Call me Ishmael, but I don't like pumpkin carving. I used to, when I was a boy. But now when I hear that it's time to carve pumpkins with the children, I shudder, gird up my loins, and fetch the hardware (newspapers, knives, spoons, Sharpie). Sure it's nice seeing the little people excited, but I can get them just as excited with a piece of candy or two.
These pumpkins stink, if you hadn't noticed. We opened one up tonight and it was reminiscent of two special diapers my one and only son had whipped up for me earlier in the day. Pumpkins smell like crap. And pumpkin guts feel like crap - refrigerated crap. Orange, refrigerated crap. Stringy, orange - you get the idea.
I love pumpkins. I love pumpkin pie, pumpkin spice, pumpkin seeds, and the rest of the world that is pumpkin. But paying homage to wily Jack by being up to my elbows in it, isn't my idea of holiday. I know - killjoy, party pooper, wet blanket - I know. Get me a couple of semi-scary movies and a bowl of popcorn, maybe a bag of peanut M&M's, and I'm happy. That's a holiday. Emasculated, sure. Empty, shallow, and void of tradition, definitely. Certain to be forgotten, yes. But it's cool. It's relaxed. It's casual. And I'm a casual kind-o'-guy.