Halloween Rant

 

I love Halloween. I do. To a point. I won’t spend October acting like a deranged Karen who lost her pumpkin spice latte in a custody battle with autumn. That being said, can we talk about Halloween advertising?

Apparently the world believes that come October 1st, we all shed our human skin like snakes and emerge as pumpkin-hungry ghouls who communicate exclusively through discount codes and pictures of skeletons wearing sunglasses.

Every aisle in every store looks like a Tim Burton fever dream collided with a craft-glitter explosion. “SPOOKY SAVINGS!” they scream as they encourage you to buy nightmare inducing lawn decorations that cost as much as a used car. Not to mention the Family-Size bag of Fun-Size candy. Since the candy’s fun-size, that means I have to buy family-size quantities to achieve adult-level joy. Math is terrifying enough. Save your horror-clown animatronics for someone who didn't just check their credit card balance.

And the ads.

“Turn your home into a haunted wonderland!” Too late. My home is already haunted. By laundry. By dishes. By that weird smell no one can identify but we’ve all silently accepted. I don’t need a snarling ten-foot animatronic werewolf, I need a ten-foot animatronic motivation coach who shouts “CLEAN UP YOUR OFFICE, SCOTT!”

And don’t you dare try to guilt me with, “Make this the scariest Halloween ever!” Bro, I already filed my taxes late and opened WebMD at 2 a.m. in the same week. We’re good.

Then the pumpkin patch ads. “Come frolic in the crisp fall air!” Frolic? Frolic?! I'm one joint-snap away from becoming a cautionary tale. I don’t frolic. I cautiously adjust my posture and hope gravity minds its business.

Anyway, marketing departments of the world: Relax. I don’t need a cartoon ghost that says “BOO Y’ALL!” in whimsical font. I need reasonably priced chocolate and enough self-control not to eat it before October 31st. Spoiler: I will fail.

Happy Halloween, you commercialized candy goblins.

Now excuse me while I go panic-buy glow sticks and pretend I'm doing it for children and not because they're fun and make me feel like a wizard.

_________________________

Ahhh ... a good rant always makes me feel better. And the commercialization of holidays always strikes a spark.

Some holidays want you to buy love.

Others demand you sit across from relatives who chew like livestock and ask about your life choices.

Halloween? It just wants you to be weird, eat candy, and celebrate chaos in a mask. No casseroles. No gift panic. No emotional booby traps. Just sugar, silliness, and the sweet freedom of pretending to be someone else for a night.

Honestly, that’s how every holiday should work.

In the words of Tanya Correa: “Halloween is everything a holiday should be. It's a Fat Tuesday with no Skinny Wednesday.”

Headlines don’t decorate. They detonate.

 

If you’re a copywriter, here’s the hard truth: your headline is the idea.

Seven words or less. That’s the challenge. That’s the knife fight. You strip everything away until what’s left is pure, sharp, undeniable. If you can’t get there, you don’t have an idea yet.

This is the line we walk: art versus artistic expression. Art can wander. It can explore. But we don’t get that luxury. Ours has to land. Has to move. Has to work.

Headlines are where clarity and creativity stop being enemies and start being dance partners. They force you to answer: What’s at the heart of this?

This takes skill and art, but you’re not Van Gogh painting sunflowers. You’re trying to stop a thumb from scrolling. Your brush is clarity. Your canvas is half a second of attention.

Slowing Down (Sort Of)

 

I’ve been working since I was fourteen. Mowing lawns, washing dishes, selling ideas … doesn’t matter the job, I’ve always been doing something and getting paid for it. Work is what I know. Work is what I like. It makes me feel useful. Necessary. Like there’s a scoreboard somewhere and I’m still in the game.

I like goals. I like beating them. I like that quiet little high you get when you finish something that didn’t exist before you started it ... and your team recognizes the accomplishment and celebrates it.

