by JOHNSON CUMMINS

The best holiday of the year is Halloween —unless, of course, you’re a goth, in which case you may be a little bummed that the regular citizens are stealing your thunder. For the rest of us, though, this is the one day of the year that’s all about getting dressed up and fucked up.

In my younger years, All Hallow’s Eve was all about T.P.-ing houses and stealing candy from little kids, but eventually, in my late teens, it graduated to being the one day of the year especially reserved for dropping acid. Truth be told, in those days I would celebrate Tuesday afternoon, and Saturday-morning cartoons, with some windowpane blotter, or Groundhog Day with purple microdot, but something about Halloween just demanded tripping.

My favourite LSD-soaked Halloween was when a bunch of friends of mine all dropped after dinner, went to a friend’s house and dropped pencil erasers and Ziploc bags of milk into the bags and baskets of the midget Frankensteins and Little Princesses at the door, while totally peaking. We also thought it would be a good idea to decorate the house, and nailed (!) luncheon meat and hot dogs (in the bun, natch!) to the door, to greet the costumed critters with. Apparently, some parents failed to see the humour and called the cops.

Now, as any acid-head will tell you, there’s nothing worse while you’re tripping than dealing with cops, and sure enough, the cops came a-tap-tap-tapping at our meat-festooned door. My costume at the time consisted of nothing but a baseball glove, but in my acid-addled mind I was convinced I looked like an American Division shortstop, and that the cops would never recognize me again.

With my baseball glove of invisibility as leverage, I actually tried to convince the cop that in pagan times, many children would receive Ziploc bags of milk (Zipoc bags in pagan times?!), while contending with visions of doing 25 to life for horrendous crimes against luncheon meat.

The cop’s eyes momentarily left the hot dogs nailed to the door and fell on my “costume.” “What’s up with the baseball glove, son?” I just stared at him blankly with pupils the size of saucers, my thoughts racing through my head at an abnormal rate, and for reasons I still can’t understand, I could only blurt out, “I’m Pete Rose.”

Knowing full well he was dealing with a lunatic, the cops gave up the fight and actually left us alone to giggle for hours while staring into mirrors.

My future Halloween activities would soon thereafter be circumscribed by encroaching adulthood, mixed with a growing paranoia towards cops. Sadly, that would be the last Halloween I would ever put milk in Ziploc bags again.

WATCH OUT FOR RAZORS IN THE APPLES. jonathan.cummins@gmail.com

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