Blog #168

Last Sunday we ate dinner at my daughter’s house.  We ate in the garage, Carol and I on one side and Abby and her family socially distant on the other.  Abby made a wonderful dinner and it’s always great to see the grandkids, but it wasn’t the same.  Not like the Good Old Days.  And by the Good Old Days, I don’t mean the days when Bill Clinton was not having sex with that woman. 

Sunday has always been the day for family gatherings.  Even the Cavemen (sorry, I should have said Cave-People) would relax from their quotidian* routine to enjoy a Sunday evening get-together.  The men would barbecue a Woolly Mammoth while the kids played Hunt and Gather in the clearing nearby.  The women would fetch water and discuss the latest fashion in leg hair.  It was a simple and primitive time.  And how, you might ask did they even know it was Sunday?  That’s easy – the Chick-fil-A was closed.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope the sunrise has found you where the sunset left you last and you are feeling spiffy and bright and anxious to get back to all the things you’ve missed over the last two months.  Everybody’s trying to reopen their businesses, parks and sporting events, and in response, Major League Baseball has announced its intention to have a partial baseball season this year.  And it has released new rules.  One of these rules eliminates the oldest, most highly revered and universal tradition of the sport – spitting.  It’s the truth!  No more spitting!  No more can grown men, millionaires all, walk around the field vomiting seeds, tobacco and spittle from their mouths like month-old babies.  Finally, a new baseball rule that I like.

Everything is changing.  If it doesn’t change, it dies, right?  Retailers are doing everything imaginable to attract customers back into their stores.  Costco has actually test-marketed the sale of caskets.  Why not?  They sell everything else.

At Costco we give so much more

From cradle to grave we’re your store

From diapers to casket

And if you should ask it,

We’ll bury you in Aisle 4.

But that’s not for everybody, or should I say every body.  I have always been of the opinion that golfers should be cremated and buried on the golf course.  A few ashes don’t take up much room, and we could always inlay a small commemorative plaque at the spot.  Your humble blogger has volunteered to write the plaques.  Here are two examples:

Underneath is Harry Black

Perished from a heart attack

Shame his ticker was a bad one

We had never thought he had one.

All the way from tee to cup

Rose McGee would not shut up

Now she lies beneath our toes

It’s so peaceful without Rose.

Costco also announced a sale on special orange jump-suits monogrammed on the back “If Lori can wear one, so can I”.  Yes, Lori Loughlin is about to be forcibly sequestered for two months after participating in an especially egregious display of the arrogance of wealth for paying a $500,000 bribe to get her two daughters into UCLA.  Now she and Hubby will pay fines of another $400,000 and their daughters are still not in college.  But don’t worry about poor Lori.  She’s worth $90 million and has already pulled some strings to get herself on the San Quentin Rowing Team.

I admit, I’m getting a little antsy at home.   My major excitement the other day was having a can of sardines for lunch.  At least it was easy to open.  Sardines come in those oval cans and you used to have to open them with a can-opener.  Well, half the time the opener would just make a partial sliver before giving up and leaving me trying to wedge open the can with a knife while dripping olive oil onto my hands, the sink, my shoes and the cat.  But now, of course, all cans, including the ones where the fish are packed in like – well, like sardines – come with a pull-top, and everyone is happy.  Except the sardines.  By the way, does anybody still have a can-opener?  What do you use it for?

I even got so bored this week that I watched some old movie on Turner Classic Movies.  It was called Japanese Story with Toni Collette, and I don’t remember much about it except that it was really slow.  At least the first three weeks of it.  I’ve seen stalactites grow faster.  It was glacial.  It was viscous.  Get the picture?  Well don’t get this picture.  It was slow.

I did go grocery shopping – me and my gloves and my mask and my list.  The young woman checking me out was very talkative.  She told me she was working there to make enough money to go to college.  Oh, I said, what did you get on your SATs?  “Soy Sauce”, she replied.  Well, maybe she can go to college in China.  There are 11,000 Americans attending Chinese colleges.  In contrast, there are 360,000 Chinese students attending American colleges.  We don’t need to worry about them stealing our secrets.  We’re teaching them all our secrets.

