Saturday, October 22, 2005
Betrayal on Aisle Nine
Those of you who know me (and that's most of you, since my readership is composed primarily of friends and people who googled "Foxy Boxing") know that I'm kind of a big fan of costumes and costumery. I have almost as many items of clothing that I own for their humorous qualities as I have for day-to-day wear. It takes very little provocation for me to array myself as Harry Potter, a disgraced 80s televangelist, or even Fitness Guru Richard Simmons. And every Halloween, of course, I pride myself on coming up with something distinctive and creative, even if it means I spend half of the night explaining it to people. (I knew that Mies van der Rohe costume was a tough sell.) In short, I need attention desperately in a way perhaps beyond the capabilities of modern psychiatric science. And that's hott.
So you'll imagine my shock, horror, and dismay (yes, dismay, I say to you) when Roommate Liz and I were out at Target last night (yes, we were at Target on a Friday night -- we're that secure in our personal coolness) and I saw my costume choice for this year being mass produced and sold to the unwashed general populace. I'm not going to get into the details of my selection because it's dead to me now, but let's just say he had a fabulous 'stache and solved mysteries in Hawaii. I literally felt sick to my stomach, and not just because I ate one of those Target hot dogs that rotate in the little glass heat cabinet. It was as though someone had taken my diary and published it on the Internet! Well, I mean, if I had a diary and it were actually interesting, which it probably would not be, unless you really like anecdotes about torts.
But anyway, the point is that now I have to come up with a whole new costume on short notice, and I think I may have lost my faith in Halloween, America, and all that is holy for ever and ever. Amen.
On the plus side, though, Roommate Liz and I had our Friend Amy paged to the service desk, which was totally hilarious. She didn't see that one coming.
Those of you who know me (and that's most of you, since my readership is composed primarily of friends and people who googled "Foxy Boxing") know that I'm kind of a big fan of costumes and costumery. I have almost as many items of clothing that I own for their humorous qualities as I have for day-to-day wear. It takes very little provocation for me to array myself as Harry Potter, a disgraced 80s televangelist, or even Fitness Guru Richard Simmons. And every Halloween, of course, I pride myself on coming up with something distinctive and creative, even if it means I spend half of the night explaining it to people. (I knew that Mies van der Rohe costume was a tough sell.) In short, I need attention desperately in a way perhaps beyond the capabilities of modern psychiatric science. And that's hott.
So you'll imagine my shock, horror, and dismay (yes, dismay, I say to you) when Roommate Liz and I were out at Target last night (yes, we were at Target on a Friday night -- we're that secure in our personal coolness) and I saw my costume choice for this year being mass produced and sold to the unwashed general populace. I'm not going to get into the details of my selection because it's dead to me now, but let's just say he had a fabulous 'stache and solved mysteries in Hawaii. I literally felt sick to my stomach, and not just because I ate one of those Target hot dogs that rotate in the little glass heat cabinet. It was as though someone had taken my diary and published it on the Internet! Well, I mean, if I had a diary and it were actually interesting, which it probably would not be, unless you really like anecdotes about torts.
But anyway, the point is that now I have to come up with a whole new costume on short notice, and I think I may have lost my faith in Halloween, America, and all that is holy for ever and ever. Amen.
On the plus side, though, Roommate Liz and I had our Friend Amy paged to the service desk, which was totally hilarious. She didn't see that one coming.
