Blog #42

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

These tablets will act as a cure

Please take before bed to make sure

Dilute with some juice

‘Cause repeated use

Will cause you to be very poor.

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

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

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #41

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

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

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

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

I can live with the noise – that is true

And the crudeness and violence too

But the first time this boy

Looked at Whoopi and Joy,

I simply could not stand The View.

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

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

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

Ulcerative Collie-itis – Barkinson’s – Dysenterrier

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

Mastiff Neck – Aarfritis --  Irritable Bow-Wow Syndrome

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

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

     

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

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

Michael                          Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #40

I have not seen a Marmatod in fourteen-hundred years.

A Marmatod is like an ox with feathers in its ears,

But somehow still it hears.

Well, it’s not really like an ox because it has four eyes,

A dozen antlers, sixteen legs, two flippers and it flies.

At least it really tries.

I think that I remember what a Marmatod has got,

But it’s been fourteen-hundred years and that is quite a lot,

So maybe I forgot.

That is probably my favorite poem.  It’s whimsical and silly and all the things that I’m not, at least on the surface.  On the surface I’m logical and organized and practical and reserved and dull.  But underneath, somewhere, is a Marmatod, writing poetry and trying to get the feathers out of his ears and looking for someone to play with.

Hi there.  Wanna play?  I hope you are all doing well, and I hope you don’t think that was a limerick.  No, you still have a limerick somewhere down the road, so strap yourself in for the newest edition of the Eminently Renowned and Critically Acclaimed International Phenomenon known as Limerick Oyster.  Well, I don’t know about the words “renowned” or “acclaimed” or “phenomenon”, but we are definitely International.  Limerick Oyster is now read in Afghanistan.  Welcome, Colonel Ric, and thanks for this wonderful sports question.  What is the least number of pitches a starting pitcher can throw and still have a complete game?  I’ll give you the answers later, and yes, there are two answers – one for the 2016 Season and earlier and one for the 2017 Season and later.

And thanks also for the top three Christmas songs in Afghanistan: Oh Taliban!  Oh Taliban! -- Frosty the Terrorist -- Grandma Got Run Over by a Half-track.

Yes, radio stations everywhere are playing Christmas songs non-stop.  We all love Christmas songs, but sometimes I just get overloaded with them.  I mean, how much Burl Ives can one person take?  Sometimes I just pop in the new CD released by some of my old rock-n-roll favorites.   You see, Billy Joel, Paul McCartney and Elton John have formed a new band called Peter, Paul and Methuselah.  They have come up with some new songs to reflect the advanced age of their fan base, for instance: 

I’m Too Sexy for my Cane --- Welcome to the Nursing Home California

Lucy in the Sky with Diapers --- Scenes from an Italian Rest Home

The House of the Rising Blood Pressure --- Celebrate Good Poops, C’mon!

You Had to Get a Flu Shot, Di’nt Ya --- Stayin’ Alive

And welcome back to all of my Oysters.  Are you enjoying the December holiday atmosphere?   Are you out shopping?  My wife loves to shop.  I mean she loves to shop, and when she’s really on a roll, you couldn’t pry her away from the stores with Shaquille O’Neal’s shoehorn.  Now, Carol does everything fast.  She plays cards fast, cooks fast, cleans fast, walks fast.  We even have a special nickname for her -- The Princess of Lickety Split.  I think I have it figured out why she does everything fast.  It’s to make more time for her favorite thing. 

She’s moving at light speed non-stop

Her pace – well it makes my jaw drop

I found out at last

Why she does things so fast:

It leaves her with more time to shop.

And where do people do most of their shopping?  Amazon!  I’m mad at Amazon.  Can we talk?  Amazon is planning a second Headquarters complex -- HQ2 they call it -- and they’ve asked cities around the country to submit proposals.  The market value of Amazon is over $500 billion.  They have all the money in the world.  But the cities, including St. Louis, that are spending hundreds of thousands of dollars preparing sophisticated proposals have no money.  They can’t pay their teachers or their police officers.  They can’t fix their potholes.  Their citizens are taxed up to their nostrils.  But Amazon is making them spend precious dollars fawning and groveling at Jeff Bezos’ feet in order to get chosen.  Jeff Bezos is personally worth $100 billion.  How does it feel, Jeff, to have these poor, destitute cities begging and degrading themselves to have you pick them?  Does it make you feel like Harvey Weinstein?

A few days ago, I was driving east on a lonely suburban road, when I saw a girl walking east as well.  There was nothing around there so wherever she was going, it was a long walk.  I would happily have given her a ride, but in this world, I barely gave it a thought.  I mean, with men being accused and destroyed faster than Anthony Weiner can snap a Selfie, I’d sooner play leap-frog with a unicorn than pick up a strange woman.  She could accuse me of evil doings and I would be in big trouble.  What a world we have created where people are afraid to offer help and afraid to accept it.

