have to go out (the best thing about being in a relationship, of course, is having an automatic excuse to not go out). And also because I actually get a huge kick out of Halloween. It’s a great holiday. The moment I stepped onto the 22 and saw somebody get on dressed up like Princess Leia in Star Wars (the bun look, not the gold bikini look), I felt better about dragging my frumpy ass out into the night.

So I went to a party. I knew of a couple, all of them sounding not-so-exciting, and chose the one I went to after making a calculated decision that it would be the best one. Plus, the friend who invited me was the first one to invite me to a party and it was the path of least resistance. I’m all about taking the path of least resistance.

The party was in the penthouse of some apartment complex off Van Ness. How much of a dude apartment was it? The reading material underneath the coffee table consisted of football magazines and Playboy. And as befitting people who would have that as their reading material, the people attending were a little on the young side. Like early 20’s. All of which made me feel that much better about going out on a night I much preferred to rest my weary bones on. Cause nothing makes you feel your age like being way over ten years older than everyone at a party you’re going to. And for the record, part of the reason why I went to this party is that my friends who invited me are 30 and 39 and didn’t think the party would skew that way.

It was kind of a fun party, kind of one of those parties that never quite kicks into full party mode. But whatever. People came in really good costumes and there was jello shots and unlike other parties, people knew that my Star Trek red shirt costume meant that I’m supposed to die everytime I go to a new planet. Which makes them okay in my book.

Towards the end of the night I sat down on one of the really nice couches and found myself unable to get up. Part of it was because I was nominally supposed to save my friend’s seat, part of it was to save their beer and to hold onto part of their costume, and part of it was just because it was a damn comfortable couch and I was pretty much done with the night. Anyways, one of the people at the party, a black woman who could be described as somewhat bootylicious came up to me while sitting and told me that I had no excuse to just sit there and that I had to dance. So she got me moving a bit, first while sitting and then right by the couch. After a few butt bumping moves, she dragged me onto the dance floor and got me to dance.

Now I know I’m treading on way dangerous territory here and that I’m skating on un-PC thin ice, but when you’re a white guy who can’t dance and feels like a total uptight, uncoordinated white dude when dancing, having to dance with a big black woman who can dance is a bit intimidating. Cause deep down, the feeling is that as a white person, it’s just genetically impossible for us to dance like black people. Throw in being Jewish and, well, you get what we’re trying to say. Dancing with a black woman is, in a way, the ultimate worst case scenario. It’s like going out drinking with a couple of Irishmen. Or playing poker with a couple of card sharks. It’s something totally out of the league.

And so I danced, baby, danced. And forced myself to overcome my inate uptightness and fear of looking dumb and got into it as much as I could. But no matter how hard I tried, all I could think to myself was this- "oh God, just don’t do the white man’s overbite…just don’t do the white man’s overbite…."

Editor’s note- for those of you going "what the hell is he doing here and how lame can he be?", remember if anyone else was in my shoe’s, they would have been thinking the same damn thing. Well maybe not everyone, but a large segment of people would have it flash their minds. And if not, they’re lying