Man. I’m a sucker for period pieces. And the Skrulls. And Captain Marvel. So the Marvelous Carol Danvers’ first movie is shaping up to play right to a litany of my weaknesses.

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[OCTOBERFEAST  is the greatest celebration of the year, a revelry dedicated to pop-culture’s most nutritious Halloween detritus. Plastic screams and artificial sweeteners have never been more bountiful. In the old country, villagers refer to the extended party as  Satan’s Snacktime]

Seeing the blood-red Hallow’s Eve moon begin to wink over the horizon, the OCTOBERFEAST revelers have begun assembling their costumes. The celebrants are still pumpkin-drunk and half-deaf from the cacophony of firecrackers and guitar solos, and they stumble and shout their way through the campgrounds in search of appropriate attire. They all eventually wind up at Rusty Ray’s tent, as he’s opened up the treasure trove of clothes and jewelry he claims his great-great-grandfather stole from the Globe Theatre in 1642.

He’s not lying.

Sammy, a wide-eyed seventeen year old with tremendous acne, excitedly excavates a demon mask. He holds it in front of his face and exclaims, “Come Halloween, ain’t no fools gon’ call me crater-face! Innfakk, I’ma pinch me some titty!”

He’s not lying, either.

By shrouding ourselves in layers of feigned-flesh, we are finally able to live out those furtive fancies that our feeble human frames cannot bear on their own. In those disguised moments, we are not tired or short or cross-eyed or dying of lupus. Instead, we are mutated into manifestations of ideas, archetypal concepts that’re time-tested and universally-recognized.

Ghosts. Witches. Hobos. Pirates. Vampires. Slutty nurses.

When these new personas are adopted, agency reaches an ejaculatory peak, as we are finally providing our own definitions of self. We become beings both defiant of corporeal circumstances and confident in our own prowess. We are free to do as we please, whether that means dancing to the Monster Mash, trick-or-treating around the neighborhood, or attending an orgy.

Disguised, we are not ourselves. And surely you can see that this opens up a world of possibility. But to be fair, this gift of liberation-via-secret identity also comes packaged with a caveat.

What if we’re not the ones wearing the masks? What happens when we find out that friends and loved ones aren’t who they say they are? What if those most adept at obscuring their identities actually want to see us brutally murdered?

What if they want to see the entire planet brutally murdered?

Such is the case with one of the Earth’s most terrifying foes: Skrulls.

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The American Dream walks among us and we don’t recognize him. He’s not a weepy bootlegger, changing his name and spying on his babe from across Long Island Sound. And he’s not some punk-ass kid running away from Pencey Prep, hoping to bang broads in the big city and failing miserably. And he sure as hell isn’t some over-the-hill salesman who’s hopin’ that his suicide will save his family.

This is the fuckin’ future, so let’s pay it some damn respect. The American Dream is digital – aspirations have been converted to ones and zeros. The collective consciousness is uploaded and downloaded, torrented with the assistance of an Electrical Storm Zeitgeist.

You’re reading  MONDAY MORNING COMMUTE, the weekly post where I jabber pseudo-philosophy at you and then show you what I’ll be doing during the week. We all know the drill – the workweek sucks, so let’s find some refuge in the shit that makes us happy. After I detail my plans, you hit up the comments section and share yours. And thus, a dialogue is born.

Let’s do this.

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