Blog #478                                May 7, 2026

 

Last weekend, we took a little trip to Las Vegas.  Southwest Airlines was wonderful.  The plane was on time and the flight was pleasant.  Just the thought of the amazing engineering and sophisticated technology that goes into crafting a vehicle that can carry 200 people through the air at 30,000 feet and 600 miles per hour while carefully monitoring electronically every meteorological and aeronautic aspect of the flight is mind-bending.  It makes you wonder, though, (and I know you know what’s coming) – it makes you wonder why these super-smart engineers cannot design a speaker system on which you can actually understand what they’re saying.  “The captain scribbitz gwaldemang tooseidram the cokseld.”  And the system in the terminal is even worse.  “Would the passenger Qgoblhet Jugfurnace, please fribitz his flabunglator to gate forsemonty.”  They can take people to the Moon.  You’d think they could make a speaker system.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Did you celebrate May Day on May 1 and Star Wars Day on May 4?  May the fourth be with you.  And if you don’t know what that means, well, I’m not sure what to say.

 

I hope it’s not one of those days for you.  You know what I mean, a day when everything is wrong, hopeless or broken.  It seems like a lot of days are one of those days nowadays.  I’m feeling it too.  Maybe it’s just my weekly angst over finding something that will entertain you.  I mean it’s been 478 weeks and often I worry where the next thought is coming from.  478 weeks!  That’s longer than any of Elon Musk’s wives lasted.

 

But I decided not to worry.  Worry is like a rocking chair – it’s something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.  Besides, I’ve come to feel confident that some bizarre concoction of insanity and foolishness will pop out of my strange head if I squeeze hard enough.  How about a confession.

 

I don’t actually know why I feel the compunction to lay bare all the peccadilloes, foibles, idiosyncrasies and utter stupidities that speckle my life.  But here it is.  On the way back from Las Vegas, I left my computer at the airport.  You know, you have to put your laptop in a separate bin and run it through security, and I forgot to retrieve it.  I’m sure there were notifications on the loud speaker announcing that some blithering fool had left his computer behind, but of course, nobody could understand the loud speaker.  I didn’t realize what I had done until I got home and unpacked my carry-on.

 

I was devastated, embarrassed, almost suicidal.  Me without my computer is like a snail without a shell, like a car without a steering wheel, like a baby without his bankie, like a politician without his teleprompter.  I wigged out and had a mini-breakdown.  But my trusty, loyal, clever and lovely wife rescued me.  She called the lost and found at the airport.  They located the errant electronics and Fed-Exed it to me within a couple of days.  Thank you, Honey.

 

You didn’t know I had foibles, did you?  That’s our Weekly Word and means minor weaknesses or eccentricities.  I’m loaded with them.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Praising what is lost makes the remembrance dear (All’s Well That Ends Well).  I hope Pops doesn’t lose me somewhere and have to ship me home in a box.  I’m not traveling anywhere with him.  He’s not trustworthy.  I’ll just stay here and wait for him to come home.  If he can find it.  Purr.

 

Now to something important.  Do you have a middle name?  Do you remember your middle name?  Is there any reason for having a middle name?  I am convinced that the sole purpose of a child's middle name is so he can tell when he's really in trouble.  If my mother called out “Michael”, she just wanted to see me.  If she yelled “Michael Bruce”, I knew some serious punishment was on my horizon.  Some people have more than one middle name, like Julia Scarlett Elizabeth Louis-Dreyfus.  I have a granddaughter with two middle names.  And then, of course, there’s Picasso, or should I say:

 

Pablo Diego José Francisco de Paula Juan Nepomuceno María de los Remedios Cipriano de la Santísima Trinidad Ruiz y Picasso

 

That’s his real name.  By the time he wrote all that on the canvas, there was so little room left he had to squash up the faces.

 

I just got the mail.  Let’s see – a discount on hearing aids, an invitation to visit the new elderly facility, a free dinner if I listen to a money manager, 30% off at Kohl’s and a whole bunch of stuff addressed to Resident, Occupant or Loser.  Is this too exciting for you?  This is my life!

 

But wait, what’s that?  A small envelope with a hand-written address and no bar codes.  It was from my granddaughter – snail mail.  Not an e-mail or a fax.  Not a text or a tweet or a twit or a twoot.  Not a Facebook or a YouTube or a Snapchat.  Just a little old envelope with my name written on it in pencil.  I dove for it like a pelican after a sardine.  Isn’t it funny how something as simple as an actual letter can be so exciting?

