Blog #399                                October 31, 2024

 

Do you realize that, before you know it, monstrous villains and ghouls will be out in the streets screaming and scaring the bejeebies out of you?  No, not Halloween, I’m talking about Election Day.

 

As of this writing, the election is up for grabs.   When it is finally over, some of you will be as disappointed as the 4^th place finisher at the Olympics and the rest will be as happy as a flea on a big dog.

 

I know how they could get my vote.  If a candidate came on television and said, “I’m going to save a million trees by not sending you all those big, glossy, thick-paper ads in the mail.  Vote for me and save a tree.”  That’s who I would vote for.

 

Now I hear that some election officials have actually received death threats.  If you vote the wrong way or Tweet the wrong thing or support the wrong cause nowadays, someone will start threatening to kill you.  What a country!  Death threats have become what Valentine cards used to be when we were kids.  You just send them to everybody.  Hallmark, never one to let an opportunity go by, has just unveiled a new line of Death Threat Cards.  Here’s my favorite:

 

Dear Donald,

 

We all know that roses are red

I’d like to shoot you in the head

Now violets are blue

And I really hate you

And I hope when you get this – you’re dead.

 

Your Friend,

Joy

 

Even little children have been singing political nursery rhymes:

 

Joe and Jill went up the Hill

Into the White House Tower

Joe fell down and broke his crown

And Kamala took power.

 

They even have new Christmas songs: You’re a mean one, Mr. Trump and

Oh Kamala Faithful.

 

Hey, bring back Joe.  At least he was old – like me.  WRINKLED LIVES MATTER and we want to be in the decision-making process.  I’m telling you folks, if you’re not at the table, you’re on the menu.  There are actually three ex-presidents who were born the same year as me, 1946.  They’re Clinton, Bush and Trump.

 

But whether your lying, conniving, frightening candidate wins or the other side’s lying, conniving, frightening candidate wins, we all need to move on, make peace and deal with those parts of the Universe that we can actually handle.  Like Daylight Savings Time.

 

Let’s see – it’s Spring Forward and Fall Back, right?  I think that’s what I’m supposed to do on Saturday, but one year, I got so confused that I re-set the calendar instead of the clock and woke up in March.  Hey, that’s not such a bad idea.  Let’s hibernate like a bear and maybe, by the time we wake up, winter will be over and the television political ads will be gone and they’ll be finished counting all the mail-in ballots. 

 

Whatever day or month it is, I’m back.  And so are you.  Hi there and welcome.  Are you going to dress up for Halloween?  I’m going as Fred Flintstone.  At least that’s who my wife said I looked like after I put on my regular clothes.  Halloween probably has roots in the fall harvest festivals of ancient Celts.  The early Christians celebrated a holiday named All Hallows’ Day which was a day to celebrate the upcoming harvest and give thanks to God.  The night before this sacred day was called All Hallows’ E’en (E’en being short for evening if you were an ancient Celt who was in such a hurry that you didn’t have time to pronounce three syllables.  Probably had to rush to get a good seat at the rock concert that night -- The Rolling Stonehenge.)  From Hallows and E’en, we got Halloween.  What would you do without me? 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Tis now the very witching time of night, when churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes (Hamlet).  I don’t go out on Halloween.  I don’t go out any time.  I’m happy here with my comfy chairs and my windows to look out and my Pops to take care of me.  Trick or Purr.

 

I visited Dr. Doctor this week for my annual physical.  All my numbers were terrific:

 

·        My blood pressure is excellent.  Of course, I take two different blood pressure medications.

·        My cholesterol is perfect.  Of course, I take a statin.

·        My calcium is right on the money.  Of course, they had to slice my neck open last year and excise a parathyroid gland.

·        My heart rate is right on track.  Of course, I take a heart pill and have an electrical device implanted in my chest.

·        I’m walking great.  Of course, they had to replace a hip.

·        And my eyesight is wonderful.  Of course, I’ve had ten eye operations.

