Blog #410                                January 16, 2025

 

Our Saturday night plans were cancelled last weekend, so we decided to do something wild and crazy.  “Live, live, live!” said Auntie Mame.  “Life is a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death.”   So we decided to go wild.  Did we fly to Tibet?  Did we ride the Ferris Wheel?  Rob a liquor store?  Nope, we had a tête-à-tête and decided to embark on a high-risk venture appropriate only for the young and fearless.  We went to the nearest casino and shared a nickel poker-machine for two hours, rooting and hooray-ing like a crowd watching James Bond beating the arch-villain at baccarat.  And we didn’t lose too much.

 

We played the machine, then departed

But we didn’t leave broken-hearted

‘Cause me and my Queen

We left the machine

With five dollars less than we started.

 

Plus, I got a free Diet-Coke -- shaken, not stirred.

 

Weekly Word.  A tête-à-tête is a private conversation. Head-to-head in French.

 

Larry McMurtry says that the chief paradox of life is that the thing you most want is the thing you are least likely to get.  I cannot agree.  It seems to me that the thing I most wanted in life, at least when I was seventeen, was a small, cute, dark-haired girl I spotted in the High School cafeteria.  And I got her!  I’m still not sure how.  Yes, maybe I was a little smart and a little humorous.  Mostly I was completely devoted and easily trained.  But I certainly wasn’t remotely Rock Hudson-ish.  Of course, in retrospect, neither was Rock.   Did I tell you that my wife could multitask?

 

There is, in the Guinness World Records, a record for Multitasking.  They report it like this: Multitasking has taken on an entirely new meaning for one UT student who can recite the first 100 digits of the mathematical constant pi while solving a Rubik’s Cube and balancing 15 books on her head.  Pshaw!  You call that multitasking?  That’s only three things, not one of which is remotely useful.  My wife would not be caught dead solving a Rubik’s Cube -- I might break a nail.  Or placing books on her head -- my hair!  Or memorizing the digits of pi – what a waste!  But Carol is the undisputed Queen of Multitasking.  This morning, for instance, I walked into the bedroom and found her simultaneously performing four tasks using four different electronic devices and four separate parts of her body:

 

·        Her feet were walking on the treadmill

·        Her eyes were watching the television

·        Her fingers were playing bridge on her iPad

·        Her ears were listening to a Podcast on her phone

 

And she still managed to use her mouth to tell me to change my shirt.  Five tasks at once.  I was so proud!   The woman just has a surfeit of internal energy.  She even has a sign hanging in the kitchen:  Don’t Just Sit There – Nag Your Husband.

 

Look, I’m not trying to make fun of people who multitask.  In fact, I’m jealous.  I cannot read and listen to music at the same time.  I cannot talk and drive.  It amazes me that I can, at the same time, breathe and write things like “Hi there, and welcome back.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  Next Monday is Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, a day which celebrates his birthday five days after it really was.  His actual 96^th birthday was yesterday.  There are no longer very many holidays named after people.  Washington’s Birthday is gone, Lincoln’s Birthday is gone and Columbus Day is gone, shredded and burned to a crisp.  The only eponymous holidays left are Christmas, named after Christ, and Easter, named after Eostre, a pre-Christian goddess in England, probably the goddess of bunnies and colored eggs and Judy Garland.

 

Carol will be upset that this blog mentions her so much, but I’ve been with her 24 hours a day for over 57 years – who else would I write about, a three-legged cat?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  It is not enough to speak, but to speak true (A Midsummer Night’s Dream).  Whoa!  I am not just some run-of-the-mill (maybe that should be limp-of-the-mill) cat.  I am Shakespeare, the most famous three-legged cat in the world.  So there, Big Mouth.  Purr!

 

Last week, Blog #409 included a poem.  After the poem I asked if you had made it all the way through, and I received many comments saying, “Yes, I read it.”  But not one of you told me that you “got it”.  You see, there was a trick.  The poem was my confession that I am a compulsive rhymer and also my attempt at breaking that compulsion by making the last two lines not rhyme.  Which they didn’t.  Or did they?  Here is the ending of the poem.

