NO GNUS IS GOOD NEWS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-23-25)

     We recently went to a zoo that began like most other zoos, but didn't end up that way. I'll get to that. The Wild Animal Park in upstate Chittenango starts out with a walk through the various habitats, where animals can observe the odd behavior of humans and learn what not to do. 

     We started out at the caprine introductory reception area (I made up the title), where behind the fence frolicked a herd of goats of Biblical proportions. You couldn't call it a plague because they are so cute. A plague is like when I was in Egypt and an army of frogs emerged from the Nile unto the land, and wouldn't you know, I JUST washed my car. My wife insisted that I throw the food to the scrawniest, puniest, loser-est goat, the one who was definitely not the G.O.A.T. He was probably wondering why I hit him with a food pellet so many times, and the answer is because I was not aiming at him.

     There were several different types of monkeys, and you could watch their clowning behavior all day. There were spider monkeys, capuchins, baboons, and even two medium-sized titis, and let me tell you, that was quite a pair. There were big cats of many varieties. I've heard it said that cheetahs never prosper, but after all they were wearing fur and it looked real. There were tigers, lions, and even a leopard was spotted. There was a giant anteater, a most useless creature, since at my house the ants are very small.

     There is a platform where you can walk up, face a giraffe on its own level, and feed it a carrot. Everyone knows that the best way to a giraffe's heart is through its stomach, but it's also the most time-consuming. I couldn't wait, so I just assumed that my giraffe loved me based on some eye-contact that we shared. Our trip here was in early September, and there were many baby animals in the zoo at that time, including a newborn giraffe. So plan accordingly if you like babies, and you don't mind that they might eat you when they grow up.

     You can learn all kinds of things about the animals by reading the signs. Did you know that the gibbon mates for life, and sings a special song to the female? When we were there it sang "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe," by Barry White, so monkeys are not stupid. At the sika deer exhibit I learned that "sika" is Japanese for "deer," which is as self-explanatory as saying "people person." The southern ground hornbill has a low, hooting call that it repeats over and over and can be heard for miles, prompting its Mom to say, "That's ANNOYING."

     For an extra fee you can have a personal encounter with a sloth, and learn all about him. For instance you may be wondering, what is the difference between a two-toed sloth and a three-toed sloth? You can spend two hours with a him and he'll show you, after which time you are essentially dating.

     But the craziest part of the zoo was yet to come: a safari in your own car! The fellow at the ticket counter saw the bicycle on my car rack and asked if it was going to be okay. I said, of course, but then I had a vision of a mob of emus unlatching the two-wheeler and riding around terrorizing the other animals, and all of a sudden I wasn't so sure.

     Armed with four red Solo cups filled with wild animal food, we lit off on our journey around the 14-acre grounds. We got as far as 25 feet before the road was blocked by huge cattle with horns the size of traffic cones sticking straight out from the sides of their heads. If they actually were traffic cones we might have known not to drive in that direction, so we were stuck there until they dispersed, since it's impolite to honk at wild animals, and useless to check in on Waze.

     My sister Anne lives in the area and has been to the zoo many times. She knows how to get the most amusement for her buck, so she had us open all the windows, and she would point us all in one direction to look at something harmless, say, a zebra, and when we turned back around there was a gargantuan bison head two inches away from my own inside the car window, scaring the living daylights out of me so much that they weren't living after that. 

     Then the game was on, and elk, asses, llamas and buffalo were chasing those solo cups like a foam-starved fratboy following a frothy firkin. One camel dogged me as if I owed him money, which is entirely possible. We were laughing so hard even the hyenas told us to shut up.

     If you're a fan of the creatures we share the Earth with there is no better way to spend your day. My sister Diane loves animals so much that she said she helped an earthworm across the street, which I believe. She stepped on three others during this act of kindness, but it's the thought that counts. I am also a friend to all animals, and I couldn't bear to kill a spider that was in my basement. Instead, I trapped it using an internet scam, then paid for two years of group therapy, and now it works at MacDonalds.