 

I’m like one of those collage art works.  From ten feet away, it looks like Marilyn Monroe, but from up close, it’s just a bunch of bottle caps and colored paper clips.  Hey, God bless modern medicine.

 

Weekly Word:  Excise means to remove or cut out surgically.  That’s what I’d like to do with all the political ads on television.  Aren’t they horrible!  Freddy the Fascist wants to take away your right to vote and cut out your womb.  Ya, but Sally the Socialist wants to open the border and let Haitian criminals rape your dogs and eat your children.  Every year they get worse. 

 

Well, it’s time to wrap up.  Here’s a good quote: “In an American election, there are no losers because whether or not our candidates are successful, the next morning, we all wake up as Americans.  And that is the greatest privilege and the most remarkable good fortune that can come to us on Earth.”

 

John Kerry said that in 2004, the year he lost to George W. Bush.  We will all get a chance to vote, and the world will move on.  I’ll be here next week.  You’ll be here next week.  Hey, why don’t we rent a barn and put on a show?  I’ll bring the hotdogs. 

 

Whoever wins, count your blessings and concentrate on making yourself and your loved ones happy.  That’s my recommendation.  I’ll send you a bill.  Or maybe I’ll just send you next week’s blog.  Please remember to fall back on Saturday, vote on Tuesday, read my blog on Thursday and stay well every day.  See ya!

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #398                                October 24, 2024

 

Last Sunday afternoon, it was quiet, peaceful.  I had finished everything I had planned to accomplish, so I went back into our bedroom and sat in my “reading chair”.  It’s the most comfortable chair in the house with good lighting from a floor lamp.  Carol was reading in the front part of the house, so there was no television noise.  I sat down, pulled a warm quilted blanket on my lap and began to read my Stephen King book.  I love Stephen King.  This is my 64^th King book, but I am also reading The Count of Monte Christo by A. Dumas.  Montesquieu, the famous French political philosopher, said, “To love reading is to exchange hours of boredom for hours of delight.”  The Dumas book is about 1,300 pages, so I’m only reading four pages a day.  I’ll be finished sometime next summer.  I know, I’m weirder than a seven-legged snake, but that’s just me.  Anyway, there I was – just me, my chair, my blanket, and my book.  No noise, nobody bothering me.  Heaven!

 

A minute later, Shakespeare found me.  He always does when I’m reading.  He jumps up, sniffs the book to make sure he has already placed his scent on it, curls up on my lap and begins to purr as I scratch his neck.  Well, I love my cat and, after all, it was still just me, my chair, my blanket, my book and my cat.  Double Heaven!

 

Then my daughter found me.  She was calling from North Carolina to brag about winning a pickleball tournament and just to chat with her old Dad.  I was very excited for her.  Now I had Shakespeare purring in my lap and Jennifer crowing in my ear.  So that was nice -- just me, my chair, my blanket, my book, my loving cat and my wonderful daughter.  Triple Heaven!

 

Then Carol found me and traipsed in to become part of the conversation.  Shakespeare in my lap, Stephen King resting by my side, Jennifer on the phone, Carol in the other chair.  All of a sudden, my quiet little spot had become as crowded as a meeting of P. Diddy’s lawyers.  But hey, it was just me, my chair, my blanket, my book my loving cat, my wonderful daughter and my precious wife.  How much luckier can a guy be?

 

And now you found me.  Well, come right on in.  Everybody else is here.  Hi there and welcome back to my asylum.  I’ve got a lot to talk about, so strap yourself in.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I’m feeling sort of nonplussed.  My iPhone got updated.  Stop it!  I don’t want my phone changed.  Which iPhone big-wig can I complain to?  Is there a Mr. Apple, a Mrs. Apple, a Granny Apple?  Whoever you are, stop changing my phone as soon as I get used to the last load of crap you threw in there.  I don’t need it to do anything else.  I can call, text, email or FaceTime anyone in the world.  I can get the weather and the time and Google.  And Siri gives me directions, even though I still get lost.  Plus, I can find my wife.  I have an app that can track Carol’s phone anywhere on the planet, and once I find her phone, she is usually there too.  Hey, I’ve known where she was for 57 years; I’m not about to lose her now.

