With Halloween coming on I thought I’d write a blahg about what scares me. 
Recently I’ve been revisiting things that once frightened me or I avoided because I was afraid of these things when I was younger. It’s silly what scared you then and what you’ve been so acclimatized to that it doesn’t bother you now. I have to admit you might find some of these things funny and you may have a laugh at my expense. Go ahead. Pay as you exit.
I’m not scared much by what is on television these days because the level of scariness and gore has increased steadily over the years that it all seems so commonplace. All of the crime and medical shows give us so much blood, dissection, and disturbing behavior that it doesn’t bother me much now. I’m not squeamish at all with the CSI shows or watching “Bones”. I even watc
h “The Walking Dead” on a regular basis. This past week an episode of “The Walking Dead” reminded me of something that scared me when I was younger and still scares me: Cannibalism! I don’t know what it is about Cannibalism but I’ve avoided watching movies or television shows that deal with this topic. Maybe it’s because the subject matter has come a long way from the traditional missionary in a cooking pot. Can’t think about it. Can’t talk about it. Moving on.
I should say here that I don’t watch modern horror movies. I don’t condone them and I don’t want to see them. I studied the original “Psycho” directed by Alfred Hitchcock when I took film studies in high-school. I didn’t find it all that shocking but I’ll add I saw the three sequels and they were just laughable. I will say that “Psycho IV: The Beginning” was rather decent. It starred Henry Thomas, the boy from E.T., as well as Tony Perkins. It had a decent back-story and Perkins performed rather well in a role that I’m sure he would like to have ended with the original “Psycho.” As an aside, Tony Perkins was not just a great actor, he was a good singer. He put out a handful of albums, which I own. I first discovered his singing ability when I came across the 45 rpm record of “First Romance” and “Moon-Light Swim”. Give the latter title a listen:
I bet you thought I couldn’t work in a song in this blahg unless it was “The Monster Mash!”
Getting back to scary movies, I don’t want the horror of these modern films. I grew up watching the old classic horror films. I remember late Friday nights on a Rochester, NY, television station they played many a classic horror film on “Frightening Flickers” hosted by Gregory The Grave Walker.
I will insert quickly here that I was just interrupted by a phone call from my friend Tom who informed me of a shooting on Parliament Hill in Ottawa today. I just turned on the television to learn there have been shootings in Parliament, around the monument of The Unknown Solider, and in a local mall there. This follows a couple of days after a radicalized person in Quebec ran down two solders, killing one of them. Terrorism in Canada has never frightened me before but these recent incidents are very scary indeed.
As I was saying, classic horror films never scared me. I’ve seen the original Frankenstein, Dracula, Werewolf, and Invisible Man movies and they still hold up well if not at all scary these days. The only older movie that I know scared me when I was younger was 
“The Ghost and Mr. Chicken” starring Don Knotts. Today, I find this film very hilarious and not at all frightening. Of course, that doesn’t stop my friend Tom from ribbing me about this. I better not tell him I was also scared of that episode of “Gilligan’s Island” where Gilligan is struck by lightning and turns invisible. Again, laugh and pay as you exit.
I will insert here a story about my eldest daughter Emily and her experience with a horror movie. Back in 2004, when she was just 14, she was invited by her school friends to go see the horror movie “The Grudge”. She had never seen any horror movies except the classic kind but the peer influence was a little too much for her and she thought she should go with her friends. She came to her Mother and I and asked what she should do. We said we wouldn’t stand in her way and that the decision was hers. In the end, she went to see the movie, cowered in her seat, and watched the movie from behind her hands which were held before her face. That night she was so scared, she asked to sleep in our room. When I talked to her about the movie, I asked if she had really wanted us as parents to say no to her going to see it. She said us saying no would have helped. You live and learn.
