Have you ever fell down a rabbit hole? You go to the World Wide Web in search of some quick little tidbit of information only to emerge from a click-and-scroll marathon several hours later flanked by a cold cup of coffee and half-eaten caramel roll. Okay…the caramel roll is gone. As Alice taught us in her foray to Wonderland, one can’t properly descend into and bump around a rabbit hole with low blood sugar. That would be Crankyland.

I’m a fairly even keeled individual, but like most mouth hole owning morsal munching mortals, I am susceptible to occasional bouts of hangriness, and the less than even keeled behavior that lurks in its famished depths. Depths ugly and murky enough to prompt one to wrestle a loaf of marble rye from the arthritic grasp of a blue haired, ordained member of the Fraternal Order of the Elders.

I’ve never stooped to that level…I prefer sourdough, and I’m not one iota reticent to reveal to the masses that I am a shameless, even gleeful, bread groper. If you have ever been in a place that peddles fresh bread after my roaming hands have made their rounds, there is a very good chance that if you bought bread, it was a well groped loaf. Enjoy your sandwich.

I know that there are more of my kind out there. I’ve seen you. Your filthy sausages gently squeezing a soda bread, ever so lightly pressing a pumpernickel, laying hands upon the unleavened. Weirdo…

I hope you were able to relax and enjoy the fruits of your labor riddled life on Labor Day, and that you took the opportunity to don your favorite white or seersucker garments while it was still socially acceptable.

Tragically, sometime around 1989, my beloved white Levi 501 jeans had to be permanently taken out of social rotation after an unfortunate accident that occurred while I was taking my mullet for a stroll through the hallowed halls of Burke Central High School as my intestines were having a spirited disagreement with the “Cooks Choice” that was served in the cafeteria that day.

I’ll spare you the grizzly details, but, in short, never trust a fart while clad in bun hugging white denim. Triple-acting, fabric penetrating, stain lifting? Uh huh…SHOUT was reduced to a whimper.

I also hope you were able to catch a glimpse of the Super Blue Moon this past week. My wife and I went out for an evening stroll to take a gander at the Super Blue Moon, and while she was snapping photos of it, she mentioned that it wouldn’t grace the sky again until 2037.

As I peered toward the east, watching the moon rise above the hills, I wondered how life would look for my wife and I and our family in 2037? I pondered what that wave of time might take, and what it might give? I’m in no hurry to find out, the present has plenty of its own ponderances. Day-to-day…so it goes.