 

Oh, and now Granny Apple wants me to use face recognition.  I presume that means my face, but that’s a problem.  My face changes over the years.  Just look at my wedding pictures.  Who was that skinny, little pipsqueak?  My face has changed so much, my wife only recognizes me because of the clothes I’m wearing.  I don’t want to use face-recognition anyway because then the only way Carol would be able to use my phone would be to make her face somehow look like mine.  That would be as likely as Heidi Klum making herself look like Big Bird.  I wonder if Big Bird is getting shorter as he gets older.  He’s probably Medium Bird by now.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Like to the lark at break of day arising sings hymns at heaven’s gate (Romeo and Juliet).  I don’t know what Big Bird or Medium Bird is, but I like little birds.  I can watch them and hear them when Pops opens the window for me.  If I cry or scream enough, he’ll do anything for me.  He’s such a good boy!  Purr.

 

Weekly Word:  Nonplussed means surprised and confused, off-balance, bent out of shape, disoriented, taken by surprise.  You get the picture.

 

This past week marked the passing of a very close friend.  Harvey was a good friend and a good man.  We were friends for fifty years, played bridge together, poker together, travelled together.  All of his friends and family will miss him.

 

The holiday services at my Temple the past few weeks included a lot of wonderful music, and it got me wondering.  Music is universally written left to right, but the Hebrew words are written right to left.  How does that work?  I did some research and here’s what I found.  I’m serious now.  The music goes, of course, left to right and the Hebrew lyrics proceed left to right under the corresponding notes, even though each Hebrew word is spelled right to left.  Sounds confusing, but it seems to work.  And as soon as I discovered this, the seven-legged snake inside me decided there had to be a limerick there: 

 

Hebrew music is read left to right

With words underneath in plain sight

But Jews write each word

Right to left – how absurd

That’s it – nothing more left to write.

 

Now show me an Apple update that can write a limerick about Hebrew music.  Anyway, the limerick was wrong!  I have plenty left to write, and you can come back next week for more.  You know, I complain about all the technology and the phones, but it’s all pretty wonderful.  You have your Bridge online and your Zoom calls with your family and your conference calls with your friends and you have me every week.  And I have you.  Aren’t we lucky!  Let’s do it again next week.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.  Later!

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #397                                October 17, 2024

 

Have you ever been to China?  Do you even realize how big China is?  If the population of China walked past you in single file, the line would never end.  Let’s check that one out.  Let’s assume one Chinese citizen can walk past you every five seconds.  That’s 6,307,200 pilgrims a year.  For those of you who think a square root is a turnip, just trust me on the math. There are 1.4 billion Chinese and during the five seconds it takes you to meet one Chinese, three more will be born.   Just more useless information to fill up your head. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well today and ready for some more of whatever it is we do here each week.  A portion of what we do here is to discuss my myriad daily challenges.

 

Like doctors.  Do you ever have trouble communicating with your doctor?  The first time I visited Dr. Blood, he told me I had Monoclonal B-Cell Lymphocytosis.  I turned to him and calmly replied, “Twas brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe.”  Aha!  Now we both understood each other that neither one of us understood each other, and we proceeded to speak English.  Try it sometime.  Your doctor will get the message.  By the way, the monoclonal stuff is just some heebie-jeebie thing in my blood that nobody has to worry about.  Is heebie-jeebie a medical term?  I bet it is. 

 

The doctors spend much too much time at school learning Latinesque words like lymphocytosis.  Instead of all that medical gobbledygook, they should just spend ten years as a wife and mother.  That’s the best medical education there is.  I know you women agree.  I recently had my annual physical with Dr. Doctor.  Late that afternoon, the nurse called.  That’s always bad news.  Your heebie-jeebie test came back positive and Doctor wants you to see a specialist.  My wife, who is not just another Hostess Cupcake, got my attention and whispered, “Tell her you want to take the test again.”  What? I replied.  Take the test again?  That’s ridiculous.  She insisted, so I suggested that possibility to the nurse.  What? she replied.  Take the test again?  That’s ridiculous.  I insisted.  So, I went back in and took the test again.  Guess what?  Negative!  It’s amazing how good my wife is about medical diagnoses.  You should call her sometime.  On second thought, she charges a fortune.