 

To think that I can’t write without a rhyme is just pathetic.

The next two lines I promise won’t at all appear poetic.

It’s surely just as trivial as putting on your socks.

I told you I could do it and I’ve done it.

 

Michael Fox                           

 

Now, you’ll see that by including my signature as part of the last line completes the poem and that I failed at avoiding my compulsive rhyming.  Do you get it now?  Good.  Sorry to take up your time.

 

And speaking of time, there are many ways of measuring time.  Sand in an hourglass, atomic vibrations, the movement of a pendulum, the progress of the sun.  I was at the doctor’s office last week, and he decided that the cough I have is just a lingering vestige of the pneumonia I had in August.  He suggested I get a CAT scan.  I said, “Fine, I’ll have Shakespeare do it.  Here, kitty, kitty.”  He decided a radiologist might do better, so off I went to the hospital.  I arrived early (punctuality is the politeness of kings).  I brought a book (The Patron Saint of Liars by Ann Patchett).  When I got home, Carol asked me how long they made me wait.  “About 35 pages,” I replied.  As I said, there are many ways of measuring time.

 

And now, the old sun-dial on my wrist tells me it’s time to go.  Stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.  Trump will be your President then.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #409                                January 9, 2025

 

Holy shit!  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, but Tuesday was my 79^th birthday.  Seventy-nine years old.  Don’t send me any presents; you’re already too late.  But if you want to send me a Bitcoin or two, I’ll overlook that.  If I had spent all 79 years counting one person a second, I would have counted about one-third of the people on Earth.  And, if I had spent the last eight years writing silly, wordy letters to you, I would be up to 409 blogs.  Four hundred nine blogs?  Holy shit!  Sorry, I’m beginning to sound like a doctor examining the Pope’s stool specimen.

 

Did I tell you it’s my 79^th birthday?  I don’t need a calendar to remind me I’m old.  Father Time reminds me every morning when my hands are a little more numb and my back is a little more sore and my joints are a little more creaky.  As I stand, looking in the mirror and orienting myself to another day, there’s old Father Time looking over my shoulder.  “Hey, Michael, remember me,” he asks?  “I’m still the same old guy I used to be and you’re not.  Have a nice day.”  And the day will move along and I’ll do my thing and enjoy my wife and my family and my cat and all of you.  I’ll go to bed and wake up the next morning. “Good morning, Father Time,” I’ll say.  Just a couple of old friends starting a new day.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are safe and well and warm.  I know many of my readers are in sunny and cozy climes – Florida and Georgia and North Carolina, Arizona and Nevada and California, even Mexico.  But I, your tireless guide, am here in St. Louis, the lint-filled navel of America, where this week it snowed five to seven inches.  The snow is beautiful, of course, but it has confined me to my house and stifled my ability to go to the grocery store, an activity which I call hunting and gathering.  Today, I was planning to hunt and gather a Sumo Orange.  I don’t know what that is and neither does Carol, but Hoda Kotb said we had to have one, so there you go.  If Hoda said you had to have a moose, Carol would sit on the couch and yell, “Michael, get me a moose.”  And I, dumb and loyal Bullwinkle that I am, would do it.

 

I do everything she tells me.  I even let her proofread my blogs.  Every once in a while, she wants me to change a word.  I wonder if Mrs. Poe ever said, “Eddie, I have a suggestion;

 

I’ve read your long poem of Lenore

To tell you the truth, it’s a bore

The bird should not say

That “No way, Jose”

Why can’t he just say “nevermore”?

