There is a costume hanging on the back of my closet door, and it is not good. It is the kind of costume that requires confidence, a sense of humor, and possibly a backup plan involving a black hoodie. This week, we are going to a Halloween party, and I am absurdly excited about it—not ironic-excited, not “I’ll go for an hour” excited, but genuinely, childishly excited. The kind of excited that makes me check the weather, rehearse bad jokes, and wonder whether I can still pull off eyeliner without looking like a raccoon who lost a fight with a yard sale. It reminds me of being a kid, which is probably the point. When I was young, Halloween began in September with a catalog and ended with a pillowcase full of candy. But the real soundtrack of the season was television. Beetlejuice was on after school—the animated series, all green hair and gravelly voice and gleeful gross-out humor. I did not know then that he was a cartoon spun off from a Tim Burton movie, or that “the ghost...