 

Let’s talk about game shows.  My niece used to work as a game-show producer in L.A., and I was talking with her last week.  She told me there’s a new one coming out soon.  It’s called Who Wants to Shoot Donald Trump.  So far, they’ve had 22,312 willing contestants sign up, all of whose names have been forwarded to the FBI.  The winner will get free room and board at Leavenworth for the rest of his life.

 

In last week’s edition, I included a paragraph saying God will forgive us, but will we forgive God.  I got a fair amount of comment about that.   In the Yom Kippur prayer book, I noticed a page called “A Prayer of Protest.”  I have condensed it here, including only a few sentences:

 

Hear our voice.  All of us have seen suffering in our midst.  God, are You there?  Do You care?  Hear our pain.  Hear our grief.  Give us strength.  Help us to be kind.  Restore our faith in You.  I guess it’s all a matter of faith. 

 

I know religion isn’t my thing, so I’ll stop talking about it.  But I do know about Rock ‘n Roll.  I’ve even been thinking about starting a rock band for old people. First, we have to pick a name.  I have a few in mind: The Grand-Mamas and the Grand-Papas -- Peter, Paul and Methuselah -- The Rolling Kidney Stones -- Sonny and Wheelchair.

 

It was time this week to get Shakespear’s nails cut.  He really behaves himself well at Dr. Cat’s office, and it doesn’t take very long.  After all, they only have to trim three paws.

 

The techs at the vet are so nice

They smile while they cut his nails thrice

He has three legs, you see

So that when they bill me,

We get 20% off the price.

 

All you math wizards out there are about to upbraid me because, I hear you cry, it should be a 25% discount as one leg missing is 25% of the usual complement of four.  Am I going too fast for you?  Now, I must admit, you are mathematically correct, but 25 has three syllables and 20 only two, and the integrity of the poem is --- oh, the hell with it!  Go pick on somebody else.

 

Oh, there’s my cat.  Say hello, Shakespeare.

Cv$l’!k[do9

Well, he tried.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Of all base passions, fear is the most accursed (Henry VI, Part1).  I’m not afraid of getting my nails cut.  And I’m not afraid of riding in the car.  Pops got me my own car.  It’s just the right size, has holes on three sides for me to go in and out, and it’s covered on top with some scratchy stuff.  It doesn’t move, but I love it.  I call it my Cat-illac.  The only thing I’m afraid of is that, when we go for a ride, he’s giving me away to someone else.  Please don’t do that, Pops.  Purr.

 

Weekly Word:   Upbraid means to find fault with, to scold.

 

Ok, that’s enough.  We’ve talked about a lot of different things.  Maybe I should tell you a joke.  Sam, for his 70^th birthday, buys himself an expensive pair of alligator boots.  That evening, he wants to surprise his wife Sadie with his new purchase, so after dinner, he goes to the bedroom, takes off all his clothes and puts on nothing but the alligator boots.  When he walks into the kitchen, he says:

         

SAM:    Sadie, do you notice anything different about me?

SADIE: No, you’re the same old husband with the same old peepee hanging down

SAM:    But, Sadie, the peepee’s hanging down to point to my new alligator boots.

SADIE: Too bad you didn’t buy a hat.

 

Now you can go but be back here next week.  And don’t forget to stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #396                                October 10, 2024

 

Tomorrow begins Yom Kippur, the Jewish day of atonement where each Jew asks God to forgive his-or-her sins.  And God forgives us.  My question is – Can we forgive God?  Can we forgive God for the wholesale death and suffering in the Middle East, for the disastrous forest fires and hurricanes, for the pervasive hatred that has infected our society and threatens to destroy friendships and families.  Can we?  I’ll leave that question up to you.