And what a world we have made out of public toilets.  FIRST: What happened to flushing?  Is that one of those jobs that “Americans won’t do”?  Was it such a complicated process that we had to turn it over to an intricate and expensive droid?  I want to flush when I’m finished, not when R2P2 has decided I am far enough away?  SECOND:  I want some soap and water.  What happened to faucets?  They’re gone.  Instead, I have to wave my hands under a spout and wait for water to come out.  It doesn’t work the first time – or the second.  Sometimes, I have to conduct the entire 1812 Overture before a brief gush of water comes out.  THIRD:  What happened to towels?  I want a towel, not hot air.  I get enough hot air listening to talk radio.  And besides, the only thing that hot air does is turn the cold water on my hands into hot water.  What could be more simple than to have a bathroom with a toilet, a sink, some soap and some paper towels?  But instead, we have a fully-automated factory that whisks you in, flushes you out, soaps you off and blows you out.  I hate public toilets.

All right, the baseball thing.  For 2016 and before, the answer is 25 pitches.  The visiting pitcher gets the first 24 outs on one pitch each.  That’s eight innings.  Then, in the bottom of the ninth, with the score still 0-0, he throws the first pitch (his 25^th) and it is hit for a home run.  Game over, 1-0 loss.  Complete game.

But in 2017, you could intentionally walk a batter without throwing a pitch.  So, you can walk a batter and subsequently pick him off at first without throwing any pitches at all.  If you can get one batter out without throwing a pitch, you can get them all out the same way. The answer, therefore, is zero.  Are you proud?  No?  Better luck next time. Stay well.  Come back next week and we’ll play some more.  See you then.

The Marmatod                         Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com  

Blog #39

On a lovely, residential street near my home, there used to be a gray, wooden building.  More a shack really -- perhaps a hog shed -- an out-building of an old farm parcel.  It was surrounded by high-priced subdivisions on one side and glass and steel office buildings on the other.  It was old and useless and left behind in the modern rush, but it was interesting and provocative.  There was certainly a story there, a story from 50 or 100 years ago, a story the Shell station couldn’t tell, or the Walgreen’s down the street.  I used to wave at the useless, old, broken-down thing.  It seemed only fitting.  That was years ago and the old shed is gone now, replaced by yet another glass and steel office building.  Sometimes I think that the old and useless things in the world might just be the most interesting.

And speaking of old and useless things, I’m back.  And I’m shocked at all the powerful and famous men that are falling to sexual scandals.  My wife asked me if, in all the years I had been in business and had many women working under me (that’s a bad phrase, isn’t it?), whether I had been involved in any harassment.  “Well, in all honesty,” I told her, “there was one little incident in High School.  You see, the high-school girls were playing softball and I just couldn’t take my eyes off the shortstop.” 

I thrilled to her figure and grace

And loved when I looked at her face

So I tried to make sport

With the girl who played short

But I couldn’t get past second base.

It all worked out fine in the end -- I married her.

Want a movie review?  We saw a movie this week called Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, MO.  Why is Missouri the locale for every accumulation of deranged drug dealers and perverts?  First there was Winter’s Bone with Jennifer Lawrence, then Ozark on cable, now this.  Anyway, the acting was very good, but the constant assault of the vilest cursing and extreme violence was disturbing.  Perhaps children everywhere call their mothers words I have never used in my life.  Perhaps only in Missouri.  For two hours I was assaulted with raw hatred, bigotry and violence and the most disgusting language in a film that somehow billed itself as a “black comedy”.  Comedy?  They even worked a dwarf into the plot so they could make fun of him!  The fact that the acting was good did not lessen my revulsion.  Carol kind of liked it.  I guess she has more of a stomach for rape, beatings, suicide, blood, burning flesh, racism and defenestration than I do.

Even so, when I came out of the movie, I said I liked it.  You see, here’s what often happens:  we go to a movie with another couple, we watch the movie, we come out.  “How did you like it?” someone asks, and I reply, “It was ok; I didn’t love it.”   Three days later I see one of my friends and he says, “I heard you didn’t like the movie.”  How does this news get around?  And why would someone bother to waste their time by saying, “Michael didn’t like it”?  Who cares what I like?  Do you remember the commercial – Let’s get Mikey.  He hates Everything. . . . He likes it!  Hey, Mikey!  Do you remember the product?  I’ll tell you later.

Carol finally told me, “Whatever the movie is, just say you liked it so everyone doesn’t think you’re some old curmudgeon who hates everything.”   So I shrugged and said I liked it.  When we got home I told Carol the truth.  Then three days later we met someone who said, “I heard you liked the movie”, and Carol replied, “No he didn’t, he hated it.”  Yes, I hated this Billboard movie, but don’t tell anybody.  It’s just between us.  I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m a curmudgeon.

As soon as I started to accumulate grandchildren, I began to sit on the floor and play with toys, watch cartoon movies, make up stories and sneak extra desserts without telling their mom.  I stay young because I have my playmates.  And to them?  Well, I make them laugh and buy them toys and tell them stories, so to them I’m a super-hero.  Look, it’s POPPYMAN – faster than a, well, not actually faster than much of anything.  More powerful than a, no, not really.  Able to leap – are you kidding?  But I’m a good hugger, and even though my body ages inexorably, my grandkids have kept my mind young and childish.  I want them to have all the good things in life.  And then I want to move in with them.

This morning I got a call from my 12-year-old, Tyler.  He was at school and had completed an assignment to write about the person who had influenced him the most.  He chose me, and the teacher asked him to call me and read me the essay.  So excuse me for a minute while I wipe the moisture from my cheeks.  There must be a leak in the roof.

