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This morning, I’ve been watching the squirrels do their gymnastics in my now leafless ornamental apple tree, those squirrel creatures getting the last of the little bitter red apples as the winter looms in time-distance and the nights grow long and cold, and it makes me think of that Elvis film Roustabout where the dude worked in a circus and rode his motorcycle around the walls of a big barrel under the watchful inviting eyes of Barbara Stanwyck before she left for the big valley and that even though I’ve done karaoke, I really don’t sing that well. Not even for the squirrels.