Blog #21

There is air pollution and carbon pollution and radon and ozone and all manner of sinister vapors that endanger our lives.  But I am at this moment suffering from an intense and troubling form of mental pollution that is challenging my sanity.  When my wife – God bless her; I love her to pieces – is home, every square foot of our humble abode is filled with non-stop little social talking programs.  They come from both televisions, sometimes two different programs at once.  Awards extravaganzas, game shows, talk shows 24 hours a day.  What does Kathie Lee think about Pippa’s wedding?  What does Hoda think about Beyoncé’s dress?  Who’s tweeting?  What’s viral?  Do I really care what Kanye names his children?  Or how Tom Brady is going to steal the next Super Bowl?  Is Steve Harvey on 24 hours a day?  And what is a Pippa anyway?  I just can’t take it anymore.

The country has unending passion

For royalty, scandal and fashion

For George and Amal

And a deflated ball

And every weird kook named Kardashian.

And these award shows!  I mean, who are these people?  Who is Jedediah Bila – is that a person or part of the Old Testament?  And I hate that ubiquitous red-carpet question: Who are you wearing? I’m too old to know who these people are.  They ought to have an award show for old people - The Golden Years Awards, hosted by Dick Clark.  He must still be alive somewhere.  They could give awards for the Oldest Tie or the Most Organized Pill Carrier or the Smart Phone with the Least Aps or the Longest Number of Days Without Losing Your Reading Glasses.  And “who” would all these famous oldies be wearing?  How about:

Oscar de la Yenta

Jimmy Choo Slowly

Donna Medi-karan                          

Diuretic Von Furstenberg

And then there’s Joy Behar.  I know you all love her, but every time I see her I tell my wife I’m moving to Mudville.  Why Mudville, she asks.  Because, I reply,  There is no Joy in Mudville.  And speaking of award shows, why is it that all the guy interviewers on the Red Carpet are 5’3” and all the girl interviewers are 6’3”?  Once I saw Ryan Seacrest interviewing Charlize; it looked like a squirrel trying to climb a giraffe.

I just found a great name for an architect – Joaquin Closet.  And speaking of closets, I don’t have any.  First of all, the woman takes the biggest closet.  My wife’s closet is so big it has a food court.  Then she takes the second biggest closet.  Then (you know I’m right) she takes the third biggest closet.  I have a drawer by the front door and a manila envelope under the couch.  Actually, I don’t care.  The less clothes I have, the less choices I have to make in the morning and the less chance of hearing, “If you’re going out dressed like that, I’m not going with you.”

 

Because who really looks at a man more than any other person?  That’s right, his wife.  But who looks at his wife more than any other person?  Well -- she does of course.  The bathroom wall is 100% mirror.  There are makeup mirrors and hand-held mirrors, magnifying suction mirrors and full-length mirrors.  Next to the front door is a “decorative” mirror.  Decorative my behind! It’s so she can get one last look before she goes out. Then to the car which is loaded with mirrors.  The only reason the rear-view mirror swivels is so she can look at herself while she’s driving.  The only time she ever looks in a man’s eyes is when he is wearing mirrored sunglasses.  With assorted sun-glazed store windows, polished countertops and backs of spoons, she is never too far from a mirror.  Too far from a mirror?  Horrors!

Carol and I don’t always see eye to eye.  That’s because I am 5’10” and she is her little 5’3”.  Ok, I lied -- I may no longer be 5’10”.  I’m getting shorter it seems.  I don’t feel it; I don’t see it, but the nurse measures me at an inch or two shorter than I thought I was.  I always thought my grandchildren were getting taller, but now I realize it was me getting shorter.  It’s inevitable, I suppose, when you spend a whole bunch of decades standing vertically and compressing your spine.  My wife has not shrunk a centimeter, so I reluctantly look forward to a time when we do, actually, see eye to eye.  I can just picture the future as I continue my vertical vanishing act and go from Munchkin-sized to Hobbit-sized until, eventually, I will qualify as a Happy Meal toy.  Or an interviewer on the Red Carpet.  Charlize, would you like fries with that?

I had to do some serious research for that last bit, trying to determine which was smaller, a Hobbit or a Munchkin.  In the Prologue to Lord of the Rings, Tolkien says the average Hobbit is 3’6”, whereas L. Frank Baum describes Munchkins as about the same height as Dorothy.  That makes Munchkins bigger.  Am I not weird?

At the Zoo I had a couple from Denmark.  “Ah,” I said, “I have been to Copenhagen and I thought it was a truly beautiful city.”  They looked at me as if I were as crazy as Anthony Scaramucci, then replied, “We live there”.  Of course, as a tourist, we saw only the old, charming port area with the multi-colored houses, the classic old boats and the wonderful outdoor restaurants.  But it’s a big city and they probably live in a row house by the train station and the 7-11.  Perspective can be everything.  A tourist to St. Louis sees the Arch, the Old Post Office and the Zoo and they come away thinking the town is magical.

Two weeks ago at the Zoo it was 100^o.  I worked for a couple of hours, then headed for the pool which was largely occupied by a small group of exercising women bobbing up and down like a six-pack of half-empty Michelob bottles in a heavy surf.  And the music coming from their boom box?  Donna Summer’s Greatest Hits of course.  The water was so pleasant that I didn’t mind.  And I like Donna.  She works hard for the money.

“Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it.  You may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."

That is a quote from the movie Inherit the Wind.  I am reminded of it often by the ever-growing pace of technological growth and the plethora of new gadgets and ways to download and upload and monopolize your time.  Sometimes it’s nice just to think about a quiet place where the birds are beautiful and the crickets hum and the clouds don’t smell of gasoline.  And you can grow older – and shorter – in peace.

Join me again next week and stay well.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com