I remember to this day a night when Tyler was six.  Carol was in California helping to usher in another grandson (Parker) and I was alone.  Tyler slept over that night and we had a wonderful time – movies, pancakes, games.  Tyler slept with a little blanket he called a Lovie back then.  When we climbed into bed, he asked me, “Poppy, where’s your Lovie?”  “In California,” I replied.

Welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  As I said before, I read a lot of history, and from my readings I have painstakingly compiled a list of historical figures who, though you didn’t know it, most certainly were Jewish.  You can tell just by the things they said.  For instance:

We knew King Arthur was Jewish when he said, “I want a round table.”

We knew the Wicked Witch of the West was Jewish when she said, “I’m not going out in the rain and get wet.”

We knew Joan of Arc was Jewish when she said, “I’m cold.  Can we turn the heat up?”

We knew Attila was Jewish when he said, “Yes, Hun.  Whatever you say, Hun.”

We knew Venus de Milo was Jewish when she said, “Damn, I broke a nail.”

We knew Helen of Troy was Jewish when she said, “Menelaus, take me to Paris.”

We knew Goldilocks was Jewish when she said, “This bed’s too hard.  I want a new room.”

We knew Little Red Riding Hood was Jewish when she said, “We’re going out with the Wolfs again tonight.”

Wow movies, sexual perverts, Little Red Riding Hood!  Have I left anyone out?  Well, I’ll get ‘em next week.  Maybe it’ll be you.  Don’t miss it.  And stay well.   

MIKEY                         Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

 Oh, and the Mikey commercial was for Life Cereal.

Blog #38

Good morning.  It’s Thursday.  I wonder who got fired this morning for sexual harassment.  Have you heard the new Christmas song?

   

🎼So long ye merry gentlemen – Al Franken and Matt Lauer

🎼John Conyers too and Charley Rose, we caught you in the shower.

🎼Now men in every walk of life had better watch themselves.

🎼Cause we caught Santa playing with two elves – Comfort and Joy

🎼Yes we caught Old Santa playing with two elves.

I think I’ve come up with a scale on which to grade these creeps.  When the number of accusers exceeds the number of letters in “PERVERT”, then the guy should no longer be classified as Homo Sapiens.  Ah, I can just imagine one of you saying, “How about Homo Erectus?”  Now that’s really a filthy, low-class, disgusting thing to say.  I’m so glad I came up with it before you did.

I am writing some of this in North Carolina where I am currently visiting my daughter Jennifer.  She is currently down at her chicken coop, which in Haiti would be a six-family.  One of her chickens has lately been exhibiting signs of depression.  The technical term, I think, is “Down in the Dumplings.”  So Jen is boning up with a textbook on chicken psychology.  The book is called Freud Chicken.  I have more chicken jokes than Harvey Weinstein has victims. 

I am at this moment sitting in Jen’s kitchen trying to avoid Lance.  Lance is the pillow-sized automatic vacuum creature that starts up whenever it wants to and roams around the house sucking up dirt and old men.  I told Siri to kill it, but she told me she was non-violent, which reminded me of one of my favorite movies (Forbidden Planet, 1956).  It describes a society whose technology became so advanced that it reached a level where every person could just wish for something and the Central Computer would make it happen.  Want a Mocha Frappuccino?  Boom, it’s there.  Swimming pool in your back yard?  Boom, you got it.  Whatever wish you had would instantly become reality.  But as soon as that new “ap” came on line, everyone subconsciously wished for the death of someone they hated or envied, and the entire populace was wiped out in a single night.  Is that where we are heading?  The technology is racing ahead too fast – certainly too fast for me.  Why can’t they just stop for a while and let us rest?

I have an iPod and an iPhone.  Carol has an iPhone and an iPad.  My grandkids all have iPhones or iTouches or iWatches.  iGiveUp!  I like my phone.  I like the photos and the calling and the texting. I learned how to send messages to my daughters, and once I had that mastered, somebody came up with emojis.  Did I need that?  Does it enhance my ability to communicate by adding a Happy Face or a heart to my texts?  ❤

But, I adapted and learned how to send emojis.  Then it was bitmoji, and the images or just a plain Happy Birthday had to include a cartoon likeness of my old face.  Clever, I guess, but childish.   👻

But, I learned that too and then how to add balloons or fireworks to the message.  What a juvenile waste of my time!  And just when I was comfortable – Bam! -  the next dreaded ios update came along and added a thousand tiny, sinister changes to all the things I had finally learned how to do.  I don’t want any more updates.  Stop it!  Leave me alone.

Apple, we all appreciate what you have done.  You have made our lives happier and easier with your iPhones.  But now that I’m happy, lose my number!  Just give me a smart phone.  It doesn’t have to be Einstein-smart; Betty White-smart is good enough.  I just want to text, take pictures and make calls.  That’s all, period!  And no more updates – ever.  Let me learn how to do the three things I want and then go away.  I’m not a teenager.  Just give me a simple phone for me and my generation.  And call it the iMold. 

