9:23 p.m. I am back, I tell you: back! Among the living. The day people. The people who have a life outside of one unrelenting deadline that waits for no man. The presses must roll. The people are going to line up at the table and there must be books to sell. Ergo, I sit at this machine and get it done. And I did, and I've even napped.

Now I look around at what I've neglected. In the first place, we've a Halloween party to go to tomorrow night and still -- no costumes. I'm not especially good at costumes: Just ask my poor kids, who carry the scars, even today, of my lack of imagination and initiative. One year the kids across the street were matching handmade X-wing fighters and I convinced my kids to go as dog food.

I had plenty of the economy bags and the right-sized kids and voila! You cut arm and leg holes, slap on some construction paper kibbles and bits and a watch cap and drag 'em house to house. Memories are what you make of them. When I was growing up I was always a bum with a hankie on a stick and my brother was always a "gypsy girl" with a hankie for a scarf.

As you can probably surmise, I'm not a big fan of this holiday. As far as I'm concerned, every time I get dressed for any ordinary event I am as much in costume as if every day were Halloween. I don't wear makeup around the house. Or shoes. Let alone decent, law-abiding clothing. In fact -- in fact -- I just realized this: around the house in real life ... I. Am. A. Bum.

Ok. Well, that's not so good. I hope my brother is doing better with his around-the-house costume.

Meanwhile, I thought Igor and I might go as Y2K: zero and one. But that seemed like too much work. I know Igor is tending toward being a Man in Black, since he's got everything but the RayBans and the hypnotic mind-erasing device. I'm tending toward floppy-balled antennae. I think they would make any outfit into a festive costume with little or no fuss.

My daughter has a gorilla suit in her closet for just this very purpose. Saves all this mental wear and tear. I knew she and her husband-to-be were meant for each other when he went as the Big Banana in a hooded yellow sweat ensemble. I would have added a few construction-paper brown spots, but that's just me.

Now, there are certain things we can't go as. I tried doing a '50s routine one year with a perfect flip and a Upper Darby jacket and penny loafers and rolled-up jeans and all and I looked pretty much as I normally do. In fact, I was chastised for not dressing up that year by the host, even though I had seriously teased my hair and Aqua-Netted it as far as my arms would reach.

And Igor can't get away with his Indiana Jones thing anymore, either. It's pretty much what he wears every day, except for the stupid hat, which he always wants to wear because he likes all hats, all the time. He even has a Hama sushi chef hat. Hey -- there's an idea. I could be a spicy shrimp or a California roll.

It's not so crazy. A black garbage bag covered with mailing peanuts and some green eye-shadow wasabi, and there you go. Hai!

No, this year we have to come up with something interesting. Maybe something with real seaweed. Or ... I have a whole lot of bubble wrap -- maybe I can go as an eBay delivery? Plus, people could press and pop me all night -- an added benefit not to be lightly dismissed.

See, I should have bought that alien mask last weekend when I had the chance. But I really hate talking and breathing through rubber. It gets all wet and gooey and I still have that unrational Twilight Zone fear that when you go to take the mask off, you know ... there's something way, way worse underneath. Like, your true feelings or something.

Halloween in Hollywood. I will have a lot to say about this in the next few days. It's the only night of the year in which the people you meet aren't pretending.