 

I needed a battery in my watch and I went to a Chinese-run place that sells purses and belts and hats and gimcracks of all sorts.  I walked in and said Ni Hau to the owner.  That’s Mandarin for “hello”.  I learned that when I taught English to Chinese students.  The owner replied, “We’re Korean. We all look alike.”  I apologized, of course.  When I left, she said, “Goodbye, John.”  No, I said.  Don’t you remember me?  I’m Michael.  Oh, she replied:

 

Please put on my record a strike

I truly forgot you were Mike.

I’m just poor Korean

Have trouble with seein’

Besides all you Whites look alike.

 

I think I’m finished for this week.  You made it through another one.  I’m proud of you.  Stay happy and in good health, count your blessings, and Hung Hau.  That’s Mandarin for “Your camel has whooping cough.”  You’d be surprised how often that comes up.  See you next week, if I don’t lose my computer again.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #476                                April 23, 2026

 

Sorry, but I have to mess up my schedule again.  Next week’s blog will arrive on Wednesday, not Thursday.  Just a minor blip that I’ll explain later, so heads up!  It will arrive next Wednesday.  Now, on to the weather.

 

It’s the rainy season here in St. Louis.  Carol hates rain.  Rain is anathema.  I’m not sure whether it’s a hair thing or she’s related to the Wicked Witch of the West.  Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.  She is constantly tuned to a weather app so she can plan when to leave the house.  My oldest daughter is like that too.  We were on a vacation in North Carolina with Jennifer and her family and had stayed inside the whole night because Carol and Jennifer had determined that the forecasts were ominous.  It did not rain a drop.  Then the next morning, right after breakfast, the two of them, whom I had begun to refer to as Cloudy and Cher, were watching their electronic devices again.  “I think today is the day we should stay in the house; the forecast is 60% storms.”  While the Storm Sisters were thus preparing to ruin my day, I was on the porch where I could see a beautiful sunny sky with not a cloud in sight.

 

The women just sit and complain

“The forecast is calling for rain!”

If Columbus’ crew

Had included those two

We’d all still be living in Spain.

 

Andre Gide said one doesn't discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.  That probably includes getting wet as well.  Did you know there was a mutiny on Columbus’ first voyage?  The crew said they were going home.  “Not all of you are going home”, said Columbus.  “The ones that I kill are staying here.”  I must confess that story is apocryphal and does not occur in official histories, but I like it.  And yes, I do my research to validate all the things I tell you.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  The rain, it raineth every day (King Lear).  I never get to go outside, but I like to sit by the window and bathe in the sunshine.  I don’t mind the rain, if it keeps Pops and Carol from going out.  I don’t like being alone.  That’s why I write to you every week.  Oh, today I am seven years old.  Wish me a Happy Purr-thday.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  And Happy 7^th Birthday to Shakespeare.  I love him so much.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying out of the rain.  You can stay dry by shopping at Whole Foods.  Going to Whole Foods with Carol is always interesting.  She shops while I maneuver the cart in the constricted aisles clogged with hungry, health-conscious do-gooders clad in jogging gear and clutching reusable sacks.  As we passed the egg department, I noticed a sign assuring us that these eggs had been harvested from cage-less chickens.  I read on and learned that the chickens responsible for these pearly ovoid beauties are not kept in individual cages but are allowed to roam around the barn where water and food are available at various stations.  This was beginning to sound appealing.  Free food and drink, lots of exercise, no work, no tax returns, no Joy Behar and all you have to do is lay eggs.  Maybe I should learn how to do that.

 

When I got home, I flew to the Internet looking for egg-laying lessons and found a bunch of bitchy Vegans complaining that cage-less chickens were still overcrowded and never let out of the barn.  What do they want the farmer to do, take these birds to a Broadway show?  You knew a list was coming, didn’t you?  Here it is, Broadway shows for chickens:

 

The Best Little Henhouse in Texas

Bantam of the Opera

Guys and Fowls

The Gizzard of Oz

 

Let’s see, here’s something else I can bloviate about.  I just got a new medication prescribed.   It’s some nerve something and I looked it up online to check out the side effects.  See, there’s that dogged research again.  Here’s what I found – dizziness, drowsiness, weakness, tired feeling, blurred vision, headache, strong cravings for McDonald’s in the morning and a strange compulsion to read Moby Dick.  I’m pretty sure I can handle it.