Jen just went to Whole Foods and came back with something marked Dead Sea Mineral Soap.  I don’t mean to burst any of your soap bubbles, but it is as a result of those minerals that nothing can live in the Dead Sea.  Hence the name DEAD.  I want soap with minerals from the Really Alive and Thriving Sea.  I mean why should I want to rub myself with stuff that causes instantaneous death to any marine creature it touches?  But that’s just me. 

I have many friends who use the old line that goes, “I read the paper every morning and if my name is not in the obituaries, it’s a good day.”  I don’t bother reading the obituaries.  I figure if I’m dead, somebody’s going to tell me.  And besides, reading the obits depresses me.  It makes me realize how many people I didn’t know.  If I shook hands with a stranger every second, 24 hours a day, it would take me 236 years to shake hands with every person on Earth.  And I still wouldn’t find anybody else who has read Moby Dick five times.  I saw somewhere that of the 7.4 billion people on the Earth, about 380 million are older than me.  But this number can only go down, every hour, every day.

It’s scary how clearly I see

The truth about mortality:

Every night someone dies

So each day when I rise

There’s less people older than me.

That’s a sobering thought, isn’t it?  Oops, now it’s 379,999,999.  I’m depressed.  I need to rest.  And read the obituaries.

Hi there.  Welcome back, and don’t be depressed.  I know life sucks sometimes, but, as my Dad always said, “I count my blessings.  My cup runneth over.”  So let’s count our blessings and try to find a smile once in a while.  Let’s see, how can I make you smile today?

Do you have a Spellchecker?  Of course you do.  That’s the program that corrects the spelling and punctuation on your computer or iMold.  I have a Spellchecker on my Microsoft Word program.  That’s the program I use to write this thing.  I call it Speedy the Spellchecker, and Speedy tries to correct all my spelling and punctuation miscues.  I say “tries to” because I do not accept most of his corrections.  I want it the way I want it, and I normally do not bow to the commands of some impersonal collection of zeroes and ones known as a computer program.  For instance, in the paragraph above this one, I used the word runneth.  Speedy, having apparently never read the Bible, had a conniption and told me I couldn’t do it.  Well, Speedy, kisseth my asseth!  I’m going to use it anyway.  If Shakespeare had had a Spellchecker, he would have been forced to say Romeo, Romeo, where the hell are you?

There, I bet I made you smile. I’ll try to make you smile some more next week, so stayeth well and cometh back.

😀                                       Sendeth comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #37

Happy Thanksgiving Day to every one of you.  Thanksgiving is a unique and introspective day where we give voice to all the blessings we have.  We are truly thankful for our family and friends; I don’t need to tell you that.  And as for those that we have lost and sorely miss, they are blessings as well. “Don't cry because it's over, smile because it happened.”  That’s a quote, believe it or not, from Dr. Seuss, my favorite poet, and it should remind us to be grateful for the memories that mean so much to us.  We are also thankful for our own lives.  Yes, we may have health issues -- aches, pains or more serious challenges – but look at it this way, we’re doing the best we can, we’re still here and we are way better off than the turkey.  And, yes, there are people who are richer, younger, better-looking.  But we have love and warmth and a wonderful meal to share. 

Every year at the Thanksgiving meal, Carol makes us all recite the things we are thankful for, and I have tried to do that in the first paragraph.  I have read the paragraph a hundred times and I can only feel it inadequate to express my emotion each year on this holiday.  Forgive my inadequacy and accept my sincere best wishes for you all.  So let’s have fun and carve up that bird!

And speaking of carving, I just read that Germany has officially declared circumcision an act of “bodily harm” and has banned the procedure.  The article goes on to say that Germany’s 4,000,000 Muslims and 100,000 Jews are protesting the decision.  100,000 Jews?  That’s all Germany has?  I wonder why.  Maybe it’s because the Germans murdered all their Jews.  So now Germany joins San Francisco in banning circumcision.  I have no axe to grind here (wow, that’s an ugly metaphor under the circumstances) but it seems that 6,000 years of circumcision haven’t hurt the Jews much.

Ok, we did the thankful part and the carving part.  Was yours good?  Now it’s time for dessert.  My daughter Abby has come up with an interesting discovery – most of the sweet things in life start with C.  For instance: Cookies, Cake and Cupcakes; Candy, Chocolate and Caramel; Cocoa, Custard, Cream and Carob.  And, of course, my main sweet – Carol.  “It is an extra dividend,” Clark Gable said, “when you like the girl you’ve fallen in love with.”

Gee, he’s got quotes from Dr. Seuss and Clark Gable!  What’s the wordy bastard going to come up with next?  Settle down now, have another cookie.  What I’m going to talk about next is the most important part of the holiday – shopping!  I hate crowds and am too timid to shop on Black Friday, and I’m too technologically backward to shop on Cyber Monday. 

They say Cyber Monday is nifty

Those specials make buying so thrifty.

Yes shopping on line

Is all very fine

Unless you are older than fifty.

Forget Black Friday and Cyber Monday!  We need Senior Saturday where no-one under 65 is allowed in the store, and where we can amble leisurely through the aisles picking up Senior Saturday Specials on reading glasses, space heaters, melatonin, Ensure, low-salt potato chips, laxatives and CoQ-10.

