Heather ^
LAMPE
Not sold on holidays
Who needs meaning? Money’s to be made
lncK or treat, smell my teet, give
me something good to eat.”
Here we go again. Another year’s
passed, and tonight I’ll spend another
evening passing out chocolate
confections to
dozens of little
Power Rangers
on sugar highs.
You’ve
got to love a
pointless
holiday.
In the
United States,
we have a lot of
pointless holidays. At one time, most
of them probably weren’t trivial. But
if it will make a buck, we’ll risk
losing meaning.
Take Halloween, for instance.
Most people have no idea where
Halloween came from. Halloween to
Americans means an evening of
watching bad B horror movies while
polishing off the remains of the
candy com.
Our modem celebration of
Halloween comes from the ancient
Celtic fire festival called “Samhain.”
Samhain was the feast of the dead in
Pagan and Christian times, signaling
the close of the harvest and the
initiation of the winter season. Not
one mention of plastic Richard Nixon
masks—who knew?
Trick or treat did originate from
Samhain. People used to imitate
fairies and go door to door asking for
food. If the people refused to give
food, the fairies would play tricks on
them. . ... .: T
So, in the true spirit of Samhain or
Halloween, if someone refuses to
fct
If every nationality had a holiday
involving pinching and beer, wouldn't we
all get along better?''
give you treats tonight, it would be
historically acceptable to coat their
homes with eggs. When you’re
arrested by the police, just tell them
you were celebrating your ancient
druid religion.
Halloween isn’t the only holiday
with historic roots that have been
butchered in the quest to merchan
dise. In their crusade to sell heart
shaped boxes of candy, edible
intimate apparel and cards inscribed
with bad poetry, big business has
glossed over the history of
Valentine’s day.
In ancient Rome, February 14th
was a holiday to honor Juno, the
goddess of women and marriage. The
following day began the “Feast of
Lupercalia.” During the festival,
boys and girls, whose lives were
normally kept separate, were paired
up to dance and play together. Each
boy would pick a girl’s name from a
vase and they would be paired up.
Sometimes the pairing lasted an
entire year, and often, they would fall
in love and later marry.
Imagine if we celebrated
Valentine’s day the same way the
Romans celebrated Lupercalia. It
would end the hopeless torture of
single people desperate for a
Valentine’s date. It would also end
the suffering of husbands who forget
to buy their wives flowers and try to
make up for it by buying them a
griddle. (A little FYI to men: kitchen
appliances have yet to be considered
romantic.)
Another foreign holiday that
we’ve twisted to fit our capitalistic
mold is St. Patrick’s day. It’s the only
day of the year when people are
willing to disguise their heritage to
drink green beer and frantically pinch
people who aren’t wearing the jaded
color.
Last March 17th when you slid up
to the bar to order that $2 green
foamy beverage, did the bar owner
who took your money tell you about
St. Patrick? Patrick was a missionary
who in the 400’s converted the Irish
to Christianity.
To honor Patrick, any food that
can be dyed is turned green, and
people named Pierre and Juan
become Irish for the day. If every
nationality had a holiday involving
pinching and beer, wouldn’t we all
get along better?
We’ve turned holidays that we
know the meaning of into upturns for
the economy. When celebrating the
birth of Christ, some of us also
celebrate a portly man in red clothing
who breaks into people’s homes and
leaves dolls and train sets. Cookies
and milk, the birth of a Savior,
naughty and nice, the birth of a
Savior, Barbie and Ken, the birth of a
Savior, cash, check or charge, the
birth of a Savior. Oh yes, they
coincide.
The last time I heard the Easter
story, I don’t remember an oversized
rabbit hopping up to the women at
the tomb and giving them marshmal
low chicks and caramel eggs.
Lastly, I’d like to mention the
other various holidays that compa
nies with names that start with “Hall”
and end in “-mark” must have had a
hand in inventing. Boss’s day?
Secretary’s Day? Grandparents’
Day?
Don’t get me wrong, I love my
grandparents, but can’t I tell them
that without sending them cards and
candy? And what butt-kisser decided
to coin Boss’s day?
