After a long, loud evening, where we had our best practice in months* followed by a fantastic show put on courtesy of the Ex-Boyfriends & Boundstems wherein I rode an unfortunate booze parabola (beer, sangria, whiskey, sangria, beer), the last thing I wanted in the morning are festive people. Festive people bother me when I feel like this. What with all that smiling and shaking your shoulders and reminding you that you "don't look so good" this morning. Yes. Yes, I'm aware of that. It'd be best if you just shut your trap.
But then, walking past the festive person's desk, something far worse happens. A witch screams. Wait, no. Witches cackle. So let me amend: A witch cackles. A plastic, battery-powered witch the size of the fist I want to crush it with cackles. And then I notice the cotton cobwebs and sequined bat-things and all the other cheesy trappings of suburban Halloween except it's in my office not at old man McGruggin's house. Color me unhappy.
See, I love Halloween. It's my favorite holiday of the year, despite the pang of guilt I just received from saying that (thanks Catholic upbringing). I just don't like seeing it sullied by low-rent tackiness. Paper Jackolanterns? Nah. I want to smell all the pumpkinny goodness. Rubber spider? My lame-alarm is positively erupting. That plastic skull? Sorry. Wouldn't even allow it onstage for a kindergarten production of Hamlet (which, come to think of it, really needs to happen. I want hear a six year old say "There has been much throwing about of brains"). Let's not do the Halloween what we did to Christmas.
With this in mind, we need to talk about costumes. We need standards. We need less pirates. And yes, before you point it out, I know I'm taking this far too seriously. True. But like everything I do, it's for the good of the children. I'm like John Walsh and UNICEF with a bad beard, wearing Gymboree short pants.
So: costumes. As far as I can tell, there's really only one rule: no half-assing. If you're going to dress up as a clown, you can't just throw on a rainbow afro and call it a day. You need hammer pants and big shoes and to show up in my illogical nightmares.**
Of course, creativity counts too. I once saw a pair of women who dressed as "Miss Conception" and "Miss Fortune." Miss Conception had a dress that was a diaphram, a hat that was a condom, and shoes that were sponges. Miss Fortune, sadly, I don't remember as well, although she had a purse full of, well, misfortunes. You know, like the ones that come in fortune cookies. But instead of something like "You are well liked by your peers" they'd say "Your pet will die soon." Good cheer all round.
Me? I'm Prince, circa Purple Rain. I got the whole get-up too, frilly shirt and non-intimidating mustache included at no extra charge. And this year, we'll all be dressed up in New York at Piano's for a show. Looking forward to it. But I'll be missing home. I'm just getting used to the alarm clock, daily dim sum, and having all my friends in close proximity. Once more though. Unto the breach. All that.
* A funny thing happened at practice. Not Funny ha-ha (which Dave claims is a terrible movie), but odd. We finished setting up the microphones to record and, somehow, everyone just started playing the same thing. Can't explain it. Almost like we were the US Women's Soccer team, menstruating in unison. In 5 minutes we had a song we'd never even played or mulled over or anything. It's lovely when things come together like that.
** Also, ladies: although part of every guy enjoys "slutty cop" and "slutty nun" and "slutty Amway saleswoman," this falls under the category of half assing it. A bra, hot pants, and a badge is pretty slapdash. It's hot slapdash, sure, but, come on. I know you can do better.