Blog #227                                July 15, 2021

 

In his prologue to Cannery Row, John Steinbeck says you don’t write a story by forcing it onto the paper; you open the page and let the stories crawl in by themselves.  Hmm, let’s see what slimy thing has crawled in today.

 

I recently noticed that in my wife’s contact list, I am listed as Mikey.  No-one ever calls me Mikey.  My brother used to, but he’s dead now.  My business-partner did, but he’s gone as well.  I confronted her.  Yes, she confirmed, under Michael in her contacts she already had a friend of ours (we’ll call him Michael X.), so she made me Mikey.  What, I wailed?  Michael X. has my name in her address book and I’m relegated to some frivolous childish nickname?  Talk about your Shock & Awe!  I was incredulous.  How would she like it if, in my contact list, the monikers Carol and Honey and Sweetie and Cupcake were already assigned to girls I work with at the Zoo and I had her listed under First Wife?  This whole traumatic revelation has caused me to re-evaluate my position on her hierarchy of importance.  It now looks like this:  her first tier of friends, her grandchildren, her children, her second tier of friends, her third tier of friends, Michael X. and, finally, me.

 

Hi there, and welcome back.  I’m surprised you even bother to come back to a blog written by such an insignificant creature as myself.  And don’t call me Mikey.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Did you have a nice three-day weekend for Independence Day?  I’m retired, so I’m not sure it mattered.  A three-day weekend means nothing to a man who exists in a seven-day weekend. 

 

I’m 75 now, so I think my next colonoscopy will be my last.  Where else can you come to read quotes from Steinbeck followed by a discussion of colonoscopies?  There actually is a Hallmark card for a final colonoscopy.  It reads: I ran into your proctologist the other day and your name came up.  He said “I never want to see that asshole again”.  Only kidding.  But I’m not kidding when I tell you that my friend went to buy a new car when he was 77 or thereabouts.  The bilious juvenile who was his salesman said, “Sir (I hate when they call you Sir), since this is probably the last car you’re going to buy . . .”  What a jerk!  The only satisfaction in dealing with a young jerk like that is knowing that he has all his colonoscopies in front of him.  (Can you actually have one “in front” of you?  I guess not, but we have spent too much time on this subject, so let’s put it behind us.)

 

Instead, we can talk about the weather.  Everybody talks about the weather.  Keeping track of the weather these days is a full-time job.  It is no longer good enough for them to tell you the temperature and the chance for rain.  Now, it’s the wind-chill factor and the heat index and the dew point (do you care what the damned dew point is?), and the sunrise and the sunset and the UV Index and the wind velocity and the visibility and the Polar Vortex and the Lake Snow Effect and the air quality.  By the time I’ve finished reading all of that, I’ve spent the whole day inside so who needs the weather.  And now they have a new one.  Are you ready?  THE MOSQUITO FORECAST.  I’m telling you, it really doesn’t pay to go outside:

 

Outside it’s too cold or too hot

And you think the air’s fresh but it’s not

Don’t go out; just stay in

‘Cause you know you can’t win

On a nice day you still might get shot.

 

You know we’re in big trouble when on a weekend in Chicago, more people got shot than got Covid.  DO SOMETHING!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Many can brook the weather that love not the wind (Love’s Labour’s Lost).  I don’t get to go outside, but the window on the porch is usually open.  Most days I take a nap in my cat tree by the window.  I love the breeze and the sound of birds and the sight of ugly dogs being yanked around by the neck.  Purr.

 

I honked at a driver yesterday.  I shouldn’t have done it, I know.  It’s too dangerous, but he (I didn’t see the driver, but I’m using “he”.  Sue me!) was right in front of me and failed to move after the light turned green.  It was a little beep.  He proceeded to stick his hand out the window with two fingers extended.  I was uncertain as to the meaning:

 

·        If it was the index finger and the middle finger, it was the Peace Sign. 

·        If it was the middle finger and the ring finger, it was the Vulcan gesture for Live Long and Prosper. 

·        If it was any other combination, it meant Honk at me again sucker and I’ll shoot you twice.

 

Damn!  I just dropped my car keys right between the two front seats – you know, the place where everything disappears forever.  I looked; I reached – nothing!  There I was, freaking out and reaching between the seats with two restless grandchildren in the back seat wondering what Oldilocks was up to.  I got out and felt under the front seat – nothing.  I pulled the driver’s seat as far up as it would go; then I went to the back seat to see what was uncovered.  Holy Buried Treasure, Batman!  There, in the revealed space formerly under the front seat, were nine colored markers, two straw wrappers, a Nilla Wafer, Jimmy Hoffa, the Cardinals World Series chances and a previously unknown Kardashian sister – and my car keys.  Whew!

 

Our Weekly Word is bilious, which means sickeningly unpleasant, and it certainly looks like enough bilious things have crawled onto the page to fill it up for this week.   But there’s always next week, and I, along with Shaky and First Wife, promise to be back.  I know you will be too, so stay well, count your blessings and check your dew-point.  See you next Thursday.

 

Mikey                            Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com