Blog #225                                July 1, 2021

 

Last week I was again at the Zoo, entertaining the tourists and pointing the way to all the attractions.  As I was walking to my station at the South Entrance, I passed the flamingos – beautiful, classic birds brilliantly salmon-hued and elegantly haughty.  Haughty, our Weekly Word, means arrogantly superior, and they are certainly that.  There was a group of young girls with their mothers enjoying the gorgeous birds, and I approached.  “Hi,” I said.  “Would you like to hear a story about these flamingos?”  It seems that whenever I offer to tell a story, young people gather to me, open their eyes as wide as possible and make not a sound.  Here’s what I told them:  A hundred years ago, the Zoo decided to bring flamingos here and everybody loved them.  Do you know why?  That’s right, because they’re pink.  Everyone came to see the pink birds that stood on one leg.  All the visitors tried to stand on one leg like the birds and marveled at how pretty-in-pink they were.  But then something horrible happened.  After a few weeks, the birds began to fade in color and after a few weeks more, they were pure white, not pink.  Nobody wanted to see the flamingos anymore, so the Zoo people decided to find out what happened – and they did.  Do you know why the flamingos turned white?  No?  Well, it turns out that flamingos eat mostly little shrimp-like creatures with red shells, and the red from the shrimp shells gets into their bodies and turns their feathers pink.  The zookeepers had been feeding the flamingos seeds and grains with no red coloring.  As soon as the flamingos started eating shrimp again, they once again became pink and everybody came back to see them.

 

Did you like that story?  So did the little girls.  And the best part is that it’s all true.   When I was finished, the girls asked if I could stay with them the whole time they were at the Zoo and be their own personal guide. 

 

Hi there, and welcome back.  I hope you’re doing well.  Working at the Zoo is such an ego trip for me.  At the Zoo, I am The Man, the guy in charge, the person with all the answers, the Pied Piper to all the little kids.  At home, I am the man, a third-class citizen in a two-person family, unable to make a decision or do anything right.  Of all creatures that breathe and move on earth, says the Iliad, none is more to be pitied than a man.  In truth though, I’m not sure what I would do if I didn’t have my wife to take charge and lead the way.  Without her, I’d be like a goldfish in a bowl of Jell-o, unable to match his clothes or find his way or do anything except write poetry or read old books. 

 

After a plane trip, several car rides, a ferry boat and a tram, here we are at Bald Head Island.  All those different modes of travel just reminded me of the sign they used to have at the Parkmoor restaurant in St. Louis.  The sign showed people crowding in on trucks and planes and horses and skis and dozens of other conveyances just to get to Parkmoor and eat the greasy burgers and onion rings.  Great sign; great food; long gone.

 

At Bald Head, off the coast of North Carolina, you rent a house, go to the beach, play tennis and pickle ball, eat at the two or three restaurants and go the beach again.  Plus, you shop at the grocery store at least twice a day.  There’s only one store and it’s quaint and over-priced, but every morning I head out on the golf-cart (no cars are allowed on the island) with one or more grandchildren and a list. Grocery shopping for women is a routine chore, but for men it is Hunting and Gathering.  We are as proud of that chicken cut up and wrapped in cellophane as if we had chased it down, strangled it and plucked it ourselves.  And stalking and killing a wooly mammoth could not have been more dangerous than choosing the right barbecue sauce.  But, we did okay.  We bought too much chicken and the olives were the wrong color but, hey, it’s jungle out there.

 

Bald Head Island is indeed remote and very reclusive.  Everyone leaves the keys in their golf-carts.  Nobody locks the doors to their houses.  Forget your troubles, forget politics, enjoy the beach and beat your body to shreds.  In the first 24 hours, I played tennis and pickle-ball, walked ¾ of a mile to the beach, enjoyed the surf and walked back, listened to eight children and seven other adults playing games and yelling and screaming, and shopped twice at the Shop and Do-Not-Save.  I am both exhausted and happy.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice (Hamlet).  While Pops is gone, wasting his time with silly grandchildren, my neighbors are taking care of me.  They come over to play and feed me, and I always say thanks, B&B, but I don’t think they understand me.  The only one who understands everything I meow is Pops.  He understands perfectly when I say I’m thirsty or Scratch my head or Get out of my chair.  Purr.

