I hate bars on Halloween. It’s not the costumes (though I would like someone to refund me the 30 minutes I wasted on last night’s visit to my local, of which I spent five figuring out what the women at the next table were dressed as, and 25 feeling sad after realizing they were all “Sexy Honey Boo-Boo*”).
And it’s not the rowdy atmosphere (you can always avoid the bar on Halloween night or weekend, and the threat of bar crawls, frat outings and bachelorette parties can become real any time of the year).
No, it’s the drinks. It’s the slimy green shots that stain up others’ costumes. It’s the endless array of drinks designed to look like medical biohazard. There’s something about Halloween that makes adults dress like sexy zombie French Maids and drink cocktails that are made with more attention to replicating the appearance and texture of puss and blood than to ensuring a satisfying flavor. I don’t go for costumes anymore (though I don’t begrudge those who do) and I don’t go for novelty drinks. But Halloween gets its hooks in me too.
I know what I’m about to see, but I go out in hopes of better people watching. I don’t turn away when I pass the pile of empty Jello boxes next to the bar’s dumpster. I visit a bar knowing it won’t be pleasant. I leave after one drink and wake up the next day feeling worse than if I’d had five. After all, it’s Halloween. We all need tradition.
*Blatant SEO attempt on my part? You be the judge, new readers.
