Who Ya Gonna Call? Me, Apparently: Ghostbusters Halloween Costume and Proton Pack

After seeing the new Ghostbusters movie, my inner eight-year-old (who pretty much runs the place) decided that it would be a ton of fun for, er, both of us to dress as a Ghostbuster for Halloween this year while giving out the treats. (Last year, I was Batgirl. The previous year, I was... Batgirl. The year before that I was... okay. You've probably spotted the trend.)

Anyway, I figured: how hard could it be? All I'd need was beige work overalls with some trim, a Ghostbusters patch, and whatever other little details I could muster up. I decided I would be my favorite character of the new Ghostbusters, Dr. Jillian Holtzmann. For she is funny, a scientific genius and completely out of her mind. Also she's one of the more recognizable characters.

So I got a nice, cost-effective jumpsuit via an Amazon vendor (I'm almost five-foot-eight so a Men's Medium was perfect for me). I ordered some 7/8 inch orange reflective trim from a sewing shop. A place on Etsy offers embroidered name tags for all the Ghostbusters, so I snagged myself one of those. I went looking for yellow lensed glasses. And then my brain started getting more ideas. Wouldn't it be nice if I had a proton pack to go with it?

I had NO IDEA what I was getting myself into, but the journey was a BLAST! (DISCLAIMER: serious 'Busters fans will have to forgive that I took some liberties with the design. The parts were somewhat subject to availability but I worked to keep the same general feel.)

Anyway, I found a $5 backpack at Walmart I could use as a basis. I went for black and orange to go with the uniform colors.

I took the front off the backpack and then, using a staple gun, I upholstered the back fabric to a small piece of plyboard I already had.

I had picked up this Ghostbusters pencil case at the same time as the backpack, to use in place of the black toolbox that's on the real prop... 

Next step was the largest part of the pack-- making the Faraday cage. You know, you start really looking at the world differently when you need to make proton pack on the cheap. Every shape of every household item and every bit of recycling becomes something you evaluate with keen narrowed eyes for a potential new purpose.

Ultimately, I bought one of those mesh covers folks use over plates of barbecue food, removed the top handle and spray painted it black. It occurred to me I could light the thing up red if I just got some battery powered lights. So one string of those, stapled into place, and I left the battery pack on the outside, using it as one of the instruments on the pack.

I made sure I could still access the on/off button and I painted out all the pesky safety warnings on the battery pack because aesthetically it was better. (Also, it's SO in the spirit of Dr. Holtzmann!: "Safety lights are for dudes.")

I also made a trip to Construction Junction architectural salvage, and its sister shop, the Center for Creative Reuse, both of which have interesting bits of cool industrial stuff perfect for cheap projects like this. I got some faucet tubing, some circuit boards, wires, a small computer fan, some knobs, wooden dowels and small PVC piping. I painted the piping silver and started Gorilla Glue-ing the other bits.

Ignore the chip clips-- they were just me MacGyvering things into place. :)

The top of the Faraday cage was made by painting shallow dish with wooden dowels glued to it. I tried painting some gauge data on the steam pressure gauge I'd made, but it was hard to do tidily, so I ended up printing out data (copied from the prop) and made some labels to make it look more legit.

This was also about the time I figured out if I dirtied it up by rubbing on (and then off) black acrylic paint, I could make the thing look like it had seen some action, as well as hide flaws.

There was a small issue where the Gorilla Glue expanded beyond the area I had expected. So I decided I would just paint it with a neon green Sharpie marker and transform it into ectoplasm.

I moved on to the neutron wand, snagging a U-hook and a plumbing coupling from Lowes, a PCV electric box and handles from Home Depot, and a lawn sprayer from Walmart. A little glue, duct tape and connected with wires and the kitchen faucet sprayer pipe, and it all came together pretty well.

The jumpsuit was the easy bit!

Since I sew poorly, I used a fabric fuse iron-on tape to apply the reflective trim, measuring the width of the trim between the two rows. Getting it even was the hardest part, but overall, I'm really happy with it.  Holtzmann's name has been velcroed on in case I ever want to go as a different member of the team. Amusingly, the Ghostbusters logo badge was free with a Real Ghostbusters cartoon DVD. Yes, please! 