 

Not a bad suggestion.  I mean “Quoth the raven, ‘No way Jose’”?  That just doesn’t flow.   She also talked Edgar out of writing

 

·        The Tell-Tale Kidney

·        Murders in the Rue Coffee Shop

·        The Pit and the Paper Clip

·        The Fall of the House of Slivovitz

 

Many of our famous lines in history would have been different if some well-meaning wife or friend hadn’t suggested a change.  Lines like:

 

·        I came, I saw, I took a selfie

·        The only thing we have to fear is Brussel sprouts

·        Ask not what your country can do for you; it won’t listen.

·        To be or not to be.  Bingo!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  They have their exits and their entrances (As You Like It).  Pops does everything his wife says, but he also does everything I say too.  Let me out, let me in, feed me, pet me, scratch the left side of my face.  That’s the only part of my body I can’t reach.  He’s such a good boy.  Happy Birthday, old man.  Purr.

 

Yesterday, I went to a funeral of a long-time friend, Ivan – a good man to be sure.  And of course, the lovely speeches by his son and grandchildren acted as a fillip that started me to wonder what would be said at my funeral.  My children and grandchildren are very smart, loving and eloquent, and I have no doubt they will say nice things about me.  And, of course, I have already written my speech for the funeral.  That doesn’t surprise you, does it?  It is addressed to my family and to you, my friends, and will be read by the rabbi.  It’s a good speech.  Don’t miss it.  

 

And don’t miss our Weekly Word, fillip, which means something that acts as a stimulus or boost to an activity.

 

 

 

Since this is the first blog of 2025, I hope you’ll give me permission to bore you with a poem I wrote some time ago.  It’s a little long, but hey, you’re my loyal reader.  You can handle it, but in case you drop off to sleep before you finish it, Happy New Year to everyone.  Stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.  Here’s the poem.

 

I write so darn much poetry – I do it all the time

That people think that everything I write has got to rhyme.

Well nothing could be sillier or further from the truth

For I’ve been writing prose, you see, since I was just a youth.

And prose is so much easier, it’s cleaner and it’s neater

Because it doesn’t have to rhyme or have a pleasing meter.

So you can go on thinking that I’ve only one dimension,

But I can write prolific prose, if that is my intention.

To prove my point, I shall herewith submit this simple letter.

No evidence besides this little prose could do it better

Because it doesn’t rhyme at all; indeed this little sample

Is unpoetic prose, of which it is a fine example.

But wait, the last two lines – they rhymed.  I’m filled with such revulsion!

Perhaps it’s true: I’m riddled with obsession and compulsion.

To think that I can’t write without a rhyme is just pathetic.

The next two lines I promise won’t at all appear poetic.

It’s surely just as trivial as putting on your socks.

I told you I could do it and I’ve done it.

 

Michael Fox                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Did you make it all the way through?  Thanks.

 

 

 

Blog #408                                January 2, 2025

 

Did you know there was something called Naked News?  That’s right.  I did not make it up.  I checked it out the other night and it’s pretty self-explanatory – some babe reads the news as serious as can be while taking off her clothes.  Just another example of how tragic and degraded the human animal can become.  Also an example of how far I would go for a limerick:

 

She did News and Traffic together

While shedding her lace and her leather

And during the Sports

She pulled down her shorts

And showed a warm front for the Weather.

 

Well, that started out the New Year with a bang, didn’t it?  Hey, I warned you I was a couple of bulbs short of a chandelier.  I am also, as you may have noticed, a diligent collector of the impractical and totally useless.  Here’s some,

 

Why do YouTube videos of birds, which are made to be watched only by cats, contain commercials?

 

Why, when the number on your bathroom scale is a little higher than you’d like, do you move the scale a few feet over?  You know you do.

 

Why do we turn the volume down on the car radio when we want to see better? 

