Blog #163

Let’s see.  We’ve all cleaned every square inch of our homes six times.  We’ve watched 892 movies on Netflix.  We’ve Zoomed every person we know or thought we knew.  We’ve sanitized our mail, our fingernails, our food, our doorknobs, our pets.   And you know what else we’re all doing?  Drinking.  The country is having more Internet Happy Hours than there are hours and we’re turning into a society of oenophiles*.

Weekly Word:  an oenophile is a drunk with a dictionary.  I, of course, wouldn’t know.  The last time I had a Happy Hour was in 2007.  Then, of course, it was a Happy Week.  And now that we’re all clean, sanitary and happy, we only have one problem – looking in the mirror:

I don’t like sequesters a bit

My looks are just going to shit

My body is round

‘Cause I’ve gained twenty pounds

And my hair’s looking like Cousin Itt.

Do you remember when your mother warned you not to go swimming after eating.  She should have warned you not to look in the mirror after eating.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re all feeling well, staying safe and looking as marrrrvelous as always.  Listen, I know I use some strange references from time to time, like Cousin Itt.  Most of my readers remember Cousin Itt, but some of you younger folks may not, and by “younger” I mean anyone who didn’t vote for Garfield.  Well, I’m not changing.  I write what I write, so keep your Google handy.

Carol and I had our first argument of the sequester.  She said it was Tuesday and I insisted it was Monday.  She was right, of course.  I haven’t been right since I told her O.J. was guilty.  What should we talk about?  I’m tired of talking about Viruses, Quarantines and Sequesters, so let’s catch up on other stuff I haven’t had time to tell you. 

You know that I like to share bizarre menu items with you.  Here’s one from when we ate at a restaurant in Florida, before going to a restaurant became as popular as dating Bill Cosby.  It was not a large restaurant, about the size to hold all the people who voted for Kamala Harris, but it was one of those fancy-schmancy places, the kind that conceals the reality of its menu items under a confusing shroud of ridiculous words.  Here’s one of the entrées:

Pacific Ocean Maldivian yellow fin tuna

      Hand-glazed with a Japanese tamari

and manuka honey reduction,

 hand in hand with a delightful

 English courgette flower beignet.

I promise you, I did not make that up.  Twenty-six words, not all of which I understood.  And that was just one entrée.  One of my Rules of Life is that the menu item with the least amount of words is usually the best.  I had the chicken.

My oldest daughter has pet chickens and she is an advocate for Chicken Rights – The Declaration of Hen-dependence and all that.  But she needn’t worry; this restaurant used only free-range chickens.  That means these high-class birds enjoyed air-conditioning, soft beds and smart TVs with NetChicks and the Chickelodeon Network.  Then they chopped their heads off and cooked them in marsala sauce.  Delicious.

Back to the Quarantine.  I know the country is still closed, but I guarantee it would open up in a second if, somehow, we stopped getting mail.  People are very protective of their mail even though almost nothing of importance arrives in your mailbox any more.  Checks go directly into your account.  Bills come by email.  Nobody writes you a letter.  Even my humble blog comes to you through the Internet universe.  Still, mail is very important to us.  If, one day, we stopped getting our coupons for 20% off on hearing aids and our invitations to tour the “elderly facility”, we would take to the streets.  See you there.

Message from Shakespeare:  Friends, Romans, countrymen, lend me your ears (Julius Caesar).  And if you have an extra leg, I could use that too.

This week, we celebrated the 10^th birthday of my grandson, Austin.  We celebrated by sending him a present by Amazon and pulling into his driveway to wave at him and hold up Happy Birthday signs.  We shared as much love as we could from six feet away.  It was my job to buy the present. You should always send a man to buy stuff for a little boy’s birthday, because a man is just a little boy who shaves.  As Ogden Nash said, “You are only young once, but you can stay immature indefinitely,” and I am living proof.  I got him a cool Lego set, and he was so happy, you’d thought I’d got him the Taj Mahal with a Maserati in the driveway.  Wait, does the Taj Mahal have a driveway?  Ok, lose the Maserati and substitute an elephant in the backyard. 

Which makes me think of Oscar Brown, Jr., a singer-songwriter who appeared on the Jack Paar Tonight Show back in the late 1950s.  He sang a song called Dat Dere about a little boy and his Dad.  And Daddy can I have dat big elephant over dere?  Oscar Brown was married to Jean Pace, a singer, who also appeared on the Tonight Show, and when she did, she wore a dress designed and custom-made by my brother.  True.  Sorry about the inconsequential and uninteresting rambling, but you shouldn’t complain.  You have nothing else to do anyway.  Have another drink.

With Austin’s 10^th birthday, my eight grandchildren have now reached the cumulative age of 100.  A century of grandchildren!  I am blessed.

Carol and I just had our second fight of the Sequester.  She wouldn’t let me go out.  She said my mask didn’t match my belt.  How was I supposed to know that?  I’d better go now.  I have to see if I have paisley hospital gloves.  But don’t worry, I’ll be back in only a week, even though it will seem like six months.  Until then, stay well, social distance and count your blessings.  Or, as Oscar Wilde said, “If you don’t get everything you want, think of the things you don’t get that you don’t want.”  See you soon.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com