I can’t say I love Halloween. I never have, even as a child I thought it was immensely overrated: trick or treating took way too long, the candy was disappointing, and it was intensely cold. I’d rather stay home.
As I got older I really wanted to like Halloween, I did. I threw a party in high school. I wore a slutty costume my sophomore year of college and went clubbing. I drove all the way to Seattle to party on Capital Hill. For all these adventures I was moderately amused, but I’ve never felt the excitement that people around me seemed to indulge in. Course, I’m usually 95% sober – that might be part of the problem.
But every year as I hang around my buddies, and watch them drink in their Halloween bliss, I keep up my search for the Drunk Banana.
Almost every Halloween I stumble across a Drunk Banana. A belligerent male stumbling around the streets, tripping over his tongue, with the tip of the banana suit beginning to sag. That Banana is one shot away from passing out behind a dumpster and snuggling against a mound of trash. Regardless of his, not-so-classy, demeanor he’s entertaining. I hail Satan for bringing me the Drunk Banana and all the people watching joy that he provides.
This year I missed the Drunk Banana. He slipped passed my vision as I ditched the mainstream Halloween realm of cocktails and techno music to embark on the underground Blues Dancing scene that owns my soul. I made the better choice, trust me, for once Halloween didn’t completely suck.
But I missed my version of the Great Pumpkin. Maybe next year.