 

Or why, at a live play, do the actors sometimes smoke a cigar and stink up the whole theater?  If a character dies in the play, he only acts like he’s dead.  We can handle it.  We know it’s a play, for goodness sake.  It says so on the ticket.  So let him act like he’s smoking.  We’ll figure it out without getting lung cancer.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  With heigh! The sweet birds, O, how they sing!  (Winter’s Tale).  Pops and I like to watch bird videos together, schnuggled up in front of the screen.  Pops calls it Close Encounters of the Bird Kind.  He thinks he’s funny.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and looking forward to the New Year.  At least we’ll have a President who is my age.  In fact, Bill Clinton, George W. Bush, Donald Trump and I were all born in 1946.  We make a wonderful quartet, don’t we?  Three Presidents and a clown who writes limericks.  Sounds like one of those cognitive tests where they ask you which bird doesn’t belong in a picture of three eagles and a duck.  Well, somebody has to be the duck.  I have never kept score of my life by the great things I have or have not accomplished.  Most people never accomplish anything great.  But to live an ordinary life that’s fairly decent and fairly honest and to see your contributions to the next generation and even the one after that; well, I’m not sure there is more that most of us ducks can wish for.

 

I hope you had a nice New Year’s Eve.  We went to a lovely restaurant with lovely friends.  I drove, and when we arrived Carol congratulated me on finding the place.  She said she never could have located it.  If my charming wife has one fault, it’s her lack of directional skills.  Luckily, she has me to drive, because she could not find most places.  If my wife had been with Christopher Columbus, poor Chris wouldn’t have discovered anything except a lululemon.

 

I don’t eat breakfast – never have -- and Carol makes wonderful dinners, so that leaves lunch.  I eat a small lunch which consists of one of three choices which I buy at Walmart.  First, there are those wonderful, frozen PB&J sandwiches called Uncrustables – soft and sweet, no mess, pop two in the microwave.  Yummy.  OR, Walmart’s ersatz SpaghettiOs.  OR, Hormel Compleats, meal-sized, vacuum-packed servings of meaty stuff that are loaded with preservatives and probably decades old.  But they’re delicious.  I had the Turkey and Dressing today and noticed that on the package it said, “Packed during the Johnson Administration.”   That didn’t bother me so much until I looked closer and noticed it was Andrew Johnson.

 

Well, it works for me.  They’re all delicious, all under $3 a serving and all microwavable.  Forget the wheel, forget the steam engine, forget the cell phone – the greatest invention of man is the microwave oven.  Can you imagine living in the stone age when bringing in meant killing an animal and dragging it to the door?  When fast food meant too fast to catch?  When warming up the leftovers meant gathering sticks and building a fire?  What would you do if you didn’t know how to build a fire out of sticks?  Look it up on Stickipedia?  Thank goodness for my microwave.

 

Sometimes, do you feel like you’re losing it?  You can’t find your reading glasses or your keys or your bathroom?  You forgot where you parked your car or the license plate or the color or whether you even have a car?  And how about your passwords?  Who can remember a password you were forced to create for some obscure website you set up two years ago?  And if you can’t remember, you’re up Schitt’s Creek without your Netflix. 

 

Name That Password!  Yes, Name That Password, the show that tests your skill in remembering the one word you chose because you knew you’d never forget it and then promptly forgot it.  Was it your dog’s name?  How about your mother’s name?  Or your mother’s dog?  Or your German nanny’s barber’s sister’s dog?  Berlin-Tin-Tin!  That’s it!  Congratulations!  You win.

 

But what do you do if you can’t remember it?  You do what I do.  You submit yourself to the most degrading and embarrassing torture imaginable – you call your grandchild and beg for help.  To avoid such ignominious groveling in the future, I have written all my passwords on an Excel document on my computer and snapped a picture of the spreadsheet.  Now, I can look up my passwords on my computer or my phone.  But that’s not safe, I hear you grumble.  Who cares!  What’re they going to steal – my library card number?  My frequent movie-goer balance?

 

Time to go.  I hope that 2025 will bring you much delectation and good health.  I guess we’d better stop for our Weekly Word, which is delectation, which means delight and enjoyment.  Stay well, count those blessings, and be back here next week.  I’ll leave the light on for you.

