I've forgotten where I got that line. Maybe an old Simpsons episode, or a 'B' Horror flick. Wherever it originated, I'm not sure they had Freddie Mercury in mind,
though the flamboyant late-great made an appearance at Skip's Annual Halloween Party. Among the revellers present were a coked out Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks, Schneider from "One Day at a Time," Richard Simmons, and the ubiquitous Pedro from "Napoleon Dynamite."
Halloween is something you never outgrow. I can't tell who was more excited this year, The O-Dog or my friend Skip. The O-Dog
danced from foot to foot, saying "I can't believe it's Halloween" over and over. Skip, on the other hand, drove his fiancee crazy, overtaking her back yard with a plethora of decorations, and spending the entire evening beckoning neighborhood trick-or-treaters to his porch.
The Fletch-Monster is a little too young to have bubbled with anticipation, but he caught on quickly, running from house to house repeating "twikoteet" as his 20 month old legs tackled every stoop on our block. Originally, I used him as daddy's little ringer, since he is too little for some of the sweets, but it gave me a great feeling to see him partake in the festivities.
It took having children, and my friend Skip's enthusiasm to swing me back to the Halloween fold. I'm not going to get into that new age inner-child crap, but once you're too old for trick-or-treating, or "too cool" to appear in public with a costume, you become what we call a "poopie pants," otherwise known as a "fuddy-duddy," "stick-in-the-mud," "old fogey," or "buzz-wrecker." You know who you are. You left your porch lights off.