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