 

I will add the new pill to my already impressive menu of pills, capsules, ointments, salves, nose sprays, lotions, potions and soft gels.  I have carefully categorized pill-takers into four groups.  I have so much free time!  The groups are Free Lance, Organized, Anal and Screwball.   Free Lance includes those of you who simply know what pills to take and when to take them.  Organized pill-takers need some additional help and use a pill box with seven compartments marked with each day of the week.  Anal pill-takers – you know, maybe that’s a poor choice.   By anal, I don’t mean suppositories; I mean someone who makes sure the oven is off before leaving the house – five times.  Or someone who goes to McDonald’s every single morning.   Anal pill-takers have a pill box with fourteen compartments so the medicines can be split between a.m. and p.m.

 

And then there is the Screwball category which includes me.  I just fill each compartment with one kind of pill.  When it’s time to take pills, I open them all.  I still think a great parlor game would be for each person to write down all their pills on a piece of paper and throw it into a pile.  One list would be chosen at random and everybody would guess who it belongs to.  We’d call it Who Wants to Be a Pillionaire?  Kind of like Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen with the Stool Softener.   I confess I’ve used that line before, but with your memory? -- I’m pretty sure you’ve forgotten.  That’s because you take too many pills.

 

And I guess you want to know what bloviate means.  It is our Weekly Word and means to talk at length, especially with arrogance.  I guess that describes my blog pretty much every week.  But you’ll be back, won’t you?  What would I do without you – lay eggs?  Please stay well and count your blessings.  And remember, the blog will be on Wednesday next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #475                                April 16, 2026

 

Have you ever gone into a car dealer and bought the first car the salesman showed you?  Well, that’s how my wife feels when the hostess leads us to a table at a restaurant.  It’s obviously the worst table, the one they want to fill because it is somehow flawed, and the hostess must think we are ignorant losers who will accept a horrible table.  Therefore, the first table offered is never acceptable.  Never!  I hope they have round tables in Heaven, because, if not, she’s going somewhere else.

 

Last weekend, we had finished dinner (at the second table they offered us) and it was time to pay the bill.  There were five people and coupons for two free entrees and the ensuing confusion of how to allocate the free entrees reached Carol’s Threshold of Impatience, which, I don’t have to tell you, is about the size of a cricket’s eyebrow.  I could feel the Earth tremble as I looked at her.  “I just wish I were the Dictator and I could tell everybody how to do this,” she whispered through clenched, but beautifully white, teeth.  “What do you want to have happen?” I asked.  She told me and I immediately took control, exerted my dominant masculinity and did exactly as my wife told me.  I just need a little direction sometimes.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Have you done your taxes yet?  They were due yesterday, I think.  Well, not always, because if April 15^th is Sunday, then the due date will be pushed to Monday, April 16^th.  But wait, April 16^th is Emancipation Day.  Emancipation Day celebrates the day when Lincoln freed 3,100 slaves living in the District of Columbia.  Remember Lincoln?  He’s on the penny.  Remember the penny?  All the Federal workers in DC are off on Emancipation Day.  So, I guess your taxes could be due on the 17th.  No, no, hold on – the 17th is National Bat Appreciation Day (look it up!), and no-one’s going to leave their house on a day like that.  So I guess it’s the 18th, except that is National Animal Crackers Day, and no-one who celebrated Emancipation Day is going to file their taxes on a day dedicated to Crackers.  Well, shoot!  Don’t file your taxes at all.  Nobody cares about your damn taxes anyway.  Certainly not your politicians.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat: “O excellent! I love long life better than figs” (Antony and Cleopatra).  I don’t know what taxes are.  I don’t even know what money is.  I just know I have food and water and a warm lap to sit on.  And my wonderful Pops.  Life is really good.  Purr.

 

You know, of course, that I don’t drink.  But that doesn’t prevent me from challenging you with a compendium of some rock n roll lyrics about alcoholic beverages.  You like quizzes, don’t you?  Humor me.  My mind is still a little fuzzy, and I have to fill this blog up.  Here are the questions.  Remember, the songs are about alcohol.  Answers later.

 

1.     Who lost his jigger of salt?

2.     Where did the Captain say they hadn’t had those spirits here since 1969?

3.     Good ol’ boys were drinkin’ whiskey and rye, but what were they singing?

4.     When the microphone smelled like a beer, what did the piano sound like?

5.     I met a gin-soaked barroom queen in Memphis.

 

Weekly Word:  A compendium is a collection of detailed information about a particular subject.  In this case, boozy rock n roll.