I have a wig I'm working on to top it all off. In the Egon Spengler tradition, Holtzmann has some crazy-high blond hair. I've got, oddly enough, a Marilyn Monroe wig I'm working with. It's challenging getting the right effect, and I think I'm going to have to adapt her look a little just because of wig logistics. But overall, I think the outfit's going to be good. I'll unveil the whole thing around Halloween.

Trick-or-Treat Bag of Halloween Humor

October: the time of year the witches set aside their Swiffer Wetjets for more traditionally seasonal modes of flying transit... 

Those bright, crisp days before the carved pumpkins begin to sag, sink and soggily sway like drunken old men on every doorstep...

The time of year I realize how many Halloween humor posts I've written since I started blogging, and that newer readers haven't gotten a chance to check them out!

So if you're looking for a few holiday cackles, a dollop of zombie fun, a resurrection of 80's childhood nostalgia and maybe even a few otherworldly groans, look no further than our list below! Click a title to find your frightening funny.

All That is Zombie

• T'was The Night Before Halloween, Plus Zombies (My Shaun of the Dead Sequel Poem). What happens when Shaun pays a trip to visit an American friend and finds himself in a mall full of the Undead? And where do you buy a good cricket bat?

• Rip Slaughter: Zombie for Hire. An original example of the Film Noir Zombie Detective genre. Okay, there probably isn't a genre that specific yet. But maybe there will be.

• Ten Signs Your Neighbor is a Zombie. You know you worry about these things.

• New!: The Anti-Zombie Bra from Ashley's Armoire. Do you want to be Evil Dead, or Evil Drop Dead Gorgeous? Defend yourself the stylish way through this exciting new product available from Ashley's Armoire.

Halloween in 80s Kiddom

• Nightmare on Sesame Street Part One. Take one talented seamstress mom, two tons of fiberfill, and a tube of window caulking and what do you get? Halloween immobility and award-winning costuming all-in-one. 

• Nightmare on Sesame Street Part Two. The mean streets of Jersey prove trick-or-treating is a dangerous game, and not just because Mrs. Martin's been giving out the same bag of Milk Duds for five years.

• Halloween on the Doll Lady's Doorstep. An eccentric neighbor with an obsession with dead-eyed dollies as outdoor decor made for triple-dog-dare worthy childhood moments.

Hope you enjoy 'em-- They're sugar and razor-blade free!

Night of a Thousand Pixie Stix

Now that I'm an adult, it's always interesting to be on the Giving instead of Receiving end of the whole Trick-or-Treating tradition.

First of all, I appreciate being able to actually breathe and see where I'm going; it's still novel.

Secondly, every year there is usually one costume that tends to dominate all others. And today I thought I'd tell you about Halloween 2001...

The doorbell rang and I swallowed up the last bits of a Nutrageous bar, and flung wide the door.

Before me was a wee pink little princess with a pointed hat taller than she was. Her big brother was the psycho from “Scream.”

They were well-trained, this pair. They peered down as Pixie Stix, candy corn and candy bars tumbled into their bag. Yep, they recognized extraordinarily good stash when they saw it. Then they wished me a well-rehearsed, "Happy Halloween."

Scream paused a moment on the stairs, turning. Perhaps it was a brief puzzled expression under his white plastic mask...

Did an adult actually understand the candy hierarchy? One who knew Milk Duds were called Duds for a reason?... That circus peanuts taste neither like peanuts or pureed clowns?... An adult who saw that microscopic-sized candybars and toothbrushes were not in the spirit of proper Halloween plunder?

Had I once been a child like them?

“Nah... Can’t be...” The moment was gone. The next house was calling.

The doorbell rang again moments later to reveal four teenage boys.

Two boys were cleverly disguised as eighth graders. And two were dressed as... Scream. Dueling Screams, these boys, jostling at the door for space.

To costumed and non-costumed alike, I unhesitatingly handed out the goodies. Yes, bring me your tired, your poor, your sugar rushes yearning to be free... I will not discriminate.

