I hated Halloween. I mean, I really hated Halloween. It’s about the most curmudgeonly stance I’ve probably ever have, and but I’m slowly shaking it. Like most of my irrational fears and things, my kids are making me reconsider everything. Although there’s not a ton to reconsider, it’s more like evolving into less of an ass.

Even as a kid it wasn’t my thing. I think I stopped going out at 10 or 12. Dressing up wasn’t my thing. But as I got older it became something to dread, to really out and out hate. (I’m overusing hate here, which is not a nice word, but plenty of people can attest to how often I’ve attached it to Halloween). As I got older and tried to quantify my dislike, it boiled down to this: Halloween is an excuse for people to be stupid. And not wacky stupid, but stupid stupid. Like the guy I saw roller skating down a very major street, in the middle of the street, wearing a black mask and a black cape, in the middle of the night. Dumbass. But because it was Halloween it was somehow acceptable.

After a time I realized a deeper reason, a more formative one. As a kid, maybe 6 maybe 10 I don’t remember, something happened to a classmate’s brother. While out on Halloween, someone drove by and threw a flaming sack of shit in his face. His mask caught fire and now he’s disfigured. I have no idea what became of him or even his name, but that’s a big piece of why I hated halloween.

But I’m getting over it. Jane is insanely excited to be Tinkerbell, and Isaac will be a fine Captain Hook. And I’ll be all grins.