Halloween is not a holiday, despite what retailers try to make you believe. During his monthly shopping trip the other week, the old guy noticed there are just as many aisles devoted to Halloween stuff as there are when Christmas decorations and the like are put out. It’s quite the scam actually. Lots of money is made on Halloween. There’s the costume makers, the companies who make the decorations and the pumpkin farmers, but those who are making out better than all of them are the candy makers. To candy companies like Nestle, Hershey’s and Reese’s, Halloween is what Valentine’s Day is to the florist industry. What Father’s Day and Mother’s Day is to Hallmark. What New Year’s is to booze peddlers. What Fourth of July is to the fireworks folks. What Thanksgiving is to potato farmer and turkey processors. What Christmas is to toy companies. It seems every holiday or custom has a commercial significance these days and that is only making the Insider even more of a cynic. That’s why the old guy’s house is dark on Halloween night. He wants no part of the trick or treaters. That along with the fact a few years ago Insider refused to give candy to an guy in jeans and a T-shirt with a wolf mask that was taller than he was and appeared to be of voting age. Later on that night, that man taught the Insider a lesson by throwing eggs at his DeSoto.
It’s been cold at night, and the old fart is fine with that. Insider has always liked the cold weather, especially since the days of him showing any skin besides his hands and face are ancient history. No matter if it’s 90 degrees or 40 degrees, Insider wears the same thing long pants and a long-sleeve shirt. This is the old guy’s way of being courteous because he knows there’s nothing worth seeing underneath the clothes unless you are into wrinkles, blood vessels, hanging, dry skin and the such.
Insider’s bedroom window is always open, no matter the weather so he can hear the sound of distant 18-wheelers droning by. When he was a kid, these sounds used to be of steam locomotives roaring off to wherever locomotives used to roar off to. The bedroom must be on the chilly side of cool and one foot must always be sticking out from under the covers. That cold air hitting that foot puts the old guy right to sleep for the customary nine hours he gets each night.