Halloweekend 2008

I returned from Puerto Rico late Thursday evening. The cab driver helped me unload the heavy cases and I put them away at the office. I stepped to the coat closet behind the receptionist’s desk and found the items hanging there, just as I had instructed my coworker to do in the favor I had asked of her.

I loaded my personal luggage into my car, along with the clothing items adorning the hanger and wrapped in clear plastic. Once home and after putting all my Puerto Rico clothes into the hamper, I tried on the garments I had brought from the office, just to make sure my plan would work. It seemed to have come together quite nicely.

Early Friday morning I headed to the airport, pleased to be flying for myself for a change. Connecting through Washington-Dulles airport, I was very soon on the arrival end of a very smooth and uneventful trip to Raleigh, North Carolina. My small and very full suitcase was the first one out on the belt, and I was quickly on my way out the door to catch the rental car shuttle. Outside I realized why the Raleigh-Durham airport didn’t look familiar to me despite having been there in April: It was a brand new terminal which had opened only recently. Of course. It looked brand new. I should have known….

Soon I was in my rental car and fiddling with my new Garmin™ nüvi® 260 GPS navigation system, trying to figure out how to tell it we were in North Carolina. Without too much confusion I located us, and then I called the phone number I had been given and told to call when I arrived.

“Hello?” came the voice on the other end.

“Judy?” I asked, not entirely certain I hadn’t misdialed or mis-written the number in the first place.

“Yes?” came her excited reply.

“It’s me. I’m here!”

“I was hoping it was you!”

And thus began my Halloween weekend in Raleigh. Kenju and her husband, Mr. Kenju, upon learning several weeks ago that I was planning on making the trip, had offered a spare bedroom in their home for me to call my own for the weekend, and I had accepted their offer. With their address entered into the GPS, and the satellites guiding me in, I confidently sped toward their home.

I pulled into the driveway and from that vantage point I could already tell that theirs was a truly lovely home. Kenju greeted me at the door with a hug, Mr. Kenju with a hearty handshake, and one of the cats — Stormy or Eclipse, which one I do not remember — greeted me by sharing her fleas with me.

We only had an hour or so to chat before we had to get ready, and I had to find a store where I could buy a belt, which I had forgotten to include, with which to complete the costume I had conceived to wear to Tiffoween, the Halloween costume bash thrown by Tiff and her man, Biff Spiffy. Kohl’s to the rescue! ...It was a ladies’ belt, but Kohl's saved the day, nonetheless!

I returned to the Kenju home and ducked into the bedroom to don my duds. Once the transformation was complete, I stepped out before the first pair of eyes to take in my creation, and their reaction was priceless…especially when made them aware of the “something a little extra” in my pants!

(Click on any photo to biggify.)

1970s porn star Rush Mountmore,
at your service! Note the
"package." (Photo by Kenju.)

Anticipating that we would be interested in leaving the party at different times, we agreed to drive separately to the Tiny House. The platform boots I wore were so cumbersome that I had to remove the right foot boot in order to be able to drive the car safely. Yes, I drove to Tiff’s in costume!

Upon my arrival The Things came out to greet me, and to try to guess who I was and what I was supposed to be. Their guess of “’70s guy” was two thirds correct, but I give them full credit because how are a 13-year-old and an 11-year-old supposed to know I was a “’70s porn-star guy?”

It wasn’t until I spoke and my distinctive voice gave away to Tiff my true identity. I was only the second guest to arrive, behind Tiff’s brother, whom I’ll call “Big D” in this blog, because I’m not sure he’s interested in having his real name used here. And because, if he isn’t, well, I don’t call him "Big D" for nothing. I don’t want to be squished like a bug for any reason.

It is here that I must point out that the party and its potential for great visual joy is the only reason I brought my camera to Raleigh. And it is here that I also must point out that I left the Kenju home without it. (aarrrghh) So, the photos you see here are borrowed.