 

Tomorrow is Carol’s birthday and she’ll be celebrating here with her husband (the irreplaceable moi), her three daughters, their partners and all eight grandchildren.  What could be a better birthday present, except maybe a cute sweatshirt she located at a local shop.  Happy Birrthday, Sugar Plum.

 

We did have a little rain at Bald Head, but nothing like last year. 

 

We certainly cannot complain

Of the one or two days we had rain

It was only last year

We were huddled in fear

In a horrible big hurricane.

 

As some of you loyal readers may remember, last year we were struck by Hurricane Isaias and suffered a frightening night on the island.  But not this year.  So far, everything has been great – fun and games and food, the beach, the pool, sports, tired muscles.  Forget all your troubles.  But I haven’t forgotten you.  Stay well, count your blessings and – wait, I have to go to the grocery store.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

LIMERICK    OYSTER

Blog #224                                June 24, 2021

 

We need to get some nuts and bolts out of the way.  Let me just condense it into a list.  I know you like lists.

 

1.     Starting this week, I will be sending Limerick Oyster to you directly every Thursday morning.

2.     If you were previously receiving my blog from Blogspot, they will no longer send it to you after July 31.  It will come directly from me.  Make sure the email from Michael Fox does not get lost in your SPAM filter.

3.     If you were previously receiving my blog from Carol, you will now be getting it directly from me instead.  Same caution about SPAM filter.

4.     If you are replying to an email directly from me, you can just use the REPLY feature.  Please use REPLY, not REPLY ALL.  I really love hearing from you.

5.     My blog will still be posted on Limerickoyster.blogspot.com if you care to read all 223 prior issues as a punishment for missing the Friends Reunion, but it will not be emailed by them.

6.     During the interim, you may receive the blog from two sources.  Go ahead and read it twice.  It might get better the second time.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Did you get all that?  I didn’t think so, but we’ll work it all out together over the next few weeks.  Remember you can always get me at mfox1746@gmail.com if you’re having problems.  I hope you are feeling well today.  Let’s get started.

 

Carol and I now have a 65” Samsung television.  It’s smart, it’s colorful and it has two remotes and access to thousands of channels.  It’s actually the only thing in the house that my wife thinks is smart, other than herself.  Do you remember your Philco 16” black and white with three stations and a test pattern?  Why is it that over the decades, TVs have grown bigger but we seem to have shrunk?

 

It really is not a surprise

It’s there right in front of my eyes

The TVs got taller

While I’ve gotten smaller

And now we are both the same size.

 

I guess as I get older I’ll keep getting shorter and shorter until I get the call from Snow White telling me they’re looking for another dwarf.  Maybe they’ll call me Funny.  That would be nice.

 

Which makes me wonder what Disney character I most resemble.  I know, I can hear all of you yelling Dumbo.  That’s not nice.  Let’s see, there’s Captain Jack Sparrow, Aladdin, Prince Charming (somehow that always reminds me of years ago when we actually had cameras and we took the film to the camera shop to get it developed; then we’d sit around the house singing “Someday My Prints Will Come”).  I finally decided the Disney character I most resemble is Geppetto.   He’s the old man in Pinocchio who uses his experience and love to help mold little boys and girls out of their rough raw materials. I like that and I think I’ve accomplished that with my grandchildren.  Plus, it looks like my nose has grown a lot along the way.  What Disney character do you most resemble?  Sleeping Beauty?  No, most of you can’t sleep.  Cinderella?  No, you don’t do windows.  Aladdin’s Genie?  I’ve seen you in a bottle.  Goofy?  Just saying. 