They thanked me. It was uncharacteristic politeness that year, and the heart swelled.

Once more with the bell. I greeted a pirate, a second princess, Friday the 13th’s Jason and... Scream.

I was starting to know how Neve Campbell felt. “Deja vuuuuuu!... Do you like Nutrageous Bars, Sidney?”

Another sound of the bell, and before me was a two-year-old rumpled, dirty bumble bee whose bent wings dragged on the ground. Clearly wardrobe malfunctions had ensued early on in the evening. Her mother, a weary-faced woman, trailed behind praying for a quick and merciful end.

Soon I greeted a suave little vampire, Jason Returns, a teeny-tiny blond Superman, and a person two-foot-high who cheerfully proclaimed, “I'm a ninja!”

... A ninja. Yep. You sure are.

Moments later a toddler witch cried at the sight of a monster on my porch, a fellow trick-or-treater, yet perhaps too in-character.

A robot almost couldn't make it up the stairs, his legs so short, his suit so stiff.

And a cowboy, dressing it Old School Retro, was jazzed about the Pixie Stix. So jazzed he almost ran straight into “Scary Movie’s” version of... yes... wait for it...

Scream.

This suddenly explained all the sequels.

But I was having requests. The Pixie Stix dominated and Superman actually gave me back a packet of candy corn for a single Pixie Stick.

Now, on this special night of all nights, I wasn’t particularly worried about give-backs and tradesies-- certainly not for the beloved Man of Steel. But, hey, it’s Kiddom. You gotta play the game by the rules.

I remember.
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For you folks looking for even more Halloween blog posty goodness:

• Check out the HumorBloggers Halloween Carnival here, where the Blog Cabal o' Funny brings the laughs Great Pumpkin-style...

• And if you missed them, you can check out my two posts entered in the Carnival:

• Nightmare on Sesame Street, Part One
• Nightmare on Sesame Street, Part Two

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Nightmare on Sesame Street: Part Two

(Missed Part One? Read it by clicking here.)


"Where are you?" my friend Dawn asked, from what sounded very far away.

"I'm here. Where are you?" I could see what appeared to be a giant yellow pineapple with a unibrow, bobbing in front of my eyeholes.

"I'm here," said the pineapple. "Is my mask on straight?"

"Heck if I know. Is mine?"

"Er, yeah. Sure," Dawn said, lying through her air-slits.

It was Halloween night. We were dressed as Bert and Ernie from Sesame Street. We were on our way to two hours of sheer Candy Nirvana....

And we would be lucky if we found our way out of my parents' house.

But Dawn said my mom's homemade Bert costume was an upgrade from her usual Halloween garb. And I imagine that was true. See, the last nine Halloweens of her life, Dawn had been a witch. And Dawn's mom didn't believe in dressing her girl as any pink-gowned glamorous Barbie-type Good Witch of the Nordstroms sort of witch, no sir!

She believed in Ye Olde Timey sneering, taloned hag-witches. Of "bubble, bubble, toil and trouble" fame.... And, er, now-popular Broadway musicals.

The green face makeup alone would leave Dawn acne-flecked, and with a vague "oxidized penny" haze for weeks.

So even with impaired vision, Bert, he was a real treat.

Now Sarah, a friend from down the street, has just made her grand entrance as the Cowardly Lion-- leveraging beige khakis, and a tan hooded sweatshirt trimmed in fun-fur.

And then there was Leni. She and her dad had spent months crafting Gumby out of foam panels and green satin. The visual was flawless. The mobility, well... let's just say going up stairs, she looked a lot like a giant arthritic green bean.

So it was very slow-going on this moonlit night. We would meander through the leaf-littered streets of the housing complex with masks randomly turning sideways on our heads, but optimism filling our hearts.

Happily, minor wardrobe malfunctions were delicately ignored by the kind neighbor ladies, who tweaked us and fussed and tossed goodies in our rapidly-filling sacks. These were the days where full-sized candybars were not an anomaly, but the standard. And with one neighbor who worked for M&M/Mars, the potential for Twix and Snickers was extremely high.

