In the, um, spirit, of Halloween, all my blog posts from now until Oct. 30 will, in some way or another, celebrate the holiday that lets me do two of my favorite things -- eat chocolate and wear sequins without scrutiny. But since it's Friday and I don't really feel like thinking all that much (except about the drinking I'll be doing later), I'd like to share with you an exerpt from one of my favorite essays: "The Littlest Hitler" by Ryan Boudinot:
Then there's the time I went as Hitler for Halloween. I had gotten the idea after watching World War II week on PBS, but my dad helped me make the costume. I wore tan polyester pants and one of my dad's khaki shirts, with sleeves so long they dragged on the floor unless I rolled them up. With some paints left over from when we made the pinewood derby car for YMCA Indian Guides, he painted a black swastika in a white circle on a red bandanna and tied it around my left arm. Using the Dippity-Doo he put in his hair every morning, he gave my own hair that plastered, parted style that had made Hitler look like he was always sweating. We clipped the sides off a fifty-cent mustache and adhered it to my upper lip with liquid latex. I tucked my pants into the black rubber boots I had to wear whenever I played outside and stood in front of the mirror. My dad laughed and said, "I guarantee it, Davy. You're going to be the scariest kid in fourth grade."
My school had discouraged trick-or-treating since the razor blade and thumbtack incidents of 1982. Instead, they held a Harvest Carnival, not officially called "Halloween" so as not to upset the churchy types. Everyone at school knew the carnival was for wimps. All week before Halloween the kids had been separating themselves into two camps, those who got to go trick-or-treating, and those who didn't. My dad was going to take me to the carnival, since I, like everybody else, secretly wanted to go. Then we'd go trick-or-treating afterward.