Since we’re on the subject of
inventing holidays, I think College
Student Day would be a nice addition
to the calendar. It would be a national
holiday honoring college students. It
would mean showering them with
gifts and baked goods and giving
them pardons on their student loans.
And of course that would mean a
day off for College Student Day Eve
and then several days off following '
the holiday so students could fly
home and visit their families.
Hey Mr. Chancellor, how’s next
week sound?
Lampe is a senior news-editorial
and English major and a Daily
Nebraskan columnist
Brent
POPE
Tales from the dip
(Please picture ominous flashlight face...)
When I was younger, and prob
ably wiser, Halloween was the night
that my friends and I would get
together in a dark room with only a
flashlight and our imaginations, and
tell spooky
stories. We still
do it to this day,
but nowadays
beer is involved
and that greatly
diminishes the
quality of
storytelling.
Anyway, 1
don’t think I
could show my face in public if I
didn’t take a stab (The Daily
Nebraskan in no way endorses that
very bad pun) at my own Halloween
story. And here’s the kicker: there are
three endings. One for those happy
people out there, one for the sad
people, and one for demented people
like me. So step onto the train, this
ride will take about five minutes:
THE DIRT ROAD or STEVE AND
HIS AMAZING TECHNICOLOR
CAR KEYS
Bad luck followed Steve Inking
around like a three-legged dog in
heat, always had. It started when he
was 5 and his mom ran away with
that silverware salesman. “I like a
good fork,’’ she told him. Bad luck
always followed him, and tonight
was no different.
u
I don’t think I could show my face in
public if I didn’t take a stab (The Daily
Nebraskan in no way endorses that very
bad pun) at my own Halloween story.”
Tonight was Halloween, and it
was dark out. Dark enough that even
the full moon that peeked out from
behind long skinny clouds like Orson
Welles in a bikini couldn’t illuminate
the sky; it was that dark. It was also
dark enough that he couldn’t find his
car keys that flew from his coat
pocket when he spun around to see
what had made “die noise.”
Steve only stopped to take a pee,
and wondered why he had even taken
his keys out of the ignition on a
lonely dirt road. Whatever made “the
noise” appeared to be gone, but the
air it left behind smelled like death,
or Richard Simmons’ underwear, he
couldn’t decide which. Probably just
some dumb animal. A frantic search
of the ditch that held his keys4eft
him empty-handed and as dirty as
two vultures sharing a buffalo. Did I
mention it was raining?
There were no traces of civiliza
tion in sight, probably wouldn’t be
for at least two or three miles, if he
remembered the drive correctly. With
few other choices, he started walk
ing, feeling very much like Beaver
Cleaver when he was stuck in that
big bowl of soup, for sane odd
reason.
“The noise” still bothered Steve,
but he was more concerned about
rinding someone with a flashlight to
get his keys. He mumbled angrily
about the shortcut he took that was
now a huge pain in die ass. Clyde’s
Halloween party couldn’t be more
than a mile from the highway, if he
could find the highway. That’s when
he saw the light.
It didn’t appear to be a normal
light, but anything other than pure
blackness in front of him was nice at
this point. It started at the ground and
was several fed high, more a sliver
of light than anything else, like the
reflection of a cat’s eye turned
sideways. When he reached the
source of the light, what he found
was intriguing ...
HAPPY ENDING
It was a gateway to the land of the
Smurfs. Steve lived there the rest of
his life under the nickname of Ugly
Smurf, married Smurfette and helped
the Smurfs slay Gargamel; he even
got to eat the heart. \
SAD ENDING
He reached out and discovered
too late that it was not good to grab
an unprotected bug zapper. He
electrocuted himself, making that
annoying buzzing sound, only on a
much grander scale. “The noise”
Steve heard was the shriek of a drunk
guy at the party he was looking for.
He died in Gyde’s backyard—still
a virgin.
DEMENTED ENDING
It was the portal to an alien
spaceship filled with horrible alien
creatures that looked like Kathie Lee
Gifford without makeup on. They
slowly killed Steve by forcing him to
listen to hour after hour of stories
about their grotesque alien children;
they were all named Cody.
Pope is a senior broadcasting
major and a Daily Nebraskan
columnist y