Let’s review the preceding events:
• My car is in the shop after creating a public-safety threat of epic proportions.
• My yard is destroyed in the wake of a freak October snowstorm … and if there’s one thing I enjoy more than the frigid delight of your average winter snowstorm, it’s A FREAK OCTOBER SNOWSTORM THAT DESTROYS MY YARD.
• My wife’s car has just broken down in the middle of the street on a huge hill near the elementary school our children attend, which has given her the pride-swelling honor of standing by the side of the road with our daughter, both of them on display for the parade of parents forced to pilot their BMW SUVs and Mercedes SUVs and Lexus SUVs around our broken-down, 14-year-old shitbox, one of two prehistoric, unreliable automobiles we’re still driving so that we can (barely) afford to raise our children in one of the Top 5 school districts in the state of Pennsylvania … a fact I will be sure to remind our children of when their mother and I show up on their doorstep at age 65 with all of our belongings in tow.
OCTOBER 31st, continued
We pick things up two hours and one tow-truck ride later, at which point I arrived home with just enough time left to haphazardly slap together a woefully scaled-down version of my magical Halloween production. Shortly thereafter, Wonder Woman and the kids got ready to head out for some trick-or-treating.
Jayna, She of Much Pink, wore her mostly pink, mostly adorable Supergirl costume … and, as far as I knew, Zan was planning to hit the street in his Harry Potter costume — you know, the one he had to have? And not just a regular ol’ Harry Potter costume, mind you. No no, he wanted the Deluxe Harry Potter Quidditch costume. And what self-respecting Quidditch player would be seen trick-or-treating without his genuine Nimbus 2000 Replica Broom and accompanying Official Harry Potter Replica Glasses, am I right?
But, hey, I recently began reading “Harry Potter” to him at bedtime, and he has fallen in love with the story, and we’re really enjoying the experience, so I ponied up the cash. Truth be told, I was thrilled that he wanted to dress up as a wholesome literary character instead of a satan-worshipping radioactive ninja axe murderer, or whatever the fuck the “in” thing is this year … which helps to explain my displeasure when he called an audible at the last minute and hacked together a makeshift zombie get-up.
“Zan, I spent a lot of money to get you that awesome Harry Potter costume, and you were so excited about it. Why are you all of a sudden changing your mind?”
“Because I wore it at school today and my friends said it sucks,” he answered glumly.
“Excuse me?”
“Um … my friends said it stinks.”
I paused for a moment to process the many things swirling in my brain … which was wise, because it gave me the time and perspective needed to formulate a well-thought-out and reasonable response. To wit:
“Oh yeah? Well your friends suck for saying that to you.”
This moment brought to you by The Daddy Scratches School of Parenting ™
Please be sure to attend one of our seminars, coming soon to a correctional facility near you.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have said that … but it upsets me that they made you feel bad about your costume. It’s a great costume, and I really think you should wear it.”
“I don’t want to. I want to be something spooky.”
I’m trying to learn to pick my battles. I decided this wasn’t one of them.
“Fine,” I said, surrendering to the fact that some miserable little Lord of the Flies shitheads had chipped away another chunk of my son’s innocence.
Zombie Harry Potter, minus the Harry Potter part.
So the kids headed out to pillage the neighborhood with Wonder Woman while I grabbed a beer and headed into the garage. Once there, I armed myself with the microphone connected to Mr. Bones and the remote trigger connected to the fog machine stowed beneath his chair. Alone I sat, my only light the glow of the small video monitor on which appeared the picture transmitted by the hidden camera I had placed outside, thus allowing me to see and hear from behind the closed garage door the stampede of trick-or-treaters I was sure would soon arrive.
Let’s watch the excitement unfold in real time:
6 p.m.
No trick-or-treaters yet. Might as well polish off this beer and grab another.
6:15 p.m.
Still nothing. Perhaps Mr. Bones can attract some visitors with a little carnival barking.
“Hellooo, cheeeldren! Eees anybody there? Come veesit Meester Bones! I have candy for you!”
I sound like a half-Transylvanian, half-Mexican pedophile. Probably I should just shut up and drink my beer.
6:30 p.m.
An actual fucking ghost floats into view on the monitor. Either that, or a large spec of dust that’s really close to the lens. One of those.
6:45 p.m.
Zip. Zilch. Nada.
Guess I’ll grab another beer. And a shot. To Mr. Bones! Salud!
7 p.m.
A father and two small children show up. Mr. Bones wets himself with excitement.
7:01 p.m.
After chatting briefly with Mr. Bones and grabbing some loot from the bowl in his lap, the two small children depart with their father. I am confident that this heralds an imminent onslaught of trick-or-treaters. In fact, I can feel it in my bones! BWAHAHAHA!
Christ, I’m funny. I deserve another shot.
7:15 p.m.
Aaaaaaaaaaany minute now.
7:25 p.m.
[Sitting on my chair in the garage, beer in one hand, microphone in the other, the latter of which I am babbling into for an audience of zero.]
