Blog #47

Politics!  Politics!  Politics!  It’s everywhere, and no matter what words any celebrity or politician says, the other side ridicules, vilifies and dissects every syllable ad nauseum.  For instance, suppose Donald Trump gave a speech that consisted of only five words: “Two and two are four.”  Pretty unremarkable, unobjectionable.  Who could find fault with that?  Well, I guarantee you that CNN would instantaneously embark upon a 10-hour marathon to convince the American public of the following:

·        Trump “says” he went to the Wharton School of the University of Pennsylvania.  Even if what he “says” is true, is that all he learned?

·        He must have skipped all his classes or else he would have said something intelligent, like E=mc².

·        He didn’t say E=mc² because Einstein was an immigrant and Trump hates immigrants.

·        Plus, Einstein was Jewish and Trump is anti-Semitic.

·        And Trump’s hair looks like the top of a baked Alaska.

·        And he’s drilling in Alaska!  What a pervert!

·        And he’s a pervert!

·        And anyway, it should be “two and two is four.”  What an imbecile!

Welcome back, everyone.  I hope you are feeling well.  Are you fed up with all the political squabbling?  I am, but let’s forget it all for a while and look forward to Spring.  That’s right, it’s February, and that means Spring is around the corner.  Which reminds me – tomorrow is Groundhog Day, and the world will be watching as Punxsutawney Phil peeps his furry little head out of his hole.  Let’s see if I remember the rules:  if Phil sees his shadow, it means six more weeks of Winter.  If he doesn’t see his shadow, it means an early Spring.  If he sees Donald Trump’s shadow, he’d better jump back in his s***-hole.  If he sees Harvey Weinstein’s shadow, it means he popped up in the French Riviera by mistake.  If he sees Kim Jong Un’s shadow, I guess that means we lost the war.

We all have medical issues -- my back, my pacemaker and so on – but my biggest concern has been my eyes.  I saw my father go blind from macular degeneration, so when I visited Dr. Eye I was particularly concerned.  The exam went well and he said I have almost no chance of getting the disease:

The chances are truly spectacular

That you will not suffer from macular

The disease is so slow

That before it can grow,

You’ll die from a big heart attacular.

It is a sobering fact to realize that the beating of my heart is controlled by a device assembled by the lowest bidder.  Plus, the defibrillator has an internal siren that sounds like a Nazi police car and comes out of my chest.   If I hear it, I should go to the emergency room.  They test it every once in a while, and, believe me, it is very spooky to hear that Gestapo sound coming from your own chest. I hate the Nazi siren.  I would rather have music; even Nazi music would be better.  

Oh no.  I knew this was coming! Now he is going to come up with some stupid, juvenile list of Nazi songs that he made up.  It’s bad enough we have to read his dumb limericks, now we have to suffer through this stupid thing.  Exactly!  Get over it.  Here they are – Nazi songs!

Well It’s Bad, Bad Eva Braun, We’re So Sorry Uncle Adolph, Hitler With Your Best Shot, and yes, I have a favorite: Come On Baby Light My Fuhrer.

I know -- I've gone Looney Toons again.  Just pad my cell and come visit me once in a while.  Bring books -- and chocolate.

The earlier limerick, believe it or not, was the 47^th limerick I have shared with you. That is certainly a lot.  If you lined up all 47 limericks end to end, you’d be bored for quite some time. 

I had lunch with a friend today.  Naturally I got there early and, as I patiently sat, reading my book and sipping a glass of water, a lady (my age I suppose) came in and sat at a nearby table.  She told the waiter, “I’m waiting for one more -- short, balding, glasses.”  Is that how we talk about our loved ones when they’re not around?  With some trio of defining characteristics?  Is that how Carol would describe me to a waiter – gray hair, bad back, Nazi siren coming out of his chest.  When I describe her, it’s always in glorious and adoring superlatives – I’m waiting for a beautiful dark-haired woman.  I would never say, “I’m waiting for one more – short, walks fast, won’t like the table.”  Anyway, when this lady’s husband came in, I knew him immediately from his wife’s description.  He was short and nondescript and lost and generally husband-looking.  I almost just waved at him and pointed him to his wife’s table.  But he found her.  We always do.

Carol is currently watching the Women’s Speed Skating Olympic Trials.  She would watch baboons play Chinese Checkers if there was an announcer.  I am just a grouchy old recluse and I love my quiet time so much that I don’t understand why other people (normal people, I suppose) like background noise.  In any event, it reminded me that the Winter Olympics are about two weeks away.  I enjoy the Olympics, but I must admit that some of the new events are too strange and silly for me.  Seriously, skiing should be one event – Downhill.  The one who gets there first wins.  I like things simple.  But now there is skiing with little zig-zags, skiing with big zig-zags, skiing over bumps, skiing over bumps while doing somersaults.  There’s skiing and shooting.  Now there’s an event that may come in handy, considering the Olympics are being held in the shadow of North Korea.

