Alaskans for Obama

The Ageless Hippie Chick, Linda Sama finds the good stuff. Please go check the rest of the links in her story. Lazy woman that I am I'm only stealing the YouTube part.

What Halloween Means To Me

Well, nothing really. I hate costume parties. I spent too many years having to wear some kind of costume and mask daily. I never could leave my house without the full drag required of a professional beauty. When I was working it was hose, high heels, the right undies (seamless flesh colored bra and flesh colored thong) and big name designer label clothing. Every season required a new wardrobe of shoes for shows and photos, the monthly expense of a good hair-cut and color. Every season required the right costume jewelry, and accessories. But it was the applying of the make-up (as much part of the costume as any other item) that made me hate Halloween. My hairdresser and his boyfriend always came to me to get them ready for Halloween parties. Since we were about the same size, I would dress them both in drag and apply the necessary make-up to turn them into the tart of their dreams. I had wigs, hair pieces, hats, gloves. I only drew the line at shoes. It grew tiresome. Then my mother went crazy and required my full time attention, and then I went crazy and stopped caring about any of that crap.

Another reason I hated Halloween was that it seemed (for grown-ups) to be the perfect occasion to wear a disguise, go to a party, drink too much and act like an asshole.

If you were to trace my distaste for Halloween back to its roots, you would find a three year old dressed as a ghost with a gold cardboard crown on top of her sheet covered head, holes for eyes, nose, and mouth. She carried a bag and was to be taken around the neighborhood by her brothers and returned home safely before the boys went off by themselves. They lost her somewhere along the way. She lost her crown, she lost her bag of candy, and was finally taken home by a lady who lived in the neighborhood. And to add insult to injury, this little girl was called a crybaby by her mother when finally delivered to the door by the kind neighbor. All our neurosis can be traced to our childhood and our siblings and our parents. So in some respect, we never grow up, never grow up, never grow up.