Big D had probably the most craftworthy costume of anyone, as he had latex prostheses attached to his nose and chin, with black and white makeup covering his entire face and smoothly blending the prostheses to his own facial contours. Topping it all off was a black wig streaked with white, and an all black outfit, with his fingers tipped in black nail polish. Unfortunately for Big D, the prostheses were attached so well that his skin couldn’t breathe, and he was sweating profusely into them. He had already abandoned the chin by the time I got there, and the nose came off about two hours later.

Kenju came as a witch, and Mr. Kenju was a 21st century rendition of Sherlock Holmes. Fortunately for me, Kenju remembered to bring her camera.


On left, Kenju and me. (Photo by Tiff.) On right, Tiff and me as Mr. Kenju looks on. (Photo by Kenju.)

Shortly after our arrival Tiff’s friends — I’ll call them “Kitty” and “Cletus,” names inspired only by their costumes — and fellow Raleigh area blogger Mr. Mojo arrived. Mr. Kenju was quite tickled when Mr. Mojo, upon seeing me in my getup, pointed a finger at me and said, “Dude!”

To which I responded immediately, “Dude!” It’s interesting how anonymity rendered by a disguise can embolden strangers and make them more friendly and familiar than they would be in a normal social situation. And I’m talking solely about myself, as I don’t know how Mr. Mojo would react in a normal social situation.


On left, "Cletus" and "Kitty." On right, Mr. Mojo. (Photos by Kenju.)



Your hosts, Biff Spiffy and Tiff. (Photo by Kenju.)

Biff and Tiff — costumed as a highland lad and lass — had laid out quite a nice spread of hot dogs wrapped in bread dough; popcorn; tortilla chips with pimiento cheese spread and salsa, each in clever little “spider” bread bowls; and Wordnerd’s recipe onion sum-er-other casserole. Kenju brought an asparagus relish tray, which I didn’t try because I didn’t want my pee to smell.



Biff had a nice fire going in the fire-pit out in the back yard, and soon everyone was out there around it, sipping drinks and chatting. The pointy-legged chairs had a tendency to sink into the lawn under anyone’s weight, and Biff — whether a little too under the influence or not — sat in one of those chairs and tumbled ass-over-teakettle backwards onto the ground, taking another chair with him, and I learned in the most unpleasant way that he took the whole “Scots” thing very seriously. Two words: family jewels.


(Photo by Kenju.)

Around 10:00 the party was crashed by the neighborhood loon (apparently), who stopped by to “introduce” herself and then later asked to help herself to “one little drinkee-poo” and then regaled us with her quasi-incestuous family freak-show stories which included such topics as her mother’s Zen “meditations” fueled by pot smoking and Penthouse Forum letters, and her 15-year-old son’s amorous adventures with his girlfriend on his “porn couch.”

Don’t ask.

As a group, we largely did not care to hear such stories, but as no one could figure out how to get her to shut up, we were captive until she finally decided it was time to leave.

At 12:30.

The Kenjus had called it a night around 10:30. Everyone else clung to the fire until psycho-freak left (I think we were all afraid to turn our backs on her), and then I left around 1:15, with Tiff telling me that I was theirs to hang out with on Saturday.

Around 8:45 in the morning I called the Tiny House, and only Biff was awake. We made tentative plans to do breakfast, but I was to call again later in the morning to make sure the others weren’t actually in comas. I shared a cup of coffee and a chat with Mr. Kenju for an hour or so, and then I called Biff again. He said the others still were not awake, but to head on out anyway, as he was about to toot reveille to rouse the troops. Only… he never mentioned using a bugle….

I told Biff that my trusty new GPS navigator could find anything for me, so with the name of the restaurant safely absorbed into my brain folds, I boldly traipsed out to the car — camera firmly in my grasp, this time — and entered “The Border” into the search window.

Bupkis.

I reentered the address to the Tiny House, and hoped with all my energy that Biff’s description of the place being “just around the block, across the street from the Pilot gas station” was accurate.