 

Carol and I went to Rosh Hashanah services last week, and will go to Yom Kippur services tomorrow.  I’ve probably told you that when we got married, Carol and I made a pact.  I promised to go to services with her every year and she promised to go to the circus with me whenever it was in town.  I like circuses.  Well, we have been married 57 years now, and I have gone to the High Holy Day Services every year.  She has never once gone to the circus.  It doesn’t much matter anymore because there are no more circuses.  All the clowns have moved to Washington, D.C.

 

I actually enjoy the religious services.  They foster closeness, and a feeling of community.  And the music is wonderful.  Upton Sinclair wrote, “When you hear singing you may lie down in peace, because evil people have no songs.”

 

I don’t like, however, the way they have changed some of the liturgy.  Old people do not like change, of course, but I generally can adapt.  I object, however, to the changes in the 23^rd Psalm?  Now it reads, “The lord is my shepherd; I shall lack for nothing” and “My cup overflows.”  What happened to runneth?  That’s one of my favorite words.  Changing “my cup runneth over” to “my cup overflows” is like changing Genesis to read, And God said Flip the switch.  Or how about the following:

 

·        Friends, Romans, Countrymen – listen up.

·        One if by land and two if they’ve got a boat.

·        M-I-C see ya real soon, K-E-Y why? Because Walt tells us to.

·        Frankly, my dear, who cares.

 

Hi there and welcometh back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting ready to

celebrate Indigenous Peoples’ Day.  It’s next Monday.  You might have thought

that was Columbus Day, but Columbus, in today’s PC world, was a colonialist piece of ziti who opened up the New World to European exploitation and, as a result, has lost his eponymous day.  I have never understood why descendants of English, Irish, French, Italian, German, Russian, Polish and Swedish Europeans are called White Privileged Racists, but descendants of Spanish Europeans are called Hispanics.  Anyway, now we celebrate Native Americans, which is appropriate

 

My generation grew up thinking “Indians” were bad.  We watched Hopalong

Cassidy and John Wayne and played Cowboys and Indians and bought plastic Colt

45s.  We learned that the only good Indian was a dead Indian, except Tonto of

course.  They never told us that Kemosabe really meant Ridiculous-Looking

White Boy or that the Lone Ranger wore a mask because he had Covid.  We only got one side of the story, and that was mostly misinformation.

 

Message from Shakespeare: Made lame by fortune's dearest spite (Sonnet 37).  Hopalong?  That’s what Pops calls me because I only have three legs.  That’s ok; I still love him, but maybe I’ll start calling him Kemosabe.  He is pretty much a ridiculous-looking White boy.  Purr.

 

Last weekend, we went to a charity polo match sponsored by Old Newsboy Charities, a wonderful organization that helps children in the St. Louis area.  As we watched the polo players get ready for the first chukker, my friend Bill said, “These guys are riding 30 miles an hour on a 700-pound beast with an eight-foot- long stick and hitting a ball that’s rolling along the grass.  And I can’t even hit a golf ball that’s sitting motionless on a tee!”  I used to play polo, but I took my horse to play water-polo, and he drowned.  Ok, bad joke; I apologize.

 

Weekly Word:  A chukker is a 7½ minute period of a polo match.  That’s good to know, isn’t it?  I was going to write a limerick using chukker as my rhyme, but I decided it against it.

 

This past week marked the anniversary of the October 7^th attack on Israel.  We all pray for peace, but the circumstances do not look favorable.

 

In the lands of the sad Middle East

We pray that the fighting will cease

But although we may pray

That it all ends one day

It seems there will never be peace.

 

There was a prayer read in the holiday services last week that went:  Watch over us, we who go forth to life; watch over us, that we may come home in peace.  And we can all say amen.