I never understood the skiing/shooting event (I think they call it the Biathlon).  You cross-country ski for a while, then drop on your belly and shoot a rifle at some targets.  Wouldn’t it make more sense if you shot at the competitor who’s ahead of you?   As I said, I like it simple.  We could change the name to the Die-Athlon.  The North Koreans wanted to change the format to skiing and firing a nuclear-tipped missile, but the contestants carrying the missiles kept sinking into the snow.  I would love to be in the Olympics.  When they get around to the event called Eating Popcorn while Writing a Limerick, I might have a chance.

I’d better go practice, so I’ll say goodbye for now.  Stay well and come back next week.   I’ll tell you all about what Punxsutawney Phil saw on Groundhog Day.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #46

A while ago we went to a play called Next to Normal, a musical about a woman with extreme mental illness.  A musical about extreme mental illness?  Well, it did have a couple of cute songs.  There was Home, Home on Deranged.  And the shrink’s love song to the woman with split personality – I’ve Grown Accustomed to Your Faces.  In the play, the psychiatrist asked the sick woman if she was happy on her wedding day.  She said, yes, she thought she was, and he said, “Being happy and thinking you’re happy are two different things.”  Really?  How are they possibly different?

Welcome back.  Are you happy?  Do you think you’re happy?  I hope you are deliriously happy and feeling well.  Did you notice that this was Blog #46?  Did you know that 46 is 2 times 23?  Are you good at math?  Most people aren’t.  Most people would say, “Fractions are fractious.  Algebra is all gibberish.  And ዠ is just Greek to me.”  I like math.  I taught high school math many years ago and now I tutor math to the inmates at the County jail.  Last week I taught Exponential Powers.  No, that wasn’t the inmate’s name; it was the subject!  I like teaching that topic because once you define what an exponent is, you can prove all the exponential postulates easily and logically.  Never mind, I know you don’t care.  Neither did the inmates. 

It used to be I was prepared

To lecture on things that are squared

I’d talk about powers

For hours and hours

Until I learned nobody cared.

Teaching math just serves to prove that no matter how hard you throw a dead fish in the water, it still will not swim.

Well here’s something you care about –shingles.  A friend of mine just got shingles.  I’ve had it before. What a ridiculous name for a disease!  It sounds like some kind of building material, as if the doctor said you had acute drywall.  Or hardening of the concrete or a pain in the asphalt.  There actually is a medical condition very much akin to construction, and a lot of my friends have it.  It’s called having a screw loose.

And speaking of names for diseases, I think history will come to show that constant cell-phone usage will prove to have been a mistake.  I see those teen-aged thumbs texting and clicking and clacking four miles a minute and I just know in a few years there will be some disability attributable to it all.  So naturally I have begun to come up with some names.  It pays to think ahead.   How about:  Thummy-ache or Digitalis or even Textually Transmitted Disease?

With the Royal Weddings (that’s right – there are two now) just around the corner, there has been a lot of talk about the English Royals (as opposed to the Kansas City Royals).  The other night I was telling someone that Queen Liz always carries a purse with only a lipstick, a hanky and a five-pound note in it.  What, no cell-phone, they asked?  And that made me think – who exactly would Liz call?

Hello, this is the Queen.  We would like a large pizza with Canadian Bacon delivered to the back entrance of Buckingham.  Hello, this is the Queen.  Can you do Our nails sometime on Thursday morning?  Hello, this is the Queen.  We’d like to sign up for NETFLIX so that We can watch The Crown.

On the other hand, who would call the Queen? 

Hello, this is Her Majesty Elizabeth the Second, by the Grace of God, of Great Britain, Ireland and the British Dominions beyond the Seas Queen, Defender of the Faith.  Who’s this?  Oh, Phil, they’ve hung up on Us again.

There’s something so romantic and elegant about Royalty, and even though we kicked them out in 1776, we are still nostalgic for all the pomp and circumstance.  Our style of democracy is better of course, but democracy does have its limitations, like when six wolves and a sheep are voting on what to eat for dinner.   Or when 535 clowns who call themselves Congress-people are trying to pass a budget.

Do you think Liz lounges around in sweatpants and a pair of red hospital-socks, eating caramel popcorn and watching The Crown on the telly?  I bet she does.  It probably makes her feel nostalgic for the good old days.   

Driving home I somehow pushed the NPR button on the radio.  They were interviewing a guy about his life-changing encounter with an apricot.  I did not make that up.  You know I’m telling the truth.  NPR has lots of good shows, but many times you just drop in on a conversation with a Fulani herdsman from Senegal whose right elbow looks exactly like Bill Cosby’s face.  Maybe you like that sort of stuff.

Quiz:  Of the 45 United States Presidents, what was the most common first name?  Yes, you can use Grover twice.  Answer later.