Weekly Word:  Quotidian means ordinary, something that occurs every day.  Like shaving or putting on makeup used to be.

Message from Shakespeare:  Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some have greatness thrust upon them (Twelfth Night).  You know what I think are great? Presents.  Every week or so, some place called Amazon sends me a present.  My Pops unwraps it, clears out whatever junk is inside, and then it’s all mine.  A beautiful empty box to play with!

This blog has come to an end and you can go back to your exciting life of not cutting your hair, not putting on makeup and not getting out of your pajamas until after lunch.  It was at least a proper mathematical blog, as the Carpenter aboard the Pequod mused.  It started at the beginning, reached the middle midway through and came to an end at the conclusion.  We’ll try again next week.  Be there!  That’s an order!  Until then, be safe, stay well and count your blessings.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #167

It was a nice day this morning, a perfect day to escape home confinement and take a walk.  I dressed and walked into the front of the house where my sweet and adoring wife greeted me with these warm and loving words: “Those shorts are too short,” was all she said.  Well, I admit they were old.  When I bought them, Pluto was still a planet.  I dutifully took them off and placed them in the pile to give away so that next year, some poor fellow in an impoverished village in Southern Sudan can wake up, put on the same shorts and hear his delightful wife say, “Where did you get those skimpy-ass shorts?” 

In addition to my lovely wife and Shakespeare, I share my home with Alexa.  We all have Alexa.  Shakespeare thinks she’s a can of tuna.  I’m sure the little tin can could have been very helpful to me had not Carol gotten a hold of this cylindrical sister and trained her how to deal with me.  Alexa now either pretends not to hear me or just ignores me completely as not capable of having a worthwhile thought.  She makes me feel right at home.

Day 59 of our sequester.  We’re doing fine.  I have my books to read and my cat to play with and my blog to write to you.  I like sitting here and writing to you.  For while I sit with Thee, I seem in Heaven (Paradise Lost).  Besides, I wouldn’t want you to be bored on Thursday mornings.  Carol is never bored. She and her girlfriends are keeping their spirits high by Zooming and talking. Those girls can certainly talk, all of them at the same time, and I don’t see them slowing down at all.  I can just imagine them, long after I’m gone, long after their physical functions have deteriorated, sitting in the Home, still gabbing up a storm.

They can’t hold their bladders or walk

They’re frail and their hair’s turned to chalk

On top of all that

They’re blind as a bat

But Man, those old girls can still talk.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and keeping yourself safe and busy.  I said we were doing fine, but I do miss my weekly routine, like my light treatment with Dr. Skin every Monday.  I say this simply to let you know what kind of lunatic you’re dealing with here – a man who considers that standing naked with a paper bag over his head reciting The Raven is normal!  Anyway, now that you are sufficiently warned, let’s get at it.

Are any of your kids named X Æ A-12?  I didn’t think so.  That’s what Elon Musk named his kid.  It seems to be culturally de rigueur* to give your kids exotic and embarrassing monikers.  And, understandably, it seems that the strangest baby names are given by parents whose names themselves are out of a Star Wars script.  After all, X Æ A-12’s Daddy is named Elon for heaven’s sake.  Other pairs of strangely named babies and parents include Apple and Gwyneth, Blue Ivy and Beyoncé, Dream and Blac, Puma and Erykah, Zolten and Penn.  Even stranger is that Usher named his kid Usher.

Don’t they realize that these kids have to grow up with those names?  Although in their private schools with their chauffeurs and bodyguards, it shouldn’t be a problem.  I should have named my first child Moby.  Of course, if I had, my wife would have immediately named me her Ex-Husband.

Weekly Word:  De rigueur means required by etiquette or current fashion.  Of course, I know as much about fashion as President Trump knows about humility.  And, in the spirit of non-partisanship, I know as much about fashion as Joe Biden knows about – well, Joe doesn’t seem to know much about anything.

Message from Shakespeare:  Since brevity is the soul of wit, . . . I will be brief (Hamlet).  Unlike my man who drones on and on for a thousand words every week.  Give me a break.