Some other things that scare me are confined spaces and dark alleys. I can manage confined spaces for a limited time but I just avoid dark alleys. I remember what happened to Bruce Wayne’s parents when they cut through a dark alley in Gotham. No thanks, I don’t need Batman’s dark psyche. Old age and my eventual death doesn’t scare me but I do worry about my children and my wife and trying to keep them safe. I guess that’s normal for all of us. I also find Rap Music and Country Music scary but that’s for totally different reasons. Give me Sinatra or Tony Perkins anytime.
I don’t want this blahg to end on anything scary or to dredge up any more bad memories. I have some good memories of Halloween except that one, when as a kid, ends with me puking after eating too much candy. Still, that’s not really a bad memory. I remember the candy haul that Halloween was pretty awesome. One of my other favorite memories of Halloween happened during my last year of University. I was reminded of it recently when I struck up an email conversation with my friend Mike who we nick-named “The Gar”. I hadn’t talked with Mike in over fifteen years so it has been nice getting back in touch with him. In a previous blahg I published the poem “the death of a BIG one” which I later expanded into the short story “Once Upon A Snowman.” That was a great Gar story about a giant snowman and how Gar took it down. Maybe I’ll be reminded to post that story here when there’s cold in the air, snow on the ground, and we’re all scared that spring will never come. But for now, I’ll close with “The Halloween Party” which is based on a true story that occurred on Halloween night in 1984. Thirty years have passed since then but I still remember it well and still find it funny.
The Halloween Party
This is the story of The Gar. No, that’s not correct. This is one of the stories of The Gar.
Who is Gar? I suppose that’s a fair question that deserves a fair answer.
Who is Gar? It’s hard to say. The name “Gar” is short for something else. You wouldn’t want to, of course, tell Gar it’s short for something else. Gar, in his own estimation, would tell you he was short for nothing and that in the grand scheme of things he was probably larger than anything else.
So Gar as a name is what it is. We’ve made jokes about it but not many. We have made puns that suggested the Gar family crest would be a Garbadge or a cow pasture would be the Garfield. These of course were all spoken in Gar’s absence or when full inebriation would render them comical and forgettable in the cold day of sobriety that always followed.
Gar as a person however was more than that. He was less than average height but always seemed to be somewhere on a lofty pedestal above the rest of us or mounted on some mighty high horse. He was loud when need be and louder when need not be but despite all of these qualities I would have to say his one shining attribute would have been his cheeks…his facial cheeks. These physical endowments always seemed to glow a robust pink even in the absence of inclement weather or alcohol. They were indeed a marvel and on more than one occasion swayed Gar to launch himself in a certain direction from which others with a normal complexion would have steered clear. This is the story of one of those occasions.
As I recall the first thrill of a new College school year wasn’t always the reuniting of old friends, the excitement of new courses, or the flavour of the first dinner at the dining hall. No it was something more profound than all those. It was the first big party.
Now, September doesn’t really count as there’s constantly drinking with the chums of last year and the drinking to of new ones this year. It usually takes about a month or so to really settle on the people with whom you’re going to frequent and then it’s just a waiting game. You wait until there’s an excuse to have that grand fiesta.
October comes and shortly into it you get Thanksgiving. Some years you go home and others you don’t. The dining hall’s closed and if you stay you’re bound to be having pasta with Shawn at a local pizzeria. No matter how you look at it there’s no real cause for celebration until the end of October and Halloween.
Ah, Halloween! I wouldn’t want to admit when I first stopped dressing in costume and parading around the neighbourhood for goodies. I’m sure I was well into my teens when the allure of candy wasn’t lost on me or the knowledge of the calories in candy hadn’t dawned on me. A few belt sizes later I still haven’t lost the craving but use ingenuous excuses with my children like “I better taste that to see if it’s safe to eat.”
Anyway, Halloween. Now there’s a real excuse to act like an idiot. Not that we needed any excuses back then but an occasional sane rationale usually helped us to keep out of trouble. If you’re going to dress in an unusual fashion, other than your normal daily garb, then you take advantage of a situation like Halloween. And Halloween is the first big party of the year.
I don’t remember now who planned the party but memory serves me that it was somebody outside of our immediate circle. This was just as well, we thought, as clean up and property damage are the responsibility of the planners and the residents of said property.