 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet (Taming of the Shrew).  Do you know whose picture that is?  It’s Figaro, the cat from Pinocchio.  I guess that’s who I most resemble.  He’s okay looking, I guess, but my Pops says I’m the prettiest cat in the world.  Purr.

 

The St. Louis Zoo has finally decided to let its volunteer staff return to work, and last week I was there, in my Zoo cap and wide, green sash answering all the tourists’ questions.  Where’s the tiger?  Where’s the bathroom?  Where’s the Starbucks?  I know it all.  The Zoo was very crowded and I had a blast.  I was standing in front of the camels when a little girl asked me, “Hey, Mister, do you work here?”  The green sash was a giveaway and I answered yes.  “Well,” she continued, “how do you tell the girl camel from the boy camel?”  I looked at the girl’s mother and saw her give me a smirk as if to say, Okay, you superannuated, know-it-all, ridiculous-looking Girl Scout, how you gonna answer that to my 8-year-old daughter?  Undaunted, I looked at the little girl and replied, “The girl camel has bigger closets.”  The mother gave me a smile and said, “Damn straight!”

 

Monday was the first day of Summer and the longest day of the year.  It was even longer for me because I had a dentist appointment.  Going to the dentist is like being water-boarded by the Turkish Secret Police.  First of all, they lay you back in a position supremely uncomfortable to your back, your neck and your legs.  Then, the Torture Mistress, euphemistically known as a dental hygienist, attacks your mouth with an icepick in the right hand and a water cannon in the left.  The water piles up in the bottom of your mouth, blocking your throat and keeping you from breathing.  You’d like to swallow so you can breathe, but you really don’t want to swallow whatever it is she’s been painfully scraping off your teeth, the accumulated gunk that’s been piling up in your mouth for six months.  I thought I tasted a piece of a pistachio I ate in February.  And all this time, an intense bright light is shining in your eyes.  And the music sucks!  Finally, the ordeal ends and it’s time for the x-rays for which she inserts into your mouth a gizmo the size and feel of an outboard propeller blade.  Bite down and hold still.  There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?  Here’s a lollipop.

 

Our Weekly Word is superannuated, which means obsolete because of age or technological developments.  What a perfect description of me.  It’s my only opportunity to be described by a word that starts with “super”.

 

Well, you’ve made it through another week.  There, that wasn’t so bad, was it?  Here’s a lollipop.  Stay well, count your blessings and come back to me.  I’m leaving tomorrow for Bald Head Island to spend a week with all 16 members of my family, including eight grandchildren.  Wish me luck.

 

Funny                            Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #223

 

A lot of people have told me that I should have my head examined!  So I did.  Twice!  The first time I had a CT scan on my brain, the official result was “Unremarkable”.  Unremarkable?  Are you kidding me?  After twenty-one years of schooling, 300,000 pages of obscure and arcane books and a thousand limericks – that’s all they can say about my brain?  Unremarkable?  I was insulted! 

 

Years later I had another brain scan, looking for a more complimentary opinion.  It came back “Normal”.  Normal?  Is reading Moby Dick five times normal?  Is listening to Alice’s Restaurant every night for a year normal?  Is reciting The Raven in your shorts every Monday morning with a brown-paper bag over your head while getting a tan normal?  Well, there shouldn’t be much disagreement on that one.

 

The Doctor could not have been cheerier

We viewed your brain in its interior

It’s normal said he

I said that can’t be

I always had thought it superior.

 

Hi there.  Are you normal?  I don’t think anybody who has suffered through my litany of looney-tune ramblings could possibly be called normal, so welcome back, my lovely basket of abnormals.  I hope you’re feeling great.

