My favorite Halloween costume was when I dressed as Evel Knievel. It was completely ridiculous—an absurd confluence of generally American-ish-themed items that I'd found at the Salvation Army that afternoon: some sort of star-spangled sweatshirt; vaguely-matching, radically-undersized pants that wound up looking more like capris; a too-small bicycle helmet (all helmets are too small for my giant noggin) that I embellished with magic-marker stars; and my "ride," a crappy $8 kid's bike—also red, white and blue. It was a beautiful ensemble, if I do say so.
Sarah and Ana maintained the wheeled theme, going as 70s roller girls attired in outdated items also found at the Salvation Army and shod with genuine old-school white ankle-high roller skates. The hair was flipped. The pants were too tight. They knew the moves. They had it down.
The party that night was in a large warehouse, which perfectly suited our shenanigans. I traced figure-eights on my bad-ass-mobile. The gals glided around the perimeter. As the evening progressed and the empty beer cans accumulated, the antics became more foolish. The roller girls progressed to more advanced maneuvers. I built a small ramp and jumped various items including my "lovely assistant," a raggedy-ass little doll also purchased that afternoon, and, eventually, small flaming objects. (This was quickly stopped by the owner of the warehouse.)
The band played their song, "Evel Knievel." (Weird, huh?) Some guy asked me if I would do my "Evel Knievel thing" at one of his band's gigs. The empty beer cans continued to mount, and the evening began its gradual descent. More prudent people went home. My bike was eventually abandoned in some corner. Finally, in the wee hours, the festivities came to an abrupt halt when Sarah took a spill, and we had to go to the nearby emergency room with what we thought (but was fortunately not) a broken wrist.
Oh, well. All's well that ends in the emergency room. It was good while it lasted. And the costumes were A-1.
My second favorite costume was when I dressed as Bob's Big Boy (or Shoney's Big Boy if you're from my neck of the woods). I had it just right: big, wide-legged painter's pants that I had stenciled with the appropriate check pattern; red suspenders; a white t-shirt printed with the words, "BIG BOY" (in the correct font, of course); and a gallon of dippity-doo in my hair, piling it into a perfect pompadour. We went out. There was another Big Boy. (What are the chances?) His outfit was crap—overalls (overalls?!) with hand-drawn checks and a sloppily written "BIG BOY"—absolute crap. Trash was talked. Big Boys were restrained. The evening proceeded without further incident.
I must concede my rival one advantage, though. My build is not precisely Big Boy material. He had the physique down pat. Next time I'll have to plan a few months ahead and do the appropriate all-Shoney's-all-the-time-weight-gain-regime to really seal the deal.