The professional football playoffs are in full swing and the Super Bowl is almost here.  Eagles vs Patriots.  Super Bowl parties are great, aren’t they?  That’s where the ladies, most of whom are not football fans, talk loudly and continuously so the men, most of whom are football fans, cannot hear the important stuff – the commercials.  Football is too violent.  Everyone agrees with that.  Concussions and joint injuries and long-term brain damage – well, I don’t think the country will put up with it much longer.  I can already see the future when the NFL will be playing Laser-Tag Football  and the only injuries will be the bruised knees the players get during The National Anthem.  Pass those little hotdog things.

Why is giving someone a dollar for three pieces of 25¢ candy the same as paying someone $41 million for two years of work?  In both cases you get a quarter back.  Oh-oh!  Was that too much math for you?  Should we go back to exponents?

I woke up with a great idea for a new product -- bacon-flavored Diet Coke.  Hey, the voices in my head may not be real, but they have some good ideas.  And the voices are telling me now that it’s time to go.  I’ll leave you with a little saying from Mother Theresa: We can't do great things in this life . . We can only do small things with great love.  So give someone some great love today and come back to me next week.  See you then.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Answer:  James is the most popular Presidential first name.  Here they are: Madison, Monroe, Polk, Buchanan, Garfield, Carter.  I bet you thought it was Rutherford.

Blog #45

Doesn’t anybody care about their privacy anymore?  They put their whole lives on Facebook.  They put naked pictures of themselves on You Tube.  They twitter their every thought to the whole world.  They live in a fantastic goulash of continuous and interminable connection to as many other lost souls as they can. I want my privacy and I want my solitude.  The younger generations want to be connected to as many people as possible for as much time as possible and they don’t care who knows what.  I don’t get it.  Doesn’t anybody ever want to be alone besides me and Greta Garbo?

Now that I think of it, if I am so passionate about my privacy and my solitude, why am I vomiting up all the secrets of my life to you every Thursday?  I mean, you know everything about me – about my naked light treatments with the brown paper bag over my head; about my obsessive morning visits to McDonald’s; about my utter technological ignorance; about my urine sample.  Have I told you about my urine sample?  Maybe not.

A while ago I had to give a urine sample to the lab.  All I had to do was deliver it, but when I arrived, there was a line at the receptionist’s desk.  I caught her eye and held up the filled vial, whereupon she pointed to the back of the line and said:

Good afternoon, Sir, I can        C

You’ve brought in a bottle of    P

If we could ask                          U

To stand in the                           Q

We’ll take you as soon as can   B

Well, at least I haven’t posted any naked pictures.  You should thank me for that!  Welcome back, everyone, to my latest episode.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  I have readers in California, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Georgia, Florida and Afghanistan.  They are probably warm, but here in St. Louis it has been really cold.  It’s so cold, I saw Rachel Maddow and Steve Bannon hugging.  It’s so cold, Charley Rose now takes a shower with his clothes on.  It’s so cold, Al Franken is rubbing his own breasts.  (I’ll probably think of some more.)

Is all this giving you a headache?  In my youth – you had a headache, you took aspirin.  You went to the corner drugstore -- Bert & Jeanette’s on Clayton Road next to Lake Forest Bakery.  Mmmmm, the smell of butter cookies wafting through the air!  Where was I?  Aspirin!  There were two kinds – the small bottle of Bayer Aspirin and the large bottle of Bayer Aspirin.  The large bottle had twice as many pills and cost twice as much.  And if it didn’t work, the only other course of action was – lie down; it’ll get better.  Now it’s different.  Recently, I went to get something for a headache.  The pain reliever aisle at Walgreen’s was three miles long and the Tylenol section had 100 different kinds, mixtures, sizes and configurations of Tylenol.  They had a pineapple-flavored Tylenol.  They had a Free-Range Tylenol.  And for each one, there was a Walgreen’s store-brand version that was exactly the same.  That made 200 different choices.  And that’s just Tylenol!  Then there were 200 kinds of Advil, 200 kinds of Aleve, 200 kinds of Motrin and yes, there was actually aspirin.  What was I to do?  It’s enough to give you a headache.

I just went to get the mail.  Getting the mail is a routine, but very important part of the day.  To many, it is almost a holy pilgrimage to trek to the mailbox or Post Office each and every day without fail.  Our letter carrier (I almost said Mailman which, of course, would have been horrible.  After all, it could have been a Femail Man.) – our letter carriers let neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stay them from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

The mail is where you get your bills, wedding invitations, holiday cards and magazines.  I go each day to the mailbox with the same thrill of anticipation and aura of mystery that a five-year-old has when opening a birthday present. Today there was only one item, an invitation to an Open House at the new Senior Lifestyle Community down the street.  Is that sad?  To find nothing but a reminder of how old you are?  Last week I got a catalog displaying the latest in Cremation Urns.  How do they know I’m old?  Do they read my blog?