A CONGREGATION OF CELEBRATION

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (10-09-25)

     Two weeks ago Gidget (The Cutest Dog in the Land) and I showed our civic appreciation by attending "Celebrate Somers" day at the Towne Center. We met some nice people, browsed the local businesses, saw some adorable little dancers and enjoyed the beautiful 80-degree weather. That's celebration enough, although I was hoping that there might be cake. Gidget did score some dog treats, which she saved till later. People often tell their kids not to accept candy from strangers, but I never subscribed to that advice, because in a candy-accepting relationship, I find it hard to believe that I would not be the stranger one.

     As we strolled around the square, we made some new friends, and ran into some old ones. And when I say "we," I am referring to Gidget, and the guy she drags around at the end of a leash (me). If she could answer questions regarding the makeup of her breed, how old she is and whether she sheds or not, she wouldn't need me around at all, and I'd have to come up with a convincing reason to hang around. 

     There were cheerleaders and dance teams of all age groups, and each group gave a little performance. There were some tiny little munchkins who were learning at a very early age that you could get people to do just about anything you wanted simply by virtue of being adorable, and whatever you couldn't get done that way, bonking them over the head with a pom-pom would probably do it. As one progressed farther up the age scale, it became apparent that if your Mom thought she could get you to clean your room by letting you join the group, it still wasn't going to happen unless they actually made it part of a dance routine.

     There were a bunch local businesses represented, and they make you realize that you really need to get out of the house once in a while and interact with other human beings. It's getting to be a lost art. There was a Pilates studio, for instance, which I'm told is a great way to stay in shape. "Wow, you do Pilates?" You ask. Well, I just did the one Pilate. If I did more, I might wake up my endorphins, which surely would make fun of me.

     Also represented were a chiropractor's office, a dentist's office, even a recruiting booth for the Somers Volunteer Fire Department, where you can save peoples' lives in your spare time. There was a booth for a day spa, so called because you can't spend the night there, even if you think that being covered head to toe in mud is preferable to hearing your husband dissect the reasons why the Giants offensive line is so offensive. Write me separately if you wish to do that. 

     There was a basketball player from the Harlem Wizards there who entertains every year. He teaches kids the finer points of ball handling and stunt dribbling, while dishing and goading them to distraction. It's fun when they do it right, and even more fun when they don't. Are these life skill you can eventually bring to the workplace? I say, YES! "Did you happen to look over my proposal?" You ask. "Yes I did, and I thought it was stupid." "Well give it back to me then, I'm going over your head." "Well, a.), I'm on the top floor, and b.), I took the proposal, passed it behind my back, through my right leg, then through my left, tossed it in the air and bounced it off my butt and out that open window." "Dude! we're on the 30th floor! Is that it down there? Didn't there used to be a hot dog guy down there? I guess he's not going anywhere for a while." "Not if he submits that proposal he's not."

     There was a whole parking lot dedicated to classic cars, and you could just wander around and check them out- I thought I recognized the back seat of one of them. Some had their hoods up, and my gear-head friends would love that. There was a Ford Taurus with its hood up that didn't look that classic, it just looked like maybe the battery was dead. But there were some nifty muscle cars, Camaros, some old Mustangs and Corvettes, and even a restored Model T. My very first car was a rusty, fusty, musty Fiat 128. I'm not saying it was a muscle car or anything, but consider that the stapedius muscle, while the smallest in the human body, is also extremely insignificant. My Dad once had a Dodge Dart "Swinger" the color of a banana that was suffering from extreme carsickness. As you might imagine, the amount of actual swinging you could do once an eligible female found out what your ride was, was minimal at best. "What you driving, Sugar?" "I roll with a Dodge Dart. It's got a slant-six engine, with a- Hey- where are you going? Did I happen to mention that I have 170 cubic inches under the hood, soaking wet?"

     There were many other dogs enjoying the day with their owners, and I tried to get Gidget to make some friends, but she prefers cats, and there were no cats that had penciled the day into their schedule . I told Gidget, you have to learn how to make friends with other dogs. Sneaking up behind somebody and sticking your pointy nose in their butt is no way to introduce yourself. It hardly ever works for humans, at least that's what I'm told.