It’s almost December now and getting colder.  It’s getting so cold, in fact, that today I saw a politician with his hands in his own pocket.  So pack up your golf shorts and canasta cards and head for Naples or Scottsdale.  Carol and I are staying here, but don’t worry – wherever you are, every Thursday, I will find you.  That is, until I run out of things to say or until you run out of patience with me.  Welcome back, my friends.  Hope you are well.  I almost said, “Don’t eat too much this weekend.”  But go ahead – eat!  It’s Thanksgiving!

And then go to a movie.  I like movies.  I like to be entertained.  What I don’t like is to be depressed.  Make me laugh, make me smile, frighten me, make me think, make me guess, make me cry – but don’t depress me.  I can’t watch any more children being loaded into Nazi freight trains.  If I want to be depressed, I’ll just stay home and watch the news.  And don’t charge me a car-payment for a bag of popcorn.  People, can you not go two hours without a popcorn and soda that cost $14?  I know you can. 

And now they have movie seats that recline.  Very comfortable!  Too comfortable, if you ask me.  I go to a movie to be entertained (I may have said that already), not to sleep.  I go to the Opera to sleep.  Just give me a comfy seat, a pillow and a bunch of Italians hollering their meatballs off, and I’ll be happy as a witch in a broom factory.

And now that you’re all stuffed and sleepy, sit down and relax while I go on a rant.  Well, why should I be the only silent one in the country?  Everybody else, it seems, is on one television show or another expressing an opinion.  I have no TV show; I have you.  Roy Moore is the sleaze-ball Republican running for U.S. Senator from Alabama.  At least eight women have accused him of sexual perversion, but he is still polling strong.  Don’t the voters in Alabama care about his sins?  Here are some other examples where voters didn’t care:

·             In 1967, Adam Clayton Powell, a Democratic Congressman was kicked out of the House for stealing money from his Congressional committee.  In the Special Election to fill his seat, he was re-elected.

·            Robert Byrd, Democrat from West Virginia, served in the House and Senate for 53 years, and even though everyone knew he had been a Grand Cyclops and recruiter for the Ku Klux Klan, he was consistently re-elected.

·            Bill Clinton was accused of a dozen instances of sexual abuse including rape.   He was never asked by any Democrat to resign.

·            Donald Trump was heard on tape bragging of sexual abuse to women.  He was elected President.

·            Ted Kennedy was presumed to have killed a young woman in an episode of drunken debauchery.  He was re-elected to the Senate every six years until he died.

I’m not even scratching the surface, but here’s the punch-line -- it apparently doesn’t matter what perverted, sheet-wearing, abusive scum we send to Washington, as long as they vote the way we want.  Voters don’t seem to care what besotted, racist, murdering, lying rubbish represent them in the White House or on Capitol Hill as long as they protect abortion rights, or protect gun rights, or stop immigration, or increase immigration or vote for the Supreme Court Justice they want.  Do you think I’m being a little rough on politicians?  Sorry. Oh, and by the way, Congress just banned nativity scenes in Washington DC because they couldn’t find three wise men. 

Stay well and have a wonderful Thanksgiving.  Come back next week.  I’ll be nicer.  Maybe I should take a pill.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com  

Blog #36

The St. Louis Cardinals have offered a pitcher $17.4 million for one year.  The average salary for a police officer in St. Louis is about $50,000.  We can either have one pitcher or 348 police officers.  What is wrong with us?  Where have we lost our way?  Sure, the Cardinals bring in lots of tourists who spend money at hotels and restaurants.  And who protects these tourists from being shot, robbed, raped or car-jacked in the parking lot?  Police officers!  And why are all the police officers outside protecting us?  Because they can’t afford to be inside where it costs $150 for the officer, spouse and two kids to go to the game.  That $150 is 0.3% of the officer’s salary.  That same percentage of the pitcher’s salary would be $52,200 -- more than the police officer makes in a whole year.  But look at all the tax dollars that these tourists bring in.  Great, and what does the city do with all the tax dollars?  They sure don’t pay their police officers.  They just investigate their police officers and reprimand their police officers and prosecute their police officers.  But we have a pitcher. 

We have become a society where singers, actors and athletes make exorbitant millions, but where teachers, police officers and firefighters make a pitifully low wage.  P. Diddy made $130 million last year.  I don’t even know what a P. Diddy is!  Shame on us!

And while I’m here fighting for our police officers, President Trump is over in Asia talking up trade and threatening North Korea.  He is making sure Kim Jong Nutso knows that the USA has the capabilities and the will to wipe his nasty face off the planet.  But the President wasn’t sharing any details.  Why should he?  The enemy doesn’t need to know what we’re up to.  You never advertise what your war plans are.  What does he expect us to do, send him an invitation?   

The War will begin right on time
Your camouflage outfit is fine
There’s shooting at one
Please Bring Your Own Gun
And Molotov Cocktails at nine.

Do you know you can have your fortune told over the phone?  That’s right, I just heard a radio ad for “California Psychics” – a call-up fortune telling service.   Of course I tried it, expecting a knowing voice to answer with, “Hello, Michael.  How’s your back feeling today?”  Now that would be impressive, but all I got was a request for my credit-card number.  Besides, who would be so foolish as to get his fortune told over the phone?  If I want my fortune, I go to a Chinese restaurant.  My favorite is the House of Wong where the Egg Foo Young is spectacular but the fortunes are usually not so great.  What can you expect from a place where most of the employees are Wong?

