to see the desolation in the variety of Halloween candy. When I was a kid, not too long ago, you simply did not know what you were going to get, from house to house. Nibs, twizzlers, wagon wheels, tootsie rolls, toffees, assorted suckers, cracker jack boxes, candy corn, sweet tarts, little chocolate bars, and even little toys, like glow-in-the-dark vampire teeth, and various other obscure candy that I can't remember the names of. The open-air magic would set in upon visiting the houses of the neighbourhood and further, along the familiar streets now like new; houses that you were familiar with, but only from a distance; now going up their driveway and seeing their jack-o-lantern up close then the door opening and seeing the inside of their house, then the bestowal of Lord knows what kind of candy; and the candy having some sort of associative virtue as to what kind of person it was that gave it out: I found all this so exciting and so much damn fun that I would almost pee myself.
And now what is it? Everyone has bought their damn candy from Wal-Mart, and it's all the same - mostly little chocolate bars. This is seriously wrong. And when I go to plunder my nieces' or nephews' Halloween hoard - when visiting a sister's house - I want variety damn it, variety.