Well, Gar and the rest of us had racked our brains for costume ideas for quite awhile and like anything else with a deadline we left it until October 31st. This unfortunately leaves you scrambling to abandon the brilliant idea you had in order to settle to make do with the items you have. That’s usually the rule of thumb for everyone; everyone that is except Gar.
Gar had this crazy idea that Halloween paled in comparison to Christmas and that Christmas would come early that year. And with this in mind, and some thought cast obviously toward his rosy cheeks, Gar proclaimed himself to be the one and only true Santa Claus.
It is natural to assume that with the way department stores operate it would be relatively easy to procure a Santa suit on the last day of October. Christmas stock usually floods the shelves shortly after Labor Day and still can be purchased, although at a much reduced discount, up until Valentine’s Day. Some of the greatest gifts to a loved one on February 14th are those left unsold from December 25th. So we believed finding St. Nicholas attire for Gar would be a relatively simple task.
I would like to shorten this narrative by being able to say we found our Holy Grail at our first stop. Such was not the case. It would be almost as brief if I could say it was attained within our next ten attempts. It was not. Nowhere in our entire search could we track down a red suit with white cuffs, black belt, matching cap, and white beard. We became so desperate in our quest that we would have gladly stripped a mannequin of said clothing or accosted the Santa Claus in the mall for his uniform if wasn’t for the fact that none abounded. There just were no Santa Claus suits to be had.
Now, at this point, any normal person would have given up hope. We gave up hope. We accepted that Santa would not be putting in an appearance at the big party. So we settled on ending our search, buying our beer, and returning to the residence.
It is odd but in remembering this I believe I have made a mistake in my recollection. Gar had not given up hope. I recall now I had but Gar had not. He had kept thinking this problem through. Perhaps this was the reason he stopped so quickly in mid-stride and dashed just as quickly across the street and into an Army Surplus store.
I was bewildered! I was annoyed! I had been left to carry the beer!
It’s always in retrospect that you realize the advantage of situations such as I was in. It occurs to me now Gar had, in leaving me in charge of the brew, given up his part ownership in the beer. I could have made a very strong case about the case. I could have indulged myself there and then and have been done with it. These brilliant ideas however did not occur to me at that time. I only grumbled, shouldered my burden, and set out after the Gar.
By the time I had recovered from Gar’s hasty departure and made my way across the busy thoroughfare I found my quarry exiting with a mid-size package under his arm.
“Feast your eyes on this,” he said, thrusting his trophy towards me.
“What is it?” I queried, thrusting the beer back in return.
He didn’t answer and so I gazed at the contents. It was, in short, a one piece, full length, red pair of men’s flannel long johns with buttons up the front and no escape hatch in the rear. Our search had borne fruit…Fruit of the Loom as a matter of fact. All that was needed was a beard.
“And I’ve got enough left for dinner at the dining hall.”
I wasn’t sure if I should have been totally happy for him at that point. He had his costume. He had his libation. He had to eat at the dining hall. Two out of three weren’t bad.
I suppose I should eventually detail the experience of eating at the school dining-hall. But not now. Suffice to say it is akin to eating in any cafeteria with three exceptions. One, it’s inexpensive. Two, seconds and refills are optional. And three, to which I still shudder on occasion, meals on special holidays are appropriately theme related. Unfortunately this was Halloween and orange pumpkin meatloaf and black cat mashed potatoes were probably the fare of the evening.
“What about the beard?” I asked. I knew Gar needed to be reminded of this detail.
“Have you anything I can use?”
“No, not unless you’re keen on plucking the cotton swabs off an entire box of Q-tips.” The thought of my suggestion conjured up an immediate image of this red clad cherub fumbling with small cotton strands and a glue stick to produce an authentic looking set of whiskers. His exuberant use of profanity in that vision soon brought me out of my reverie.
“That’s not a bad idea,” Gar proclaimed.