Crunch bars and Kisses... popcorn balls and Goobers... Quick glimpses of these delicacies would reach through the eyeholes and only increase the excitement. Some folks even got particularly creative, with wax cola bottles or lips, candy buttons or-- outlawed in my home every other day of the year-- the adrenaline-pumping Pixie Stix, pure sugar and complete bliss.

Of course, we did have the folks who, we theorized, distributed from the very same bag of Milk Duds each year. The Duds would reach us speckled with an unnatural white on their chocolate coating, the Dud inside rock-hard and long-forgetting the cow it might have known.

But by all early estimates, we agreed, overall it was looking like a very good year for loot.

The final bend of our journey changed all that, though. As we trekked down this last dark street at the end of a turnaround, we glimpsed tall figures stealing through streetlight shadows... moving closer... closer....

And before we knew it-- bam! Gumby got picked off from our ranks like a gazelle in a National Geographic special. There she was, flat on the ground while her bag of candy was in the hands of some high school punk rapidly headed for the woods.

Gumby flailed like an overturned turtle. The same four inches of foam that had broken her fall, also prevented any sort of flexibility, leaving her a lump of immobilized clay. Bert and Ernie ran to mold her back into a standing position.

By then, the leopards had regrouped and were coming in fast for another kill. This time, Ernie must have been in their sights. Because in a second, I felt myself being grabbed, dragged across the macadam, anchored by the trick-or-treat bag wound twice around my orange-gloved wrist.

I found myself on the ground, face down, bleeding, with a ripped, half-bag of candy still wrapped around my hand.

And that when I recalled thinking, This isn't what Halloween is supposed to be about, is it? Halloween isn't about being harassed and roughed up and having stuff taken off of you...

It's about guilt-free candy, and the relief of being someone else for a while. Someone less likely than me to have the livin' tar beat out of her...

And that’s when Ernie got mad.

"Let's get 'em!!"

What those high school boys saw next was, I imagine, something they never anticipated when they first plotted their little snatch-and-grab routine.

Because before they could gather round to count their ill gotten gains...

Before so much as a Tootsie Roll passed before their lazy lips...

They were being swarmed by Ernie... Bert... the Cowardly Lion... and Gumby (bringing up the rear)... charging at them in Full-On Berserker Rage.

---

Now, I’d like to say we all got our candy back.

I’d like to tell you we made a stand for bashed and bullied kids everywhere.

But Ernie’s nose got scraped up. And Bert started crying. And the Lion summoned courage but still ate pavement.

We shuffled back to my house, sore and limping, faces tear-stained and hearts heavy. On my parents' living room floor, the Lion, Bert and I divvied up our loot to make a new bag for Gumby. We knew what those other kids didn't: fair was fair.

We learned a lot that night.

We learned Muppets in saddle-oxfords were nobody's puppets. We saw the Cowardly Lion had courage when push came to shove.

And suddenly, in a moment quicker than the flicker of a jack o' lantern, we learned we had grown entirely too old for Halloween.

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Nightmare on Sesame Street: Part One

Vision? Like a horse with blinders.

Oxygen? At about 30%.

Atmosphere? A candy corn-scented fog clung to the inside of the mask.

Mobility? Shoes, a size too large.

Comfort? Hair sweaty and neck officially itchy...

All riiiight! Welcome to Halloween in Kiddom!

Every year, my mother and I looked forward to this special day. And every season, Mom's Singer sewing machine sung with the joy of mad transformation.

While I was in it purely for the candy, my mother, well, she was motivated by something far greater, more noble-- costume design immortality.

With my hometown Halloween contest well in her sights, year after year, my mother concocted new, more elaborate creations destined to imprint our family name in the town annals of Homemade Costume Glory.

The imagination and execution of her work were beyond compare. Material, yarn, paint and chickenwire... it all bowed to her genius.

One year, I was a Cabbage Patch Kid-- fully-encased in footy pajamas crafted of doll cloth and stuffed to dimpled capacity with fiberfill. Once in this suit, backing out was not an option. The chubby mittened hands-- sewn straight to the arms-- and the zipper in the back absolutely ensured that those encased in the Kid, stayed in the Kid.