FAIR WEATHER FRIENDS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-18-25)

     We've never been to the great New York State Fair, and this year we decided to go and check it out. If you're headed upstate, you should always plan your trip for when you're in the market for a used car. If you look on the lawn in front of most houses, just to the left of the driveway, there is a used car for sale. If there is no "For Sale" sign on it it means that whomever drove it last missed the driveway by a good margin just before the car heaved its last breath, but you might as well make an offer anyway if you're feeling lucky. Some of the more "classic" vehicles are of a vintage just before the car radio was invented, but if you know Morse code you can communicate by telegraph.

    There is also a lot of farm equipment available up there, new and used. I would love to get my hands on a tractor. WHY? My wife asks. Have you ever tried tracting by hand? Takes all day. A backhoe would be nice. My wife put her foot down on that one, but she never said no to a fronthoe, and I can just turn it backwards.

    Anyway, the Fair is a fun and kitschy slice of Americana. Later that evening at the bar I used the word "kitschy" twice, and was informed that to say it more than once is insulting. A good example of kitsch is the annual butter sculpture in the Dairy Building. This year's rendering depicted the theme of, "Dairy: Good for You, Good For the Planet." The work of art used enough butter for over 76,000 pancakes, and over 1400 full-time cardiologists.

    Our first stop was the Canine Stars Stunt Dog show, where dare-devildogs performed high jumps of up to 48 inches from a running start. All of the participants were rescue dogs, saved from a life of inert loafing, and forced to jump four feet in the air all day long to earn tiny morsels of food. One dog refused to take part in this charade, and vaulted over the fence to lick random members of the audience instead, and was universally hailed a hero.

    Other stars of this dog day afternoon could jump 26 feet into a pool of water. By contrast, I brought my dog Gidget into the pool one time to teach it how to swim, which instead turned into a lesson on how to defend yourself against a dog who, while remaining extremely cute, was apparently well versed in mixed martial arts and perfectly content not knowing how to swim.

    The Hawk Creek Birds of Prey exhibit is absolutely raptorous for any bird lover. A fun thing to do is to take someone whose company you really can't stand and, without their realizing it, position them in between the two people with the falcon glove on. When they let the hawk go it flies about two inches over their head to the other falconer, causing your friend's pacemaker to fibrillate to the approximate tempo of "Cry of the Brave" by DragonForce. If that doesn't work you're stuck with them the rest of the day, though.

     It's a great way to learn about these amazing creatures. For instance, the great horned owl, besides being totally cool, has no sense of smell. The reason this comes in handy is because it has no qualms about preying on skunks, and, I'm hoping, people who eat garlic for breakfast and then ride on the same train as me. The peregrine falcon can fly at speeds up to 240 miles per hour toward its prey, possibly a turtle moving at say, three inches per hour. When the turtle catches up, 45 days later, he is immediately eaten, but not before he has a good laugh over the whole thing.

    We attended a show starring John Stetson, The Mentalist. If I had known about mentalism when I was in college, perhaps I would have majored in it. My Dad would have been all for it, since he usually referred to me with similar-sounding adjectives. Anyway, John Stetson picks members of the audience whom he thinks are on the same intellectual wavelength as he is, and guesses what numbers they are thinking of, and so forth. There is always a deck of cards involved. I was thinking the show might be more interesting if there was money on it, and he managed to guess what your hole card was. But he never guesses anything particularly relevant like that, but he does emphasize the power of positivity. If I was a mentalist, I would pick out, maybe, the CFO of Nvidia, and mentalize whether they were planning a stock split or something, just in time for the closing bell.

     The Ferris wheel is a great place to end your day, see the entire playground from the air, and find where the nearest zeppole concession is. There was only one true Ferris wheel in history, designed by George Washington Gale Ferris Jr. and built for an 1893 expo in Chicago. It rose 250 feet into the air and was later sold for scrap before its inventor died three years later at the age of 37. The one we rode at the Fair was small in comparison, and we ended up right back where we started, proving that what goes around, comes around.