“Hello? Helll-OOOO-oooo?! Anyone? Anyone? Bueller? Come on, man! Meeester Bones ees loooooonelyyyyy … and a leeeetle bit tipsy.”
[silence]
“Hey, level with me: Does this cloak make me look fat? BWAHAHAHAH!”
[crickets]
“Aw c’mon, people, throw me a bone! Get it? A BONE? HAHAHAHAHA!”
[silent crickets]
“Lemme guess: You think my act is wearing a little thin, am I right? BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA!”
[the complete opposite of sound and cricket song]
“Thank you very much, ladies and gentlemen! I’ll be here all night! And, hey, don’t forget to tip your waitresses!”
7:30 p.m.
The feet, legs and lower torso of an adult appear on the video monitor. There are no children with him.
“I thought Mr. Bones might want a beer,” says the voice of my next-door neighbor, who apparently reads minds.
7:30 – 8 p.m.
The Voice of Mr. Bones and his neighbor discuss the evening’s disappointing turnout. The Voice of Mr. Bones’ neighbor says it might have something to do with the fact that the people who used to live in The Voice of Mr. Bones’ house weren’t big on celebrating Halloween. This information jibes with an old picture that The Voice of Mr. Bones snapped while doing a walkthrough of the house back before he bought it:
It burned my hand when I touched it.
8 p.m.
Wonder Woman and the kids return home. I unplug Mr. Bones, Pirate Pete and the fog machine, pull them back into the garage, close the door, turn off the lights and think longingly of Halloweens past, when Mr. Bones and I — as well as a supporting cast of family members — would dazzle literally dozens upon dozens of children in the Massachusetts neighborhood where Mr. Bones had become Legend. *sigh*
Sorry, Bonesy. Maybe next year.
* * *
EPILOGUE
After showing me the massive haul of candy they pulled in, the kids got ready for bed. A few minutes later, I walked into my son’s room to say goodnight.
“Did you have fun tonight, buddy?”
“Yeah, Daddy! It was great! I’m sorry Mr. Bones didn’t get to do much, though.”
“Hey, that’s OK, pal. And Zan?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry if I seemed upset about your costume earlier. I just wanted you to know that you’re allowed to like whatever you want to like, and it doesn’t matter what your friends or anyone else thinks. People used to tease me about things I liked when I was a kid, too. You just have to learn to ignore them.”
“Like what things?”
“Like KISS and comic books and things like that.”
“OK, Daddy,” he said with a grin … and I could tell he got it. In fact, I’m pretty sure I managed to wrestle some of his innocence back from those miserable little Lord of the Flies shitheads. And in that moment, I forgot about our crappy cars, and the freak October snowstorm, and the broken tree limbs, and the Catholicism-induced trick-or-treater drought.
Maybe The Universe ain’t so bad after all.
The End
)
Zombie Dinner Party … with your chef, Dr. Hannibal Lector
Before dinner
“Ugh. Brains,” I whispered to Wonder Woman after the chef announced that the third course would include sweetbreads.
“What?”
“Sweetbreads,” I whispered, “are brains.”
“Oh,” she said, sounding rather amused, though far from relieved. “I thought they were balls.”
Hey, they might as well have been balls, because guess what brains and balls both have in common? Neither one goes in my fucking mouth.
Equally as appetizing as balls
Listen, when my mother-in-law sprung for us to attend an expensive benefit dinner at a luxury apartment in the ritziest section of Philadelphia for a meal prepared by the chef of a well-known Italian restaurant, I knew it was unlikely that he’d be serving something as lowbrow as my beloved chicken parmesan, OK? But brains?
And not just any brains, mind you: Veal brains. Yes, that’s right: Brains from cute little baby cows:
Cute little baby cows, whose brains the chef wanted us to eat
Oh, thank you, cute little baby cows, for reminding me about the cringe-worthy first course, featuring:
Tongue is not a food, motherfucker
Please note that there is only one person on this earth to whom I utter the phrase “Give me some tongue,” and that person has neither a penis nor a culinary degree. So if you’re gonna start off my supposedly “Italian” dinner with tongue, the least you could do is disguise it amidst a tangy red sauce and some delicious pasta, am I right? Of course I’m right … which is why I was disappointed when the tongue instead was topped with this:
Now THAT'S Italian!
Ah, yes, that beloved Italian classic: Fried eggs and tongue. (PS: Does anyone have a phone number for the closest pizza joint?)
Thankfully, the second course featured pasta. Ravioli, in fact. Hallelujah. At last, a dish I can really — hey, wait a minute … What the fuck is in my ravioli?
Seriously? What’s for dessert, asshole? Pan-seared unicorn with baby-harp-seal sauce?
Mercifully, dessert turned out to be a plain-old flourless chocolate cake. I think. Probably, he pureed his mother and folded her into the mix … but at least he had the common decency to not tell us about it.
If nothing else, the wine was good. And the company. And the luxury apartment. Next time, though? I’m bringing some chicken parm.
After dinner