Blog #219

 

Most of my friends read the obituaries every morning.  I don’t need to because I have CNN, the Carol News Network.  She and her friends can spread news faster than I can get lost on a cloverleaf.  She showed me an interesting obituary recently: 

 

Died:  J---- H----, aged 79.  She is survived by two sons and a daughter, seven grandchildren and a husband who stands up straight, can drive at night, likes tuna-noodle casseroles and is not planning on a long period of mourning.

 

Hey, as long as you’re paying the newspaper that kind of money, you might as well do some marketing, right?

 

Which brings up the question -- do you have a plot?  I do.  It’s in a cemetery not far from the place I grew up.  Of course, Carol and I don’t live near there anymore.  We’re at least fifteen miles away, and she has informed me that she has no intention of driving that far to visit some old dead husband. 

 

Some dear friends were looking to buy plots recently and were shown a nice shady spot that looked fine.  She asked the Cemeterian (I made that word up), “Who owns the plot next to these?” and when she heard the name she freaked out.  “I’m not spending eternity next to that bitch!”  Then there was my friend Tim who tested out his plot by lying on his back on the site.  He liked the view and bought the plot.

 

Maybe I should buy a plot in North Carolina.  Most of my daughter’s friends think I’m dead anyway.  That could be because I actually was kind of dead for a while in North Carolina.  You know the drill – heart stops, flat-line, Code Blue, shock treatments.  I have always heard people who claim to have had a near-death experience say they remember a bright light.  Of course there’s a bright light!  You’re lying on your back in the Emergency Room with a circular spotlight shining a foot from your nose.  That thing is bright enough to wake Elvis.  So now, when Carol and I are in North Carolina and we meet one of my daughter’s friends, we often get this: “Jennifer, I can’t believe this young-looking woman is your mother.”  Then they turn to me: “And Mr. Fox, how nice.  I see you’re still alive.” 

 

I’m not planning to shuffle off this mortal coil yet.  I’m planning to spend many more years being a clueless old man who doesn’t understand what’s going on in this frighteningly parlous world.  Like what exactly is a Bennifer?  Or these gender-neutral pronouns.  I don’t get it, but I’m not supposed to get it.  I’m a clueless old man, remember?  My grandparents didn’t understand the Beatles or burning bras or Nehru jackets, so we thought they were just stuffy old people being left behind by progress.  And we were right.  Three thousand years ago, Homer wrote in the Iliad, “Very like leaves upon this earth are the generations of men – one generation flowers even as another dies away.”

 

And now we have turned into our grandparents -- just as old, just as stuffy, living in the past.  There are so many new concepts that I don’t understand, so it doesn’t surprise me that, amidst the controversy over Snow White’s non-consensual kiss, the Seven Dwarfs have rebelled against Snow White Privilege and demanded she call them by their chosen pronouns.  Now, officially, the Seven Dwarfs must be addressed as We, They, Them, You, Us, It and Happy.  Hi-Ho, Hi-Ho, it’s off to the asylum we go.

 

 

Disney is still in trouble for allowing Prince Charming to kiss the sleeping body of Snow White at the Disneyland ride.  Protesters say the kiss in non-consensual.  Well, of course Prince Charming’s kiss is non-consensual.  Snow White’s asleep.  She’s under a spell induced by the Wicked Queen, and will never wake up unless the Prince kisses her.  What’s he supposed to do, let her lie there in a coma forever?  

 

This kiss controversy’s a joke

Their argument goes up in smoke

If the Prince doesn’t kiss

The poor sleeping miss

Then Snow White will never be Woke.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  He that filches from me my good name . . . makes me poor indeed (Othello).  Pops doesn’t call me by any pronouns.  Sometimes he calls me Shakey; sometimes he calls me “you miserable feline”.  Mostly he calls me Pooch.  He is so weird.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.   I hope you’re feeling well.  Are you still there or are you protesting my blog?  Our Weekly Word is parlous, which means full of danger and uncertainty; precarious.

 

If you have the urge to throw things at me, you can usually find me taking an afternoon walk near my house.  One afternoon this week, I was on the homeward leg of my walk, and as I approached the gate to my subdivision, I noticed a car parked there and not moving.  I walked toward it and the window opened revealing an elderly (that means anyone older than me) gentleman.  I said, “Can I help?”  It was like being back at the Zoo.  I was so excited.  I used to greet the tourists and give them directions to the animals or the bathrooms or the hamburgers.  I loved it. 

 

This fellow at the gate had a piece of paper and read me an address.  It was the address of my building.  I asked who he was visiting.  He told me, and it happened to be a lady who lives on my floor, so I gave him directions – take the 4^th left turn and then right at the kangaroos.  I sure hope he doesn’t get lost.  Actually, he did get lost – must have turned at the elephants by mistake – and I had to go out and find him.  What a nice man!  He was 90 and had gone to kindergarten with the woman and was dropping by to say hello.  He was totally alert and bright and the kind of person I’d like to know better.  His only problem was getting lost.  But hey, I’ve been lost since the Nixon Administration.  I just thank God I didn’t get lost on the way to my wedding.  I wore the wrong shirt, but I showed up on time.

 

And speaking of time, we’re out of it so I’ll say goodbye.  Stay well and count those blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com