My career as a judge was short, though not especially sweet

In last week's column I made a disparaging remark about judges and now I want to take it back.  No, I did not receive a threatening letter from some personal injury attorney and no, nobody has suddenly "discovered" an old bench warrant for my unpaid parking tickets (though I'm guessing there's probably one out there somewhere).

The reason I feel compelled to retract my previous derogatory remark (it's available online if you're really interested) is this: I was recently called upon to serve as a judge myself.  Happily, I wasn't asked to send anyone to prison or the electric chair; all I had to do was decide who had the best Halloween costume.

This may not sound like a job requiring much wisdom, fortitude or legal acumen, but first prize was $75.  There were party-goers at the Riverbend Bar & Grille who really wanted that cash.  This despite the manic pace of the waitstaff, which suggested $75 would not have covered the bar tab of most of the patrons present.

My band was playing Halloween weekend, so I was tagged to "supervise" the costume judging contest.  Theoretically, the winner is determined by audience applause, but as anyone who has ever officiated at one of these things can tell you, this is like trying to organize a can of earthworms.  Earthworms who really like margaritas.  Still, taking my responsibilities seriously (for a change) I downloaded a sound-level meter ap for my Android (there really is an ap for everything).  I even tested it on my girlfriend's snoring, which registered roughly the same sound pressure levels as a 767 taking off from JFK.  (For rebuttals to this comment, please see Sweet Annie's Facebook page.)

I thought I was ready.  I was wrong.

First off, there were far more costumed contestants than I had expected.  To make matters worse, many of the costumes were really good.  In addition to the usual barroom assortment of sexy kittens, naughty nurses and Blues Brothers clones, there were hippies, disco kings and queens, Mother Nature, Indian princesses.  I myself came disguised as my band's lead guitar player, Nelson, who looks just like Otto, the bus driver from the TV show The Simpsons.  Nelson also came as Nelson, since he's too cool to wear a costume.

In addition to the good costumes there were plenty of lousy ones, mostly worn by younger guys who were more interested in meeting girls than in winning contests.

It wasn't until I announced the contest and called for the contestants to gather on the dance floor that I fully realized just how many contestants we had.  It was a crowd.

With the help of our sax player, Rocky, we introduced each contestant in turn and asked the audience to show its appreciation with applause.  It was at this point I realized that--although there is an ap for everything--not all of them work.  My sound meter was going off the charts and proving to be more or less useless.

So I was forced to keep track, in my head, of which contestant garnered the loudest applause.  Also, second and third place had to be accounted for.  I did my best, but at contest's end I could tell there was some dissension amongst the multitude as to the veracity of my judgments.  I think it was the shouted epithets and thrown beer bottles that tipped me off.  I felt a sudden affinity for major league umpires.

I managed to get to my car and make good my escape at the end of the night.  I haven't received any death threats from losing contestants.  But I'm pretty sure my career as a judge is over.

And to all you judges I offended last week: I really am sorry.  Turns out that job is tougher than it looks.

Mike Taylor's book, Looking at the Pint Half Full, is available at mtrealitycheck.com and in eBook format at Barnes & Noble, Border's Books and other online book sellers.  Email Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.