It’s lovely down in the woods today but safer to stay at home.
For every toad that ever there was
Will gather there for certain because
Today’s the day the mini-toads have their picnic.
If you live in the country, it’s Toad Time. The hopping infants are everywhere, emerging jubilantly from the endless pools of water created by the late-Summer monsoons. It’s a near-impossibility to walk down your driveway without crushing a half-dozen underfoot as they leap unexpectedly into your path. Siobhan, who will go to the greatest of lengths to avoid this slaughter, is suggesting gentle brooms to sweep them aside before the curling stone arrives, causing mayhem. And don’t even think about the carnage driving down the road would cause. Once, on a toad-carpeted county lane, she simply pulled the car over and waited for the patrol leader to get his charges across to the other side before proceeding. Nobody wants the job of apologizing to 2000 toad mothers for the annihilation of their brood.
If a conscientious toad-killer was to retrace his careless steps, however, he might discover a strange phenomenon; the crushed bodies are nowhere to be found. How is this possible? True the little critters are tiny, but they’re not microscopic. Where do they go? Are the survivor toads like the U.S. Marines, whose credo is “No Toad Left Behind?” Do they steal out into the roadway as soon as the shooting stops to haul their brethren off in little rolling dumpsters? Does Tsathogguwa the Toad God instantly vacuum them back to the great swamp in the sky? What’s going on here? Inquiring amphibian-lovers want to know. In the meantime, watch your step. Little Kermit’s on his way to school.
What’s It Like To Be 81?
Let’s put it this way. There are very few days when you feel euphoric. Health issues appear out of nowhere. The Reaper seems to be hiding behind every tree. And that mountain you climbed yesterday seems twice as high today. You are aware that the sudden failure of some remote body part hidden deep within could lead to a domino effect causing untold havoc. Worse, you wake up one day and realize you will never learn to play the banjo.
You do not jump out of bed in the morning, you carefully pour yourself out, assessing whether any catastrophes might have arisen over night. You can still walk so you march up and down the road, greeting another day. If it’s Monday, Wednesday or Friday, you take on the weights to prevent your bones from crumbling further. Then you check your appointment book to determine which doctors, dentists, dermatologists, acupuncturists, chiropractors, massage therapists or Zoroastrian shamans you have scheduled for the day. You carefully check the literature for optimistic health revelations and promising news about dementia cures, pancreatic cancer discoveries and supplements that will rev you up and cause you to chase the old lady around the house. If sex is on the schedule, you check over the new lube requirements, restrictions on positioning, Viagra supplies and the phone number of the nearest emergency clinic, all the while doing what you can to insure your partner doesn’t get a last-minute headache or a devastating crick in the neck.
You are grateful, of course, to still be on stage, remembering your vast cadre of friends and associates who have trod the boards for the last time. You are old enough to have put aside petty competition, reverence for money, the collection of useless claptrap and vile enmity toward Yankee fans. You try to focus less on yourself and be of help to friends, respond to cries in the night, decipher desperate signals. You are less likely to criticize, find fault, feel superior, be smug. You regret that wisdom is wasted on the aged.
It’s getting late but the lights are still on and there remains a glow in the fireplace. You ponder the coming day and assess the best use of your time, now the most valuable of your assets. On the way out the door, you stop to admire the artistry of cartoonist Robert Crumb, which provides daily encouragement. Keep on Truckin’ the poster insists, and who are you to argue? You smile, leave the house and aim the car toward Gainesville. “Come on, Silver,” you encourage your mount. “Let's see what kind of trouble we can get into today.”
Is Ron DeSantis The Antichrist?
Close enough. His dubious wrapper reads born in Jacksonville, raised in Dunedin, endorsed by Trump and elected Governor of Florida by a skinny 0.4% margin. What are little Rons made of? Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails doesn’t begin to cover it. Here are the real ingredients: Total Fat, 20%, Cholesterol, 25%, Sodium 15%, Carbohydrate 22%, Dietary Fiber, 0.2%, Protein, –5%. He’s also full of artificial flavor, corn syrup and sodium benzoate (in a vain attempt to preserve freshness).
Since becoming Guv, Ron the Con has railed at face mask mandates, stay-at-home orders and vaccination requirements. In May of 2021, he signed a bill into law that prohibited businesses, schools, cruise ships and government entities from requiring proof of Covid vaccination. In March of this year, DeSantis signed into law the Parental Rights in Education Act, spoofed as the Don’t Say Gay Law by his opponents; the act prohibits instruction in sexual orientation or gender identity in public school classrooms from kindergarten to grade 3. Unfortunately, toddlers never got the word. They’ll still show you theirs if you’ll show them yours.