 

On a lighter note, my granddaughter Charley dragged me down in her basement the other day to show me her video games.  All the kids love to play their games on the Wii or the X-Box or on their phones.  “Look Poppy,” she said, and showed me a new game character she had created.  It was called Poppy and wore a yellow shirt (my favorite color) and had gray hair.  It also had an impressive collection of wrinkles.  I turned to Charley and asked if all those wrinkles were necessary.  She examined my face closely, smiled and said, “Yes.”  That’s ok, a grandfather is someone with silver in his hair and gold in his heart.  I watched her play a game with the new character.  There he was, wrinkles and all, limping around the course and taking all the wrong exits.  Go, Poppy!

 

The grandkids, of course, don’t understand how frightening getting old is for us.  They are different; they want to get older. 

 

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to getting my driver’s license. 

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to losing my driver’s license.

Kid:  Yay! Another year closer to moving into a home of my own.

Grandparent:  Oy! Another year closer to moving into a home.

Kid:  Yay! I’m getting taller. 

Grandparent: Oy! I’m getting shorter.

Kid:  Yay! I’m growing up so fast.

Grandparent:  Oy! She’s growing up so fast.

 

Last week, I went to an antique show and someone bid on me.  Oh, well!  Stay well and counteth thy blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Poppy                                      Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #395                                October 3, 2024

 

Like every one of you, I wear many hats:

 

·        I am my wife’s protector, chauffer, errand-runner, on-line shopper and returner.  One day this week, for instance, I returned to Target three shirts she bought on Monday, returned to Whole Foods three shirts she bought on Amazon Tuesday and returned to CVS a blood-pressure cuff she bought on Wednesday, put gas in her car at Costco and did her grocery shopping at Walmart.

·        I am my daughters’ father.  I supply whatever love and support I can, and always an open pair of ears to listen.

·        I am my cat’s everything – father, mother, companion, provider and playmate.

·        I am my grandchildren’s Poppy.  I try.  They don’t need me much anymore, but I try to keep in touch and support them.  They always know they can find some love here.

·        I am a friend to -- well, my friends.

·        I am, to several hundred people in St. Louis and other places, their resident wordsmith.  Need a poem for an occasion, call Michael.  Need someone to speak at a funeral, call Michael.  Besides that, I deliver 1,000 words to my daughters every Sunday and 1,066 words of humor and opinion every Thursday to you.

·        I am an Ambassador at the St. Louis Zoo, helping visitors to enjoy the Zoo experience.

·        I am my household’s manager, accountant, bill-payer, records-keeper, light bulb installer, toilet paper replacer, supply chain manager, car servicer and maintenance supervisor.

·        I am my body’s overseer.  I feed it pills, drop drops into it, spread lotions on it, take it on walks, take it to doctors and generally supervise its constant maintenance.  I have to, don’t I?  I have all those other people (and a cat) counting on me.

 

It’s all a little overwhelming to a person who basically wants to be left alone.

 

I’m recently feeling that I’m

Just running around all the time

To the store, to the Zoo

And I write blogs to you

Make it quick, make it work, make it rhyme.

                            

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and feeling hungry.  Many of my Jewish friends are in the middle of celebrating the holiday of Rosh Hashanah and looking forward to some matzo-ball soup and brisket for dinner tonight.  I am.  I have a bunch of random thoughts for you today.  Let’s start with Martha Stewart.

 

I saw Martha Stewart last week.  She was on some TV show making cakes or something.  Every time I see her, I just can’t believe she was sent to prison.  I don’t even remember what she did.  What crime could you possible send this exemplary homemaker to prison for?  Drunk and orderly?  Driving while perfect?  Baking and entering?  Assault with a deadly spatula?  I’ll bet she was the only person who ever looked good in stripes.

 

On my walk today, I noticed a little, fuzzy caterpillar – rust-colored and black, about two inches long and fat.  He was crawling along the top of a concrete barrier about three feet tall.  I stopped, took a picture and went on my way.  I came to the end of my path, turned around, walked some more and came back to the caterpillar.  He had made some progress along the barrier, but was not going to reach any vegetation in the near future.  Wait, you’re not going to get all pronoun-frazzled about a caterpillar, are you?  No, I don’t know whether it was a he-pillar or a she-pillar, but I’ve chosen to treat him as masculine because the poor thing was obviously lost.