PLAYING TO TYPE

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-03-25)

     I've played in bands for longer than I can remember, but that's only a guess since I can barely remember the last 48 hours or so. If it happens to come up in the course of conversation (in other words me shamelessly plugging dates, like Trillium playing at Bar 141 on the 14th, or No Options at Mohansic Grill on the 19th), someone might ask, "What kind of music do you do?" And the answer is, who the hell knows?

     There are so many bands that defy categorization that it's almost a badge of honor to have trouble defining what they do in words alone. It's a mistake to pigeonhole a group into a particular musical style. It's confining, confusing and usually misleading. The group Blondie, in the space of three albums, had hits in the styles of punk, pop, rap, reggae and disco. 

     What constitutes a genre? Sometimes its the lyrics. "Emo" music features songs about social alienation and teen angst, and generally celebrating the art of being miserable. Sometimes music is defined by the beat, like reggae music, driven by a downbeat with two upbeats, usually employing a smug bass player who for once gets to play louder than the guitarist.

     Sometimes it's in the style. "Glam rock" musicians unapologetically espoused platform shoes, tight pants, glitter and eye makeup that looked like it was airbrushed on using a leaf blower. The '80s were hard enough on women who to this day curse the fact that hair crimpers and cameras existed at the same time in history, but brutal on men. That reminds me, I thought of my retirement job: opening up a trendy boutique for undercover cops so they don't have to dress in plain clothes anymore.

     Sometimes the brand of the music has to do with where you listen to it, like "elevator music" or "yacht rock." I'm sure the label "yacht rock" was meant to convey a relaxed pop vibe. But for those of us inexperienced boatmen who regularly backed their yachts into the rocks, thereby shearing off every last blade of the propeller, the term is anything but.

     I used to listen to a lot of "progressive rock," as exemplified by the bands Yes, ELP, Genesis and Jethro Tull, bands that would play a song in a 7/4 time signature and not care AT ALL that you sprained your ankle trying to dance to it.

     Once in a while a genre of music is marked by the specific activity it's meant to inspire in the listener, like "thrash metal." "Mom, I've been asked to join a band." "But Bobby, you don't play anything, do you?" "No, but I've been thrashing fairly often, and it hasn't gone unnoticed. By the way, we'll need a new living room lamp." Thrash metal is a young man's game, because sooner or later your orthopedist will put the kibosh on any further thrashing, and you'll have to be the first to invent "360-degree swiveling massage recliner-chair metal."

     Sometimes just the hair alone will do it, as in "hair metal." It's a real commitment, so if you cut it all off into a bob, don't expect the other members of the band to coo, "OOOH! It looks great! I bet it's SUPER low maintenance!"

     I'm pretty open-minded about music, which is certainly a change of pace for me. But there are a few musical genres that I have some fundamental problems with. "Rap music," or "hip-hop" feels like street poetry, recited over a manufactured beat. Some street poetry isn't that bad, but a lot of it isn't very good, and the fact that they need to use Autotune just to SAY the words on key is not a great selling point. And without a decent melody to help you, all you have is your word. However, there is some talent in being able to use a rhyming dictionary, and in the ability to talk that fast without a lawyer present. In the case of "electronic dance music," there really is no redeeming musical value, just repetitive notes strung together by binary code. 

     I was in a nightclub where it was playing, bad music that inspired worse dancing, when bales of confetti were released from the ceiling, like I was in a ticker-tape parade. Everyone else seemed elated by it, but when a few of them landed in my drink I wondered what it was made of? It probably wasn't toxic, but was it Coors Light-soluble? At least with actual ticker-tape I could check my stock prices. There was so much on the floor afterwards that a family of gerbils could nest there undisturbed.

     These days, an algorithm working for a music streaming service will try to figure out the genre of the songs you like, and play other songs for you that it thinks are like the ones you like. Which is, like, a great way to keep your tastes from ever expanding. What happens if your hand slips and you click on "Kung Fu Fighting?" You've opened up Pandora's box, and Pandora is going to try to play to your taste, which is obviously, goofy fad disco songs about martial arts sung by Jamaican singers. I wish both you and Pandora all the luck in the world.