Can you guess the magazine with the largest subscription?  It’s AARP The Magazine.  In second place is AARP Bulletin.  They each have about 23 million readers.  By contrast, Time, National Geographic, Cosmopolitan, Sports Illustrated and Readers Digest each have about 3 million readers.  It seems that AARP has the Old People market under control.  What we need are magazines for Dead People.  Here are a few proposals: Good Hearsekeeping, Corpse Illustrated, Better Plots and Gardens.  I know, I’m warped.

Jon, an old friend and loyal reader, has written a book.  It’s called Questions for Kids: The time to start talking with kids is now!  It’s an accumulation of thoughtful questions for you and your kids, grandkids, or even friends to stimulate insightful discussions.  It’s actually a lot of fun as well.  You can find it on Amazon.

The Tire Pressure light came on in my car, so I took it to my preferred station where I encountered a large, young and unfamiliar attendant.  I told him my problem and asked if he could check it out.  The man reached in a drawer, removed a pressure gauge and handed it to me.  I told him I didn’t know how to use it (I only recently have figured out how to use a stapler) and asked if he could do it for me.  He sneered at me and said, “You’re a grown-ass man!”  Now, I have reached the stage in my life where I’m pretty sure no big, strong, young, rude jerk is going to punch a limping old man in the nose.  And even though I am not good with mechanical things, I am really good with my mouth.

So I responded, “I am an old man who needs some help.  I bring all my business here and am asking you to provide a service.  Do you think you can handle that without being rude and insulting?”  He reluctantly and begrudgingly left his post, walked outside and filled the tires to the proper amount.  “Thank you, “I said.  “You know, one of these days you will be an old man and you might need some help.”  He nodded and walked inside.  Don’t mess with me.

It’s so cold that Donald Trump just booked a cruise to one of those shithole countries.  See, I told you I’d think of another one.

Stay well and don’t put any naked pictures on You Tube.  Please!  And don’t forget my two know-it-all friends, Ben There and Don That.  See you next week.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog # 44

While driving around the other day, I saw a sign.  It was a green sign, which always indicates some official message like how far it is to the next town or which dead Highway Patrol officer the street is dedicated to.  This sign said “WILDLIFE VIEWING AREA” with an arrow and an image of binoculars.  It’s a sad sign really.  Its obvious translation is: “A few miles down this road we actually found a place with a few animals left.  Bring your binoculars because there aren’t that many and they stay pretty much away from the road.  And hurry!  There’s a new Cracker Barrel coming next spring.”  Pretty soon the only animals left will be at the zoos and no-one will remember how they evolved or became extinct.

And speaking of zoos, the St. Louis Zoo opened a new grizzly bear exhibit in July.  Huck and Fin are very handsome bears, but they have been trying to get out, digging under the glass that separates them from the tourists.  The exhibit is closed while the problem is solved.  Shame on those Terrible Teddies, those Silly Smokies, those Bad News Bears – trying to break out of a cage!  What were they thinking of?  Probably freedom.

It was my birthday this week.  I am now 72.  At the Dollar Tree, I found Carol a great birthday card to send me.  It said something like “You’re a wonderful husband and I’m so lucky to have you.”  I showed it to her and she rejected it immediately.  “You’re the one who’s lucky,” she said.  I am also, apparently, the one who is not worth a dollar birthday card.  She wrote me a limerick instead.

I hope on your birthday you see

How fortunate one guy can be

You’re the luckiest guy

And, Michael, here’s why:

Because you are married to me.

And that’s why she has won the Donald Trump Humility Award twelve years running.

Recently, Dr. Pain and I have reached an impasse in our course of treatment.  It seemed that whatever we were doing wasn’t working.  I asked him what we should do next?  “It’s up to you,” was his reply.  What!  Up to me?  You’re the doctor.  You’re the one who went to medical school for seven years.  You’re the one who makes people wait six weeks to see you.  You’re the one who cheated on your organic chemistry exams.  How am I supposed to know what to do?  I’m just an old man in pain and I need your help.  I don’t think he liked much of that, but I had to get it off my chest.

Sorry for being as grumpy as the guy who designed a yellow dress for the Golden Globes.  Sometimes I think you like it when I’m grumpy because I pick on the same things that frustrate or confuse you as well, but right now I’ll try to move on to lighter things with a little puzzle for you.  Try putting six X’s on a tic-tac-toe grid without getting three in a row.  Answer later.