It was, and I made it to the restaurant just under the wire, as they closed at 11:00, and had the residents of the Tiny House not mentioned that I would be there any minute, I would not have been allowed inside.

Breakfast was okay. The Border will not make it anywhere near the top ten for Best Corned-Beef Hash Breakfast In America, but it was okay. Good coffee, and a funny waitress, though. We six tossed about myriad things to do with the afternoon, from art museums, to seeing the Dead Sea Scrolls, to recreational tree species identification at the local park, but what we all settled happily upon was the great Saturday afternoon pastime of building a potato gun.

Since building a potato gun is a “man thing,” Big D, Biff and I hopped in Big D’s pickup truck and went to the local “Put-Mom-and-Pop-Out-Of-Business” chain hardware emporium and bought the necessary items required to construct our weap-… er, pastime: a length of 2” PVC pipe, a ‘Y’- junction 4” connector, a 4” end-cap, some sizing adapters and a replacement grill-starter switch. From there we went to the local “Kick-Mom-and-Pop-Out-On-The-Street-On-Their-Ass” chain department/grocery emporium to get hairspray and potatoes.

And I got a Snickers bar. Breakfast didn’t stick with me very long….

While we did that, Tiff went shopping for girly things, like chili-making ingredients, and probably feminine hygiene products.

I didn’t take any “the making of” photos. I forgot I had remembered to bring the camera. Biff had the vision, as well as the memory of a friend of his making one of these last year. With his constructorly prowess, he had the thing assembled to the specifications of his vision…and I had serious doubts this thing was going to work.

Off we went, in search of a place to blast potatoes to fiery deaths, and found one beside a lake and hidden away from the road by big, pesky trees.


Yours truly, holding the fud spucker. (Photo by Tiff.)

Since it was Biff’s creation, he had the honor of firing the first potato. He loaded the spud into the muzzle and rammed it down the “barrel” until it was just outside the ‘Y’ chamber. He unscrewed the 3” cap and sprayed a short burst of hairspray into the ‘Y’ chamber, quickly screwing the cap back on. He aimed the cannon out toward the quiet lake. He placed his finger on the red grill-starter button, the business end of which was dangling in the chamber amid hairspray vapors, waiting to emit a spark. Biff pushed the button.

“Click.”

Bummer. A whole afternoon wasted, I thought. Well, maybe there just wasn’t enough hairspray in the chamber. How is one supposed to know how much it takes to make it flame? So he sprayed in another quick burst.

“Click.” The Dead Sea Scrolls were starting to look interesting again.

“Give it a good, long spray,” said Big D. “Like four seconds.”

Biff opened the chamber and sprayed into the hole. I’m sure we all silently counted to ourselves “one-one thousand, two-one thousand, three-one thousand, four-one thousand!”


Charging the potato gun. (Photo by Farrago.)

Biff put the cap back over the chamber hole and aimed the tube back out over the water.

“ClicKA-BLAM!!” That potato disappeared over the trees on the other side of the lake! And the gun was LOUD! Honestly, I was expecting an amusing little “foomp!” and seeing the potato go about 30 yards, tops. The best, loudest shots sent a potato no less than half a kilometer out over the water! I was truly amazed, not at Biff’s clear engineering success, but at the sheer combustible power a 4-second shower of hairspray has when exposed to a spark!

OH. MY. GOD.

We all took our turns sending potatoes into oblivion until the twenty pounds we had bought were gone. It’s amazing how quickly and willingly six fairly city-fied folks can go ‘redneck’ for an afternoon!


Tiff stuffs a spud into the muzzle while her bro,
Big D, holds the gun steady. (Photo by Farrago.)


Tiff rams the potato down to the base of the barrel.
(Photo by Farrago.)


Tiff takes aim at the moon. ...or something. (Photo by Farrago.)


This shot cleared the trees on the other side of the lake. We never
saw where the potato came down. (Photo by Tiff.)