I’ve had bad experiences with call-up services before.  Especially when I called up the Suicide Hotline where they connected me to a woman in Mumbai who tried to sell me a cremation urn.  Recently, my friend Gene died at the age of 89.  He was cremated and the memorial service was lovely.  Cremation is all the rage now and I’m leaning toward it myself.  It just seems simple and thrifty and – warm.

I actually chatted with the young woman in Mumbai (that’s Bombay to all of you who still remember what kind of animal Flicka was).  I asked her what was the strangest call she ever got on the Suicide Hotline.  She said once she got a call from a desperate bulimic woman who wanted to know where she could buy Sugar-free Arsenic.

You’ve been to Trivia Nights.  We were at one recently that was put together by my son-in-law Robert for a charity.  Our table consisted of Carol and me and seven of our friends.  Among us we had over 600 years of accumulated wisdom and experience.  We came in dead last.  You would think that the older you are, the more you would know.  But apparently, people our age have not been paying attention for the past forty years, so when the question involved anything more recent than the theme from M*A*S*H or the plop-plop-fizz-fizz commercial, we just sat there like a basket of onion rings. 

My goodness, it’s almost Thanksgiving!  Every Holiday Season my California friends Amy and Eleanor send us a holiday card.  Last year’s was lovely, a nice card with pictures of them and their daughter.  The card had some bullet-words blaring out at you between the cute photos.  LOVE and JOY and PROTEST with their daughter’s raised and clenched fist.  Yup, that’s what little girls learn in California these days:  Reading, Writing and Revolution.

And speaking of little girls, my granddaughter’s name is Charley.  At her last birthday party, I noticed the place-settings: Charley, Sam, Madison, Dylan, Jordan and Morgan.  All girls.  Girls’ names have expanded to include many traditionally male names, but it doesn’t seem to work the other way.  You don’t see many boys named Shirley or Betsy or Alice. 

I remember when Charley told me some new neighbors had moved in.  I asked if they had any kids.  Yes, she said, Alice and David.  They must be Chinese, I said.  She was stunned!  I was right!  I’m sure you have noticed that young American children are all Kaneesha and Fulton and Morgan and Meghan and Bryce and Beckett and Odin and Ahmad?  If you find an Alice or a David, I guarantee you they’re Chinese.

I was with some grandchildren today.  They were watching a show called Baby Daddy.  I was horrified.  Here were kids from 7-12 years old watching an innocent-looking sit-com with young men and women and canned laughter.  Sounds like Friends, doesn’t it?  Nope!  In this episode, all the young women thought they were pregnant because their boyfriends had discovered holes in their condoms.   Can you imagine such a thing?  I don’t know how old you are, but in my day no such thing would have been permissible on TV.  Can you just imagine Wally Cleaver telling Ward that he got a girl pregnant?  The TV would have exploded in our living room and my parents would have washed my brain out with Lava Soap.  That’s right, Kiddies, tune in tomorrow when:

Father Knows Best has an affair with his secretary; 

Hoss Cartwright gets caught with a sheep;

Carol Brady raises money for the PTA by selling nude photos of Marcia;

Howdy Doody has a woody and  

We find out that “Kemosabe” really means “Steaming Stud Muffin.”

And don't miss the Saturday Night Special when Dr. Cliff Huxtable drugs and assaults 29 women.

And don’t tell your parents.

I guess you can tell I’m a little angry this week.  Angry about how little we pay our police officers, angry about the decline of manners and culture.  Angry that Superman can no longer help us because there’s no place for him to change clothes any more.  But I’m not angry with you.  Next week it will be Thanksgiving, so be sure to tune in, Kiddies -- and don’t tell your parents.  Stay well.

Kemosabe                                Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

 

Blog #35

“Travel makes one modest,” said Flaubert, “you see what a tiny place you occupy in the world.”  I like travel books and history books and foreign novels.  They take me to places I’ve never been and to times long ago.  I see exotic places and listen to exotic people and learn many, many things.  And yes, I learn humility as well.  How insignificant and puny we are!  We live in a place that is microscopic compared to the size of the Earth, in a time dwarfed by the thousands of years of human existence, in a society that is only the most recent of the uncountably different ways of life.  In all likelihood we will pass without leaving a mark.  Mae West said, “You only live once, but if you work it right, once is enough,” so I am satisfied with my place in this progression of life, for I have my humility and my family and my books – and you!

Yes, I have you, my loyal readers, so welcome back to Limerick Oyster where together each week we embark on a new adventure.  That’s what I need – an adventure!  I seem to be in one of those low and slow periods right now.  Feeling useless and unwanted – feeling like Motel 6 would not leave the light on for me.  Do you ever feel like that?  Nothing to do?  As bored as Venus de Milo’s manicurist?  Yes, we need an adventure, but alas, I don’t think it’s in the cards for me.  The South Seas?  Timbuktu?  Papua New Guinea?  Who am I kidding?  I’m never going to get there.  The biggest adventure I have all day is discovering where I put my keys.  What adventure book am I going to write?  Dulliver’s Travels?   So I live vicariously from my books.