My Jennifer was in town with her kids, and the first thing we did was go to Whole Foods so she could buy overpriced food for her family.  I admit that Whole Foods is a great store.  It has terrific presentation and a wonderful prepared-foods department and it is totally attractive and hip and “in”.  But come on!  Some of the hype that goes on in there is ridiculous.  There was a cooler case with a sign that read “Five-Star Animal Welfare Rating”.  Ok, the sign made me wander over to inspect just how well the animals had been treated.  They looked dead to me.  Not only dead, but dismembered and shrink wrapped.  One package of shrink wrapped body parts said “Fresh Young Chicken”.  Seriously? If that doesn’t bring up a scene of intense, bloody cruelty, nothing does.  Here’s a gaggle of fresh young chicks in the prime of youth with their whole lives to look forward to – snatched, butchered and pulled to pieces.  Do visions of Harvey Weinstein come to mind?  But, we were kind to these “Fresh Young Chicks”.  We played Mozart for them and old Foghorn Leghorn cartoons before we ripped their bodies to pieces.  How humane!  Pass the barbecue sauce.

Let’s talk about comments.  I love your comments, and I always respond to them.  If you have sent a comment and have not received a response from me, then I never received it.  On the lower right of this blog is my email address.  If you send a comment there, I will get it.  If you just click Reply, you will be sending your comment to Neptune or Patagonia or Jay Silverheels.  Please send comments to my email.  I’ll be waiting.   And who, by the way, is Jay Silverheels?

The first five phone calls I received for my birthday were from Florida.  That made me feel old, to know that so many of my friends have escaped to Florida.  But more than that, it made me feel cold!   

We are firmly into Winter now and it is very cold.  I hate the cold, and, as I age, I seem to be getting less tolerant of it.  Why did God have to invent winter?  As a contrast?  John Steinbeck wrote, “What good is the warmth of summer, without the cold of winter to give it sweetness.”  Maybe God made winter so we could marvel at the beauty of snow.  Or maybe He just wanted to make us shiver.

And yes, I called God a He.  Do I need to apologize for that?  It seems that God has been called Our Father, Our King for almost 6,000 years, but in the past 25 years we have changed God to Our Parent, Our Ruler.  Why can’t God be a man?  Mother Nature hasn’t been changed to Parent Nature.  Have you ever heard of Parent Goose stories?  Or the Siblings Grimm?  Or Parent Theresa?  With all the scandals going on nowadays, I guess it’s not so good to be a man anyway.  So let’s just pray to Whoever for a mild winter.  Amen!  Oops, I guess I should have said – A-person!

And speaking of The Brothers Grimm.  Why isn’t it the Grimm Brothers?  It just sounds strange.  Have you ever heard of the Brothers Everly?  Or the Brothers Righteous?  Or the Brothers Smothers? 

And speaking of Parent Theresa, she once said, “Let no one ever come to you without leaving better and happier.”  Thanks for joining me today.  I hope I have left you a little better and happier.  Maybe a smile or two.  Here are the six X’s placed on a tic-tac-toe grid that don’t make three in a row.  

X  X 

X     X

   X  X

Gotta go now.  I’m exhausted.  Being clever and witty tires me out.  And thank goodness I can’t hear any of your smart-aleck comments to that!  Oh, and Jay Silverheels was the actor who played Tonto.  Stay well.  See you next week.   

Kimosabe                                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

  

Blog #43

Happy New Year!  It’s 2018 – wow, that’s a big number!  How did this happen?  Well, we can’t get maudlin about it.  We have to accept the new year and look forward to what lies ahead.  Like being a year older.

You know you’re an old man if your cell-phone still has the factory installed ring tone.  You know you’re an old man if you spend more time shopping for deals on pills than on cars.  You know you’re an old man if your PSA score is more important than your golf score.  You know you’re an old man if opening a grandchild’s stroller is the technological highlight of your day.  You know you’re an old man if you have read 700 books.  And you know you are a ridiculous old man if you have kept a list of all those books.  I read a lot because it fills up my head with a bunch of things I never knew before.  Don’t worry, there’s plenty of room up there.

I really do read quite a lot

And learn things more often than not

I learn, I might say,

Something new every day

To replace all the stuff I forgot.

And you know what else we have to look forward to in 2018?  More technological advances.  Thomas Friedman said that when he wrote The World Is Flat in 2004, Facebook didn’t exist, Twitter was a sound, the Cloud was in the sky and Skype was a typo.  The new world just explodes on us so fast!

Just imagine what they will come up with next!  The technology thing is a challenge, I admit.  I just spent two nights in a hotel in Los Angeles.  They really should put up a sign:  NOT RECOMMENDED FOR OLD PEOPLE.  Unlocking the door to my room was the first challenge.  There’s this little card and you don’t stick it into anything.  You just swipe it in precisely the right place at absolutely the right angle for exactly the right number of mini-seconds, and it opens.  Well, it’s supposed to.  I was about to ask the desk clerk for the right Hindu mantra to use when Carol finally showed me how to do it.  Once the door was unlocked, you had to open it.  It weighed 800 pounds.  I had to get two bell-hops and Arnold Schwarzenegger to help me push.  Who designed this place?  Mengele?  Then you have to turn on the lights.  There was no light-switch.  What happened to light switches?  Instead, there was a white, plastic plate with a picture of a light-bulb on it and if you touched it in the right place, some lights got brighter or dimmer.  All I wanted was to turn on the light, not engineer a New Year’s Eve light show in Times Square.  And, of course, the likelihood that we would figure out the television set was the same as the likelihood of Joy Behar asking Roy Moore to the prom.  And don’t even get me started about how to work the shower.