 

Weekly Word:  Litany is a tedious recital or repetitive series.  I do these Weekly Words because it is very important to understand the words spoken around you.  Just imagine the man who went to a doctor complaining of terrible constipation.  The doctor gave him a bottle of pills.  “Suppositories,” he said.  “Two every day; come back in three days.”  When the man returned three days later, the doctor asked if the capsules had worked.  “Worked?” said the man.  “I might as well have shoved them up my ass for all the good they did me!”   Like I said, it’s important to understand what words mean.

 

During Covid, I was the one who went grocery shopping.  Carol didn’t want to leave the house, but, due to some ingrained ignorance of mine, I was not afraid.  Plus, I can’t stay at home all day.  I need to get out.  So out I went to the land of milk and honey, of loaves and fishes, of ham and eggs.  Did I always get it right?  Not always.  Grocery shopping is not for the ill-informed.  Even armed with written descriptions of the product, color photographs and Martha Stewart, I would usually get something wrong.  Arriving home after braving the dreaded virus, masked butchers and the impossible calculus of determining the cheapest toilet paper per wipe – this is what I got: “I wanted Italian, not Creamy Italian.  And BBQ sauce without salt, but Soy Sauce with salt.  And you bought the cheap toilet paper!  Is that what you think of me?  But you did really well on the potatoes.  I asked for two and you got two. Good boy.”  I was always good at Math.

 

My marriage is a relationship in which one of us is always right and the other one is me.

 

I told you last week that my oldest grandson turned 20 years old.  I had a great story about his name, but it didn’t quite fit into last week’s issue, so I saved it for this week.  What, you don’t think I apply structural engineering and astute planning to these blogs?  Here’s the story.  My daughter named her first born Zachary because it was her favorite name.  The inconvenient fact that she had already named her cat Zach didn’t seem to affect her choice.  When my new grandson was a week old, this proud Grandpa called and asked, “How’s Zach doing?”  My daughter answered, “Oh, he’s fine.  He’s on the porch sleeping on the barbecue pit.”  “Not the cat,” I screeched.  “The boy!”  Obviously, an adjustment needed to be made.  They left Zach (the boy) to be named Zach and changed the name of Zach (the cat) to Zach the Cat, a name he carried until he went to feline heaven years later.  When my daughter bought her first chicken, I asked her if she was going to name it Zach the Chicken.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  By heaven, I love thee better than myself (Othello). What’s this about Feline Heaven?  I’m not going to hang around eternity with a bunch of prissy, nasty little cats.  I’m going wherever my Pops goes.  I hope it’s not too hot there.  Purr.

 

Not only did the new grandbaby need a name, but so did the grandparents.  My daughters called my parents Nana & Papa and Carol’s parents Grandma & Grandpa.  We had to decide what we wanted little Zachary to call us?  There were so many choices:  Nana & Papa, Grandma & Grandpa, Bubbee & Zaydee, Gigi & Gramps, Mimi & Pawpaw, Lucy & Desi.  We chose Nonnie & Poppy and respond gleefully to those names when any of our eight grandchildren find it unavoidable to talk to us.

 

I may not receive a lot of calls from my grandchildren, but I just received my fourth butt-call of the week, all from friends who had called me earlier.  I know my friends really well, and I’m pretty sure that some of them find it challenging to make a call with two eyes, a brain and all ten fingers.  How is it that they find it so easy to make a call with their rump?  And why me?  Is their phone programmed to call me when someone sits on it?  Is Apple trying to tell me something?

 

And speaking of grandchildren, Alyssa, my 15-year-old, is recovering from meniscus surgery and has a bottle of pain pills.  That’s fine for young people, but they need to rethink pain pills for older folks.  I’ve had a couple of surgeries, after which I was inclined to take a pain pill.  I reached for the bottle.  There I was, weak, groggy, and needing relief that was packed in a container that, in his best days, Arnold Schwarzenegger couldn’t have opened with a jackhammer.  Do you know what a child-proof container is?  It’s a pill-bottle only a ten-year-old can open.