Historically, DeSantis has been a rabid Trump bootlicker. During the Republican gubernatorial primary, he emphasized his support for Donald T. by running an ad in which he teaches his children how to “build a wall” and say “Make America Great Again,” dressing one of them up in a sad red MAGA jumper. Oh, the inhumanity! In the course of campaigning, clever Ron said concerning his African-American rival Andrew Gillum, “The last thing we need to do is monkey this up.” Nonetheless, a monkey got elected anyway.
Ron the Don supports open carry gun laws, a statewide ban on sanctuary city protections, cracking down on “big tech” and a 12-month hunting season for Liberals. Currently, he is spending hundreds of thousands of his state’s dollars to ship “illegal immigrants” to Cape Cod from Texas. The immigrants have been instructed not to say “gay” up there and to look the other way while visiting Provincetown.
Immigration law experts have pointed out that Ron the Dijon may have trafficked migrants. Rachel Self, a Massachusetts lawyer specializing in immigration, claims the bused brigades were victims of kidnapping. The ACLU is turning up additional reasons to sue the Florida governor. According to a recent analysis of federal immigration law by the U.S. Citizens and Immigration Services, “Traffickers and abusers often use a lack of immigration status to exploit and control victims” and Rice claims that’s exactly what DeSantis has done. If law enforcement agrees, it makes the migrants eligible for a special visa that protects victims of human trafficking. “It would be SO ironic,” Self said, “if these families ultimately legalize and become citizens as a result of Governor DeSantis’ orders.”
Wouldn’t it just? Gee thanks, Ron, we knew you had it in ya.
Q.---Two months ago, my lifelong partner ran off with the pool man. Two weeks ago, I was fired from my job for excessive weeping. Two days ago, my dog died. Two minutes ago, I hung a noose from the rafters. Two seconds ago, I got the last-ditch notion to write to you, Mr. Tambourine Man. Can you save a wretch like me? What do I do now?
A.---Move. If you have any assets, move to Europe, California, Manhattan, the Firth of Forth. See if you can find Tim Robbins on the beach at Zihuatanejo. If you don’t have assets, move as far away as you can get. It doesn’t cost any more to live in Pflugerville than it does in Micanopy. Get on the bus, Gus, it’s do or die.
In moving, you create a new world for yourself, a place with no reminders of past loves, a unique universe to explore and enjoy. You find peace, run into an interesting woman at the motocross park, adopt an abandoned coatimundi, drop acid in Machu Picchu, it’s all good. Someday, despite Thomas Wolfe, you can even return to living in your old home town again and perhaps painting “Poopyhead!” on your ex’s garage door.
(Alternative: go out and buy you a puppy.)
Q.---Would you like to swing on a star, carry moonbeams home in a jar and be better off than you are….or would you rather be a mule?
A.---Take the moonbeams every time. Mules have a lousy diet.
Why Do Fools Fall In Love?
Dopamine. When it goes up, it’s like a drug addiction, same rush. People early in love think about their inamoratas 24/7, constantly craving to be with them. Interestingly, people in this condition also experience a decrease in serotonin. It’s well-known that increased levels of serotonin correlate with a sense of serenity, good moods and an ability to inhibit behavior, so the thinking might be that falling in love would make us happy, thus raising serotonin levels. Wrong.
During the early stages of falling for someone, our moods are highly unstable, similar to someone suffering from anxiety disorder. We are delighted when things are going well and shattered when they are not. It’s a tad like being bipolar. The drop in serotonin also explains our wild inability to control our thoughts during this intensely emotional stage.
So why is the brain wired to make falling in love so much like an addiction? Evolutionary biologists explain that this operating system helped humans to stop lusting for all nearby potentials in order to focus attention on one attractive mate. Because human babies need care and protection for much longer than most animals, the bond of the parents needs to be intense. Got it, fools? Okay, back to work.
Hurricane Jabber
They’re lining up at the pumps, the bottled water’s disappeared from the Publix and Mrs. MaGoo next door is parking her pickup at the front gate. That can mean only one thing---there’s a hurricane on the way. If you’re getting your Pie served a day early or late it’s because Ian the Mean is putting the kibosh on internet action.
This also means the Last Tango Movie Premiere is imperiled. True, the storm should hit Thursday or before but there’s a little matter of keeping a roof on the stage at Heartwood. We are all hoping that the extraordinary powers of the University of Florida Athletic Association will shunt Ian elsewhere so they can have their multi-million dollar football game Sunday and benefit us in the process. We’ll make a decision Saturday morning when we come out of our burrow. Until then, those of you like Debbie Adelman Wynn who have a powerful relationship with the Cosmic Arranger should send offerings skyward. As for the rest of you, remember the immortal words of The Bard and Keep on Duckin’.
That’s all, folks….
