COLUMN: Halloweenie

The weekend approaches... and with it comes a chill in the air. Once again, the pumpkins are lit aglow and our streets are filled with the laughter of little ghosts and ghouls on their annual candy pilgrimage. And, as per usual, I hate it all.

Let's face it... I'm a Hallo-weenie.

Merriam-Webster defines fright as "fear excited by sudden danger." Nowhere in that text does it say, "...and it's a whole lotta fun."

Fear is something deeply rooted in us by instinct, which probably evolved from our cave-dwelling ancestors after one too many attempts at walking up to velociraptors to say hello. Primitive man quickly learned that this was a yabba-dabba-DON'T. Fear is an instinctive means for the body to pump us full of adrenalin so that we can run like sissies from whatever's currently attempting to eat us.

What Fred and Barney didn't realize is that one day, we humans would pay $8.50 for the opportunity to get our adrenalin pumped by a knife-wielding psycho in a hockey mask. For entertainment.

This goes against the grain of logic. When I go to a movie, I want to either laugh or see lots of things blow up. I don't want to have the bejeebies scared out of me. That's not fun at all. I'd much prefer it if my bejeebies kept to themselves, thanks. You people who enjoy scary movies are nuts.

I see one of those flicks and I leave with a complex. Don't go in the water or Jaws will getcha. Don't go to sleep or Freddie will getcha. Don't stay at that motel or Norman Bates will getcha. Don't take your sweetie on a midnight walk around the camp lake or Jason will getcha. And above all, don't go to Neverland or Michael Jackson will getcha.

If I get suckered into seeing a scary movie, later that night I'll be lying in bed and hear a noise. Then the voice pops into my head: "What was that? Was that the cat? It sounded like the cat. It's either the cat... OR CHUCKY, THE DEMONIC DOLL THAT KILLS!"

I simply don't like to be spooked, that's all. Let's look at the facts: I'm a single guy. Ergo, I eat fast food... a lot. It's a clinical fact that roughly 20% of my body weight is comprised of Big Macs. I sweat pure cholesterol. With that knowledge in hand, I know that all it would take is one well-timed "BOOGITY BOOGITY!!" and that'll be it for Shane. Game over. And, quite frankly, I don't want to want to be the name under the headline of "NEW HORROR FLICK SCARES MOVIEGOER... TO DEATH!"

So no TV or movies for me this week, then. No, I've resigned myself to a fate far worse than being fileted by Freddie Krueger. That's right, I'll be at my night job: DJ'ing at a club in the District on Halloween weekend.

Now, when you're a kid, I can understand the appeal of dressing up and going trick-or-treating. Well, I guess I never really liked the costume part -- my mom has plenty of pictures of me from Halloweens of yore, and in every photo I have a facial expression like my puppy just died. But let's face it -- it was worth it because of the treat part. I've never met a piece of chocolate I didn't like.

But am I the only one who thinks dressing up for Halloween is a bit weird once you're over the age of, oh, ten? Yet it seems like everybody my age does it. Because they think it's fun.

Newsflash, Quad Cities: It's not fun. It's stressful. I'm socially awkward enough already -- don't make me try to converse with somebody dressed up like Chewbacca. Is there protocol for such situations? No matter what the person might say to me, my mind just loops, "Chewbacca Chewbacca Chewbacca" until I just start laughing like a nervous loon. Unless you're Mo Mallard (and don't get me started on HIM,) leave the costumes to the kids. People already look funny enough as is.

So if you see me in the District this weekend, stop by and say hi (unless you're dressed like a freak. I will have NO candy for you.) I'll be the one dressed up like a neurotic newspaper columnist - it's a great costume, I've been working on it for years now.