 

Alrighty-then, it’s time to go.  Stay well, count your blessings and Happy Father’s Day to all you Daddy-os out there and to all the women who make sure your socks match your belt.  See you next week.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

Or, if you want to call me, just sit on your phone.  That seems to work. 

 

 

Blog #223

 

A lot of people have told me that I should have my head examined!  So I did.  Twice!  The first time I had a CT scan on my brain, the official result was “Unremarkable”.  Unremarkable?  Are you kidding me?  After twenty-one years of schooling, 300,000 pages of obscure and arcane books and a thousand limericks – that’s all they can say about my brain?  Unremarkable?  I was insulted! 

 

Years later I had another brain scan, looking for a more complimentary opinion.  It came back “Normal”.  Normal?  Is reading Moby Dick five times normal?  Is listening to Alice’s Restaurant every night for a year normal?  Is reciting The Raven in your shorts every Monday morning with a brown-paper bag over your head while getting a tan normal?  Well, there shouldn’t be much disagreement on that one.

 

The Doctor could not have been cheerier

We viewed your brain in its interior

It’s normal said he

I said that can’t be

I always had thought it superior.

 

Hi there.  Are you normal?  I don’t think anybody who has suffered through my litany of looney-tune ramblings could possibly be called normal, so welcome back, my lovely basket of abnormals.  I hope you’re feeling great.

 

Weekly Word:  Litany is a tedious recital or repetitive series.  I do these Weekly Words because it is very important to understand the words spoken around you.  Just imagine the man who went to a doctor complaining of terrible constipation.  The doctor gave him a bottle of pills.  “Suppositories,” he said.  “Two every day; come back in three days.”  When the man returned three days later, the doctor asked if the capsules had worked.  “Worked?” said the man.  “I might as well have shoved them up my ass for all the good they did me!”   Like I said, it’s important to understand what words mean.

 

During Covid, I was the one who went grocery shopping.  Carol didn’t want to leave the house, but, due to some ingrained ignorance of mine, I was not afraid.  Plus, I can’t stay at home all day.  I need to get out.  So out I went to the land of milk and honey, of loaves and fishes, of ham and eggs.  Did I always get it right?  Not always.  Grocery shopping is not for the ill-informed.  Even armed with written descriptions of the product, color photographs and Martha Stewart, I would usually get something wrong.  Arriving home after braving the dreaded virus, masked butchers and the impossible calculus of determining the cheapest toilet paper per wipe – this is what I got: “I wanted Italian, not Creamy Italian.  And BBQ sauce without salt, but Soy Sauce with salt.  And you bought the cheap toilet paper!  Is that what you think of me?  But you did really well on the potatoes.  I asked for two and you got two. Good boy.”  I was always good at Math.

 

My marriage is a relationship in which one of us is always right and the other one is me.

 

I told you last week that my oldest grandson turned 20 years old.  I had a great story about his name, but it didn’t quite fit into last week’s issue, so I saved it for this week.  What, you don’t think I apply structural engineering and astute planning to these blogs?  Here’s the story.  My daughter named her first born Zachary because it was her favorite name.  The inconvenient fact that she had already named her cat Zach didn’t seem to affect her choice.  When my new grandson was a week old, this proud Grandpa called and asked, “How’s Zach doing?”  My daughter answered, “Oh, he’s fine.  He’s on the porch sleeping on the barbecue pit.”  “Not the cat,” I screeched.  “The boy!”  Obviously, an adjustment needed to be made.  They left Zach (the boy) to be named Zach and changed the name of Zach (the cat) to Zach the Cat, a name he carried until he went to feline heaven years later.  When my daughter bought her first chicken, I asked her if she was going to name it Zach the Chicken.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  By heaven, I love thee better than myself (Othello). What’s this about Feline Heaven?  I’m not going to hang around eternity with a bunch of prissy, nasty little cats.  I’m going wherever my Pops goes.  I hope it’s not too hot there.  Purr.