Somewhere along the way, “being productive” got wired into me. Not as a suggestion, but as a law of nature. You produce, you earn, you contribute … therefore, you exist.

And now?

Now I’m breaking that law.

I just turned down a contract extension. The contract that’s been paying most of the bills. Not because it was a bad deal (it wasn’t; it was a great deal), not because I was burned out (I wasn’t), but because … it’s time.

Time to stop chasing the next milestone just because there’s always a next milestone.

Time to let the machine idle for a while.

I guess I’m retiring. Sort of.

I’ll still take on freelance work, but only the kind that feels like play. Projects that make me curious. People who make me smile. Things I’ll want to brag about to a mirror when no one else is around.

But while everyone around me is celebrating my retirement, I’m over here feeling like I just stepped off a moving train and can still feel the ground humming under my feet. It’s disorienting. There’s a part of me that’s grieving. Not just the work, but the rhythm of it. The sense of belonging that comes from being needed. By teammates. By the organization.

Because let’s be honest: working isn’t just about time and money. It’s also about meaning.

And when the work you’ve done has filled your days, your ego, your social life, your sense of purpose, well, walking away from that is no small thing. It stirs up all the big stuff. Life. Death. Legacy. That whole “what’s it all about” montage that starts playing in your head when things get too quiet.

So yeah, I’m feeling a lot. Excitement, sadness, maybe even a little terror.

But underneath all that, there’s also a quiet curiosity.

What happens when I’m not producing for someone else? What happens when the only deadlines are the ones I set for myself?

That’s what I’m about to find out.

I’ve got a couple of books in the works. Some music I’ve been meaning to finish. This blog that’s been quietly tapping me on the shoulder for years, saying, “Hey, maybe posting once a week ain’t enough.” It's all coalescing into a direction ... a plan of sorts.

My plan is to stick to my plan. But hold it loosely.

Because if there’s one thing I’ve learned from decades of work, it’s that life doesn’t follow your Gantt chart.

So here I am … easing off the throttle, hands a little shaky, trying to remember that slowing down isn’t the same as stopping.

Maybe it’s just changing gears.

Congratulations, humanity.

Congratulations, humanity.

We found a way to make email worse.

 It used to be simple. Cold, joyless, efficient.

 You could fire off a “Sounds good” and move on with your life. Minimal effort. Maximum relief.

 Then AI showed up. And suddenly every coworker is a Victorian novelist.

You send “Got it.”

Todd sends back three paragraphs about “alignment,” “shared vision,” and “deep appreciation for your collaborative spirit.” Todd. Buddy. We’re scheduling a meeting, not founding a political party.

And it’s not just the office. Oh no. Now everyone with a Gmail account has the power of a marketing department.

Your dentist. Your kid’s soccer coach.That coffee shop that once misspelled your name as “Skitt.”

They’re all blasting out sleek, emotionally intelligent newsletters like they just graduated from the HubSpot Academy for Feelings.

“Hey there, Scott! We at Bean There Brewed want to thank you for being part of our caffeinated community of dreamers.”

I just wanted a latte, not a manifesto.

And let’s not forget the emotional stuff. Condolence letters, love notes, apologies ... all now available in deluxe AI formatting.

Your dog dies and you get this: “Your resilience in this difficult chapter inspires us all to cherish the pawprints left on our hearts.”

That’s beautiful. Did you write it yourself? Or did you just hit “More Heartfelt” and press send?

We’re living in a Candyland valley of sincerity. Everything sounds perfect ... but no one means anything.

Remember when typos were human? When an extra exclamation point meant somebody actually cared? Now the machines proofread our grief.

And the worst part?

We’re not even mad about it. We’re grateful. “Oh, wow, I didn’t have to write that awkward thank-you note myself!”

Yep. And you also didn’t personalize it.

So here we are:

Smarter, faster, wordier … and somehow hollower.

Our inboxes are fuller, our hearts are emptier.

... and Todd's still replying-all.