 

I don’t know what else to talk about today.  Maybe some new crazy idea I have or maybe something that makes me angry.  Let’s try both.  Here’s the new idea.  It’s for you ladies out there, and I like it a lot.  Wardrobe History Tags.  Attached to the hanger holding that cute little black dress will hang one of my Wardrobe History Tags, a small, round, smart, voice-analytic device.  We’ll call her Dressy.  When you pick out what you’re wearing tonight, just press the button and say, “Dressy, I’m going to Tony’s tonight with Fred and Ethel.”  Dressy will respond, “Hello, Carol.  You wore this dress to Tony’s last November, but you’ve never worn it with Fred and Ethel.  It’s ok to wear it tonight.  Try those little black boots with the silver buckles.  The pink nail-polish will look fabulous!”

 

And what makes me angry?  Silly political correctness.  Now they’re even changing the Bible.  Yes, the Catholic bishops have come out with a revised Bible which has replaced “booty” with “treasure” and “fine flour” with “bran flour” and God knows (appropriately) what else.  Of course, the Reform Rabbis have already changed the Torah to expunge any reference to God as a man by changing Father to Parent and King to Ruler to avoid bruising any tender feelings.  It’s all very politically correct.  Re-write The Bible to avoid all references to gender, harmful foods, sexual preference or non-efficient light bulbs.

 

The words of the Bible are pleasant

But they must be brought to the present

So now what is right

Is “Let There Be Light

“As Long As It’s Not Incandescent”

 

Be fruitful and use Common Core.  And who knows what they’re going to do with My Cup Runneth Over.  I think that’s the name of Stormy Daniels’ new book.  (Ok, I’m not proud of that.)

 

And here’s another thing.  I have always wondered why, in a movie, they have to show the actors smoking.  Yes, we all did it back in the 50s and 60s, but the story would not be changed if we eliminated the smoking, would it?  I mean, he didn’t burn the girl to death with his cigarette butt.  And don’t give me the argument about historical accuracy.  That didn’t seem to bother anybody when the show Hamilton made George Washington black.

 

It’s time to leave now.  Here are your answers to the alcoholic questions:

 

1.     Jimmy Buffet – Margaritaville

2.     Hotel California.  (Eagles)

3.     Bye Bye Miss American Pie.  (Don McLean).

4.     A carnival.  (Piano Man, Billy Joel)

5.     Honky Tonk Woman. (Rolling Stones)

 

I hope you enjoyed today’s issue, kind of a hodge-podge of weirdness, like it always is, and I hope you have a lovely week.  Stay well, count your blessings and be back next Thursday.  I’ll be there.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #474                                April 9, 2026

 

After my appendix operation, I eschewed the rehab phase.  I remember my first day of cardiac rehab after my heart attack years ago, walking in there knowing I would hate it.  I was right.  Some nurse, who was so sweet, bees were nesting in her hair, greeted me and made me fill out a whole bunch of questionnaires that no-one would ever read.  Then the doctor came in, listened to my heart for four seconds and left.  He had the charisma of tuna salad.  But, ok, I can deal with officious nurses and supernumerary doctors.

 

What I could not deal with were the other patients.  There were about twenty of them exercising on treadmills and bicycle machines.  Two of them were younger than me, twelve older and six were dead, but their machines hadn’t stopped yet.  And they all had little pink hearts with their names in crayon taped to their machines.  Gag me!  And they were all looking at me.  New meat!  I had to walk for six minutes as fast as I could on the carpet surrounding all these old cardiac-challenged strangers.  This is not me!  I do not like strangers; I do not want to talk with them; I do not want them watching me; and I assuredly do not want my name on a little pink heart.  I felt like a heifer at a beef auction.

 

Ok, I’m tired of talking of my recovery.  Carol’s tired of it; Shakespeare’s tired of it and so are you.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I love you more than words can wield the matter (King Lear).  I kind of like that Pops is home all day, sitting in a chair where I can schnuggle on his lap for a long time.  Purr.

 

Last Saturday, I went out for the first time, just a local sports bar with some friends.  It was the night before Easter and the middle of Passover.  I guess I forgot last week to wish you a Happy Passover and Happy Easter, but I trust that while you were dealing with God in one way or another, you remembered to thank Him for all your blessings.