A FRIEND INDEED

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-21-25)

     Over a year ago we bought a vacation home in another state, and my wife thinks I should make some new friends there. Possibly so that she can enjoy an evening alone once in a while, maybe watch a movie without the bonus dialogue that I often supply just when there's a crucial but boring plot development. She's also afraid that because I binge-watch "Portlandia," I may eventually purge-watch it. But what actually constitutes friendship, and how do you go about forging a new one?

     I might have to learn to be a little more open and accepting. I can do this. I'll need to be less of a curmudgeon, not as cantankerous or irascible. Meaning that I'll have to stop complaining out loud as much, but I suppose I could write anonymous notes about, for instance, how child-proof caps are so hard to open that, how old do you need to actually be?

     It seems like the older you get, the harder it is to make new friends. But If you're willing to meet me halfway, I'll go a third of the way:

I need a friend that would be the yin to my yang. He should get to know me so well that he can finish my sentences for me, especially in prison.

A friend might go through a dangerous experience with me, where we come out the other side bonded for life, like buddies did during the Great War. What was so great about the Great War? The people! I've lived mainly in times of peace, but perhaps we could go through a car wash after we forgot to close the windows or something.

A friend is someone who does not mind my quirky habits, like humming rap songs, or putting salt on everything, even inedible objects.

I'm looking for someone who understands and accepts my past, when I was born into an underprivileged family in Chappaqua, struggling to survive on the street, using only my wits, with a father who beat me, at ping pong, and a mother who often threw my sneakers down into the basement if I left them lying around. 

A friend is someone who will learn the key scenes from "This is Spinal Tap," and be willing to perform them with no rehearsal in case there's a sudden remake.         

A friend is who is behind me all the way, waiting to see if I step in something gross.

A friend is someone who is there through thick and thin, making fun of me when I get fat, and then ratting me out when I go on Ozempic.

I need to be able to rely on my friend for his good judgment. That good judgment didn't help him when picking his friends though, did it? 

My friend could be a woman, too, as long as I don't subconsciously compare her to my mother. If she throws my sneakers into the basement, it won't be so subconscious anymore.

I need​ a friend with benefits, especially dental, in case we have to smile for the same photo. I need someone who, if they talk too fast or too low, always says something that nodding my head with a conspiratorial smile is the correct response to.

My friend should have less ailments than me. There's nothing worse than going to all the trouble of having an infirmity in every part of my body to complain about if yours are going to be more serious.

     Should we hug when we see each other? Or just fist bump? Maybe a secret handshake that neither of us even know? My uncle used to kiss me on the lips, and somehow it was not at all weird, but you? Just watch your hands.

     I picture us like the cast of "Friends," really good-looking (you, hopefully not as good-looking as me), with cool apartments in the city (rent stabilized) and other friends, played by Brad Pitt, Tom Selleck and Paul Rudd. Since I have three nipples, I'll be the Chandler Bing guy. You can be the Joey Tribbiani guy and a Ross Geller, as long as you understand that I'll eventually hook up with your former girlfriend.

     If things go sour and we do have a falling out, I just want to make sure that we share joint custody of our other friends. 

     Maybe the friendliest people are not people at all. The phone rang the other day, and you'll never guess who it was: "Ha, ha, ha!" They quipped, "You're harder to get hold of than a greased pig at a rodeo on Mars!" We shot the breeze for a few minutes while I was waiting to figure out who it was myself. Then I asked, "Are you an AI phone bot?" And he thought about it for a little while before answering, "NO!" So we're going out for lunch as soon as I sign up for a car warranty program.

     So, if you see me around, don't be a stranger.

FASHION STATEMENTS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (08-07-25)

     Last month was Fashion Day, and I celebrated by wearing clothes. I've never been much of a clothes horse. A horse looks great in just about anything. I'd be more of a clothes shar Pei, because I'm tall but not fat, and people who design clothes assume that large means large all over. So clothes hang on me like a wrinkly dog. I sometimes feel I should just wear the shirt with the hanger still attached. 