 

Not only did the new grandbaby need a name, but so did the grandparents.  My daughters called my parents Nana & Papa and Carol’s parents Grandma & Grandpa.  We had to decide what we wanted little Zachary to call us?  There were so many choices:  Nana & Papa, Grandma & Grandpa, Bubbee & Zaydee, Gigi & Gramps, Mimi & Pawpaw, Lucy & Desi.  We chose Nonnie & Poppy and respond gleefully to those names when any of our eight grandchildren find it unavoidable to talk to us.

 

I may not receive a lot of calls from my grandchildren, but I just received my fourth butt-call of the week, all from friends who had called me earlier.  I know my friends really well, and I’m pretty sure that some of them find it challenging to make a call with two eyes, a brain and all ten fingers.  How is it that they find it so easy to make a call with their rump?  And why me?  Is their phone programmed to call me when someone sits on it?  Is Apple trying to tell me something?

 

And speaking of grandchildren, Alyssa, my 15-year-old, is recovering from meniscus surgery and has a bottle of pain pills.  That’s fine for young people, but they need to rethink pain pills for older folks.  I’ve had a couple of surgeries, after which I was inclined to take a pain pill.  I reached for the bottle.  There I was -- old, weak, groggy, and needing relief that was packed in a container that, in his best days, Arnold Schwarzenegger couldn’t have opened with a jackhammer.  Do you know what a child-proof container is?  It’s a pill-bottle only a ten-year-old can open.

 

Alrighty-then, it’s time to go.  Stay well, count your blessings and Happy Father’s Day to all you Daddy-os out there and to all the women who make sure your socks match your belt.  See you next week.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

Or, if you want to call me, just sit on your phone.  That seems to work. 

 

 

 

Blog #222

 

Fifty-four years ago, a frightened little boy walked down the aisle dreaming of the wonderful and beautiful girl he was about to commit to for life.  And a young and innocent girl walked down the same aisle looking sweet and incredibly lovely, wondering what restaurants to eat at in Hawaii and how long it would take her to get diamond studs.  Mostly, I still feel like a frightened little boy when I’m with her.  Happy Anniversary, Honey.

 

That was 54 years ago, and now we have other things to think about besides restaurants and jewelry.  Carol and I were paying our respects after a funeral recently.  She looked at me and asked, “Is that the suit you’re going to wear at my funeral?”  “Yes,” I replied. “Don’t embarrass me,” she said, “get your shoes shined and wear a blue tie.  And make sure you cry.”  I think the worst part of dying is that you don’t get to eat the dessert trays.

 

On the night after we were married, we found ourselves in San Francisco on a nightclub tour.  The Latin dance club was called Sinaloa and a voluptuous, scantily clad bombshell was performing a furibund samba on the dance floor.  After her opening number, she searched the audience for a poor, innocent slob to bring onto the floor to tease and embarrass.  She spotted me – married for 24 hours, clueless, frightened.  She dragged me from my chair and we danced.  Her name was Vicki Alvarez.

 

How can I remember that name from 54 years ago but not remember where my reading glasses are?  Why can I recite all 1,085 words of the Raven but not have a clue where I ate dinner last Saturday night?  Sound familiar?  Well, at least you remembered to come back today.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting a good night’s sleep, whatever that means.  I believe I sleep well.  It’s hard to tell.  My wife has an Apple Watch that tells her how many hours she sleeps and how many steps she takes and her heart-rate and the weather and the price of tea in China.  It just doesn’t tell her what time it is.  I don’t have one of those contraptions, but I sleep and I wake up.  Sometimes I dream.

 

One night, recently, I dreamed I had become blind, and I awoke considerably agitated.  In the morning, I told my wife about it.  Did she say, “Oh, you poor baby!  You really must have been frightened.  I feel your pain.  Let me give you a big hug?”  She did not.

 

Did she say, “Oh, Honey, don’t worry.  Your eyes will be just fine.  And if you do have problems, I’ll be there to help you.  Let me give you a big hug?”  Nope.