Adventures for me? How hilarious!

They’re costly and bold and precarious

I’m too old and boring

To go off exploring

My travels must all be vicarious.

I lived vicariously this morning by talking to my daughter in North Carolina.  That’s Jennifer, the one with a flock of chickens in her yard.  Apparently, there have been coyote sightings in the neighborhood and Jen is worried about her brood, so she checked out CNN (the Chicken News Network) as well as The National Henquirer and The St. Louis Post This Hatch. All had at one time won the Pullet-zer Prize, but they had no helpful advice.  So, she called a local wildlife specialist and he suggested that, to scare off the coyotes, she should get a llama.  You see, those animal-specialist types live in their own dream world where crickets sing to puppets and white rabbits wear pocket watches and llamas grow on trees.  Where exactly do you go for a llama, Llamas R Us?  Nacho Llamas?  I remember years ago when a Great Horned Owl showed up on my porch, and I called one of these animal guys and asked what I should feed the creature.  He asked, “Do you have any dead mice?”  Sure, I said, I keep a box in the freezer in case Monty Hall drops by.

The last time I was down in chicken-land, I borrowed Jennifer’s van to go to McDonald’s.  It was cold that morning when Jen took the kids to school and she must have activated the seat warmer.  I didn’t even know the van had a seat warmer.  After two minutes, however, I knew.  After three minutes I was frantically searching for an on-off switch.  After four minutes I was standing up.  Have you ever tried to drive while standing up?  It ought to be a new Olympic event -- Brake Dancing.

I have an idea of how to get out of these doldrums – I’ll get into the television business.  I have some wonderful ideas for new shows.  The first one I want to produce is Dancing With The Creeps.  The contestants for Season One will be – Bill Cosby, OJ Simpson, Bo Bergdahl, John Hinckley Jr. and Harvey Weinstein.  They are all free men with nothing much else to do and the ratings would go through the roof.  Plus, it will be a great showcase to introduce the new sitcoms I have developed for each one.

Bo Bergdahl starring in Hogan’s Traitors

Bill Cosby starring in Raping Bad

John Hinkley starring in Have Gun, Will Assassinate

Harvey Weinstein starring in Still-More Girls

O.J. Simpson starring in How I Murdered Your Mother

Carol and I went to a dinner, a bi-monthly gathering of our high-school class.  There were about twenty people there, half men and half women.  Now that was a waste of words, wasn’t it?  Once I said “half men”, the rest was obvious.  Well, maybe not.  Besides male and female, Facebook now recognizes 58 other gender categories, including Pangender, Neutrois and Non-binary.  Anyway, Carol and I graduated in the same class, but when we are with people we have just met or haven’t seen in a long time, we always get the same response.  They inevitably ask my wife two questions: how she manages to stay so young-looking and why she married such an old man.  I don’t mind.  It makes me look somehow special that I attracted such a dreamy-looking wife. 

Carol hates when I say in the blog that she’s nice-looking or anything like that.  She’ll be mad.  But I had to use the word “dreamy” to get into this next bit, so get over it, Sour Puss!

Dreamy looking.  He’s Dreamy!  What a dream-boat!  In your dreams!  I’m dreaming of a White Christmas.  A dream is a wish your heart makes.  You just dreamed that up!

There are so many common “dream” references in our language, but they all seem to refer to good dreams.  Do you have good dreams?  When you dream, do you find the girl of your dreams or the man of your dreams or the Neutrois of your dreams?   Do you dream of elysian settings with unicorns and rainbows?  Do you dream of happy and stress-free times?  I don’t.  While you’re dreaming about winning the lottery or writing the year’s bestselling book, I’m dreaming of running around a parking lot for two hours trying to find my car – naked.

A few weeks ago was Columbus Day.  I wonder if Chris knew it was Columbus Day when he discovered America.  Actually, he didn’t even know it was America.  He thought it was India.  (That’s why all the natives were called Indians.)  And besides, his name wasn’t Christopher Columbus; it was Cristobal Colόn.  But how would it sound if we celebrated Colon Day?  Instead of Italian parades and meat balls, there’d be sigmoidoscopes and Miralax.  I wonder if Columbus knew there would be statues of him all over the continent and that after 525 years everyone would want to tear them down.

And by the way, why are there Interstate Highways in Hawaii?  Please stay well, change your clocks and dream about coming back next week for another fun adventure.  I’ll leave the light on for you.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com 

Blog #34

I have come up with an interesting collection of observations.  I’m sure it won’t rival The Theory of Evolution, but interesting nonetheless.  I have discovered a crucial and fundamental dichotomy – inside/outside.  For instance, if a creature, perhaps a spider, is outside, it is one of Nature’s creations, to be respected and allowed to exist with dignity and honor.  If it’s inside, it’s a pest and needs to be squashed.  And snow – if it’s outside, it is sparkling and thrilling and beautiful.  If it’s inside, you need a new roof.  And what about the human body?  If it’s inside it’s mucus; if it’s outside it’s snot.  If it’s inside it’s urine; if it’s outside it’s piss.  If it’s inside it’s part of the natural human processes; if it’s outside it’s Yuck, get it off me!