Why would you replace a thing as simple and obvious as a $2 light switch with a $90 touch-plate with arrows and pictures of light bulbs that only Elon Musk knows how to operate?  It was obvious that all these highfalutin, new-fangled gizmos cost a lot of money, because, even though the room was $350 a night, it clearly was not enough to pay for toilet paper wider than a roll of Scotch Tape.

You know, I’m not sure all this technology can improve on the old, reliable things they purport to replace – simple things like light switches, paper towels or light bulbs that actually cost less than a BMW.  Take these new Alexa things.  My wife has an Alexa.  “Alexa, add avocados to my shopping list.”  And my wife has Siri.  “Siri, where is the nearest Shake Shack?”  But neither of them can compete with the old reliable “Honey”.  “Honey, come open this jar.  Honey, can you get that bowl off the top shelf?  Honey, drive me to the bridge game; it’s raining?  Honey, can you turn up the heat?  Honey, get in the car; we’re driving 20 miles to a new restaurant to get a hamburger and fries.

That’s right, Shake Shack has come to town, and we just HAAAAD to go.  I mean, how could we allow a new restaurant to come to town and not eat there before the first ketchup spill had dried on the floor?  (And don’t tell me it’s catsup.  Ketchup is what normal people put on their fries.  Catsup is what strange people from Long Island put on their scrambled eggs.)  So we drove twenty miles and stood in a line outside in 34^o cold for 40 minutes with a bunch of college students who thought we were the cast from Cocoon III.  The atmosphere was frenetic and fun, the burger was ok, the fries were terrible and the prices were outrageous.  But it was the new thing, the place to be, the scene, the in place.  And besides, you know the old saying; nothing ventured, nothing shivering in the cold for 40 minutes just to get an average burger and cold fries.    

I like Italian food better than burgers and fries, and I especially like Sicilian food with lots of olive oil and lemon and garlic.  A Sicilian restaurant is an Italian restaurant with pictures of criminals hung in the Men’s Room.  They usually have Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in pics from The Godfather and James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano.  Why do they display pictures of murderers and gangsters?  Are they proud of them?  Do you go to a Jewish deli and see pictures of Harvey Weinstein and Bernie Madoff?  Do German restaurants have pictures of Hitler?  It wouldn’t surprise me.

Hi.  Welcome back.  I hope you have all recovered from your New Year’s Eve reveling and are feeling well and eager for another year of my strange outlook on life.

We were with our two youngest grandchildren (aged 4 and 6) recently and Carol was in the back seat with them as we drove around.  They were loud and raucous, so she created a challenge.  “Let’s see if we can go for a whole minute without talking.”  I was appointed the official timer, but I knew we would never make it to the finish line, and I knew who would lose.  About 35 seconds in, Carol started talking.  You’ve heard of The Elf on the Shelf?  My wife is The Yak in the Back.  I think the 35 seconds was actually a new record for her.  In the 1850s, German physicist Rudolf Clausius proved the impossibility of Perpetual Motion.   But old Rudy never met my Whirling Dervish.

Well, this is the first blog of 2018.  I hope we will share many years together.  And thank you for all your comments.  I do appreciate them, except for the woman who sent me a 12-page letter telling me I was too wordy.  Stay well, everyone, and come back next week.

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #42

Did you all have a nice Christmas?  I hope so, and no matter what our religious persuasion might be, I’m certain that each of us was visited by our favorite Christmas icon, that bearded fat-man we call on every Christmas to bring us the things we want -- General Tso.  I hope your gifts were loving and your chicken spicy. 

2017 has only a few more days.  Another year has gone, and it was a strange one indeed!  Have you ever seen anything like 2017?  Hurricanes, fires, mass shootings, sexual scandals, politics, politics, politics!  Unbelievable!  It seems like the most prevalent form of hatred now is political.  We thrill when something bad happens to “their” side.  We mope when something bad happens to “our” side.  We’ve stopped talking to family members and friends because they didn’t vote the right way.  I think it is very sad and somewhat frightening when all our national energies are expended on trying to put Donald Trump or Hillary Clinton in jail.  Don’t we have anything important to do?

Well I have something important to do – I’m going to clean up a bunch of little items I’ve been meaning to tell you about -- some light and frivolous things.  Like the death penalty!