 

This restaurant we went to was a sports bar, and on every other screen was the UConn-Illinois basketball game as part of March Madness.  But, being the Passover season, the other screens ran The Ten Commandments with Charleton Heston.  I thought that was pretty strange, but never would I let a weird juxtaposition escape me:

 

On the left was the basketball news

We were sad to see Illinois lose

On the right we could see

God part the Red Sea

And an underdog win for the Jews.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you all are feeling well.  Aren’ you excited about our astronauts flying to the moon?  It’s very spectacular.  I think Trump has plans to build a fancy new restaurant on the Moon. I don’t think it will work – great food, no atmosphere.

 

Last week, I told you that I was not a highbrow, didn’t love the symphony or opera.  “Call me a boor, call me Ishmael”, I wrote.  Several friends commented that I couldn’t be a boor and still quote “Call me Ishmael”, the opening line of Moby Dick.  In high school, I got a D in Miss Bowers’ English class because of Moby Dick.  It was the only D that I ever received.  As a Freshman in college, I got an A+ in English Literature.  I took the grade report back to Miss Bowers just to show her how wrong she had been.  She had forgotten who I was.  Did you know that Starbucks was named after a character in Moby Dick?  I have now read Moby Dick seven times.  Call me Ridiculous!

 

I went to a funeral recently.  As Yogi Berra said, “always go to other people’s funerals; otherwise they won’t go to yours.”  At the funeral I ran into a woman I have not seen for many years.  With all my medical history, I guess she was surprised to see me looking ok.  She told me I looked magnificent.  Magnificent!  Can you imagine?  I was really flattered.  Do you think she was hitting on me?  I think she was hitting on me.

 

At funerals, when I hear everyone speak about how terrific the deceased was, I often wonder what people will say about me.  How will I be perceived and remembered?  I’d like to be there.  Come to think of it, I guess I will be.  It would be nice if people would stand up and say nice things about me.  Let’s start with the lady who thinks I’m magnificent.

 

There is actually one thing at which I am really good.  I’ll give you a few seconds to come up with it.  Ok, I’ll give you a few more seconds.  I’d better give you a hint – I can name any song from the 1950s, 60s and 70s before the second note.  Just play one note and I’m screaming Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs or Little Anthony and the Imperials.  I’m almost never wrong, and it used to be an important talent to have.  But no more.  Carol found Shazam!  She holds her iPhone to the radio and Shazam tells her the song and artist and even downloads it if she wants.  So much for my only talent!  I’m useless!  I feel like a snake trying to ride a bicycle.  Or a guy who is fluent in Aztec.  Or a man who repairs typewriters.  Or Donald Trump’s humility coach.  I am no longer needed.  I cannot compete.

 

Maybe I can compete in Weekly Words.  Today’s is supernumerary, which means something that is present in excess of normal numbers.  Like most of the words in my blog.

 

In conclusion, President Trump and I have something in common.  We were both born in 1946, as were President Clinton and President George W. Bush.  It seems I may be the only man born in 1946 who wasn’t elected President.  Well, there’s still a chance.  What it means is President Trump and I grew up to the same music – Rock ‘n Roll.  And I know his favorite song.  It’s the old Beach Boys classic –Bomb–Bomb–Bomb, Bomb–Bomb-Iran

Bomb–Bomb–Bomb, Bomb–Bomb-Iran.

 

Stay well, count your blessings and pray for peace.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog 473                                          April 2, 2026

 

Hey, I have a question for you.  Do you lie?  Of course you don’t.  I would never suggest that you lie.  But do you exaggerate – maybe a little?  I have made a study of the most common topics of exaggeration.

 

First Exaggeration: Have you seen my grandson hit a golf ball?  Yesterday, on the 11^th hole, my Jacob hit a ball, I guarantee it was 300 yards if it was a nickel.

Truth:  Jacob is seven and the farthest he has ever hit a ball is 42 yards – into a hot-dog cart.

 

Second Exaggeration:  My daughter’s boyfriend just got a new job.  He’s the CFO of a new start-up that’s all over the world.  I can’t tell you exactly what they do, but they’re huge.  He’s doing very well. 

Truth:  He quit his job as a Bar-Mitzvah disc jockey and is selling a line of pizza ovens in Rapid City.

 

Third Exaggeration:  I’m going to a new neurologist.  He’s one of the top doctors.  Top!  He’s the foremost expert in the world on the kind of disease I have.  He graduated first in his class.

Truth:  Dr. Patel Rajmiri was the only one in his class at the Karachi School of Incantations and Pita Making.  His office is in the back of a Lebanese deli.

