So, it’s Halloween! I do not really participate in Halloween these days, since I subscribe to the “Go Big or Go Home” philosophy, and I am too lazy to go big, so I end up going home. (‘Big’ in this case meaning ‘actually clever’ or ‘well-made’. Inflatable Sumo-wrestler suits are neither of these things, dude from my office.)

However, I had some fun costumes back in the day! I think. I only remember four. Memory like a sieve, me.

Enjoy this handy guide! None of these costumes makes any sense.

Bag of Jelly Beans:

I was: Eight.

You will need: Black turtleneck and pants, white tulle, balloons.

It takes: Ten minutes to baste the tulle into a big bag, two minutes to thread ribbon around the top to tie around your neck, one million hours to blow up all the balloons.

You cannot: Sit down. Ever.

School Bus

I was: Nine.

You will need: magazine with pictures of people’s faces, huge cardboard box as long as you are tall, paint, refractive stickers, ropes for over your shoulders, really strong little horse-legs, patient relatives willing to get high off glue fumes for two days in advance getting this thing together.

It takes: A hundred million hours.

You cannot: Ever forgive that kid who dressed like a table set for dinner with his face bulging out of a bucket of pasta and walked right in front of you all night somehow no matter what houses you skipped trying to get ahead of him, and everyone was in raptures, and when the rest of my family asked excitedly, “What did people think? What did they say?!” I had nothing to tell them because all people said was, “Look how great this costume is – a table with pasta!”

Marie Antoinette:

I was: Sixteen.

You will need: 9 yards of brocade from the bargain bin, lace for the sleeve cuffs, ribbon for the front panel, cotton batting for a wig, white base, bright red lipstick, black pencil for the beauty mark, appropriate black pumps, a fake corset, a bum and hip roll you make out of some crazy series of stuffed pantyhose, a total lack of concern for what anyone in your high school thinks about your costume.

It takes: Ten hours for the dress, twenty hours for the wig, which will still look like shit no matter what you do, so you go to school looking like Marie Antoinette and the Cotton Candy Incident.

You cannot: Look at it ever again once you learn how the costumes were actually constructed and how much of it you did wrong.

Gandalf:

I was: Seven.

You will need: A long grey tunic your mom makes you, a grey cape, an awesome-ass cotton-batting beard, a big walking stick, brown pillowcase for candy, a witch hat from the dollar store covered in dark blue glitter.

It takes: Three hours.

You cannot: EVEN IMAGINE how many people don’t recognize Gandalf on site. I was appalled. I spent all of Halloween like this:

Neighbor: Oooh! Are you a wizard?

Me: [snottiest, most vicious tone imaginable] I am not A WIZARD, I am GANDALF THE GREY.

Neighbor: Who?

Me: Gandalf? The Hobbit? Lord of the Rings?

Neighbor: Well, you little boys certainly read a lot these days!

Me: …keep the candy.

I was such a little bastard. (I am still a bastard. I’m just bigger.)

I got the world’s best catalog in the mail today. I will have to scan or photograph the pages in their entirety because one product at a time just won’t cut it. It’s disturbing. It’s upsetting. It is, quite frankly, the best thing that has ever existed.

A brief preview image, of a candle set:

Yes, that is a candle set. Yes, it is meant to look like the little boy in blue is sticking his head up the chimney. Apparently he has learned nothing from his immolated brother and dog-and/or-deer. You fools! You waxy fools!

My review of Repo! The Genetic Opera is live at Fantasy Magazine. I, um, had an opinion.

There’s a second page to the article that has video clips, which you should watch if possible. The theatrical trailer, especially, is an editing wonder. I would love to interview the people who put that together, because having seen the movie? They are artists.

So, in my weekly scouring of the Costumer’s Guide, I ran across a still from a new movie, The Secret of Moonacre.

Now, that’s a lovely dress, so of course I rush to find out what sort of awesome-costume movie this is.

This is the first poster I saw:

It looks very steampunk! A little wild, a little sepia, some Legend action going on with the horse and the smaller-than-normal sidekicks and the Tim Curry and everything. Sign me up, right?

…right?

The second poster:

In which Aslan leads us all to the sacred village of Tweeville, ruled by Bob the Rabbit up front there, and Vice-Mayor Magical Unicorn Pony.

Who’s right? Well, the official site tells us more about it:

“Robin”
Played by Augustus Prew

Undergoing the biggest transformation from book to screen, Augustus Prew’s Robin is most likely to set young female hearts alight with his troubled interpretation of the role. He gives us a much darker, more interesting character who Maria has to convince to change his loyalties to aid her on her quest.

It’s a movie about a bunch of crazy-fuck firestarters in bowler hats! You little bastards! Vice-Mayor Magical Unicorn Pony will have something to say about this!

I have a new boyfriend!

I skulked around for a month looking at him, trying to cop a feel when I could, judging if I had room in my life. And I added up all the sad minutes I spent alone this week, just waiting, and knew I had to have him.

Technology continues to tromp ahead without me, by the way – this little guy has twice the hard drive space and memory of my main computer, which was so top of the line when I bought it that I had to uninstall all the NASA applications that came with it.

Now, this thing is lightweight (good to carry around all the time), has a surprisingly comfortable keyboard (which is nice, because I would never have the wherewithal to unfold a keyboard in public without knocking six things over), and has a bright, sharp screen. I know that last thing because I totally stalked some poor woman at the Whole Foods who was watching a movie on it. (Yuppiest sentence I’ve ever written, holy crap.)

ANYWAY, after ten minutes of staring at her down the counter like Mr. Goodbar, I went over and smoothly engaged her in conversation.

G: …IS THAT A NICE COMPUTER?
Her: Please go away.
G: I LIKE YOUR COMPUTER.
Her: I have the cops on speed dial.

With that ringing endorsement, it was time to buy!

Once I bought him, I went home and had a nice bout of buyer’s remorse. I spent the evening watching him charge up and trying to convince myself I hadn’t just bankruped myself for all eternity. I exerted myself – “I LIKE MY COMPUTER” – until I believed it.

And I really do like it, bless its 2-pound heart. I don’t usually name my computers (my other computer is “my computer”, or occasionally “you bastard”), but I sort of had to after all this all-caps emoting.

His name is Fassbender Syndrome. (Jr.)