I read a news story today about a man who has been on Death Row since 1990 and is scheduled to be executed next June.  He is suing the State because the food is not prepared to his religious standards.  He does get his special food, but he complains that it’s not good enough.  Well, I have the perfect solution – kill him now.  Why does it take so long to execute an execution?  I don’t like the death penalty, but if we’re going to have it, we should do it!  And by the way, if you have been found guilty of murdering your wife, who gives a Flying Franken what you eat?  We as a society have determined that you are not fit to live among us.  But you get to complain about the menu?  Maybe the food’s not hot enough?  Well, let’s get this over with and, where you’re going, I’m pretty sure the food is always hot.

I feel like I know something about a lot of things – history, astronomy, evolution, poetry.  I can even talk a little about Calculus or Sponge Bob.  But there are just some things I do not understand at all, like why “phonetic” is not spelled like it sounds.  Or why “abbreviation” is such a long word.  Or why a woman who drives a $65,000 Mercedes and wears a diamond ring as big as a cinnamon roll will go into a casino and play the penny slots.  Or my cable bill.  Now, I won’t bore you with all the details of my cable experience, but here’s the bottom line:  if we get rid of the land-line, we can save twenty dollars a month, but if we keep the land-line, we can save thirty.  Does that make any sense?  Well, that’s what the cable man told us.  You know the expression “my Mama didn’t raise no fools”?  Well my Mama raised nothing but fools, but at least this fool had the sense to marry a smart woman.  So Carol took that thirty-dollar deal faster than a vampire gets out of the sun, and we left as happy as a turkey on the day after Thanksgiving

The light went out in the bathroom.  It’s one of those long tube-thing lights.  Is that too technical for you?  Carol was out at a luncheon or something, so I was on my own, a position that usually leads to disaster.  But, somehow, I pried the plexiglass cover off, got the two tubes out and took them to the hardware store where I sheepishly asked for help.  I left with the two replacement tubes and then it hit me:  I had to get them home unbroken, install them and replace the Plexiglas sheet all by myself.  I considered that to have about the same likelihood as my getting hit by a falling cello.  Plus, my wife was gone.  I was alone!  I could fall off the stepladder and break both legs and die of starvation!  I could have a cardiac event and not be able to call 9-1-1!  I could get hit by a falling cello! 

Well, I got home, took out the stepladder and screwed up my courage.  I took a deep breath, told myself that I was a capable and clever man and had to do what a capable and clever man should do – wait for his wife to come home.  When she did, I asked her to hold the stepladder.  She refused.  You see, she remembered too well when her father was replacing a lightbulb and her mother was holding the ladder.  They were probably about our age at the time.  Well, her father fell and broke a hip – not his hip, the mother’s hip.  So Carol said, “I’m not going to let you fall on me.  You’re on your own, Buster.”  And so I was, but then I remembered what the Russian novelist Ivan Turgenev said -- “If we wait for the moment when everything, absolutely everything is ready, we shall never begin.”   So I pressed forward and got it done with only two band-aids and a little crack in the plexiglass that almost no-one can see.  You gotta do what you gotta do!

I have noticed a family of phrases being used more and more.  They are phrases like: You gotta do what you gotta do.  It is what it is.  Cheap is cheap.  It’s not over till it’s over.  I can only do what I can do.  All of these phrases have the same meaning – nothing.  They really mean, “I have nothing to say, but I was going to exhale anyway so I figured I might as well pass it over my vocal chords.”

Prices for medicine seem to have gone up a lot in 2017.  I just got a new prescription for my arm and my leg.  It cost me an arm and a leg.

These tablets will act as a cure

Please take before bed to make sure

Dilute with some juice

‘Cause repeated use

Will cause you to be very poor.

When one of the side-effects on the label is “Bankruptcy”, it’s time to look for a generic.  And now it’s time to close.  I have no more to say.  I can only do what I can do.

My friends, we have been with each other now for 42 weeks.  You know everything there is to know about me and my wife and my daughters – even the chickens.  And I feel like I’ve come to know you too.  So I think I have the right to make this request: Don’t make any New Year’s resolutions. I like you just the way you are.  Please stay well.  And even though it’s not over till it’s over – it’s over.  See you next year.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #41

More award shows!  Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony, Golden Globe, People’s Choice, Critic’s Choice, SAG.  It seems that every week there’s an extravaganza where societies of rich people give themselves awards.  Have you ever really looked at the audience at these award shows?  I certainly hope Nancy Pelosi and Elizabeth Warren are watching, because if they want to tax the rich, this is the place to be.  There’s no power in Puerto Rico, there are violence and poverty in every large American city. But what do we see at these award shows?  A bunch of Barbie dolls strutting around in their Versaces and Jimmy Choos, signing $20 million contracts for their next movies.  And a bunch of fat, male directors looking for aspiring starlets to jump on their casting couch.   And when they accept their awards for being rich and skinny, or their awards for being ruthless and powerful, they always take the opportunity to tell us how to live our boring and normal lives.  They wouldn’t know what a normal life was if they ran over one with their Maserati.   Where is the Occupy Oscars crowd?  Where is the outrage?  Is there anybody disgusted besides me?

