I'M A FIVE-YEAR-OLD trapped in a 37-year-old's body. Really, I am. I'd run my mother over to get to a chocolate-chip cookie; I still get entirely too much enjoyment from watching cartoons; and on Halloween, I'm dressed in my costume and ready to "trick or treat" by three o'clock in the afternoon. I love Halloween. It's my favorite day of the year. The anticipation, the planning, and the general willingness to dress like an asshole has stuck with me over the years. What's changed? The things my mom used to tell me to avoid when I was a kid - drugs, alcohol, sexual deviants - I'm now out looking for.
Although Halloween falls on a Wednesday this year, Saturday is when most of the celebrating takes place. Like many of you, I've been invited to several parties, and I'm not sure which one I should to go to. After an extensive review of my options - including a look at required costume themes, potential female attendance, and the corresponding local police department's DUI-enforcement statistics - I decide to hit a friend's house party on the North Shore.
As an adult, costume selection is very important. Achieving the proper blend of creativity and sexuality isn't easy. For example, if your costume is too involved, you not only limit your ability to attract other partygoers, but you also limit your ability to pee - both things that will have you, and only you, holding your wee-wee by night's end.
The theme of the party I'm attending is "musician, dead or alive." So in honor of the Red Sox, who are playing in game three of the World Series tonight, I decided to rent a kilt and do my best Dropkick Murphys impression. To be honest, I'm not really sure it meets the sexuality requirements I put forth earlier, but with this plaid skirt on, I can take a squirt just about anywhere. To quote Mel Gibson at the end of the movie Braveheart, "FREEDOM!"
Speaking of which, I'd like to take this opportunity to personally thank the women of Boston who, on this night, really seem to embrace their freedom of expression. Ladies, your ability to find the inner whore in just about any costume is truly inspiring. In fact, it seems the bigger the stretch, the better the results. On my way to the party I stopped to buy beer and met a girl who, when asked, described her outfit as "Slutty Strawberry Shortcake." The only thing sweet about this girl was the can of whipped cream she had in her hand - and something tells me it wasn't going to be used on dessert.
I have a blast at the party. In fact, the night couldn't be better: the Sox win the game, the party host serves chocolate-chip cookies, and I even get to watch some cartoons: later, after I get home, Strawberry Shortcake sends me a picture message. Seems I was right about the whipped cream. @
