Ol’ Green Eyes is Back!

    And not a moment too soon…or so he says. Others may have different opinions on the subject. If you don’t know who I’m talking about by now, you’re almost anybody in the entire world, so I’ll just come right out and tell you. It’s that perpetual ray of sunshine, Frank the Alligator. The upcoming change of season has done nothing to clear the cloud cover away from Frank’s overcast outlook on life—for him, the transition out of summer has less to do with the autumnal equinox than the School of Hard Knocks. But I’ll let Frank speak for himself. He’s going to, whether anybody likes it or not.

Uncle Fun    

You bet your sweet you-know-what I am. Hi, losers, Frank the Alligator here again. Of the four seasons I really hate, the one I hate the most right now is fall, mostly because it’s the one that’s coming up. It’s not just the weather—although that’s a good start. It’s bad enough that the weather starts getting colder, but then you have that abomination of nature called “Indian Summer” to contend with. “Indian” anything comes across as kind of a racist thing to call the weather, except that it gets so hot that you feel like you’re actually in India—specifically, the Black Hole of Calcutta—more specifically, the Black Hole of Calcutta during an overbooked period that happens to coincide with a deodorant shortage. As far as I’m concerned (and why do I have to be?), if it’s going to get cold, it can just stay cold. Why tease us when we know better?

And that’s just how I feel about fall when the weather’s dry—which isn’t nearly often enough. Don’t get me started about fall rain. For one thing, when it starts, it never seems to stop. Fall rain is that kind of rain that makes you think about how lousy summer rain is, then makes you wish that the rain that’s raining on you was that lousy summer rain, then rains on you for three straight days and nights just to get the point across. Don’t get me wrong—fall rain would be fine except for two things. It’s cold and it’s wet. Other than having the two worst characteristics that rain can have, fall rain is fine. Especially if it doesn’t fall on me, which it never does, so I don’t know why I even bother to bring that up at all. Fortunately for those of us who hate the fall, there’s something about fall that’s worse than the damn rain.

That’s right—you know what I’m talking about...

THE DAMN LEAVES.

Now, I get that things falling is what fall is all about. Leaves falling to the ground and not going away softens us up for a winter of snow falling to the ground and not going away. I just damn well wish that someone else within a fifty-mile radius of me would help out with clearing away all the stuff that falls and doesn't go away unless I get at it with a shovel or a rake or some other implement better used in the service of agriculture or cemetery maintenance.

As it is, I spend most of the fall—valuable time I could be spending anywhere but up a ladder, doing anything but fishing wet leaves out of my eavestroughs and downspouts—up a ladder fishing (guess what?) wet leaves out my eavestroughs and downspouts. It wouldn’t be so bad, except I live in the apartment (i.e., attic crawlspace) over the bar where I work—and my El Cheapo landlord/boss thinks he’s doing me a favour by letting me fish wet leaves out of my own gutters in exchange for the occasional promise of a break on the rent. It’s enough to drive you to drink—which I can’t do after a night of tending bar and watching what being driven to drink does to other even more hopeless saps than me.

So, what I do instead is wait ‘til the boss goes home for the night and pour my sorrows out in song. (If you don’t like that mental image, you can bite my less-than-golden tonsils. Tom Waits and Lou Reed have gotten good coin for carrying a tune not much farther than I can.) A pint of medium-grade gin is all it takes to get Professor DeLuxe to hang around and accompany me on the oversized doorstop that masquerades as the joint’s piano.

Here’s a little number we’ve worked up, paying tribute to the joys of the season. The tune is “Autumn Leaves”. Google it or don’t—I couldn’t care less. We’re starting now.

 

 

Okay, so I ain’t Ira Gershwin. He didn’t have to fish wet leaves out of his gutter. He probably had George do it. I’ll give you dollars to donuts that’s what gave him the brain tumour.

And if you don’t like that remark, guess how much I care. Now divide that by about a hundred thousand, and you’re getting close. Be like Humpty Dumpty, and have a great fall, for all I care. If you can have a great fall, then you definitely are like Humpty Dumpty—completely and totally cracked.

Frank