Fall comics seem to fixate on the joy of jumping into a pile of raked leaves. It’s something I don’t understand. I was raised in the city. We didn’t have trees until much, much later when Donald Trump planted some along the street to make the approach to his casino a little nicer. Having grown up in the 50s, I imagine the nearest we could have come to jumping into a pile of leaves was to rake up discarded cigarette butts from the gutter and jump into them. But somehow that’s not quite as picturesque.