Sequester News:

·        Walmart now has arrows to direct traffic in the aisles.  I have personally discovered, however, that there is no combination of moves which will get you to the toilet paper.

·        I have taken to wearing a mask at home, not to reduce infection, but to keep me from eating.

·        Yes, I have gained a pound or two, but I really believe it’s because I have not had a haircut in eons.  I now have so much hair on my head that, lately, some woman named Bo Peep has been following me around.

·        To be honest, when I think of most of the people out there, I wouldn’t want to get within six feet of them anyway.

·        I seem to be going to bed earlier.  Nine o’clock is the new midnight.  The older I get, the earlier it gets late.

·        Carol and I put on our masks and went grocery shopping together.  She took the right side of the store; I took the left.  When we got home and she took off her mask, I realized I had the wrong woman.

Let’s end with a joke.  Do we have time for a joke?  You’re not going anywhere, are you?  Ok, here it is.  George takes Stella to a nice restaurant to celebrate their 30^th Anniversary.  During dinner, a lovely young woman comes to their table and gives George a huge hug and a sloppy kiss.  “Who was that!” says Stella with appropriate venom.  George replies that the woman was his mistress.  “What?  Your mistress?  I can’t believe it, George.  I want a divorce immediately.”  George reminds her that if they divorce, she will no longer have her Mercedes or her Country Club or her shopping sprees at Saks.  Stella is silent.  Thirty minutes later, Stella sees a neighbor, Frank, dining with another lovely young woman.  “Who is that woman with Frank,” she asks.  George tells her it’s Frank’s mistress.  She looks again, turns to George and says, “Ours is cuter.”

Good joke.  Good blog.  Goodbye.  See you next week.  Be sure to stay well and count all those blessings.  And don’t forget Memorial Day and honor our fallen women and men who gave their lives for America.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #166

Oh, sweet friends, hearken to me.  While I’m reading Moby for the 6^th time, I am also reading Paradise Lost for the second time and The Origin of Species for the first.  Just now, I am at the part of Paradise Lost where Adam (Remember Adam?  He was the first chauvinist.) is talking to one of the Angels.  I will paraphrase.  He says, “I understand that nature has made the woman inferior in the mind but most excellent in outward appearance.”  I told you he was a chauvinist.  I guess that means he’s not going to be chosen as Joe Biden’s running mate.  I think Joe and Adam graduated together.

Last month was the 50^th Anniversary of the first Earth Day, which, of course, means it was the 51^st Earth Day.  More math; trust me.  The Internet was full of pictures of wild animals (goats, lions, baboons) lounging on empty highways around the world, and all the Animal Huggers were ecstatic.  Isn’t it wonderful, they say?  Three-hundred thousand people are dead.  Less pollution!  And all the rest are hunkering inside.  Less cars, more room for the animals!  Wouldn’t it be wonderful if all the humans died and the baboons took over the world?  Sometimes, I think they already have.

I hope all you mothers out there had a nice Mother’s Day.  And for all you mothers with children at home – children with no school and no camp and no play-dates – this Mother’s Day has certainly reminded you how fed up you are with this sequester thing.  I don’t mean to wax lugubrious* here, but are we ever going to get out of this?  Is this the way all humankind will have to live forever?

Each person from cradle to tomb

Will live without leaving his room

Until this thing ends

No haircuts, no friends

Just Amazon, Netflix and Zoom.

Weekly Word:  Lugubrious means mournful, gloomy, dark, dramatic.  It’s hard not to think that way these days.  Maybe my grocery-shopping exploits will lift your spirits.  It’s always cheery to make fun of the incompetent.

So I put on my mask and hospital gloves and ventured out to the grocery store.  Carol had made me a shopping list, jotting down the items randomly as they came to her mind, so I recopied it in the order of the store, from right to left.  I always shop right to left.  I had it all planned out, but as I was leaving, she yelled, “Oh, and get some celery.”  Where am I going to put celery on my list?  There’s no room between the whatever fruit’s on sale and the two bananas, one mostly yellow and one mostly green.  The only place I could put “celery” was at the end, which meant that, after buying eggs, I had to go all the way back to the produce section.  I’m only kidding; I didn’t need eggs.  And where is Jell-O?  In the bakery aisle, the candy aisle, the soup?  I always get lost looking for Jell-O.