We returned to the Tiny House where Tiff set to making a pot of chili, and Biff set to building another fire. Before long, both were simmering nicely. As we boys — Big D, Biff, the Things and I — poked at the fire and got it roaring, Tiff called out that the chili was ready. Anything that has bacon in it, on it, under it or around it is automatically fantastic, if you ask me. All you Jews and Muslims, and vegetarians, for that matter, just don’t know what you’re missing. Bacon is the secret ingredient in this chili resipe which, I understand, is Biff’s. WOW. I had to have a second bowl just to make sure it was the best chili I’ve ever had…except for Mom’s. Sorry, Biff. In case I turn out to be wrong, I don’t want her to be pissed off at me when I get there….

In our post-gorging stupor, we marveled at the intense heat coming off of the glowing embers under the fire, and I said “Those embers are great for roasting marshmallows. Too bad we don’t have any.”

The Things piped up, “But we do!” There ensued a mad scramble, The Things for the bag of marshmallows in the kitchen, and I for the branches of the willow tree in the Tiny House back yard. I had forgotten the satisfying glow brought on by the flavor of a perfectly roasted golden-brown marshmallow toasted over blazing red embers on a crisp autumn evening. I don’t believe I’ve eaten that many marshmallows in one sitting since I was a teenager!

Soon after the after-marshmallow stupor set in on top of the after-chili stupor, I decided it was time to get back “home.” Hugs and handshakes were exchanged amid promises to return some day soon, and I was on my way.

Back at the Kenju home, Mr. Kenju was already tucked in for the night, and Kenju was watching some TV. We sat in the TV room and chatted about the stuff on TV and about other things until Saturday Night Live came on, during which we chatted and watched the show. As the Kenjus had so graciously offered me their home and their hospitality, I had promised them that I would spend Sunday with them until I had to leave for the airport.


A Kenju kitty. I know not which one. (Photo by Farrago.)

In the morning I awoke to breakfast on the table: a yummy omelet and English muffins, with coffee and orange juice. It was like I was in a freakin episode of Leave It To Beaver! Kenju joked that Mr. Kenju spent most of his time at breakfast planning for lunch. Little did we realize that, on this particular day, the joke bore truth for all of us!

After breakfast the Kenjus showed me the office upstairs where Kenju does her creative work, both with her floral business and her blogging. Yes, I saw Kenju’s throne! Mr. Kenju and I discussed genealogy for a little while, during which one of the cats insistently professed its love for Mr. Kenju, something which clearly drives Mr. Kenju insane.

Then we were off in the Kenju-mobile, ostensibly to see the sights of downtown Raleigh, but really for lunch. Kenju dove us past the restaurant we had decided upon, but it was crowded, so she thought we’d take in a few more sights and come back later to check and see if the lines had shrunk.

Kenju turned one corner and we were confronted by police directing traffic —which was moving at a snail’s pace for most of the time — and we realized that the foot race that had been held earlier in the morning was still going! Then, as Kenju tried to get us out of the congested, road-blocked areas, it seemed as though every street had police directing traffic, race stragglers walking and heaving, and a line of cars all trying to get out of there; it was as if we were in the movie Night of the Living Marathoners, for we could not escape the runners!

Finally we outdistanced the racers and wound up at a different place than we had planned, called Tripps, where the salmon in lobster cream was OUTSTANDING! Afterward we simply headed for the Kenju homestead where I packed my suitcase and readied to go, and where Kenju… made yummy Reuben sandwiches!
Very soon — all too soon — I had to say my good-byes. It was a wonderful weekend spent with wonderful friends, and with a wonderful roof over my head and a comfortable bed under my bones for sleeping.

To Tiff and Biff, and The Things, I say thanks for the great fun of the party (who cares if there were more “no-shows” than “shows!”), and of the spud-launcher. Good times!

To the Kenjus, I can’t say, “Thank you,” enough for their hospitality and kindness in putting me up for the weekend. And I didn’t break anything, either, for a change!

Happy Halloween!