Blog #151

Last weekend, Carol and I went to an exhibit at the Missouri History Museum.  The exhibit included all the Pulitzer Prize winning photographs since 1942 with an explanation of each.  It was well done, but crushingly depressing.  Almost all the photos were about war, disaster, genocide, famine – the perpetual cruelty and unending human inhumanity that is the heart-rending sorrow of our species.  It was physically sickening, as if the whole world were mankind’s abattoir*.  One of the photos was of an emaciated black child hunched upon the ground starving to death in Sudan.  Ten feet behind the boy stood a large vulture, patiently waiting for the world to let this child die.  Four months after taking the picture, the photographer committed suicide, haunted by his choice of taking the picture rather than immediately running to the child’s aid.  I had to sit down and fight the dizzying depression.  Count your blessings.

On page 29 of the Union Prayer Book (that’s a Jewish thing), we are assured that, “There will come a time when morning will bring no word of war or famine or anguish.”  Really?  Well, God in all His glory notwithstanding, I’m not convinced.  Where are the Good Old Days (and I don’t mean the 1950s) when God would smite the bad guys, like the Hittites?  There doesn’t seem to be a lot of smiting and smoting of the bad guys these days.  I guess we live in the No Smoting Section.

Thank you for listening to all that; I needed to get it out.  And I apologize to all you Hittites out there.  But now I need to cheer you up, although it’s difficult at this time of year.  According to an article by a British psychologist, the last week in January is the most depressing week of the year.  The psychologist based this scientific folderol on – well, who cares; it depresses me.  So far, he’s been right. Even the local radio station depresses me.

You’re list’ning to KEZK

The weather is rainy and gray

The traffic is stressed

I’m sure you’re depressed

Good morning and have a nice day.

To celebrate all this depression, we should all gather at a local restaurant for Unhappy Hour, where we can bitch about our health and the price of medications and our daughter-in-law’s parents and why it is that our neighbor is paying $5 less for cable than we are.  That, and half off on the Chicken Parmesan, will make us as happy as we’re going to get.

A local restaurant has a new idea.  It’s called the Limping-Bird Special for all those old men with canes and walkers.  If you get to the restaurant by 5:30 and are able to ambulate to your table by 5:45, you get half off on Hot Wokker Shrimp served on Limp Spinach.  I’m bad, I know.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are well and beginning to cheer up.  Ella Wheeler Wilcox wrote a little poem about that:

It is easy enough to be pleasant
When life flows by like a song;
  But the man worth while
  Is one who will smile
When everything goes dead wrong.

And speaking of depressing thoughts, do you remember the days when we would never go to a restaurant that had empty tables?  We’d rather wait than eat at an unpopular place.  Now, we get to a restaurant at 6:00, sit at one of the many open tables, order right away and are home by 7:30.  Do you remember when we would see a 7:00 movie and then eat dinner?  Now we see a 4:00 movie, eat dinner and are home by 7:30.  Are we getting older?  We are.  So what should we do?  In the show, The Kominsky Method, Alan Arkin says, “Maybe life has no meaning and the best you can hope for is being nice.”  So let’s be nice.  You look wonderful; I’m so glad to be with you again; and I love Joy Behar.  Is that enough of being nice?  Can I get back to my usual self now?

Weekly Word:  The asterisk after the word abattoir in the first paragraph indicates my attempt to teach you or remind you of a word you may or may not have known.  I am a teacher at heart.  An abattoir is a slaughterhouse.  Some of you, I know, need that kind of help.  I have a friend who thinks euthanasia is a group of Chinese students and another who thinks a veterinarian is a retired German soldier.

It’s good to know new stuff, although nobody ever tells me anything.  My daughter never told me about the parties she had at the house when we were out of town.  Don’t tell my Dad.  My business partner never told me about all the tickets traffic he fixed for my daughters.  Don’t tell Fox.  My wife never tells me anything.  Sit down and shut up.  In fact, I am perpetually on a Doesn’t Need To Know Basis.  But I know a lot of important stuff.  I know that Timbuktu is in Mali and that an abattoir is a slaughterhouse.  So there!

If you are reading this on Thursday, January 30 (and why on Earth would you not be?), you will find me packing.  Tomorrow, very early, we begin our Grand Southern Tour during which we will visit all the people we know who will let us stay in their homes for free.  I will be driving with my lovely wife riding shotgun.  She’ll be doing crossword puzzles, talking to her friends, reading a book, listening to Dr. Laura and telling me how to drive all at the same time.  And she won’t even be working hard.  Her Royal Speediness can do more things at once than a One-Man Band, and she doesn’t even have cymbals strapped to her knees.  I will keep you posted as to our location.

But now I have to leave.  I have to look up to see if Timbuktu is really in Mali.  Stay well, count your blessings again and come see me next week.  I’ll be in Florida, but I won’t forget you.

Michael                                             Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com