But I never get lost looking for you.  Look, I’ve found you already.  Hi there and welcome back.  Are you staying home?  Are you staying well?  Are you staying in touch with your friends and family?

People all over the World are doing their best to stay connected, and, in that vein, our Rabbi hosted a Zoom session to talk about Jewish humor.  Rabbi S. is retired now or Emeritus or whatever.  I like him a lot.  I reminded my wife that he married us.  She reminded me that he didn’t; it was Rabbi N. and what kind of an idiot forgets who married him.   

I will now digress into a grammatical diatribe for the express reason that my Spellchecker has informed me that the above sentence that includes “what kind of an idiot” is a question and should be followed by the appropriate punctuation.  To me, a question is an utterance that seeks information in the form of a response.  Some series of words that look like questions really are not asking for an answer.  They are called Hypothetical.  Like Who knows, or Is the Pope Catholic, or What the f**k!

Ok, back to the Rabbi.  He told a bunch of Jewish jokes.  Here’s my favorite.  A Jewish man goes sailing.  Wait, that’s already funny.  Jews don’t sail.  If Jews could sail, God would not have needed to part the Red Sea.  Ok, sorry, back to the joke.  So he sails out and gets shipwrecked on a Desert Isle.  Now that sounds more like a Jewish man – lost and useless.  I'm sure he missed the exit.  Sorry again, back to the joke.  This schmuck is on the island for two years until, at last, a rescue ship arrives.  The rescuer says, “I see you have built three buildings out of driftwood.  A Jewish man building?  I can’t hang a picture without breaking the frame, the wall or my thumb.  “What are these buildings for?” asks the rescuer.  The guy replies, “That one’s my home.  Next to it is my Synagogue and the other one is the Synagogue I wouldn’t be caught dead in.”

Message from Shakespeare:  With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come. (Merchant of Venice).  See, I told you not to laugh at his silly jokes.  You’ll get wrinkles!

I’m getting tired of the word unprecedented.  The number of times this word has been used in news broadcasts about the coronavirus is ridiculous.  It’s overkill.  It’s unprecedented!

And speaking of words, I heard a new word yesterday.  We all believe that medical workers and first responders are heroes.  But some woman, a Governor I believe, called them Heroes and Sheroes.  Hey, I understand that female letter-carriers should not be called mailmen.  And the same goes for Congressmen and fireman and policemen.  Ok, we’ve accepted that.  But most words that start with HE do not have any gender reference.  If we get a birthday balloon for a girl, is it filled with shelium?  Does the First Lady ride in a shelicopter?  Do women, when they die, go to Sheaven or Shell?  It all gives me the sheebie-jeebies.

And that means it’s time to go.  Am I coming back next week?  Is the Pope Catholic!  Until then, stay well and count all your blessings.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

Blog #165

My grandchildren used to love playing on my screened-in porch, which is still packed with their toys, but now that Shakespeare has taken over the porch, I’ve begun to throw out some of the older toys – worn, plastic contraptions with buttons and pull things that used to make noise.  I cannot bring myself to throw away the little red vacuum cleaner that Zachary (now 18) loved when he was two, but there is an old doll-stroller that we probably bought for Zoey (now 17).  It’s time to throw that old thing away.

Today, my daughter Abby bought and delivered a bag of cat food for Shakespeare.  Thank you, Abby, very much.  That 20-lb bag is a little much for my back.  Well, the bag was there at the front door, but the storage place was on the porch.  Not that far, but still.  I went to the porch and looked around, and there, in a dark corner was the stroller I was going to throw away -- old, useless, dusty, a veteran of eight grandchildren.  I rolled it to the front door, and it worked perfectly to transport the bag of food out to its storage destination. It goes to show you that old and useless things, your humble servant included, need not always be discarded.  I dusted off the ancient and decrepit doll-stroller, cleaned it with some Windex and found it a nice, bright and prominent spot in the sunshine.