 

Fourth Exaggeration: I’ve got a great new sleeping thing for you.  You place a pecan under your pillow.  It works great.

Truth: I haven’t slept since the Bush administration.  No, the old one.  And I have tried every pill, powder, lotion, potion, salve, inhaler, concoction and Haitian Voodoo ritual known to man or beast.  The pecan doesn’t work either.

 

You absolutely know someone who is guilty of one or all of the above. Maybe even you.  Hi there and welcome back to Limerick Oyster where nobody’s going to lie to you.  A little capricious hyberbole perhaps, but it’s all in fun.  I hope you’re well and I’m glad you’re back.  I’m back too, recovering from my surgery.  I thought Shakespeare would have been more enthusiastic to see me, but he was a little leery of the walker.  At first, he thought it was his AI replacement, Cat-GPT, but now I think he likes it.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Un-thread the rude eye of rebellion, and welcome home again (King John).  I’m so happy Pops is home.  He even brought me a new friend.  It has two legs and two wheels.  I call him Rolleo.  Where’d he go?  Rolleo, Rolleo, whereart thou.  Purr.

 

I still have a few hospital observations for you.  I did not see a calendar in my room.  A clock, yes, but no calendar.  Even a prisoner gets a calendar.  Are they afraid you’ll be counting the days until your co-pay runs out?  I also noticed that when the Physical Therapist person would take me on a walk, we would never pass a mirror.  Oy, God forbid I should see myself unshaven, hair unwashed; I probably looked like Quasimodo.

 

But now I’m home:

 

·        Without one appendix.  I never read the appendix anyway.

·        With some additional scars.  No big deal; I’ve got plenty.

·        With an addition of approximately 75 new members to the once-exclusive club of people who have seen my butt.

Who designed those hospital gowns?  And why is just your butt exposed?  Expose everything.  There is no privacy in a hospital.  I loved it when the nurse team would come in and ask whether I wanted the door closed while 60 people examined my naked body.

 

Yes, I’m home, and very lucky to have a lovely, caring and efficient nurse to take care of me.  Carol is doing a wonderful job, doing almost everything for me, but sometimes, it’s a little aggravating.

 

Where’s your toothbrush, she asked.  I told her.

What kind of ratty, gangrenous, antediluvian piece of garbage is this?  She threw it away and got a new one.

Ok, where’s your toothpaste?  I pointed.

What kind of arboreal moron keeps his toothpaste in a drawer that far away from his toothbrush?

 

There’s no place like home!  Let’s do arboreal as our Weekly Word.  It means living in trees.

 

I have admitted many of my faults and failings to you over the past years.  Here’s another.  I’m just not into highbrow stuff -- art, symphony, opera.  I must not have been around when they handed out the gene for high-class sophistication and good taste.  Except, of course, my taste in women.  But you know that already.

 

I like realism in art, but not Modern art.  I was once in a museum in Bentonville, Arkansas looking at a painting that was completely black.  I found a nearby docent and asked, “Can you explain to me what there is in that painting that is supposed to stimulate my admiration?”  He replied, “Damned if I know.”  And the symphony?  I like some classical music, but I must admit I grew up on three-minute songs that started with Take out the papers and the trash or I heard about the fella you been dancin’ with.  Three minutes is a good length for a song.  Twenty minutes or sixty minutes – I’ve already forgotten where I am.  And opera is four hours!  In Italian!

 

I guess that I’m just not aesthetic

I think modern art is pathetic

And Mozart and Bach

Are pretty much schlock

And opera requires anesthetic.

 

What can I say?  Call me a boor, call me low-class, call me Ishmael.  And anyway, should I care what other people think?  You’ll worry less about what people think of you when you realize how seldom they do.

 

By the way, those two songs I mentioned above:

 

Take out the papers and the trash – Yakety Yak, The Coasters (1958) written by Leiber and Stoller. 

 

 I heard about the fella you been dancin’ with - Shake a Tail Feather, The Five Du-Tones (1963) written by Andre Williams.

 

I have to stop now.  I can’t write while I’m shakin’ my tail feather.  Plus, my doctor says I shouldn’t.  I love that song, though.  C’mon, do it with me – shake it, shake it, shake it, shake it Baby.  You can still do it.  Don’t hurt yourself.  See you next week.  Stay well, count your blessings and Rock n Roll.  And thank you all for your wonderful outpourings of love and concern.  They mean a lot.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com