And the funny thing is -- we really don’t care who wins the awards.  We only care about “who” they’re wearing.  It seems to me that all these starlets are either too skinny or too large, and they’re either wearing Bulimia Blass or Oscar de la Tenta.  Which brings up the following question: why do fat chance and slim chance mean the same thing?

Sorry, I had to get all that off my chest so I can relax and celebrate my 8^th birthday.  You see, it was eight years ago today that they brought me back to life with that most delicate and clever of medical tricks – massive electric shock.  I truly thought it was all over for me then, but I’m still here and the electric shock does not seem to have had any residual effects.  Except of course that when I cough, the garage door goes up.  But the fun part is that if I’m driving and want to honk the horn, all I have to do is rub a balloon on my hair.  And, of course, there are certain things I have to avoid, like vacuuming, cross-country skiing and having my picture taken while cupping a woman’s breasts.

And television.  I watch a little news, a little basketball, but the rest I try to avoid.  First, television is too noisy; I like quiet.  Second, I am an old-fashioned prude and I do not like how rough some of these programs are.  But, in truth, it was neither the noise nor the violence that made me stop watching television.

I can live with the noise – that is true

And the crudeness and violence too

But the first time this boy

Looked at Whoopi and Joy,

I simply could not stand The View.

Here’s one more thing I try to avoid -- driving on dark, rural roads at night.  To me it’s like playing Bambi Roulette.  So I always slow down and pay lots of attention.  At any time, a deer could run in front of me and the next thing you know, I’m up in Heaven with a twelve-point rack up my you-know-what.  No electric shock is going to bring me back from that!  And I can just imagine what God would say – MICHAEL, I TRIED TO KILL YOU EIGHT YEARS AGO AND THAT DIDN’T WORK.  THIS TIME I SENT RUDOLPH.

My wife and I went to a play.  At the end, as the standing ovation waned, she said to me, “I’m missing a shoe.”  I bent down and looked under my seat.  There was a shoe, and I picked it up and handed it to her.  “That’s not my shoe.”  What?  Am I at a play or a sale at Nordstrom’s?  She quickly found hers and I was left holding a red shoe.   What was I going to do with a red shoe?  Soon, of course, the shoe was claimed by a woman who I’m certain suffered from athlete’s foot, toe fungus, planters fasciitis and warts.  And probably gout.  I gave the red shoe to the woman with a pleasant reminder that, “There’s no place like home.”  Then I drove home as fast as I could (Bambi be damned) and scrubbed my hands in turpentine.  Why does it seem so disgusting to touch someone else’s shoes?

Or take pills prescribed for a dog?  I was having some arthritis a while back and my daughter Jennifer said she had some arthritis pills she got for her dogs.   The canines didn’t like the pills, so she offered them to me.  Of course I refused such silliness, but I went to the internet anyway to see what these doggy-pills were all about.  It’s really amazing how many canine illnesses there are.  You knew there was a list coming, didn’t you?  I love lists.  Here are some doggy diseases:

Ulcerative Collie-itis – Barkinson’s – Dysenterrier

Restless Tail Syndrome -- Itchy Pomeranian -- Rin Tin Tinnitus

Mastiff Neck – Aarfritis --  Irritable Bow-Wow Syndrome

I like dogs.  I like to talk to them and have them around.  But I don’t want one.  I don’t want anybody messing up my house and breaking things and pooping.  Except for my grandchildren.  And besides, I have a wife.  She’s like a high-strung yappy little poodle with curly black hair and skinny legs.  Except I don’t have to walk her.  I just have to take her shopping and drop her at the door of the store and make sure she never gets rained on.

And never allow her to become miserable.  When my wife mentions the word “miserable”, something had better change!  And that means now!  Like the Holiday Party we went to recently.  After about an hour, I could see that she wanted to leave more than a CNN reporter wants to leave a Trump rally.  You can always tell when she wants to leave.  She starts to make comments like, “Do you think your car door opener will work from here?”  Or, “Do you remember where you parked?”  Or the ever-popular, “What’s a nine-letter word starting with “m” that means if you don’t get me out of here in the next 30 seconds, I will stick a fork in your eye?”  That nine-letter word, of course, is “miserable”.   It works every time.

     

Christmas is a few days away.  If you celebrate, my Christmas Carol and I wish you a wonderful, safe and warm holiday.  If you don’t celebrate Christmas, you can still enjoy the lights and the music and the movies.  It’s a Wonderful Life is my favorite.  Also Miracle on 34^th Street.  Some people think Die Hard is a Christmas movie because it takes place at a Christmas party.

Whatever your favorite movie, please stay well over the Holidays and watch out for those deer.  And come back next week so we can wind up the year with a bang.  I’ll do my best.  See you then.

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com