“My mommy always said there were no monsters — no real ones — but there are.” — Newt, in “Aliens”
Sing it, sister. I see one first thing every morning, if I dare to turn the lights on in the bathroom. And it follows me around all day, until I turn them out again.
Mama said there’d be days like this. I just didn’t think there’d be so many of them.
When did I stop ringing doorbells on Halloween and start answering them? Oh, Lord.
Thanks to outfits cobbled together by me sainted ma I have been a cowboy, Superman, and Mike Nelson from “Sea Hunt,” among other American icons. I even managed to talk mom into helping me suit up as Loadedman, a cartoon character I devised shortly before dropping out of college and going to work as a janitor.
She must’ve been so proud.
As an “adult” I have been a space pirate, Che Guevara, and once, memorably, Jesus H. Christ himself. Indeed, there was a time when I felt all that hair I was sporting limited not only my employment opportunities, but my costume options come All Hallows’ Eve.
All. That. Hair.
Sigh.
I didn’t know shit about limited options back then. Now the menu is down to a single item — basically, “Ugly-Ass Old Bald Dude.” The good news is, all I have to do for that one is get out of bed, take a leak, and put on some clothes.
In the dark, of course. Because there are monsters. I’ve seen them. They live in my bathroom mirror.
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