 

Daffy                              Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #407                                December 26, 2024

 

The Penguin Classics edition of The Count of Monte Cristo by Alexandre Dumas is 1,276 pages long.  As you may remember, I am reading it as a side book, four pages a day.  On page 454 is the following: ‘Punctuality”, said Monte Cristo, ‘is the politeness of kings.’  I have not seen that quote since my high-school yearbook.  It was the quip that the editors placed under my yearbook photo.  Apparently, they couldn’t think of anything nice to say about me except that I was on time.

 

And some of them still don’t have much nice to say about me.  At my 25^th reunion, a girl came up to me and said, “I remember you.”  At my 40^th, the same girl said, “I think I remember you.  You were taller.”  At my 50^th, that very same girl said, “I thought you were dead.” 

 

I had a business partner who was always late – always.  If we had a 2:00 meeting, he would show up at 2:30.  Of course, it aggravated me for years until I decided to use that information to my benefit.  I began to calculate how late he would be for a meeting and I would arrive at the calculated time.  That worked and resulted in my being right on time for the meeting.  And now it’s Thursday morning, and here I am.  And there you are, right on time.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are well.  Yesterday was Christmas Day as well as the beginning of Hanukkah.  Happy Holidays!  May your Christmas star or your Hanukkah candles twinkle with good health and good cheer.

 

I gave Shakespeare a holiday present.  It’s just the cap from a bottle of pills, but it rolls on the floor and he chases it.  He thinks it’s a mouse.  He’s a good boy.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Bid me run, and I will strive with things impossible (Julius Caesar).  Pops got me a great Hanu-cat present.  It’s white and it’s round and I chase it around the floor, pretending it’s a mouse.  It makes Pops happy to think I’m that stupid.  He’s a good boy.  Purr.

 

What should we talk about?  How about trash.  Each day I take the small amount of trash generated by two old folks and a cat, bag it up and throw it down the trash chute, where it descends to the nether reaches of Hell or the local landfill – I’m not sure which.  I recycle paper (mostly junk mail) and cardboard (mostly Amazon boxes) by throwing them in a separate container.  Pretty simple, actually.  Not in California!  Steph, my California daughter, has seven containers – paper, plastic, glass, metal, organic, batteries and mixed.  The last time we visited, Carol was so afraid of putting something in the wrong container that she packed up her trash and brought it home in our suitcase.  Totally true.

 

Jennifer, my North Carolina daughter, has an even more complicated system.  She has chickens, so you have to decide between compost, trash, recycle and chickens.  One afternoon she decided to give last night’s leftover eggplant parmesan to her birds.  Who feeds their chickens eggplant parmesan?  But before she carried it out to the coop, she saw me and asked if I wanted some.  I don’t eat eggplant when it’s the main course, let alone the garbage, but I told her I was grateful that I was mentioned in the same category as the poultry.  I guess that puts me just above compost.  Hey, as long as I know my place.  They also serve who only stand and cluck.  And yes, the chickens will eat leftover chicken.  I think there’s some biblical injunction against that (“You shall not seethe a kid in his mother’s milk” Exodus 23:19), but the last time we showed a Bible to the chickens, they ate it.

 

Hey, where else can you can get Milton quotes and Bible quotes while talking about chicken food?   

 

Last Saturday was December 21^st, the shortest day of the year.  I woke up and tried to write you a limerick:

 

I’m writing a limerick here

But I might not get finished, I fear

I’d best start a rhyme

Lest I run out of time

‘Cause today:  Shortest Day of the . .

 

See, I told you.  I didn’t even have time to finish the limerick.

 

Next Tuesday is New Year’s Eve.  In previous years, when we were younger and richer, we would don our tuxes and our jewels and go out to hobnob with our friends.  Lots of wine, expensive food and dancing.  I would hug the men and buss the women and give my wife a big, well-deserved kiss.  But that was then.  We no longer lead the lifestyle of the rich and famous.  More like the modest and quiet. 

