And why not? Barring some national disaster, the media hype will be honed in on the night of ghouls and goblins, as Halloween seems to have taken a firm grip on the number two spot as a day of fun and celebration.
In this instance, "Fun & Celebration" is defined as dressing up as pagan pimps and whores while getting drunk on your ass and acting like a sexual deviant.
Oh, I guess I'm just jealous. Being firmly imbedded in the baby boom generation, Halloween lost most of it's charm for me after my age moved into the double digits. It came back a bit when our son was a tadpole, but that was many years ago, and now I merely tolerate the task of handing out bite sized pieces of sugary shit to whatever rug rats show up at the door on the appointed night.
Everyone has a favorite Halloween story, and they're all better than mine, as I can recall only two events on that particular night that remain in the back of my mind. They lurk there simply for the fact that they aren't my proudest moments in the years I've being roaming the surface of the earth.
The first, when I was 12 years old, I'll blame on hormones. I was madly in "like" with a 12 year old girl down the street, but my like was unrequited because she had a 17 year old boyfriend with a tricked out Chevrolet. Even though 12 is a ripe old age for an Ozark Mountain girl, I thought there was something basically wrong with the relationship. Later I would connect this feeling with the word "pedophile". Isn't it nice when you can link a word with a feeling? Sort of like "masturbation".
Regardless, I thought the best way to deal with the situation was to do the old "wax-on/fuck-off" routine on his car on Halloween night, when he would undoubtedly visit his girl. At the appointed time, I approached his car, but the very second the wax square touched the car window, the house light flared on and the front door crashed open and the chase was on ... me on foot and he in the souped up Chevy. Through the neighborhoods we went ... me ducking from bush to bush, and he roaring up and down the streets, his car taking hand-fulls of well thrown chat every time he passed my hiding place. After a while, his concern for this car's finish outweighed his desire to kick my ass up between my shoulder blades, and he retired. I eventually serpentined my way home that evening and was never found out. A definite "win" for me.
On another Halloween Saturday night during my high school years, I found myself alone in the house and was forced to deal with the trick or treaters by myself. In those days, there were no "set" hours for going door to door and as the night wore on I became increasingly irritated that I was missing large chunks of "Saturday Night At The Movies" on NBC because of the constant door bell. I had been left a partial pot of chili for dinner, which now set coagulating on the stove top. Noticing that some of the little darlings were making their third or fourth visits to my door, I began answering it with one hand full of candy and the other holding a ladle full of cold chili. Plink, plink went the candy ... Plop, plop went the chili.
I often wonder what happened when those greedy little monsters returned home and found their bags of individual treasures coated with a film of meat, beans and tomato sauce. I like to think that I gave them their own Halloween experiences to remember.
Those days of dickery are long gone now. This year, as usual, I'll buy way more candy than I need for the few kids that will venture on to our cul-de-sac. Then I'll spend the rest of the evening wolfing down "fun size" Three Musketeer bars.
Happy Halloween ...