     And yet nothing is more fluid and ethereal than fashion. What exactly are this year's styles? There used to be a television show where you could watch slinky models sashay down the runway, walking a slalom as if they had to avoid traffic cones on either side of their hips, with a look on their faces that said, "Oh, you again," but what they really meant was, "I don't suppose you have an extra Kit Kat bar, do you?" And then, as you were taking in the designs, which might have been what looked like an over-the-shoulder bath mat, or like a mass of feathers with two human legs sticking out the bottom as if a covey of ring-necked pheasants landed on someone who didn't notice it, just as you were getting used to all these good-looking women parading around in a promenade, an old woman flashed onto the screen to explain why all of this was "important," and her name was Elsa Klensch, and darned if that wasn't my exact involuntary reaction.

     I think if you have a "look" that's worked well for you over the years, you should stick with it, regardless of the current trend. I've always worn cowboy boots, even though I would never wear any other type of wrangling gear, such as a ten-gallon hat or one of those bolo ties that looks like it could get caught in my coffee maker. By the way, if you're looking for a cowboy hat in Europe, it would be 37.85 liters.

     Everyone has had a fashion moment they are not proud of, and you can only hope that nobody took pictures of it. These days, people selfie just about every waking moment of their lives, so be expecting more and more moments of future reckoning. Years from now that selfie at the zoo might be hard on your kids' eyes. "Mom, Crocs with socks?" "Hey, what about the zebra? Vertical stripes? Come on." If you wore a "fascinator" to the Queen's ball, you ran the risk of being less fascinating then it by comparison. If you were invited to the Met Gala and showed up in a baseball hat and team jersey, you may have misunderstood the premise completely.

     Sometimes you're complicit in a fad without even knowing it. "You're not going out like that, are you?" My wife says. "You mean, personality-wise?" "Those pants are ripped." "Are you sure you weren't looking at my muscles? I can't see the rip, it's in my blind spot." And yet, there was a time when teens would pay extra to purchase jeans ripped in strategic places, places where jeans would never have ripped if it was their own idea.

     Halloween is the perfect time to see what works on you. Maybe you want to see how you might look in a pirate hat, or lederhosen, or with a tail, or as a gladiator. All looks that are on the way back in, if you're willing to wait long enough.

     We haven't even touched on accessories. To me an accessory means someone who can drive a getaway car after the fact. On the other hand, I could really use a purse, because I have three or four different pairs of glasses, depending on how important it is that I read something correctly. Plus, I'd prefer to conceal the fact that I have concealer. Barbie came with all sorts of accessories, why can't I? I'd look just as good in a pink Corvette as she does, maybe better.

     There used to be dress codes, at least before the advent of covid-19. "Business casual" meant something. And now, "business casual" is essentially the same as "nudist colony formal." Today, if you see someone in a suit and tie coming toward you, just drop everything and run. They're either holding an insurance policy application or a subpoena.

     Even uniforms are starting to become extinct. And maybe that's okay. I can understand a soldier wearing a uniform, so that he knows not to shoot at a guy in the same outfit, especially from the same outfit. But does a bellboy need a full get-up with brass buttons and epaulets, even if nobody is shooting at him? Question: which one of these is of higher rank: bell captain or major disappointment? Some uniforms are downright impractical. A chef's costume, with that wacky hat that ironically resembles a badly cooked souffle, is something that could inadvertently catch on fire and then set off the sprinkler system, in rapid succession. Why do superheroes have capes, when they could easily get caught in the car door and ruin your entrance by cutting off the blood supply to your neck?

     I have to go now, the fall collection is out, just in time for spring.

AS THE FLIES CROW

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (07-24-25)

     Is it my imagination or are bugs this summer buggier than usual? They seem more aggressive, better organized and better equipped. My skills as a catcher of bugs are constantly being tested. They consist of taking a swipe at the air, quickly closing my fist with a smug look on my face, and then slowly opening it, waiting for my wife to ask, "Did you get it?" before saying, "Of course," and pretending to wipe it off my hand and into the garbage.

