Blog #174

No birthdays this week, no anniversaries.  No reason to send me congratulatory notes.  Too bad, because I do love your comments. They’re the only way I can tell whether I’m doing a good thing here or “just standing in the rain talking to myself” (Cool Hand Luke).  I hope I make you happy once in a while and never make you sad.

“Miserable it is to be to others cause of misery.”  That’s what Eve said in Paradise Lost right after the little bitch infected us all with original sin by breaking her promise to God.  That was the first pandemic, because Eve actually infected the whole Human Race.  At the time, of course, it was just she and Adam, but it meant that all of their offspring were infected to Eternity, or a Trump second-term, whichever comes first.

What was Eve thinking?  This wasn’t a silly promise like promising your husband you’d go to the Circus with him or promising your friend that her secret was safe with you.  No, this was a promise to GOD, the Big Dog, the one to whom everyone is praying to give them everything they want.  No, not Joe Biden!  Pay attention.  It’s GOD I’m talking about.  The old guy up in the clouds with the white beard and the direct land-line to Joel Osteen.  I guess, technically, that would be a cloud-line.  Is that what they mean when they say all our stuff is in The Cloud?  That GOD has all our personal information?  Well, He already knows who’s naughty and nice anyway.  Or is that Santa Claus? 

I’m fond of Eve, actually, a beautiful woman who got everything she wanted by lying to and manipulating her husband.  Makes me feel right at home.

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re all feeling well, using your masks and looking for some entertainment.  You could always go out and play golf.  Carol and I played last Sunday.  I played so horribly that by the 7^th Hole I was being followed by 200 protesters carrying signs that read YOUR GOLF SWING DOES NOT MATTER.

Or you could travel to Pamplona, Spain for the Running of the Bulls, an internationally recognized event of power, speed and unrivaled stupidity which has been held this week in July since the 14^th Century.  A dozen 2000-lb. frightened bulls race down an enclosed street on their way to the bull ring where they will fight the Toreador and most-likely be killed.  If they run over someone in the street, they don’t care. They’re just stupid animals.  Which pretty much describes the young men racing in the street as well.  I actually shouldn’t be criticizing these young men’s show of bravery.  After all, the most courageous thing I do is picking out my clothes in the morning.  This year, of course, there will be no running of the bulls.  The event is cancelled because of Covid.  Which means, I suppose, that the annual Festival of the Soup at Don Quixote’s Cantina will be cancelled.

My friend Tim went to Don Quixote’s after the Pamplona Bull Fights in 2005.  There was a huge uproar and singing and music when the waiter brought a man a bowl of soup with two immense matzo-balls.  Tim told his waiter he wanted the same thing.  No, no, Señor.  Those balls are the testicles of the bull who lost the main fight.  Only one person a year can order that dish.  Tim said he wanted it next year.  The waiter said the first available serving would be in 2019.  Every year, for a decade and more, Tim went to Don Quixote’s and watched the Festival of the Soup with the huge balls that once belonged to the losing bull.  Finally, in 2019, he showed up and reminded the waiter it was his turn.  The music started, the songs were boisterously sung, the crowd cheered as the waiter brought Tim the soup.  But when he looked into the bowl, there were only two very small balls.  He called his waiter over and asked where were the testicles of the losing bull.  Unfortunately, Señor, said the waiter, this year it was the Bullfighter who lost.

That’s the joke I promised you last week, and, unlike Eve, I keep my promises.

Message from Shakespeare:  He was ever precise in promise-keeping (Measure for Measure).  I admit my Pops is a goofy old fool, but I’ll give him this – every morning when he leaves, he promises me he’ll come back.  And he always does.

Now it’s time to return to the serious issues of the day.  This country is awash with discussions of racism, and since I am your bastion of calm, sensibility and moderation, I feel it my duty to offer some clarifying remarks.  When I was in the real estate business, we didn’t worry about gender or race or ethnicity or religion.  Black or white didn’t matter.  The only color that mattered was green.  If you could pay the rent, we did business; if you couldn’t, we didn’t.

Of course, being in business for 50 years tends to turn one into a misanthrope* of sorts.  A misanthrope (Weekly Word) is one who hates and mistrusts the human species.  And a misanthrope, by definition, could never discriminate against anyone:

Now racism is a disgrace

To discriminate just has no place

Short, fat, thin or tall

I dislike them all

Regardless of color or race.

The Fourth of July was eerily different this year.  We didn’t go to a big gathering to watch fireworks.  We stayed home and watched the fireworks in New York City on television.  I was particular moved by images of the Statue of Liberty lit by lights below and fireworks above.  When I read the moving words “yearning to breathe free” on the statue, I thought of George Floyd yearning to breathe as he was being choked.  I thought of all of us yearning to breathe without masks and without getting sick.  I thought of people suffocating from poverty and oppression yearning to breathe the clean air of liberty.  Stay well, my friends, count your blessings and pray that next year we will all breathe more freely.  See you next week.  Don’t you dare miss it.

Michael                                    Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com