Years ago parents accompanied small children to our door and waited a few paces back as their kids knocked on the door and then shouted "Trick or Treat." A hobo, a clown, Superman, a ballerina, a cowboy. I distributed the loot (excellent chocolate candy - no pennies or other dumb stuff from me!) into empty pillow cases and plastic pumpkins. Some years I ran out of candy early and had to shut the lights out so no one would knock and go away disappointed.
Tonight there were five knocks on the door and only two "trick or treats." I guess they figure that by now we all know what is expected. One witch, a zombie, a vampire, a werewolf, and one I wasn't so sure what.
Did you ever notice that the houses without lawns are the ones with several hundred dollars worth of Halloween decorations: blown up plastic, moving dragons and ghosts and gargoyles with red eyes that follow you, huge spider webs and the obligatory tombstone - RIP. I want to shout GET A LAWN. SAVE THE OZONE!
Tomorrow it will all come down and Christmas will start to appear.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Sunday, October 30, 2011
The Hockey Game
So, I went to a hockey game last night.
The mover: She sits right in front of me. She's tall. She's in motion perpetually, rocking back and forth in her seat at the first sound of music, foot-stomping, thigh-slapping, shoulder shaking motion. She chews gum to the beat of the organ music, jowls moving in counterpoint. She claps her hands together, apart, together, apart, fingers splayed, palms turning red. She's probably been to Jazzercise once too often. She shouts with a voice deeper than a Dothraki king's on a moonless night. Woooo. C'mon. Let's go!! Move it. She jumps up, sits down, jumps up, sits down. Foot taps, thighs slapped, arms clap, point, wave, shout.
The lovers: They sit very close together, the thin and beautifully tanned blonde with her hands always somewhere on her escort - the beautifully tanned and well-muscled guy with a Miami Vice beard and pressed jeans. His head swivels as the puck moves from end to end; hers stays in sync with his face, whispering something into his ear. Her arm on his head, his neck, his shoulder, his thigh, his hand.
The eaters: pizza and beer, nachos and beer, cotton candy without beer, Outback 'shrooms and fries and beer, popcorn, pretzels, Dippin' Dots, hot dogs and beer, BBQ sandwich and beer. Topped off with a little beer. And an occassional spill.
The Parents: Two rows down are the parents without babysitters who bring exceptionally young children, who sit most of the night with their fingers in their ears or over their ears to drown out the zillion decibel sounds of the arena. Their eyes following the Disney-like costumed mascot and the cotton candy vendors.
Oh, and did I mention that I miss almost every goal or near goal as the perpetual motion machine in front of me jumps up as soon as our players approach the visiting team's net?
That's hockey!
The mover: She sits right in front of me. She's tall. She's in motion perpetually, rocking back and forth in her seat at the first sound of music, foot-stomping, thigh-slapping, shoulder shaking motion. She chews gum to the beat of the organ music, jowls moving in counterpoint. She claps her hands together, apart, together, apart, fingers splayed, palms turning red. She's probably been to Jazzercise once too often. She shouts with a voice deeper than a Dothraki king's on a moonless night. Woooo. C'mon. Let's go!! Move it. She jumps up, sits down, jumps up, sits down. Foot taps, thighs slapped, arms clap, point, wave, shout.
The lovers: They sit very close together, the thin and beautifully tanned blonde with her hands always somewhere on her escort - the beautifully tanned and well-muscled guy with a Miami Vice beard and pressed jeans. His head swivels as the puck moves from end to end; hers stays in sync with his face, whispering something into his ear. Her arm on his head, his neck, his shoulder, his thigh, his hand.
The eaters: pizza and beer, nachos and beer, cotton candy without beer, Outback 'shrooms and fries and beer, popcorn, pretzels, Dippin' Dots, hot dogs and beer, BBQ sandwich and beer. Topped off with a little beer. And an occassional spill.
The Parents: Two rows down are the parents without babysitters who bring exceptionally young children, who sit most of the night with their fingers in their ears or over their ears to drown out the zillion decibel sounds of the arena. Their eyes following the Disney-like costumed mascot and the cotton candy vendors.
Oh, and did I mention that I miss almost every goal or near goal as the perpetual motion machine in front of me jumps up as soon as our players approach the visiting team's net?
That's hockey!
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