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I love Halloween because I get to explain the holiday to people from parts of the world where Halloween is not observed.

Reminder to everyone: people from other countries are ignorant to how much you invest in your cultural holidays. To most people in the world, Halloween is a strange custom that gives kids in many parts of the Commonwealth the right to knock on strangers' doors and demand candy from them. That is the scary part.

Halloween, a contraction of "hallowed evening" is the one day a year that would have made Shakespeare immensely proud: men dressed as women dressed as men; cuckolded teenagers in french maid and gymastics instructor costumes; and everyone 'seeming' what they are not.

It is also a happy day for parties. During most of the year, theme-less house parties often degrade into impromptu games of dirty charades or worse, serious games of chess. This is, at least, what happens at my house. But Halloween parties are unpredictable. This year, we not only dressed up, but carried fully-developed personalities.

I'd love to brag in a job interview sometime, that I once played a game of scrabble for two hours as a member of the FLQ disguised as the Bonhomme Carnaval with Judas, Batman and a freedom-loving couple from Texas.

Here is a typical conversation:

"Baby, this game takes too much thinking."
"Yeah... I never did marry her for her brains."
(laughs)
"Was I talkin to you, Frenchie?"
"Shawt up anglo. Hoos tern izit?"
"I was gonna go, but now I'm not. I deceived you; I'm Judas!"
"You want another drink honey? I'm getting another; I'm drinking for two now."
"Hostie de Tabarnac! I want to spell 'adieu' but I can't."
"Take your fuckin turn already."

I encourage you all to answer the door in character this year. And challenge each kid at the door to a turn at scrabble. This will be faster than the facebook variety.

In the meantime, contact friends from distant lands and invite them to start their own Halloween. Better yet, move there and see how well it goes over. You may need to be willing to get shot. If you're lucky, in an African village they might invite you inside, offer you a gourde millet water, and give you a chicken. You could then trade the chicken for, like, a couple mars bars or several 10-cent shots of hard alcohol. In South Africa, you'd probably just get shot. In South America, they have a version of Halloween that's called Noche de las Bruhas (Night of the Witches), in which case you'll be fine as long as you don't run into government hit-men or accidentally step into a coca field while wearing you're very-authentic FARQ costume that your brother claims he got at value village. In China, and other eastern countries I have no idea, but I think if you're a white anglo like me, that fact would ruin the experiment without a control group.

I want to know how people in India or Madagascar or Bagdad would react to the Bonhomme Carnaval, Judas and a freedom-loving couple from Texas banging on their doors, offering pillow cases and demanding sugary foods. I propose this experiment commence immediately.

Je suis un aerogard

I know that I'm on a direct flight to Saskatoon when Gold Star members are invited to board the plane and one older gentleman ambles towards the desk. Why this tiny jet even has a first class I can't answer from my lowly position in economy. General boarding is announced for rows 7 and up and we don't even form a proper line-up, but check to make sure we don't know anyone, because usually we do.

For some reason I am shoved by myself at the back of the airplane. Across from me is the lavatory whose door doesn't stand out much from the wall but whose handle - like a toilet flusher - invites me to PULL or TIRER. Because I'm alone I can flirt with the young Spanish attendant when he comes to wash his hands. "You can take your shot of whiskey; I'm not looking." He stares at me until the sarcasm journeys the length of English and into Spanish and out again.

I stare at a broken cigarette label under what looks like an ashtray next to the bathroom. Then I wonder about the mechanics of being a rock star. Flying across the country each day. I've done my share of traveling. To travel in any sort of style and comfort would require an entire staff to look after just you. So who looks after the staff?

Satan?

Satan pours me a drink in a plastic cup, like a thimble of medicine -- on ice, s'il vous plait. Each of us swallows our ration cup and bites the edge as though the edge is a soother, and there could be anything in this ice and drink but the dullness kills the superstition.

There's nothing exciting about sitting on this leather seat, except for imagining the world will end in 20 minutes.

As an exercise, believe this. There are fighter planes from a hostile armed faction on their way to flatten the countryside, open the mountains and split open the mines like two hands after prayer. In a moment you'll be blown away. Nothing will matter, because no one will be alive.

Check your watch: 19 minutes.

On this plane, still. The ice is melting but not the chill from the vents and the insinuation of bleach from the lavatory. I need to shower. But there'll be no time to shower. Maybe we'll hit another plane. The world is ending in 18 minutes.

Satan has not come back. He is conversing with the old man in first class. They are conversing. Exchanging nothing but words, sounds. I can remember nothing. My memory is totally gone. I can only think in terms of things on this airplane. Grey leather that's comfort. Dim lighting, calm.

15 minutes.

Fortunately I realize my freedom. The same freedom that exists in a dream, where consequences are inconsequential, or simply nonexistent. My true impulse is to make a scene. To be dangerous, taboo, or irrationally kind. I sit in my chair with my thimble of ice and tell myself stories of what I'd do if this freedom really did exist once in a while.

I've lost count of the minutes. My timing for the scene will clearly be off now.

When does the end come?

Satan is still talking up front. Not to me.

It won't matter that everyone is gone; no one will be there to miss them. Maybe 10 minutes left and I have received no enlightenment. I am about to go and what is there but this half-cooked notion of freedom.

These are my thoughts : 3 - 2 - 1.

A Grain Assault

I am dense and here's why.

Yesterday and the day before I read a whole article four times without realizing the pun in the leader of the Rhinoceros Party's name: Sa Tan.

There is no question about it. Or else the question is never related to what's going on in my head.

The Rhinoceros Party, the newly-reinstated Canadian political party, will be loading satiric ammunition for the next Federal election. The Rhino party, named for the dull-witted, slow-moving, yet flighty-in-the-face-of-danger animal it represents, was present at all levels of government in the 1980s, until the government passed a bill that required every party to pay $1000 for 50 candidates in 50 ridings. The rhinos couldn't afford it, and slipped off the political map. The bill has since been repealed as unconstitutional and so now they're back, with more promises to pave Manitoba to create the world's biggest parking lot and tear down the Rocky mountains so that Alberta can see the western sunset. But the party also promises not to keep any of its promises and, if elected, to dissolve the government immediately and call a new one.

The biggest incentive for becoming a rhino member who runs in the election is that you can make up your own promises, and create your own platform. I think I would start by banning the use of certain phrases such as "think outside the ***". The phrase bothers me so much that I can't even stand to write it. It's worse than a curse, and the slimy indifference with which it's used makes me want to claw my up the nearest asbestos pipe. As part of my platform I'm going to suggest positive reform, however, such as the counter-attack methods of saying "think inside the box" and defending your belief that this is actually the proper phrase.

In an unrelated twist of irony, I found myself looking "ignorant" up in the dictionary the other day. The word has become a catch-phrase for anyone wanting to connect with their hickish roots. I doubt anyone actually believes they are ignorant - but boy is it fun & fashionable to say so.

So maybe I'll call up Satan, and tell him I'm no longer ignorant and thinking inside the box, a reformed dense-case ready to condescend to real candidates who actually give a damn. Maybe I'll start making signs to unite Manitoba and Saskatchewan. Saskatchewan can be where people pay to park in Manitoba, ostensibly it will be the Albertans, the only ones with money and oil.