     I may need to seek professional help from an exterminator: "I found a new type of spider in my garage, perhaps you can identify it." "Can you describe it?" "Yes. It's smallish, but still fits two cars, if you don't mind getting in through the window." "The spider, not the garage." "Oh. Well, it had a beard, it was about yay-big, although the word 'yay' gives the impression that I was happy to see it; it had large eyes, long legs, a roman nose, and was probably a male, because it did not shave its legs, although it could have been a lazy or bohemian female." "Okay, what I'm getting from you is that it looked somewhat like Javier Bardem, assuming that Javier Bardem does not shave his legs." "Yes. That's exactly right. Do you think it's poisonous?" "Why, did you eat it?" 

     Which reminds me- my cat, who is about a athletic as tree fungus, caught a moth the other day. This was surprising enough, but it's possible that the moth simply flew into its paw by mistake and was temporarily knocked unconscious. Then the cat looked at me with distaste, as if I should keep a cleaner house with less bugs in it, and what am I going to do with it. I told the cat, if you catch it, you eat it. In the wild this would be your FOOD. It's not a catch-and-release program. Anyway the spider in the garage was pretty toned, like it maybe had its own personal trainer. I told my wife to hand me my shoes. "Don't you need just one shoe to kill it?" "Yes, but I need both shoes to run away long before that happens." 

     I have other questions the exterminator might help me with, like, "How do I keep no-see-ums away?" "Well, are you sure they were no-see-ums? What did they look like?" "I have no idea, I didn't see-um." "Well did one bite you, or sting you?" "I'm not sure which end it was usin

, and by the time I put on two pairs of glasses, it was just standing there holding a knife and fork."
     I was talking to somebody that had ants in their home, as we do. She said that the worker ant takes the bait from the ant trap to the queen, and that destroys the whole colony. Can you imagine if YOU'RE the poor idiot who brought a lump of poison to the QUEEN? "Look at this, Your Highness, I think it's a piece of a Butterfinger, and I didn't eat any of it, I brought it straight to YOU. I ask for nothing in return, I'm just a poor ant, and I am not worthy. A cost of living increase would be nice." She eats it and drops dead, and all of a sudden everybody's looking at you, either with disdain or respec

, depending on what they thought of the Queen. By the way there's a similar strategy in chess.
     I read somewhere that you can spread coffee grounds around the perimeter of your house, and it messes up the scent of their trail and they can't use it again. It does seem to work, but what if the ants come in all amped up on caffeine, and chatting up a storm, talking about how boring picnics can be, and how great it is to have a thorax, and how grains of sand weigh much more than you'd think especially when wet, and you're just trying to find a graceful way to end the conversation?

     A mosquito bit me on the face the other day. I watch a lot of true crime shows on television, and the very nature of the assault told me that it was personal, not a crime of greed or opportunity, but a crime of passion. Clearly this bug had an obsession with me, or mistakenly thought we were in a relationship. What even caused our breakup? Was it that I hate to fly? Was it that I sometimes read a newspaper, and rolling it up seemed like a passive-aggressive act? Who can remember, I've moved on since then. Maybe we were better off as friends.

     If we should ever run out of domestic bugs, there are always new bugs that someone unwittingly brought in from some faraway land. The spotted lanternfly arrived can decimate important crops by sucking their sap. The emerald ash borer likely arrived in a shipment of wood. Its behavior, while boring, can get right into your ash, and after that you're on your own. These invasive species often taste AWFUL, so there are no known predators to keep them in check. The only way they can be controlled is by turning their destructive behavior into self-destructive behavior. Encourage drinking, dating the wrong kind of boyfriends and gambling. I have another good idea: Introduce invasive bugs from Asia to invasive plants from Asia, and let them figure it out. 

     I guess we should be lucky that the animals that bite us so often are usually the smallest ones. If you went out to do some gardening and you came back inside to complain, "Ugh, the lions out there are AWFUL today," it would be a lot worse.