“Yes it is! I was only make a joke at your expense.”
“No, the cotton. But where do we get enough? What we need is a big roll of it.”
I waited for a lull in his conversation with himself before offering my obvious suggestion. “A pharmacy?”
Of course my recommendation was met with great acceptance. I was immediately given that great finger response. No, not that one. Instead Gar snapped his fingers and pointed at me. I had offered a viable option. And we were off again.
I imagine we must have been a sight as we bounded into the nearest drugstore with our case of beer and enthusiastic outlook. I was just glad that no one knew the purpose of our spree. I believe I might have been less embarrassed had I been there to buy condoms or women’s sanitary products. In the end I was just happy that no one could see the contents of Gar’s previous purchase.
We immediately located the rolls of cotton but in doing so developed another dilemma.
“I haven’t got enough. It’s the beard or no meal.”
I thought the choice was obvious when weighed against the dinner menu.
“Can I help you gentlemen?”
Why is it when you’re trying to attract the least amount of attention you always succeed in attracting at least the attention of the proprietor? I wanted nothing more than to be somewhere else at that moment. Was there a cyanide aisle in the Pharmacy?
“I need some cotton for a beard.” The truth, Gar believed, was always the best recourse. At least it sounded marginally credible compared to any other lies we might have fabricated.
“How much approximately would you need?” queried the druggist.
Assaying the contents of his wallet and the change in his pocket Gar cautiously replied. “About twelve cents worth.”
Well that’s that, I thought. We knew where the exit was and I was sure we would be asked to quietly use it.
“Just a moment,” the druggist replied and disappeared into a back room. It wasn’t bad enough we were going to be asked to leave the premises but the druggist obviously felt it necessary to search out reinforcements to assist us in a speedy egress. I’m sure this point was not lost on Gar either but he was determined to see this thing through and, as I was determined not to have to carry the beer alone, I stood pat as well. We were a shoe-in to be the lead story on the six o’clock news.
“Here you go.”
It was the druggist. In his absence I had been investigating routes of escape and had not taken notice of his reappearance. I turned half expecting to find him flanked on either side by cashiers armed with pricing guns, or mortars and pestles, or hair spray at the very least. Instead I faced cotton…enough for one Gar face.
“How much?” was Gar’s obvious response.
“Take it. It’s yours. You obviously need it more than we do. We only use it for stuffing prescription bottles. We have plenty.” The druggist was sincere. There was no humor intended in his offer. Perhaps this sort of thing was commonplace on Halloween. Perhaps the druggist sensed Gar’s predicament and sympathized due to a similar type experience in his own youth. Perhaps it was a peace offering in exchange for our immediate departure. Both Gar and I, acting on the belief it was the latter, gave our thanks and left with our prize.
Gar had his costume and his beard. It had been an ordeal but also a triumph. All that remained between the party and us was dinner.
I don’t wish to detail the dinner experience that followed as, other than having to eat food out of some necessity known as hunger, it was in all uneventful. It was also on the whole inedible. Our mealtime regrouping though did provide for an opportunity for conversation through which Gar and I could boast of our mighty feat. Few of our comrades however believed the tale of our excursion while others refused to show the slightest bit of interest. Gar and I nevertheless reveled in our accomplishment and then readied ourselves for the party where we no doubt would again regale others of our pilgrimage.
The last bit of detail for Gar’s costume was supplied in the form of my pillowcase. Gar knew it would be unthinkable for Santa Claus to arrive without his proverbial bag of toys and so he did this routine one better by outfitting himself with a sack of beer. Santa Claus was generous indeed.
Memory does not serve me well what outfits our other cohorts wore. Gar was obvious and I recollect myself being clothed in some medical uniform in order to resemble a Doctor. The details are not important. It was a Halloween party and I’m sure there were the requisite amount of cowboys, cowgirls, greasers, Elvises, comic book heroes, aliens, and generally scary human beings. Some of whom were actually wearing costumes.
