LXXI. Halloween is the Bestest
Halloween is my favorite holiday. I love dressing up as a goblin and sending threatening notes to ex-lovers. But I love Halloween more.
As a kid, I liked the sense of mystery that Halloween contained. There were always the razor blades in the apples to artfully eat around, the dirty needle surprises in the heart of popcorn balls – and these were just the treats my parents made for me.
The other Halloween constant was the old lady on the block that was rumored to be a real live witch, as evidenced by her porch light being off on Halloween. We took that as proof positive she was worshipping Dark Forces and feeding on the crimson protein of the slow kid from the block over. In reality, she was probably just sleeping off the dialysis. Poor thing.
To be clear, you may trick-or-treat legitimately until about the sixth grade. After that, you can trick-or-treat ironically until the ninth grade. After that, you can't really call it trick-or-treating as much as casing houses.
As a tax-paying American, let me be the first to say that there is too much of an emphasis on "treats" and not nearly enough on "tricks" during the ghoul season. The good trick is an underused social grace. What better way to meet the neighbors than tying a skinned pet to a prominent oak and then watch as neighbors emerge from their houses to mingle in wild speculation?
And what about the bonding that occurs after sailing stray concrete through double-paned windows? The neighbors may curse you and even involve law enforcement, but secretly they will appreciate your good-natured fun.
As a boy, my favorite Halloween hijinks were painting misleading epithets on neighborhood homes. "Yankee go home!" I would gleefully spray across the house of a native Texan. "We don't need your kind!" was a poignant critique of a white Protestant of average income two houses down.
And who could resist the subtle charms of my ironic admonition "No graffiti" scrawled across the broad arms of a majestic ranch house?
It is this sort of playful creativity that makes Halloween such a laugh riot for the whole family. Speaking of families, mine disowned me.
As a kid, I liked the sense of mystery that Halloween contained. There were always the razor blades in the apples to artfully eat around, the dirty needle surprises in the heart of popcorn balls – and these were just the treats my parents made for me.
The other Halloween constant was the old lady on the block that was rumored to be a real live witch, as evidenced by her porch light being off on Halloween. We took that as proof positive she was worshipping Dark Forces and feeding on the crimson protein of the slow kid from the block over. In reality, she was probably just sleeping off the dialysis. Poor thing.
To be clear, you may trick-or-treat legitimately until about the sixth grade. After that, you can trick-or-treat ironically until the ninth grade. After that, you can't really call it trick-or-treating as much as casing houses.
As a tax-paying American, let me be the first to say that there is too much of an emphasis on "treats" and not nearly enough on "tricks" during the ghoul season. The good trick is an underused social grace. What better way to meet the neighbors than tying a skinned pet to a prominent oak and then watch as neighbors emerge from their houses to mingle in wild speculation?
And what about the bonding that occurs after sailing stray concrete through double-paned windows? The neighbors may curse you and even involve law enforcement, but secretly they will appreciate your good-natured fun.
As a boy, my favorite Halloween hijinks were painting misleading epithets on neighborhood homes. "Yankee go home!" I would gleefully spray across the house of a native Texan. "We don't need your kind!" was a poignant critique of a white Protestant of average income two houses down.
And who could resist the subtle charms of my ironic admonition "No graffiti" scrawled across the broad arms of a majestic ranch house?
It is this sort of playful creativity that makes Halloween such a laugh riot for the whole family. Speaking of families, mine disowned me.
posted by Clubber Lang at 5:09 PM
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