Though these days it’s all about a bunch of annoying brats ringing the doorbell right in the midst of cocktail time, I once enjoyed Halloween as much as any kid. Oddly enough, I didn’t do anything over-the-top or all that unusual as far as costumes go (again, Halloween has always been a sort of day-off for someone who dresses costume-like on any given day). I was a devil (duh), an old man (save it), a pirate, and the Phantom of the Opera – but it was my younger costumes that I enjoyed the most – particularly my year as a skunk (with a white marabou boa as my stripe, and pink make-up on my nose) – my year as Winnie-the-Pooh – and… wait for the irony… my year as a beaver.
As a kid, I adored beavers – I was as obsessed with them then as I am by Madonna now. Every school report, every diorama, every book I read had something to do with a beaver. For my birthday we went to Beaversprite. So it was only fitting that for Halloween I would be a beaver. Strangely enough, there weren’t many readily-available pre-made costumes for those of us looking to transform into the supersize rodent, so Mom had to make the outfit. The most important part was the tail – a wide, flat bit of fluffy fur that served as the sole bit of glamourous trapping in an otherwise rather-drab brown outfit. I didn’t care – I loved it. Further proof that it’s not what you wear that counts, but how what you’re wearing makes you feel. Even if you’re a gay boy pretending to be a beaver.