When we arrived at the party it was already in full swing with few only slightly inebriated. I need to point out other than the beer in Gar’s sack there was alcohol available for purchase at a small cash bar set up in the corner of the party location. This is important to note as the beer disappeared quite quickly as Santa Claus became more and more fueled with the Christmas spirit or, that is to say, the more the spirits fueled the Gar.
I had taken notice that after the sack was emptied Gar occasionally frequented the bar and made overtures of reaching into his groin area and extracting his wallet. I had forgotten there were no pockets in his costume and, save for his wallet, Gar’s belongings and street clothes were safely housed in my room. This left only one convenient spot on his person where he could keep his billfold and have access to it by unfastening just a few buttons.
A few years later it occurred to me something odd had taken place at that party which I had visually noted but had never completely absorbed. It was this: WHAT WAS GAR DOING BUYING BEER AT THE PARTY WHEN HE TOLD ME HE HAD ONLY ENOUGH MONEY LEFT FOR DINNER AND NOT COTTON!? He had held out on me! He had put us in a humiliating situation with the pharmacist without there really having been a need to do so! He had been cheap!
It is now too many years later to justly exact my revenge for this deed as I should have done so that night. I’m sure the statute of limitations for the crime of embarrassment has long since run out. Lucky for me, Gar did however suffer something of a retribution at my hands that evening although unintentionally.
The party had waned on into the late hours with music and dancing and ribald tales that were only slightly seasoned with truth. Gar and I were not the centers of attention although we did attract small crowds of onlookers and disbelievers as we retold our story of the day. It had been, for the most part, a good first big party and when it broke up we were all generally pleased and more than filled with that certain inner glow which comes of friendly times and domestic beer.
It was a good thing that my residence was just a simple one-minute walk away from the party location. I knew in my mild state of stupor I could safely maneuver that short distance and somehow I could again find my room. My bed was beckoning and it was a simple task to bid goodnight to friends and find my way to my waiting bunk. I did not feel the people with whom I attended the party were my responsibility with the exception of the Gar who lived downtown. It was a considerable hike at that hour of the night and I would have gladly offered him temporary shelter if it hadn’t been for a well-timed late bus at that very moment.
I’ll say this about bus service in college towns. They are generally overcrowded but also accommodating. The commission always seems to be prepared for the worst and always seems to have late buses on special occasions. This is of course a convenience for the students but an inconvenience for the driver…unless he’s being paid overtime or danger pay at the very least.
I motioned to Gar he too could sleep in his own bed if he took advantage of this bus. I knew from his trips to the bar and the hand gestures at his crotch he had his wallet and that meant he had his bus pass. He acknowledged as much and made his way aboard the transport with a few well-phrased goodnights and a few well-emphasized obscenities.
I stood watching the bus pull away and realized that as quick as that Santa was on his return trip to the North Pole. I only hoped our next visit from Father Christmas was after an appropriate rest period. Gar was easier to take in the daylight if your mind was clear and your brain dried out.
I’m not clear exactly what transpired immediately after Gar’s departure but I do remember I did not return with haste to my own room, as I had wanted. Several of us departed for another friend’s domicile within walking distance and there continued on with our celebration.
It may seem anticlimactic that we were cavorting after the big party had ended. It may seem that way but it wasn’t. The climax was only then about to arrive because twenty minutes into our post festivities we were all surprised by someone’s sudden entrance through a screen window. It was an unexpected return visit from Father Christmas.
Gar was red. That is to say his face was red. The costume was still intact but the beard was gone. In its place was the rosy cheek individual who had obviously run some marathon of which we were all unaware.
Huffing and puffing he made short work of the screen and proceeded to make for one of the pigs in the house.
“I’ll kill you as soon as I catch my breath.”
I didn’t need to stop and think who his victim would be. It was clear by his futile attempts to lock his hands about my neck I had done something to anger Santa Claus.
“What did I do?” I asked, moving quickly out of reach of his flailing limbs.
