I can’t stand Halloween. Not because people in Hanover have managed to turn the holiday into a week-long celebration. Not because I have to explain the unique trick-or-treat setup to all my non-Hanover friends. Not because my daughter gets all the candy and I get jack.
I can’t stand Halloween because I can never come up with a good costume.
This isn’t anything new. I have had this problem ever since I was a kid.
Some people look at the youth of today and worry about the direction we are headed in. Not me. I have seen the future, and I like it. At least three times in the past few weeks, I have seen young men wearing “Back in Black” t-shirts.
What does a few AC/DC t-shirts have to do with the prosperity of America? Everything, I say. A generation that does not respect the classics is a generation I don’t trust.
We have survived Eminem and countless other threats to the taste of our youth. We have taken a look at the latest female pop singer and had our fun before moving onto something else. We have even indulged Green Day, 311 and other power rock acts.
None of that matters. It all comes back to AC/DC.
My wife and I went away for the weekend recently to celebrate our 10th anniversary. We came back relaxed after a splendid weekend. But I have a bone to pick with some of the people who also spent that weekend in Cape May, N.J. You people need to learn how to travel.
I’m no world-traveler, but I have taken my share of trips, particularly to historically relevant places. Maria loves visiting historic houses, so I know the drill pretty well.
That’s why I couldn’t get over the number of indecisive people we encountered. I don’t expect people to plan a detailed itinerary each day, but they could at least have a clue about what they plan to do when they set out for the day.
I’m the king of the world! Well, not really. I’m the king of the poker tournaments at KClinger’s Tavern.
Well, not really. But I was almost the king. And that has to count for something.
Does the air smell sweeter? Are the flowers prettier? Do the chicken wings seem meatier? Yes, folks, television season has started again. Thank God, we can return to our normal lives.
I thought the summer would never end. I imagine all the televisions in purgatory are permanently tuned to summer programming. The horror.
But Bree Van de Kamp and Denny Crane have helped rescue us from the morass of low-grade reality shows and sporadic reruns and not a moment too soon.
Sometimes, I can be mean. I don’t always like it. Some people mistake my honesty for something mean-spirited. That bothers me.
Others times, however, it can be fun. I had one of those opportunities recently when my mother-in-law visited.
I love my mother-in-law, but I know how to push her buttons. I had a perfect opportunity when the topic of my trip to Hersheypark with Bridget came up.
We decided to head to Hershey almost on the spur of the moment. Maria had plans to sell some of her hand-stamped cards at an event in western Maryland, and I needed something to keep me from having to take Bridget to western Maryland.
Hello, Hersheypark.
When I read about the effort to raise money at Delone Catholic High School for victims of Hurricane Katrina, I chuckled. I don’t find relief efforts funny at all. In fact, the initiative by the students is admirable.
I just find it funny that they think listening to a continuous stream of Hansen’s hit “MMMBop” – which will play all over the school until they raise $3,000 – is really that annoying.
Kids these days.
They are lucky to only have to listen to “MMMBop” in the halls. Things could be much worse.
As a child of the 1980s, I am an expert on certain topics. I remember when MTV actually played videos and you could turn to ESPN for sports. I remember “The Simpsons” when it was just a short on “The Tracey Ullman Show.” I remember when women swooned over Jon Bon Jovi.
Oh yeah, I also remember how silly guys looked walking around with the collars on their polo shirts raised.
Apparently, this fashion mistake has started to make a comeback. I have come to tell the young men of today – stop immediately.
When my co-workers celebrated my birthday the other week, a smile came across my face when I saw the envelope with my birthday card. It simply read: “Shea.”
That was one of the best things that could have happened. For as long as I can remember, I have either attracted nicknames or been called by my last name instead of my first.
I don’t get that much anymore. First of all, I am moving into that territory where I am known as “Mr. Shea” or “Bridget’s Dad.” That’s pretty disheartening.