like to borrow a thought from our colleague at Linda Without Borders, and twist it slightly. Take the line “…once you wrap some nonsense in a religious cloak it becomes untouchable,” and substitute the word ‘patriotic’ for ‘religious.’ I wish the people in charge would see these things more lucidly.

I don’t have too many nice things to say about Bill O’Reilly. In the spirit of reasonable objective analysis, I tried to give him a chance in my earlier days. As you can probably guess, sensible observer of the media that I am, I disapproved.

He shouts an exceedingly high amount of the time. He overreacts. He isn’t kind to many of his guests with whom he disagrees, and he is often unfair to them. As much as I appreciate Michael Moore, I think there are occasions when he will assign blame incorrectly and over zealously. Bill takes it to an entirely different level. After doing this, he will invite you onto his show under the pretense of an honest and candid discussion, and then proceed to drown out any perfectly logical statement you make with his mind-numbing logorrhea and his favored gesture of violent pointing, that it almost seems like he will spill out from his chair onto the desk in front of him. Even when he has a good point, he becomes frighteningly narrow-minded and crude. I thought perhaps he had settled down in his older days, but from what I’ve recently seen, much of the same remains.

There are plenty more and more in-depth critiques available out there, should you like to delve into learning about this stalwart of the Fox News channel. I find it curious that we haven’t seen a Saturday Night Live O’Reilly impersonation (or perhaps we have, and I just haven’t been paying attention), or a legitimate parody from anywhere else. In that case, I offer the following. Maybe everyone was just too in awe of this:

when posed the question “do you like kids?,” i find myself answering “yes.” but i hate them more. in my hating of them, it’s almost always in the collective though. individually, i like a fair number of children (ones in my family and of friends being the obvious example), and there certainly are many good children out there. but as also happens with adults in many cases, the collective idiocy that results in children from following fads often bothers me to the point of sickness.

i could care less about getting into the psychology of children wanting to do or have what their friends do or have. if something is stupid, something is stupid. that something stupid happens to be “heelys.” you will all know these dastardly devices by the sight of a child anywhere from five to 12 years old careening around a sidewalk, bookstore, restaurant or any public sort of place with fucking wheels in the back of their fucking shoes. who is the moron who came up with this one? when i have children of my own, i will shoot them before ever letting them don these “shoes.” the design of these things alone is bad enough to warrant trouble, but it is my contention that the designers of heelys have implanted some hardware into the “shoes” that is wired into the wearers’ brain and causes them to become more senseless. observe the behavior of any “heeler” around a tight corner or corridor – this person will invariably speed up and contort his/her body in some grotesque manner that he/she supposes will lead to squeezing through a space much more easily, but in actuality leads to merchandise getting knocked off shelves, running into waitresses carrying full plates of food, and knocking old ladies onto the ground in more hip-destroying incidents. i am shocked these things haven’t been banned from all respectable locations as merchandise or as permissible footwear.

in my distaste for such a reprehensible product, i even looked into how susceptible the wearer is to injury and how cavalier many of them are in their “heeling” around. check out these fun tidbits:
heelys - staying safe and preventing injuries
top 5 heelys crash injuries

finally, i feel it necessary to remark on how plainly dumb one looks when using these things. correct “heeling” requires one leg to be planted straight and awkwardly forward while the other leg sits in its normal location under the body with the foot resting on the heel, since there is only one wheel in each shoe. if you want to go roller or inline skating, go get a pair of those, not some dumb “shoe” with a wheel in the back. i must suppress a startling need to violently clothesline any child engaging in this activity, especially when said child is zipping back and forth around random objects and bothering people instead of enjoying a nice stroll with family members.

the name mike nifong has been familiar with the public eye over the past year. those of you who know it are probably aware that he is the rogue district attorney in durham, north carolina, who flabbergasted many a legal mind and intelligent observer in wildly accusing members of duke university’s lacrosse team of sexual assault and rape. i don’t need to go into the specifics of how stunningly incompetent and overzealous this man was, suffice to say he was recently removed from office and will even be disbarred in the state for which he was worked for 30+ years.

i recently encountered this same frightening beast of a government-appointed official in the highly acclaimed television miniseries “the staircase.” in 2002-2003, at the time of this documentary following the murder trial of author michael peterson, mr. nifong was an assistant d. a. at the same durham office. he only makes a brief appearance in the first of the eight episodes in this series, but his cameo delightfully underscores his depravity.

however, the torchbearer for the travesty that is the durham d. a.’s office this time around was nifong’s then-superior, d. a. jim hardin. although this trial was shown mainly from the perspective of michael peterson’s defense (providing ammo for the requisite bloodthirsty observers who love to claim a bias and condemn the accused), a pattern of absolute thick headedness and misguided fervor emerges in the early days from every position of the government – the police and the court in addition to the prosecutors. i think the phrase “clutching at straws” is probably stapled to the bulletin board by the office water cooler there. either that, or they just have a strict systematic approach to flat-out defying the scientific method. if you were to watch “the staircase” (which i certainly recommend), you would think that police and prosecutors make their ironclad decision to try and convict the defendant, then work backwards and attempt to fit the data from the investigation to their conclusion at all costs. i and every other intelligent person in this world know that one must interpret data and only then make their conclusions. as you might be able to guess, it got ugly over the course of the series, but I will refrain from spoiling the ending for you.

taken together, the d. a.’s actions in both of these incidents have pretty successfully scared me out of ever venturing near durham, much less being within miles of someone I know who dies or having a party with some good clean fun and strippers in the area.