“My keys are in your room with my clothes! Do you know what it’s like to run up the main street in the middle of the night in long johns? I was propositioned at least twice. I might have stopped to consider the offers if I wasn’t so hell bent on getting back here and killing you!”
At any other time I might have regarded Gar’s predicament as comical. In an attempt however to stay clear of his wrath I was not allowed the opportunity to view the humor in all of this. I knew at any moment I might be as red as he from my own blood if something weren’t done to subdue his rage.
I thought quickly and with open arms extended a gesture that I hoped would be taken in friendship. In other words I offered him a beer. It was accepted and the promise of death was quelled…for the moment.
I knew I was in a dangerous situation and in realizing as much followed up the beer with another enticing offer.
“Look, you can sleep on my floor tonight and go home in the morning.”
It was a very small courtesy I had to offer but Gar accepted. There wasn’t much else beyond that. We went back to my room and Gar slept on my floor with my pillow while I lay awake with my eyes on the Gar for most of the night. I was in no mood to trust him implicitly not to kill me while I slept.
“You know, I would have killed you while you slept,” he said the next morning, “if you hadn’t have let me use your pillow last night.”
I suppose he would have done just that if it weren’t for the tiny gesture of offering up my pillow. That and something else for which I’m sure he felt guilty. In all the commotion of the party he had somehow lost my pillowcase that he had used as a sack. To this day I still wonder what happened to that case. It no doubt was lost for all time. The pillow to which it belonged however became my edge against death at Gar’s hands. I believe in some bizarre way the two things made Gar and I even…at least until the next time.
We lost our beautiful cat, June, this summer. She just disappeared and we think a wolf or coyote got her. Same thing happened to my neighbor’s cat. I know about the whole circle of life thing but it’s an experience I could do without. I think about June every day.
And The Weepies released a new song which appears on the soundtrack for Zach Braff’s new movie “Wish I Was Here.” It’s a great song called “Mend.” That’s where I’ll end this blahg. 
I know that other people had signs on their lawns endorsing certain parties but my sign denounced a political party. My sign simply said “WE WILL NOT BE VOTING CONSERVATIVE!” It was a clear message that I believed, and still do believe, that the ruling Conservative party has done nothing for this country and has been rife with scandal. Of course, to be fair, there has been a good share of scandal linked to the leading Liberal party ruling the province of Ontario. My point being, however, that I think it’s time for me to pull out my sign again and let everyone know which party I will not be supporting in the current provincial election. 
The NDP in Ontario is lead by Andrea Horwath and I think she’s got some great ideas and I have had great respect for her in the past. I think I even voted for her in the last provincial election. However, she was the one that really triggered the current election. She has supported the Liberal budgets in the past by asking for concessions in budgets in order to keep things going. This time, she said her party would not support a budget that many thought was a good budget. Many of her supporters have even come out and said they don’t understand the stance she took this time around. Maybe she wants to be Premier too and thinks she can fare better in the next election. Good luck to her. That wasn’t mean to be sarcastic but take it any way you want. 
I have my Ipod on shuffle when I’m shaving and this morning a song by Fred Eaglesmith came into the rotation. The song was “Crashin’ & Burnin’ ” from his ‘Drive-In Movie’ CD. I highly recommend it because all of the songs are great and there’s a train theme running through many of the songs. Sorry about that running through pun. I know it was a bad pun but listen to the song, it’s very good: 
My brother Tim had the Harry Chapin record, “Greatest Stories Live” and he played that record all the time until I was almost mad. I had to trade him for that record to get him to stop playing it. Fortunately, for me, the record began to grow on me and I eventually purchased every Chapin record I could find. Chapin’s songs were essentially stories set to music and you could understand the lyrics. As I’ve grown older, most of his songs take on more meaning for me. Here’s a particularly endearing song that reminds me so much of my daughters. It’s Harry Chapin’s “Tangled Up Puppet.” 
What I learned about them is that they were originally the Salt City Five and hailed from Syracuse, New York. I didn’t know that Syracuse had old Salt mines that gave the city the nickname Salt City. You learn something new every day.