 

Men are so stubborn about asking directions.  I see it at the Zoo all the time.  Some guy is looking over a map while his companion (wife? girlfriend? parole officer?) watches.  I walk up and offer my services.  No, the man says, I have it figured out.  I then turn toward the distaff half and say, “Men never accept directions.  Come see me when you’re lost.”  C’mon, men, you know I’m right.  We never take directions. “Siri be damned, I know how to get there.”  Really?  You don’t know where your reading glasses are.  You barely know where the bathroom is.  And how many times have you lost your car in the parking lot?  We, as husbands, have learned how to say yes to everything.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake.  Except, “Let’s ask directions.”  We would sooner be spayed than ask directions.  I’m a man!  I know what I’m doing!  And what do we do when we finally and inevitably get lost?  We start yelling at our wives, as if they had anything to do with our galactic idiocy.  I’d better stop; my wife is calling.  Yes. Dear.  Yes, Honey.  Whatever you want, Cupcake. 

 

Anyway, I picked up the lost little caterpillar and laid him in the grass.  As Martin Luther King said, “The time is always right to do what is right.”  Besides, I like little fuzzy things.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  One touch of Nature makes the whole world kin (Troilus and Cressida).  I am very glad he likes little, fuzzy things because I’m little and fuzzy too.  Actually, I think he likes any creature that starts with C-A-T.  Purr.

 

It’s time to go now.  I have been obnoxiously loquacious enough for one Thursday.  Loquacious, our Weekly Word, means talking a great deal, and I certainly confess to that.  This week, I have talked about hats and caterpillars and Martha Stewart, probably a lot more interesting than shoes and ships and sealing wax. 

 

Actually, in continuance of my loquacity, the “shoes, ships, sealing wax” reference is from Alice in Wonderland:

 

The time has come,' the Walrus said,

      To talk of many things:

Of shoes — and ships — and sealing-wax —

      Of cabbages — and kings —

And why the sea is boiling hot —

      And whether pigs have wings.'

 

Alice also contains a caterpillar, a Hookah-Smoking Caterpillar actually, who instructs Alice how to use the mushroom: “One side will make you grow taller, and the other side will make you grow shorter.”  Wouldn’t that be a helpful little thing to carry in your pocket?  The Caterpillar also gives Alice advice: “Keep your temper”, he says.

 

Did you watch the Vice-Presidential Debate?  Here’s what I think.  We should get rid of Harris and Trump and let these two guys be Co-Presidents.  Alright, folks, now it’s really time to go.  I have to go return something Carol bought.  Stay well, count your blessings and keep your temper.  I’ll see you next week.

 

The Walrus                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #394                                         September 26, 2024

 

I lay in bed this morning very still.  I was comfortable, neither cold nor warm, and I had nowhere to go, nothing special to do.  Every day is pretty much the same when you’re retired.  It was so quiet I could hear my beard growing, so I lay there and I thought:  Why stir things up?  If I get up and start moving things like my eyeballs or my knuckles or my tongue – well, anything could happen.  Every morning at this time, I feel like the Tin Man from Wizard of Oz.  Oil can, oil can, he begged Dorothy, and that’s exactly what I need -- a few squirts of oil to loosen up my parts.  Now I’m up and the sun is shining and everything seems to be fine.  Now, if I only had a brain.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling chipper.  Happy New Year to all my Jewish friends and readers.  In the Jewish calendar, we will soon enter the Year 5785.  The Jews have certainly been around a long, long time.  Maybe that’s why the matzo is so stale.  It seems like only yesterday when Moses and I were discussing those commandments.  I begged him to include Thou shalt not argue with your wife as one of the commandments, but he rejected it.  As Will Rogers said, “There are two theories to arguing with a woman.  Neither works.”  I also tried to get him to include Thou shalt not slice, but he rejected that one too.  I was talking about golf, but Moses thought I was talking about circumcisions.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  “I am a Jew. Hath not a Jew eyes? . . . If you tickle us, do we not laugh? If you poison us, do we not die?”  (Merchant of Venice).  I am a Jewish cat, I suppose.  I celebrate Puss-over and Yom Ki-Purr, and I’m studying for my Cat-Mitzvah.  But I still think the matzo is stale.  Purr.

