February gets a bad rap. January might be just as blustery, but it stands up tall with its 31 days, New Year’s Eve confetti and the Rose Parade. February unaccountably has a meager 28 days, a pseudo-holiday involving a groundhog who predicts a long winter and the remains of two holidays skwushed into one and renamed President’s Day. January has Martin Luther King Day, February has Indian Coast Guard Day. Talk about no respect. Everybody goes silly at the arrival of the first robin in March, baseball’s opening day in April, beach blanket bingo in May…the Second Month gets bupkus.
How quickly you forget the pleasures of February. At twilight on 2-6-25, we sat with friends at the homey University of Florida softball field and watched The Girls of Springtime open their season on a 70-degree, clear-as-a-bell evening that could not have been more perfect. It was like watching a play in a spa, an outdoor ballet at a roofless Lincoln Center, a sneak preview of Vernal bliss.
February doesn’t laze about, imagining what could have been if Julius Caesar had shown a little compassion. It’s too busy tending to its knitting as Humpback Whale Awareness Month, which includes Aromatic Spectrum Awareness Week, World Hippopotamus Day (the 15th) and Random Acts of Kindness Day (17th). In February, long-tailed tits…we beg your pardon…start to gather nesting material, a project which will take up to three weeks, to construct an intricately crafted nest of moss, lichen and their own down feathers, all bound together with spider silk.
The Chinese New Year might begin on January 29th but The Year of the Wood Snake moves into high gear in February, culminating with the exotic full Snow Moon on the 12th. It’s Ice Cream For Breakfast Day on the first Saturday, National Hemp Day at Chuck LeMasters’ house on the 4th and Shower With A Friend Day (bring your own towel and don’t drop the Ivory) on February 5th. There’s no end to the wonders of The Second Month and you can celebrate them on National Margarita Day on the 22nd…or if you’re a pup, National Dog Biscuit Day on the 23rd. Arf Arf! Let’s raise a glass then, to fabulous February. With a couple more days, she coulda been a contender.
Be Mine
No month can be discounted if it has Valentine’s Day in it. There may be no business like show business but try getting a table at any bistro on 2-14, when February shows its muscle. “Reservations? Of course, sir---would you like to dine at 4 p.m. or 9? For spillovers we have the lovely Panic Room, a converted air-raid cavern brilliantly lit by patchouli candles with floor tables and futons and music by the Velvet Underground.”
Siobhan and Bill were engaged on Valentine’s Day, 2015 after sipping champagne and watching the sun set in lovely Cedar Key. How romantic can you get, right? Bill popped the question over dinner at the exotic Island Hotel restaurant, a proposal which might have charmed and flabbergasted the average bride-to-be. Siobhan just answered “Sure,” perhaps miffed by her lengthy 29-year tryout period. The happy groom immediately purchased his partner a flashy $600 sequined wedding dress, but she eschewed it for a $99 gown which arrived from China folded into a postage stamp-sized package. It turned out to be a spectacular garment and they were wed in June of 2016. Somehow, despite all odds, the marriage took and they lived happily ever after. Smug after yet another success story, February licks her thumb and puts up one more star on the board.
Spare Change?
Not if you’re Trumpelstiltskin, who is madly trying to weave Bitcoin into gold despite the colossal crypto crash of 2022 when the price of the stuff and other digital currencies plummeted, leaving several companies bankrupt and a few top execs in prison. Analysts called it Crypto’s Great Recession. You probably didn’t notice. Now Trumpy is back with a Great Plan to create a federal stash of Bitcoin, enabling companies to offer more coins to the public. So next time the industry crashes, the impact could be more severe, rippling across the economy and hurting a wider array of investors.
The riskiest type of crypto might be the memecoin, a digital currency based on an online joke or a celebrity mascot. It has no practical use and vendors won’t accept it as payment, but the Prez got big eyes and created his own memecoin, naming it $Trump and heavily advertising it on his social media accounts. Crypto investors snapped up the coins like they were orange spray tan, the prices rocketed and the Trumpy family collected millions of dollars in fees. The surge didn’t last very long. The coin’s price dropped faster than Matt Gaetz’ pants at a Girl Scout camporee, and hundreds of thousands of people got buried. Analysis by a crypto forensics firm found that most of the coin’s buyers were first time investors in digital currency. As the popsicle man used to say, So Long, Suckers.
If Trumpy has his way, pretty soon you won’t be able to offer anyone a penny for his thoughts. The Great Leader recently ordered the Federal Mint to stop minting the things, pointing out they cost twice as much to print as they’re worth, but then again, so does he.
Trumpelstiltskin might have a point here. Who wouldn’t like to see the demise of merch signs reading $9.99? Let’s round everything off with zeroes, it’s much more practical. Which begs the point, do we really need nickels? How about dimes? You can’t even find a dime bag any more. Even the bum on the corner who asks, “Brother, can you spare a dime?” looks at you with contempt if you actually give him one. Think how much we’d save by abolishing coins completely. Now that we have almost no pay phones, what are coins good for except serving as emergency screwdrivers?
Maybe we don’t even need one-dollar bills. In olden times, these crisp little fellas were the heart and soul of The Dollar Store—you could use one to buy a sock or a wok or a jock. Try to find something for a buck at The Dollar Store today. They should be sued for false advertising. When we were kids, nickels, dimes and quarters were coin of the realm for tips…a whole dollar was a special reward. Try giving a waitress a buck tip today and she’ll spit in your coffee. Still, The Two Dollar Store doesn’t sound right.
Forget about coins and dollar bills. Like the Christmas Island pipistrella and the Pyrenean ibex, cash itself is in danger of extinction. Tried to get into any kind of athletic event lately without a credit card? No can do. Rent a bounce house? Don’t make us laugh. Bills are out of favor, gauche, too much trouble, reserved only for a spot in a stripper’s garter. Unlike coins, however, the public will never accept a complete ban. Who doesn’t dream of the day he can open a suitcase with one million dollars in cash inside? Who doesn’t fantasize about Scrooge McDuck’s money bin? And what’s the wife going to say when the Master Card bill comes in with a monster charge from the Chick Ranch brothel in Pahrump?
We seldom disagree with Sophie Tucker, who had this to say: “”From birth to age 18, a girl needs good parents. From 18 to 35, she needs good looks. From 35 to 55, she needs a good personality. From 55 on, she needs cash.”
The Kryptonite Bowl
So much for the Kansas City Chiefs being a one-point favorite. Remember that next college football season when old Winsocki buckles down against the Ramblin’ Wreck from Carnegie Tech. “Listen Ralph, Vegas has the Fighting Nerds a 14-point underdog—I want a little of that action.” Just say au contraire, mon ami and see who Feinbaum likes.
Of course, everybody really watches the Super Bowl for the ads or the half-time entertainment, which this year was headlined by somebody named Kendrick Lamar, the king of hip-hop. Now, I have no doubt that Kendrick was a straight-A student in high school, a doting husband who mows his lawn every Saturday, a voice for those crying in the desert, an amalgam of 2Pac, Lil Wayne, Nas and Snoop Dog and a soul-searching intellectual, but nobody we know could hear the man. Those who could waited patiently for Kendrick to bring the house down with his leviathan hit “Not Like Us,” but he ignored it to give the middle finger to his long time frenemy-turned-nemesis Drake, calling him a “certified pedophile.” Just what you want for your halftime entertainment, more bitch-slapping. But hey, the dancers were great, right? Next year, let’s forget the pseudo-music and have a hip-hop cage match, no-holds-barred, a championship belt with a giant silver buckle to the winner.
By the way, where the hell is Dolly Parton when you really need her?
That’s all, folks….
