Tuesday, November 2, 2010

The Scrooge of Halloween is a title I’m bestowing upon myself tonight, knowing full well I’m violating the rules of grammar and basic counting in doing so. Google tells me there are 6,010 instances of the moniker in existence, and how so many could rightfully claim the singular is a mystery. The larger question, of course, is whether the universe even needs a 6,011th entry. Doubtful, but here I am, reporting for duty. My thoughts on the matter are well–documented, naturally, and there is more to say. Something came to me as I was driving on Sunday.

I had ample time to think in the car, you see, because that’s what Halloween provides. Say it usually takes you a minute to exit your neighborhood. That minute extends to two, maybe even three minutes on the thirty-first of October out of necessity when children and adults alike begin to dart across the street. What would’ve been a simple right turn followed by a couple lefts transforms into human slalom, and obviously you can’t flip off parents and their brood. Instead, you have to wave and grin after every dangerous jaywalking incident, as if to say, “Oh, that’s adorable. So fucking adorable.” But it’s not adorable! It’s dangerous. Inconvenient, too, because it’s a pain to scrape Mary Janes off the radiator grille, and the candy’s pretty sticky as well.

Here’s what I realized while hurtling down the street at 12 mph. A twisted exchange rate lies in the heart of Halloween, where for a single day each year, a trick equates a treat, and inherent in that phrase is a kind of ultimatum. Thanksgiving is about giving, well, thanks and spending time with loved ones. December’s suite of holidays is, let’s be honest here, mainly a struggle to transcend giftcards and give thoughtfully to family and friends. Mother’s Day is for your mom. Father’s Day, about your old man. But trick or treat? That is the mantra of a grotesque economy where candy is the only currency capable of warding off mischief. And, if my stack of peppermint patties has anything to say about it, I don’t negotiate with tiny terrorists.

Thursday, October 28, 2010

Secondhand Rants will return on Tuesday, November 02.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

There is a patch of wall in the office, and on this wall there is writing–not the figurative kind, mind you, but real letters wrought in dry erase marker. In any other context, this would probably be inappropriate. I was raised under the assumption that words should be confined to paper, for example, and putting ink to plaster could only result in severe punishment. But in this case, the scrawl is wholly appropriate because it’s the company ping-pong leaderboard, a faithfully curated account of who’s the one to beat, along with a list of contenders who would seek to administer such a beating.

I’d love to tell you about how I’m the current titleholder, though I’ve yet to earn the right. You heard correctly: the right. For what is essentially a rec room staple, ping-pong carries a surprising amount of gravity at work, where tableside talk can easily turn to how so-and-so plays with a certain style susceptible to this or that approach. Now, we don’t discuss this during office hours, obviously. When the clock hits 5:30 PM, though, the gloves–if such accoutrements even exist for hobbit tennis–come off.

You’ve been apprised of my plan, so I feel honor-bound to furnish regular updates. I put my name on the wall today, effectively throwing the hat into the ring, and while this isn’t the tournament, it’s a necessary step toward it. I’ve spent the past few weeks reclaiming the basics, watching the competition, shoring up weaknesses, and seizing thrilling wins and crushing losses in equal measure. The wall simply makes it official. The challenge may happen this week. Best two out of three, 21 points apiece, and a chance to marvel, firsthand, at the most importance that will ever be conferred upon a small plastic ball.