Hi there and welcome back.  As if life was not stressful enough, now we have Murder Hornets?  What’s going on, Lord?  Are You working up another Ten Plagues to deliver us from Trump?  I mean, between the Coronavirus, murder hornets and Joy Behar without makeup – I don’t want to get out of bed in the morning.  I surely do hope you’re feeling well.  I must apologize to those of you who get the blog directly from Blogspot because last week’s issue arrived three hours late.  I have no control of it.  Each Wednesday night, I submit my thousand words like a sacrifice to the gods of the Internet and trust they will be shuttled to you.  Sorry for the delay.  I know it messed up your busy day.  You were probably planning to search through your closets for old hats to cover up your hair when you Facetime.

I took Shakespeare to Dr. Cat for a checkup.  Yes, now that I rescued this three-legged, unwanted orphan from the Shelter, I am obligated to provide free health care, food and entertainment.  What will he ask for next?  

We rescued him from condemnation

And now he gets free medication

And not only that

The miserable cat

Is asking for two weeks’ vacation.

He’s not miserable at all, of course.  He’s a pleasure.  People ask me why I chose a three-legged cat.  Well, I reply, the three-legged elephant wouldn’t fit in my car.  Go ahead, make up your own joke about the trunk.

Last week contained May Day, a day set aside to honor the Workers of the World.  Well, the workers had a lot of time to celebrate because most of them are laid off.  So they celebrated on Cinco de Mayo by drinking tequila and Mexican beer (no, no, not Corona) without any knowledge of what was being celebrated.  But who cares what the holiday is anyway?  If you get drunk enough, the Fourth Of July, Christmas and Election Day all feel the same.  Come to think of it, we might all need to get drunk on Election Day. 

Election Day reminds me a lot of Christmas.  They both are about some old, white man promising to give us free stuff.  The difference is that they don’t celebrate Christmas in Washington, D.C.  That’s because they can’t find three Wise Men.

I have finished two more books during the sequester.  First, a 50-year-old book by Lawrence Sanders called The First Deadly Sin, a wonderful, classic police story.  That wasn’t old enough for me, so next I read a 70-year old book called The Loved One by Evelyn Waugh, a charming gift from my friend Sue.  After that, I was ready for something really old.  Call me a Renaissance man, call me nuts, call me nostalgic, call me Ishmael.  That’s right, this weary traveler has set sail for a sixth voyage on the whaling ship Pequod out of Nantucket, bound for the Southern Ocean to hunt the sperm whale.  The last time I read Moby Dick was five years ago.  You and I were not together then, so strap yourself in and don’t be surprised if I append a little quote now and again.  Moby Dick is my refuge, my vicarious plunge into a glorious sailing adventure full of danger, spectacular monsters and supreme madness.  As Ishmael says, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote.  Besides, as P.J. O’Rourke says, “Always read something that will make you look good if you die in the middle of it.”

I have two copies of Moby Dick, a 40-year old version, kept together with a rubber band, the front and back covers detached and ragged from over-use, and a new and shiny edition I bought a few years ago.  I chose the old one.  It smells of the sea and ambergris*.

Message from Shakespeare:  What a piece of work is man, How noble in reason, how infinite in faculty (Hamlet).  What a bunch of crap!  Did you hear him just say he was reading the same book for the sixth time?  What an idiot!  And he thinks I’m stupid for chasing a red dot?  A man who likes the Grateful Dead is called a Deadhead.  My man likes Moby Dick.  What does that make him?

Weekly Word:  ambergris is a waxy substance produced in the intestines of sperm whales which smells like salt water and fecal matter.  It is used in the making of perfume.  Yes, Girls, your expensive perfume is really just whale shit.

That makes me want to go wash my hands.  I have now calculated that I have washed my hands 1,732 times – today!  Please stay well, count your blessings, wash your hands and entertain yourself somehow.  I hope I have added a little entertainment to your week.  See you next Thursday.

Ishmael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com