 

There will be no wine for me, certainly no jewels.  We might not even stay up till midnight.  But one thing I won’t give up – an Auld Lang Syne dance and a kiss for my beautiful wife.  She’s the best!

 

Much of 2024 was about as pleasant as a toothache, but the Fox Clan made it through without too much kvetching and whining.  And I only got one year older even though it feels like eight.  And The View has not been expanded to two hours.  Oh, tidings of Whoopi and Joy, Whoopi and Joy.  I’m rambling here, but just let me go on; it usually works out well.  I know you think there is method to my madness, but, mostly, there is just madness.  Let’s see where this takes us

 

Here’s a little lexical curiosity for you.  You know the Three Rs of our elementary education (Reading, Writing, Rithmetic).  Isn’t it interesting that the Three R’s stand for three words, only one of which starts with R?  No wonder there is so much illiteracy.

 

Our Weekly Word is lexical, which means pertaining to words or vocabulary.  And, of course, I like learning new words every week and sharing them with you.

“It is always in season for old men to learn,” said Aeschylus, an ancient Greek playwright.  Which begs the question: why should someone who WRITES a play be called a playWRIGHT? 

 

Time to go, and I’m always on time.  Stay well, count your blessings and have a Happy New Year.  See you next year.  Be punctual.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #406                                December 19, 2024

 

Drones.  Big drones.  Drones the size of SUVs.  They are large, fulgent and mysterious.   Are they from Iran?  Are they from A Galaxy Far Far Away?  Are we being invaded by aliens?  The astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson said “The universe is under no obligation to make sense to you.”  He also said, recently, that if he were an alien come to Earth to observe the human race, he wouldn’t have chosen New Jersey.

 

Well, have no fears.  Our government will handle it.  The Army, the Air Force, the CIA, Homeland Security, Planned Parenthood – somebody knows what it’s all about and they will inform and protect us.  Except that’s not happening, at least on Saturday when I’m writing this.  No one knows, no one is concerned, no one wants to tell us anything.  It’s all in our imagination.  The IRS can find a dollar and a half from 2003 that we haven’t paid tax on, but the government cannot follow a flying object the size of a bus.  What happened to radar, sonar, J-dar?  I guarantee you, if Taylor Swift were in one of those drones, they’d know.   

 

I have been researching the actress Helen Hunt.  She is 61, went to UCLA, was married to Hank Azaria and won an Academy Award for As Good as it Gets.  I’m doing this because I decided to call my Congresswoman’s office to get an answer to this drone mystery.  When I politely asked for an explanation, the nice assistant told me I could go to Helen Hunt for it.  I sure hope she answers the phone.

 

Message from Shakespeare – Hell is empty and all the devils are here (The Tempest).  It sure seems like all the devils are here if you watch the news, but I’m neither a Republi-cat nor a Demo-cat, so I don’t know.  But if Pops wants to go to Hell and hunt for something, maybe he could find me an extra leg.  Purr.

 

Hi there.  Are you back?  You bet your red-nosed reindeer you’re back.  Where else could you get such silliness?  Welcome.  This will be the last time I talk to you before the holidays begin, so I am wishing a Happy Hanukkah and a Merry Christmas to you all, plus a Feliz Navidad to all my readers in Mexico, and her cats.  With all this cold weather, Mexico sounds pretty good, doesn’t it?

 

The Mexican weather is clear

The beaches and palm trees are near

We all love to visit

So tell my why is it

That Mexicans want to come here?

 

Weekly Word – how about fulgent?  It means dazzlingly bright.