After I struggled into this polyfiber astronaut suit, I had to "dress" the doll, too-- layering on a smock, bloomers, anklet socks and Mary-Janes. Then top it off with a fully-sculpted doll head and wig.

Needless to say, all liquids ceased several hours before the big event. It was as much for the safety of the costume as for my comfort. Mom was taking no chances.

From inside the suit, I felt like a python's dinner being slowly digested. Sights and sounds were distant and muffled. Breathing was shallow. I wondered vaguely how 'd agreed to this, and how I'd ever thought it was such a good idea. But, then, I wondered that every year.

Mom said it was the price one paid for Art.

Other costumes over the years included Miss Piggy, featuring a homemade mask cleverly MacGyvered from window caulking. The fumes alone in that baby were stronger than any sugar rush...

It also was the unfortunate beginning of all my relatives giving me random pig tchotchkes. It solved their gifting concerns for the next five years.

The year of Mom's Garfield extravaganza allowed me to wield sarcasm and a tail. But logistically, that suit had similar problems to the Cabbage Patch Kid-- complete sensory isolation...

Plus fur.

Then there was Olive Oyl, a costume which left me a refreshing amount of mobility, but the rubber nose which Mom said topped off the look to perfection ("It's just not Olive Oyl without the nose," she insisted, handing the schnoz back to me) was held there with duct tape, and kept toppling off at inconvenient moments.

Like during breathing or walking.

Plus, when you're a skinny, awkward girl to begin with, being Olive Oyl could be said to be embracing your Inner You....

Or, it could be the start of a nickname which your classmates will enjoy for the next two years.

Now you might be wondering where these costume ideas came from. Well, these costumes were chosen through an elaborate two-tiered brainstorming process the summer before each Halloween.

In Phase One, I would toss out ideas of characters I wanted to be-- like Wonder Woman, Barbie, Batgirl, or Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz...

And in Phase Two, my mother would go through my list and veto them all using her Executive Designer Overrule Power, because I'd be too cold... Or I was too flat-chested... Or because it didn't offer enough creative challenge... Or, most of all, because it didn't have the "wow-factor" contest judges were looking for...

Mom had a sixth sense about these things. She may have missed out on a lucrative career in Hollywood movie casting.

And it was true, the contest competition would be stiff. In the cool autumn air, as leaves twirled in the New Jersey post-dusk mist, we'd stand among the ranks of our fellow masqueraders in Mom's latest fancy-dress inspiration...

And we'd find ourselves chatting with a large bunch of grapes... or a fish in a bowl... or a crystal ball on a table... or, oh, a wedge of cheese. Each one had potential to seize the gold, depending on the mood of the judges.

And we'd wait nervously for our turn on the costume catwalk.

The year of the "Nightmare on Sesame Street," as it's come to be known in my circles, Mom's creative spark spawned two lovable Muppets. My mother made her costumed character debut as Bert this Halloween, and I-- the shorter-- was Ernie.

The night of this costume contest marked the first time my mother shared directly in the anticipation... and the visual impairment. ("Wow, it's really hard to breathe in these things, isn't it?... And where'd your father go? Oh... he's right here. My mask got twisted.")

It seemed a strange sort of Universal Balance had finally been struck. I didn't know what the word for it was at the time, but if I did, I'd have told you, it was "closure."

Or possibly "poetic justice."

Either one was acceptable.

Yes, indeed, that night we took home the first place trophy with joy in our hearts, the Sesame Street theme song on our lips, and a bag full of candy in my hands.

So with neighborhood trick-or-treating still on the orange harvest horizon, life seemed simply filled with mind-boggling, nerve-tingling, tooth-rotting possibilities....

Little did I know, that in less than 24 hours, my friends and I would find ourselves learning a childhood lesson we would never, ever forget.

Ah, but that is a story for tomorrow, my friends...

I hope you'll pop by for Part Two of Nightmare on Sesame Street.
(Update 9/24-- Click here for Part Two.)

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