 

What she did say was, “Even if you go blind, we’re still going to the Van Gogh exhibit. You can listen to it.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  To sleep, perchance to dream – ay, there’s the rub (Hamlet).  Sometimes I dream that I have four legs and can catch birds.  Mostly, I just sleep, and when I get up, I go find Pops so he can scratch my head.  Ay, there’s the rub.  Purr.

 

Do you go to physical therapy?  So many of my friends have back or knee or hip problems, that they look like the United States O-limp-ic Team.  I’ve been to physical therapy for various reasons, but now my wife just gives me instructions.

 

When the pain is like I don’t know what

She tells me to keep my mouth shut

“Start running and stretching

And stop all your kvetching

You’re just a big pain in the butt.”

 

My 15-year-old grandson just informed me that there is now a gender called Attack Helicopter.  I don’t care what your sexual orientation is or who you want to love – a man, a woman, a goat or a Hoover, but inventing hundreds of new genders with ridiculous names is just making a mockery of a serious issue.  I suppose soon there will be a store called Bed, Bath and Are You Kidding Me where you can buy matching hand-towels monogrammed Attack Helicopter and Hers.   The issue is important to many people; stop making it a big joke by having 58 genders on Facebook including Two-spirit and Neutrois.

 

I recently saw an ad for a set of matching masks and underwear.  I’m just an old-fashioned guy, but it seems to me that if you’re showing someone your panties, you’re past the mask phase.

 

And speaking of grandsons, my oldest grandson turned 20 this week.  Happy Birthday, Zach.  He’s a fine young man and I’m proud of him, although I still hold a grudge for the time I took him out for dessert a few years ago.  He ordered a Coke.  Coke for dessert?  “Yes, Poppy, I’m replacing you.”  He knew that my habit was to have a Diet Coke every single morning.  “You can never replace me, Zach,” I replied.  “Sure I can; someday I’ll be old and wrinkled and drinking Coke.”  That’s my boy.

 

There was a time when I actually gave up Coke in protest against one of their ads in which America the Beautiful was sung in seven languages.  Is there no pride in America anymore?  Aren’t Americans allowed a heritage and a music of their own?  We have only one official language.  I don’t want to hear America the Beautiful sung in Chinese.  Try going to Paris and singing France’s national song in English.  Try going to Israel and singing Hatikvah in Arabic.  Go to Iran and sing their national song in Hebrew.  Good luck. What are these people thinking? 

 

I know what you're thinking – you've had enough.  But not before I give you our Weekly Word – furibund, which means frenzied, furious, raging.  Like Vicki Alvarez.  Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten that paragraph already!  Well, don’t forget to come back next week.  I’ll be taking roll.  Until then, stay well and count your blessings.  And Happy Anniversary to my beautiful wife, my biggest blessing of all.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #221

 

I don’t make any money writing these blogs, but I do get something very valuable, and that’s the generous and complimentary comments I receive either in person or by email.  They make me feel good, and sometimes, if I’m out to dinner and a few people tell me how much they enjoy Limerick Oyster, I feel sort of like a rock star in my little circle of seniors.  Oh-oh, I feel a list coming –Songs for Aging Rock Stars:

 

Wheelin’ in the Years -- Limping Jack Flash -- I Wanna Hold Your Cane-- Let’s Get A Physical -- I’ll Be In The Home For Christmas --The Day The Bridge Group Died – and, of course, – Stayin’ Alive.

 

Sorry about that; sometimes I just can’t help it.  Anyway, thank you for taking the time to tell me you liked or disliked.  Actually, I occasionally receive a tangible gift from readers as well.  Once, I mentioned that the only thing better than a friend is a friend with chocolate and the next day I had lunch with a very good friend and loyal reader, and he brought chocolate!  That was special.  Then recently, another very good friend and loyal reader gave me a gift that was apropos of something I had written.  Hey, maybe I’m on to something here.  I could use a new Mercedes.  Anybody listening?