 

Carol is back from her spa trip, and she had a wonderful time.  I am very glad she is back.  She is now busy getting ready for the holiday celebrations by making reservations.  My wife knows more about reservations than Geronimo.  She just told me that she’s made a reservation (round table and all) at a very expensive restaurant to celebrate one of her friend’s birthday.  “Oh,” she added, “we’ll count that as your birthday too.”  Really?  I just get tossed in as an afterthought and not even asked where I would like to go on my birthday?  Well, yes, People.  That’s how it works in my family.  I am not exactly at the top of the Official C. Fox Priority Chart.  I have just recently seen a copy of the current Priority Chart, and it goes like this.  At the top come her First Tier Friends. Then, in order, come her children, her Second Tier Friends, her grandchildren, her Third Tier Friends, the women on The View, Luigi Mangione, the cat and me.  Hey, at least I made the list.

 

I’d better not get aggravated, or I’ll set off my pacemaker.  Next Tuesday is Christmas Eve, and that will mark the fifteenth anniversary of the Christmas Eve that my heart stopped and I needed that little fellow implanted in my chest.  Nice to know we’re both doing great. 

 

A couple of years ago, a plumber came by to fix a broken handle in my shower.  He only replaced the COLD but they come in a set, so I had an extra handle.  He said save it for when the HOT breaks.  It did last night.  So this morning I got out the handle, read the instructions and immediately had a panic attack.  I can’t do this; I can never do things like this.  I will flood the condo and blow up the entire block and break a nail.  Oscar Wilde said, “Experience is simply the name we give our mistakes”, and I have a universe of experience in that regard.  I was terrified.

 

Here were the instructions:  unscrew the screw, pull off the old handle, put on the new handle, screw it in.  Shakespeare, with one paw, could do that.  But the killer was -- First, turn off the water, so I went to the laundry room.  There were two valves – one said hot water, one said all water.  Very clearly marked.  Nonetheless, I felt like the scene in every James Bond movie where the bomb is ticking down to explosion and James has to cut one of a dozen colored wires and if he chooses the wrong one, he will be fatally shaken, not stirred.  But he always does it right and the countdown always stops at 007.  I chose the one marked all water and turned.  Nothing catastrophic happened.  Then I went back to the shower to do steps 1,2 and 3.  It took 12 seconds.  Then back to turn the water valve, where I discovered I had forgotten which way I had turned it to shut it off.  Well, it would only turn one way, so that must be right.  Then back to the shower to turn the new handle.  It worked.  I could not have been more pleased if I had discovered fire.  I walked, smiling, back into my study where I noticed my clock had stopped at 007. 

 

And now it’s time for me to stop as well.  If you’re a Christian, have a Merry Christmas.  If you’re Jewish, have a Happy Hanukkah.  If you’re Mennonite, Monday is National Pfeffernüsse Day.  Look it up.  But whatever you are, wherever you are, stay well and count your holiday blessings.  See you next week.

 

James – James Bond                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #405                                December 12, 2024

 

Shakespeare and I are alone.  My wife left town on Monday with Jennifer, my North Carolina daughter, to visit a spa in Texas as a celebration of Carol’s upcoming birthday.  No, I won’t tell you which birthday.  I have been sworn to secrecy upon punishment of either castration or having to watch three episodes of The View.  Whatever her age is, she doesn’t look it.  By the way, I chose castration.  So now, of course, I’m lonely.  I’m as lonely as Venus de Milo’s manicurist. 

 

On the plus side, with her gone, I’m the undisputed master of the house.  I can do anything I want.  I can watch anything I want on the television.  I can eat anything I want, dress any way I like and sleep as late as I care to.  It’s good to be the King.  Just please don’t tell the Queen

 

But now that I can do anything I want, what am I going to do?  I could go out to a bar and pick up a young chick, except my wife tells me the only way I could pick up a young chick would be to stand on my wallet, and my wallet isn’t big enough.  I could get high on alcohol or pot, except I gave up smoking in 1995 and drinking in 2007.  Wait, I’ve got it – gambling.  So I drove to a casino, played the nickel poker machines for 20 minutes and got a free Diet Coke.  I lost $4.  I would not have done well in Sodom and Gomorrah.  And I’m as lonely as Lady Godiva’s seamstress.