And human society?  Well, if you’re inside my group, my clan, my religion, then you’re a friend, a compatriot, someone I will share with and defend and protect.  If you’re outside, you are alien, strange, different.  Distrust and misunderstanding of outsiders are built into our Human Nature, and we, as individuals and as a society, try hard to eliminate and overcome them.  I certainly try – unless it’s a spider in my house.  God, I know it’s one of Your creatures, but spiders, God?  Seriously?  If You wanted me to be kind to it, why did You make me so afraid of it?

Well Apple has done it again.  A new device for kids comes out next week. It can read any book ever written in an accent that matches the character.  It can create and recite stories based on any subject you provide.  It will play card games with you and let you win.  It has treats and gum hidden in a side pocket. You can smack it, bite it, climb on it or spit at it and it will just sit there and take it.  And it will, at an advanced age, even get on the trampoline and make a fool of itself.  It’s called the iGrandpa.  Every child needs one.

I believe Grandpas are better with kids than Grandmas.  I know that’s a bold and controversial statement.  Please don’t have Ashley Judd call me names I cannot print.  It’s true, and you know why?  It’s because little girls grow up to be sensible and mature women.  (You like that, Ashley?)  But boys never grow up at all.  We old men still like trains and action figures and playing ball as much as we did when we were six.  Growing old is mandatory, but growing up is optional. 

And you know why the little rug-rats like to be with us Grandpas?  Because we let them eat things and do things and say things that their Mommy and Grandma won’t.  It’s so much fun! 

One of the things that we Grandpas do well is reading books to the kids.  I decided to read them Alice in Wonderland, so I picked it up at the library.  When I got home I noticed it was not the Alice I grew up with, it was a new, improved, politically-correct version called Alice in California.  The plot was similar, but the characters had all been given new names.  There were:

§  Tweedle Dee and Tweedle 40^th Percentile

§  The White Privilege Rabbit

§  The Aggressive Capitalist Hatter

§  The Walrus and The Union Middle-Class Craftsman

§  The Queen of Color

Next week I’m going to read Snow White and the Seven Vertically Challenged Asexual White Dudes.

And if the boys like trains and G. I. Joes, the girls still like dolls.  All right, all you feminists out there -- shoot me, drop me into a vat of organic beet juice, make me listen to old Joan Baez 8-tracks.  I can’t help it if my granddaughters like dolls; and Alyssa wanted some American Girl accessories for her birthday.  But when we tried to do the shopping, we found out that her doll was not purchased at American Girl.  It is, as they say, a knock-off.  I choose to refer to it as an Undocumented Doll.  I wonder if you can take your Undocumented Doll to American Girl for lunch.  Well, they can’t refuse to serve the doll, can they?  That’s discrimination!  They can’t refuse service on the basis of age, race, gender, or factory of origin, can they?  The Doll has rights too.  I want a lawyer, a member of the ABA, the American Barbie Association.  I want the NAACP, the National Association for the Advancement of Cabbage Patch.  How about the NRA -- Natives for Raggedy Ann.  We need a sit-in, a demonstration, a boycott.  Or in this case, a girlcott – an American Girlcott.  

And now American Girl has a new line of dolls.  If you press the little button under the arm, a recording of the Star-Spangled Banner plays and the doll automatically takes a knee.  It’s called the Un-American Girl Doll.

The dolls don’t engage in much patter

Don’t giggle, blow kisses or chatter,

But for Francis Scott Key

All the dolls take a knee

With a sign that says Plastic Lives Matter.

Don’t forget Veterans Day in a couple of weeks

Let’s talk about more signs other than Plastic Lives Matter.  My favorite sign is on a door at the back of a retail store down the street.  It says THIS IS NOT A DOOR.  Well, it is a door.  It may not be an entrance or an exit, but it is most assuredly a door.  My next favorite is a sign on the highway that goes by our Airport.  It reads “Low Flying Aircraft Ahead”.  Ok, I thought, thanks for the heads-up, but what exactly should I do with that warning?  Should I duck?  I guess that would be a heads-down, not a heads-up.  Should I roll down the window and wave?  Put the top down and try to grab a strut?  None of these sounded appropriate, so I just drove on.  I really am not worried because I feel certain that on the dashboard of the airplane is a corresponding sign that says “Do not hit cars on the highway.”  That’s comforting.

Hi, there.  Have I welcomed you back yet and expressed my hopes that you are well?  No?  Well, consider it done.  Did you have a scary Halloween?  I visited Dr. Skin for my light treatment and dressed up in my boxer-shorts with a brown-paper bag over my head.  If that isn’t scary, what is?  One more thing and I’ll let you go. 

Amazon has announced a new service.  They will now have a lockbox to your house and drop your packages off inside so they don’t lie on the porch outside attracting thieves, nosy neighbors and urinating dogs.  This is a fantastic boon for Seniors, of course.  I have signed up already.  Now when I lose my keys, all I have to do is buy something on Amazon and wait for the nice young man to come and let me in.

Come back next week please.  You’ll miss me if you don’t, and I will miss you too.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com