 

The news today said police are looking for John Smith (or something) who is missing.  He is driving a white Camaro with Illinois plates and is suffering from “bi-polar disorder”.  So if we see him, contact the police, yadda yadda.  So, bi-polar disorder – what is that exactly?  Are we looking for a guy with two white bears in the back seat of his white Camaro with Illinois plates?  Or am I looking for a guy with two poles stuck into his posterior?  I need more information.

 

Do you believe what you hear on TV nowadays?  Voting by mail is bad.  Voting by mail is good.  Trump is a danger to democracy.  Kamala will destroy the country.  Melania has bad boots.  Kamala has good boots.  It’s Israel’s fault.  No, it’s Hamas’ fault. They’re eating dogs in Ohio.  What?  It just depends on what channel you watch, doesn’t it?  But this kind of misinformation has been going on forever.

 

Take The Gift of the Magi for instance, that heart-wrenching short story by O Henry. You know the plot.  A young married couple is very much in love but also very much in poverty.  For their first anniversary, she wants to buy him a silver chain for his only possession, a cherished pocket watch.  But she has no money, so she cuts her long, beautiful hair and sells it to a wig maker to get the money for the chain.  Meanwhile, he wants to buy her a set of large ornate combs for her long hair but all he has is the watch.  He sells it and buys the combs.  A classic and sad tale.  But wait – there’s the misinformation.  It’s not sad at all.  Not one bit.  Just fast-forward six months.  The girl’s hair has grown back and she still has the combs.  Plus, she returned the silver watch chain and got her money back.  So now she has her long hair and the combs and a fist full of money.  She is no longer penurious.  And the boy, the poor dumb schmuck, he doesn’t even know what time it is.  But he’s happy.  He has a loving wife with a bunch of money and beautiful hair – and big combs.

 

Our Weekly Word today is penurious, which means poor, poverty stricken.

 

I love animals; you know that.  But these Canada Geese are a pain.  It’s the season now for them to arrive, and they’re messy and loud.  There was a screeching gaggle of them in my subdivision just the other day, and I had to yell at them:

 

What’s going on?  What is the riot?

Why is it you birds can’t keep quiet?

I’ll fix you one day

Turn you into pâté

And go on a goose-liver diet.

 

Do you like cucumbers?  Now there’s a non sequitur for you.  A non sequitur is a statement that does not logically follow the previous argument or statement.  I don’t like them – cucumbers, not non sequiturs.  Why is it that some people like cucumbers and some don’t?  Animals aren’t like that, are they?  Do you think there’s a lion somewhere that doesn’t like wildebeest?  Hey, fellas, I’ll pass on the gnu tonight.  I think I’ll have a salad.  They just don’t agree with me.  No gnus is good gnus.  Or a chimp that doesn’t like bananas?  Too much sugar there, Cheetah.  I’m cutting down on the carbs.

 

A stockbroker called me this morning with a hot new stock.  It’s Polar.com.  He kept saying Buy Polar!  Buy Polar!  I asked if he had a white Camaro with Illinois plates.  He said Buy Polar.  I think it’s the guy.

 

Carol and I (or, as I sometimes like to say to my friends from Arkansas, me and the missus) had dinner outdoors at a friend’s house and they had dug up some old pictures of us – 40 years old.  I can always predict what people will do when they see pictures of themselves from decades ago.  The women will always say, “Oh my God, look at my hair!”  And the men will say, “I still have that shirt.”

 

Well, I guess I’ve overstayed my welcome.  Besides, I have to go find that shirt, so Shakespeare and I will say goodbye for now, but we’ll be back next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.  Nos vemos la próxima semana. That’s Spanish for “Buy Polar.”

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com