 

I have an old car.  I like it.  I know where everything is and what everything does.  If I want something to happen, I push a button.  If I want something different, I use a different button.  I borrowed my daughter’s new car the other day and you know what I found?  A screen.  No buttons, just a screen.  And every time I tried to turn the radio on, I somehow activated the seat warmer.  I couldn’t get the radio to work or the A/C or the fan -- just the seat warmer, so by the time I got to McDonald’s, my tush was as warm and tender as a pot roast.  I basically know only two things about cars – the pedal on the right makes it go and the pedal on the left makes it stop.  Or is it the other way around?

 

It is not only seniors who send me comments.  Last week, I made some reference about early sex-education leading to children being sexually promiscuous at a younger and younger age.  My 18-year-old granddaughter instantly jumped in with a comment informing me that I was wrong.  The female members of my family are expert at telling me that I’m wrong, but in this case, I really couldn’t argue with her.  First, she’s smarter than I am.  Second, she was a state-level debater in high school.  Third, she’s all over the internet, learning everything that goes on in our society, and I’m basically a hermit.  And fourth, she sent me an article which bolsters her case in several thousand words.  In the article was the following sentence: “Polyamory is a household word.”  Seriously?  I live in a household.  You live in a household.  How many times did you use the word polyamory today?  I thought maybe it meant growing up with a crush on Polly Bergen.  Or maybe somebody who likes parrots.  But no, polyamory, which I am reluctantly choosing as our Weekly Word, is the practice of engaging in romantic relationships with more than one person.  Or parrot, I suppose.  And now that you know, you can start using it in your household.  What would you do without me?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  That ever this fellow should have fewer words than a parrot, and yet the son of a woman (Henry IV Part 1).  What a useless pet a parrot is.  It might be colorful, but it’s not soft or cuddly.  It doesn’t rub your face or bite your arm.  Cats are the best.  Purr.

 

You may not have known what polyamory meant, but I’m sure you know what HIPAA is?  It stands for Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act.  You sign some HIPPA form every time you see a doctor and that ensures that nobody in the world knows you went to the doctor or any details of your condition.  Unless they talk to you, of course, because at every opportunity, you are more than eager to tell all your friends and almost any stranger each bloody and boring detail of every procedure, test, inflammation, pimple, sexual dysfunction and irregular bowel movement it has been your displeasure to experience.  So much for privacy.

 

Tuesday was the event of the month, Senior Day at Walgreen’s.  It was a bright and festive gathering, with crowds of giddy seniors limping in the aisles and toasting their cardiologists with glasses of Ensure.  The special of the month was a weight-loss treatment called Bystrictin.  It is risk-free (they’re all risk-free) and proven (sure).  Trust me, my friends, if the product says it is “risk-free” and “proven”, stay away from it like it was sarin gas.  Believe it or not, you drink this Bystrictin, whereupon it expands to 50 times its volume in your stomach, taking up all the room so that you cannot eat as much.  Please tell me there is not a person so gullible as to buy some liquid that is going to explode in his or her stomach.  Oops, sorry!  I didn’t know you used it.  You look great.

 

And I hope you’re feeling great as well.  Hi there and welcome back.  How was your Memorial Day?  We played golf twice.  Golf is fun to play.  But not so much fun to watch in person.  Carol and I once went to a U.S. Open in Pinehurst, NC and sat for hours in a grandstand at the green of a par 3.   We watched the players hit the ball; we watched them walk to the green; we watched them putt; we watched them walk away.  Over and over and over.

 

They walk on and putt – what a bore

They walk off and here come two more

They’re putting and chipping

My eyelids are dripping

And soon I’m beginning to ZZZZZZ

 

Ok, wake up!  Sorry I put you to sleep.  I have that effect on people.  Thanks for dropping by.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com