 

But I have my loyal cat.  And I have you.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and working on your New Year’s Resolutions.  I’m having trouble this year.  I’ve given up smoking already and drinking and ice cream and red meat.  I’m not overweight.  I do my exercises.  I’m nice to my family and friends.  I’m not messy.  So I put a lot of thought into this year’s resolution.  Here it is: In 2025, I resolve to make you smile at least once a week.

 

Let’s see if I can squeeze a snicker out of you with this.  When Simple Simon said to the Pie-Man, “Let me taste your wares,” what did the pie-man say?  He replied, “My whats?”  “No,” said Simon, “your wares.”  “Ok,” said the Pie-Man:

 

I have a few wheres and some whats

They’re loaded with sprinkles and nuts

Some nows and some thens

Some whys and some whens

But sorry, no ifs, ands or buts.

 

After all these years, are you tired of my psychotic poetry yet?  The border between genius and madness is subtle.  Did I tell you I’m as lonely as Kamala Harris’ campaign manager?  

 

Other people, of course, are making their New Year’s Resolutions:

 

·        Joe Biden said “I promise not to pardon Hunter.  Wait, what?  I did already?  I must be a lying dog-faced pony soldier.”

·        Elon Musk resolved to carry at least one of his children on his shoulders at all times

·        And my wife and I have made a joint resolution to get matching tattoos.  We’ve already picked them out.  Mine says I LOVE CAROL.  So does hers.

 

Well, since I’m as lonely as Will Smith’s booking agent, my daughter and my friends have stepped up to the plate to take care of me with breakfast meetings and lunch and dinner.  I guess they think I’m too stupid to do anything for myself.  They must have read my blogs.

 

I hope my wife sleeps better in Texas than she does here.  I’ve tried telling her stories, but she says I don’t talk fast enough.  I have suggested that she try going to the Opera – that always puts me to sleep -- but instead she keeps trying new cocktails and stratagems, all suggested by her friends who are quick to give her a list of things to try, none of which has ever worked for them.  “I take organic cherry juice to sleep and it never works.  You should try it.”  Recently, one of these well-meaning friends told her about white noise, random sounds that she could find on her phone.  Having selected three different ones and unable to decide which was best, she played all three simultaneously: screeching psychotic birds, torrential tropical monsoons and another that was just loud.  Amid the cawing, dripping and screaming – she could not sleep, and neither could I.  The next day I called the well-meaning friend to ask her if this night-time cacophony actually helped her sleep.  “Hell no,” she confessed, “but it keeps my husband up all night.  Why should he sleep if I can’t?” 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  She is never sad but when she sleeps (Much Ado About Nothing).  I sleep just fine.  I don’t understand why these humans want to sleep when it’s dark outside. And did I hear him say he’s the undisputed master of the house.  That’s what he thinks.  Come here, you old man and scratch my ear.  Yes, you’re such a good boy. Purr.

 

If I haven’t made you laugh yet?  Let’s try this:

 

Frank and Kevin, best friends, are having a beer.

Frank:  Kev, you look depressed.

Kevin:  You know, I’m pushing 30 and I want to settle down, but every time I find a nice girl and bring her home, my Mom hates her.

Frank:  Take my advice, find a girl that’s exactly like your Mom.

Kevin:  I tried that.  I found a girl who looks like my Mom, talks like my Mom, even cooks like her.

Frank:  Did your Mom like her?

Kevin:  Of course she did, but my Dad couldn’t stand her.

 

I hope my grandiloquence hasn’t bored you. Grandiloquence, our Weekly Word, is the use of extravagant or pompous language, so I guess that just using the word automatically makes you grandiloquent. And now, we’re getting to the end of the blog and the end of the week.  Carol is coming home tomorrow, and I’m as happy as a sunflower on a summer’s day.

 

Stay well and count your blessings.  I’ll be back next week with something or other to talk about.  Be there.  I hope this week’s edition has made you all as happy as a bunch of mosquitoes at a nudist colony.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1745@gmail.com