Blog #93

I remember the good old days when online was where you hung your laundry.  When spam was a canned meat spread, cookies were sweet and tweet was the sound a little bird made.  When yahoo was a low and ignorant human creature from Gulliver’s travels, face-book was what the police made you look through to identify a criminal, a virus gave you a cold and spyware was Maxwell Smart’s shoe-phone.  Oh well, those days are gone, and now I’m sitting at my desk surrounded by enough wires to reach to Sweden and so many different passwords I have to keep a printed list of them on my desk, which sort of negates their usefulness. 

I don’t know a ROM from a RAM

Don’t know about Cookies or Spam

Those bytes and those bits

They give me the fits

It shows you how clueless I am.

So you can imagine with how much trepidation I resolved to buy Carol a Sirius Radio subscription for Hanukkah.  I was as nervous as a fly at a tarantula convention, knowing that I had to deal online with some techie.  But what choice did I have?  I found a phone number for Sirius and prepared to call them for help, a feat of communication only slightly easier than contacting L. Ron Hubbard.  I had resolved to do it myself rather than letting Carol do it.  She’s better at computer stuff than I am, but I have more patience.  A pack of piranhas has more patience than my wife.  An ice-cream cone on a hot day has more patience than my wife. 

Surprisingly, however, it took only thirty seconds to contact a helpful representative named Svetla who was born in Serbia, lived in Belize and sounded like Bela Lugosi on Librium.  We exchanged some information, pressed some buttons, chose some passwords and twenty minutes later had accomplished nothing except to find out that the weather in Belize was beautiful.  “I need my crisis team,” she said.  “I’ll put you in the queue.”  When the queue ended thirty minutes later, I was in Manila, where a very nice young man named Ron (or woman named Red, it was hard to tell) proceeded to hook me up in about one minute.  I was so thrilled that I forgot to ask how the weather was in the Philippines.

But when I went to the car to check it out, it didn’t work. Vana, what do we have as a Booby Prize for this pathetic loser?  Trying to guide me through the intricacies of technology is like playing Monopoly with a Communist.  It’s like teaching a pig to sing.  Robert A. Heinlein said “Never attempt to teach a pig to sing; it wastes your time and annoys the pig.”  But I called the Philippines back and we somehow worked it out. I was so proud!

Hi there and welcome back.   Christmas is around the corner.  I am always glad when Christmas has arrived because it marks the end of Christmas music on the radio.  I have now listened to Johnny Mathis sing We Need a Little Christmas 427 times, followed closely by Feliz Navidad (Jose Feliciano) and Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer (Burl Ives). 

What is it about music that soothes us or excites us or makes us dance?  From an evolutionary perspective, it probably comes from birds and monkeys using sounds to attract mates.  So even the most ancient members of our species probably “sang”.  Of course, back then before the invention of the wheel, it wasn’t Rock n’ Roll, it was Rock n ’Rock.  I wonder who their big singing stars were.  Probably Sheryl Cro-Magnon, Rolling Stonehenge, The Monkeys, and Dinah Sore (see the USA in your Pterodactyl).

Have you finished your Christmas shopping?  I just bought my last three presents and mailed them off.  I bought Bernie Sanders a sweat shirt that says AMERICA LOVES PRESIDENTIAL FUNERALS.  ELECT AN OLD PERSON.  I got Donald Trump a throw pillow embroidered with MAKE AMERICA HATE AGAIN.  And I got Steph Curry two posters, one of the Moon and one of the White House, two places he has never been.

Is anybody still there?  Stick with me; you knew I was weird.  If lack of political correctness is a sin, send me right down to Hell.  And send a bunch of Prozac with me.  Satan and I can pop pills and talk about what might have been.  Satan once said, “Better to rule in Hell than serve in Heaven.”  He may have been right.  I’m not really sure I want to go to Heaven.  None of my friends are there.  Am I rambling?  Get over it.

I’m not sure, actually, that I could even find my way to Heaven.  It seems that everywhere I go I take the wrong exit and get lost.  I don’t know what’s wrong with me.  All I know is if I had been with Columbus, we couldn’t have discovered the Pinta, let alone America.  If I had been with Neil Armstrong, we would have landed in Omaha. If I had been with Billy Graham, he never would have found Jesus.  I’m convinced one of my ancestors was with Moses and talked him into turning left so we wound up with all the sand and none of the oil.

How can I not get from Point A to Point B without screwing up?  I am pretty good at reading maps.  I can analyze the equations that define the trajectory.  I can give accurate directions.  But if I actually have to do it, I have less chance than of Stevie Wonder sinking a twelve-foot putt.  That just means I have a lot of knowledge and no wisdom.  Let me give you an example: Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit. Wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.

A 92-year-old lady wanted to commit suicide.  She called her doctor and asked, “Doc, where exactly is my heart?”  It’s two inches below your left breast, he replied.  So she shot herself in the kneecap.

Is anybody still there?  Well you don’t have to put up with this much longer.  I have insulted my wife, Bernie Sanders, President Trump, Steph Curry, blind people and old women.  It’s hard work and it has made me tired.  I think I’ll go to bed, if I can find my way there without getting lost.  I hope you don’t get lost on your way back to Limerick Oyster next week.  Just follow all the giggling old people.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and Feliz Navidad!

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com