Halloween? Feh.

I've seen a few old farts (my age and older) on Facebook lamenting their lack of trick-or-treaters and the general feeling that the Vibe of Halloweens Past just isn't what it used to be.

My response: And? Holidays evolve and change over time.

Stop trying to relive your childhood in modern times.

Talk to the kids. Are they having fun at the trunk-or-treat and other modern Halloween activities that you hate, apparently?

If they're having fun, leave them alone. Let them have fun and go be grumpy somewhere else.

And tell me with a straight face that you really miss your Welcome Back Kotter costume choices. . . .

It's hard to believe these even existed -- plastic moisture-retaning masks to top off designer garbage bags you hoped wouldn't rip before the night was over.

Stumbled across this video tonight: Look how much the "commercial" aura surrounding Christmas has evolved over the years. I particularly like the irony of aluminum Christmas trees dying off thanks to the Charlie Brown Christmas special, and then having the specials themselves die off as the viewing audience is fractured by streaming and other such junk of today.

By Popular Repost

NOTE: I wrote this post a year ago. It still applies.

Ever since I was a little kid, I hated St. Patrick's Day.

Pinching those who did not wear green on March 17th was THE THING to do at Lincoln Elementary, I'm sure as it was at every damn elementary school everywhere in this country, then and now. Heaven protect the poor fool who forgot to wear green that day, he or she was literally -- I mean literally -- pinched black and blue by the time the day was over. Some teachers took pity on people and passed out paper shamrocks to pin to shirts, but nine times out of ten some creep would rip the shamrock off, shriek "He's NOT wearing green!" and pinch away.

I hated them.

Then, too, there was the lunchroom attendant/recess aid who loved St. Patrick's Day and, in addition, attended church with my mother. That meant I was pinched unmercifully, if tenderly, by a crasy woman not above chasing us through the playground. These were much more innocent times back then; today, you'd get on the news with this kind of shenanigans.

Worse than the pinches, though, were the smug little farts who wore concealed green and lived by the rule that said if you were pinched but had green on somewhere, you got to pinch the pincher ten times. Everyone hated the little creep whose mom bought him green underwear.

I stopped pinching in the third grade, though there was little I could do to avoid being pinched. "I'm not Irish, I'm half Dutch," I'd say to the owners of those stupid pinchy fingers. That is true, my father came from a land where they used their fingers fore more useful pursuits than pinching -- they stuck them in leaky dikes. Not that it did any good. Everybody got pinched, though I'm sure there was only one kid in the whole school who could claim direct Irish ancestry. I had a crush on her. I was too shy to go anywhere near her, let alone pinch her.

So now I'm a grumpy old man with kids of my own. They wear green to school on the 17th of March, simply because there's no getting out of it. I do not wear green to work. I tell people who want to pinch that it's a quaint old Dutch tradition to punch people who pinch. I tell them that with a smile on my face, of course. So far, no pinching. Or punching.

Holiday with Mr. Hunter

Maybe it's a little creepy, going out into the middle of a huge reservoir in a tiny motorboat with your brother-in-law and the guy who tried to hammer algebra into your head in high school.

But there I was. Sitting in the covered nose of a rattly little motorboat, squeezed into a life jacket, watching my daughter alternately express joy at being out on a boat for the first time and a little concern every time we hit a bump.

The bumps and the waves didn't worry me. I was more concerned that Mr. "Plug It In and Turn the Crank" Hunter would suddenly stop the boat in the middle of Palisades Reservoir somewhere and refuse to take us back to shore until I solved a few problems and graphed the results. Correctly. In ink.

As it is, as he welcomed us aboard, I told him I remembered taking his class. Of course, I wasn't a standout -- which is a relief to math dullards everywhere; your average teacher is not going to remember you. He did ask if I remembered any of the math he taught me, and I had to confess that since I didn't really learn it well the first time -- I got Cs in math all through high school -- he couldn't really beheld responsible if I didn't remember it now.

Fortunately, he took me at my word, though the thought of s pop quiz --multiplying fractions! -- put me into a cold sweat.

It was fun going out on the boat. I haven't been out on a boat on Palisades in years -- not since I was a Boy Scout and was among the group trying to water-ski with an underpowered boat. Since they didn't want dead weight in the boat, but didn't want to have to go back to shore every time they wanted a new skiier, they dumped us off at some kind of floating platform waaaaaay out in the middle of the lake where we could bob and such until it was our turn. I took one turn, skiied on my nose for a while, then decided waterskiing wasn't my thing. Not that they minded -- gave them that much smaller of a rotation waiting for their turns.

I Am Not Irish; Do NOT Pinch Me

Ever since I was a little kid, I hated St. Patrick's Day.

Pinching those who did not wear green on March 17th was THE THING to do at Lincoln Elementary, I'm sure as it was at every damn elementary school everywhere in this country, then and now. Heaven protect the poor fool who forgot to wear green that day, he or she was literally -- I mean literally -- pinched black and blue by the time the day was over. Some teachers took pity on people and passed out paper shamrocks to pin to shirts, but nine times out of ten some creep would rip the shamrock off, shriek "He's NOT wearing green!" and pinch away.

I hated them.

Then, too, there was the lunchroom attendant/recess aid who loved St. Patrick's Day and, in addition, attended church with my mother. That meant I was pinched unmercifully, if tenderly, by a crasy woman not above chasing us through the playground. These were much more innocent times back then; today, you'd get on the news with this kind of shenanigans.

Worse than the pinches, though, were the smug little farts who wore concealed green and lived by the rule that said if you were pinched but had green on somewhere, you got to pinch the pincher ten times. Everyone hated the little creep whose mom bought him green underwear.

I stopped pinching in the third grade, though there was little I could do to avoid being pinched. "I'm not Irish, I'm half Dutch," I'd say to the owners of those stupid pinchy fingers. That is true, my father came from a land where they used their fingers fore more useful pursuits than pinching -- they stuck them in leaky dikes. Not that it did any good. Everybody got pinched, though I'm sure there was only one kid in the whole school who could claim direct Irish ancestry. I had a crush on her. I was too shy to go anywhere near her, let alone pinch her.

So now I'm a grumpy old man with kids of my own. They wear green to school on the 17th of March, simply because there's no getting out of it. I do not wear green to work. I tell people who want to pinch that it's a quaint old Dutch tradition to punch people who pinch. I tell them that with a smile on my face, of course. So far, no pinching. Or punching.