I see monsters. I see ghosts. It’s as if I stumbled into a crazy parallel universe of nonsense. The faint of heart would fall to the ground in fear and confusion. What is this place? Am I hurt? Have I been injured? That would certainly explain all these scantily-clad nurses roaming about. Perhaps this is a dimly lit hospital of doom. Is this the afterlife?

But aside from an unexplained gash on my right pinkie finger, all seems well. Confused and disoriented, I am pressured into applying for a Freddie Mac loan by a well-dressed businesswoman. She lends me $3 in miniature currency and seems quite trustworthy. I happily abide.

Perhaps this currency will offer me protection. These gentlemen outside in full riot gear look like they’d be glad to help. While considering my options, a yellow submarine walks by. Scooby Doo is standing by a pool table.

A housemaid crosses in the other direction. Somehow forgetting all about whatever it was I was thinking about, I head in the direction of the housemaid, who, for some reason, has a whip and handcuffs attached to her leather skirt, which is a least three sizes too small. What on Earth are those for?

Among the disorder and confusion, there are those who simply wear the colors scarlet and gray. Their faces look somber, emotionless. It’s as if they had a disappointing night. I wonder what happened.

And then I see everyone else who appears to have landed here in this bizarre world wearing common street clothes. These are the ones who may just be too cool to wear some funky get-up in the middle of October. They’re on a mission though. I can see it in their faces. I can see it in their eyes.

Their silent expressions simply scream out, “I just want to drink.”

But good luck, sirs. You are in line. This line stretches a full city block. Single file, mind you. Beyond that line and inside your desired location, you will find another line. Another dizzying line full of characters straight out of your worst nightmares.

After finally reaching the end of these lines, you would expect a reward, but no. After waiting 37 minutes for a drink, you must shell out authentic currency for it, none of that miniature Freddie Mac stuff, exit your line and start all over again.

This is a firsthand account of the madness that brews at the final week of October. A celebration blown out of proportion.

Welcome to Halloween in downtown Kent.

If students put as much time and effort into excelling in their academics as they do designing elaborate costumes only to be worn twice, we’d have a university oozing at the seams with brilliance. Some of these must take weeks of planning. But this is Kent State. Halloween is the reason some people choose to go to school here. Some young adults treat this entire week as a national holiday.

Yes, an entire week. Did any one person decide to make the “official” festivities on the 25th? Officially, no. From what I’ve gathered at this point, it just sort of happens that way because the collective brethren who own all the watering holes were in a hurry to get it over with. So what, Halloween was celebrated a week early. Fair enough. This simply calls for an extra weekend of partying. Does it sound too good to be true?

I find this coincidence hard to believe. There must be a conspiracy, after all. It all makes perfect sense after observing the line of people standing outside the courthouse Sunday morning, waiting to pay for their misdeeds the night before. As to what the individual in front of or behind anyone was accused of, it’s all better left unsaid. The first matter of business in these situations is to get in, get out, pay up and move on with one’s life. Then pretend none of it ever happened.

It is quite intriguing though that once a year, the courthouse holds special sessions on Sunday afternoons. Something sounds fishy .

Of course. I’ve figured it all out. An entire week of chaos brings an excellent source of revenue to the city of Kent. Even the tow truck drivers are making off like bandits. You have to hand it to the collaborators of this ingenious inside job. Profiting off inevitable infractions can and should last as long as possible.

Yet, I wonder, how many underage consumption violations does it take to pay for a judge’s new gavel? How many counts of disorderly conduct will finally fill up that enormous pothole on Summit Street next to the bus stop? We can only ask for some progress in response to a small fortune’s worth of petty fines.

Garrison Ebie is a senior electronic media production major and a columnist for the Daily Kent Stater. Contact him at [email protected].