Blog #255                                January 27, 2022

 

Covid permitting, Carol and I are planning to drive to Florida to visit friends and get warm.  We will spend a night in a hotel in Macon, Georgia.  I dread it.  The last hotel we visited was brand new, so new that they should have put a sign in each room that said:

 

NOT RECOMMENDED FOR

OLD PEOPLE

 

Unlocking the door was the first challenge.  There’s this little card and you don’t stick it into anything.  You just flash it in precisely the right place at absolutely the right angle and it opens.  Well, it’s supposed to.  I was about to ask the desk clerk for the proper Feng Shui when Carol finally got it to work.  She’s good with things that are shaped like a credit card.  Once the door was unlocked, you had to open it.  It weighed 800 pounds.  I had to get two bell-hops and Arnold Schwarzenegger to help me push.  Who designed this place?  Mengele?  Then you have to turn on the lights.  There was no light-switch.  What happened to light switches?  Instead, there was a white, plastic plate with a picture of a light-bulb on it and, if you touched it in the right place, some lights got brighter or dimmer.  All I wanted was to turn on the light, not engineer a New Year’s Eve light show.  And, of course, the likelihood that we would figure out the television set was the same as the likelihood of Joy Behar asking Donald Trump to the prom.  And don’t even get me started about how to work the shower.

 

Why would you replace a thing as simple and obvious as a $2 light switch with a $90 touch-plate with arrows and pictures of light bulbs that only Elon Musk knows how to operate?  It was obvious that all these highfalutin, modern gizmos cost a lot of money, but don’t worry – the hotel makes it up by using toilet paper as skinny as Scotch Tape.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Every toy is the prologue to some great amiss (Hamlet). I just got a new electronic toy.  Pops bought me a fish that flops its tail when I grab it.  I guess I’m supposed to be fooled into believing it’s a real fish, like I’m an idiot.  What does he think I am, a dog?  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and making your way through the mind-numbing farrago of this high-tech world.  I’m not convinced that all this technology can improve on the old, reliable things they purport to replace – simple things like light switches, paper towels or light bulbs.  Take these new Alexa things.  My wife has an Alexa.  “Alexa, add avocados to my shopping list.”  And my wife has Siri.  “Siri, where is the nearest Shake Shack?”  But neither of them can compete with the old reliable Honey.  “Honey, come open this jar.  Honey, can you get that bowl off the top shelf?  Honey, drive me to the bridge game; it’s raining.  Honey, can you turn up the heat?  Honey, get in the car; we’re driving 20 miles to a new restaurant to get a hamburger and fries.

 

When Shake Shack came to town, we just HAAAAD to go.  FOMAB, right?  Fear Of Missing A Burger.  I mean, how could we allow a new restaurant to come to town and not eat there before the first ketchup spill had dried on the floor?  (And don’t tell me it’s catsup.  Ketchup is what normal people put on their fries.  Catsup is what strange people from Long Island put on their scrambled eggs.)  So we drove twenty miles.  I like Italian food better than burgers and fries, and I especially like Sicilian food with lots of olive oil and lemon and garlic.  A Sicilian restaurant is an Italian restaurant with pictures of criminals in the Men’s Room.  They usually have Marlon Brando and Al Pacino in poses from The Godfather and James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano.  Why do they display pictures of murderers and gangsters?  Are they proud of them?  Do you go to a Jewish deli and see pictures of Harvey Weinstein and Jeffrey Epstein in the MENS room?  Do German restaurants have pictures of Hitler? 

 

I had a physical this week.  First, a nurse took my blood.  I hate needles.  She told me not to worry – it’s just a little prick.  Then a different nurse gave me my flu shot.  No big deal – just a little prick.  Then the doctor came in to do a prostate test.  He told me to lower my shorts.  I looked at him and said, “If you say it’s just a little prick, I’m wrapping that stethoscope around your neck.”

 

Over all these weeks, I have offered you an eclectic selection of topics intended to make you laugh or curse or fall asleep.  But I don’t think I have ever talked about guns, and I don’t really want to talk about them now, except the image of children with guns is always in the news.  When I was in business, I had a crew of workmen, loyal, long-time employees whom I got to know very well.  I knew, for instance, that our work would slow down in November because all my guys would be out for deer season.  I hate guns and I love animals, but I reluctantly understood that they were all dedicated gun-advocates.  At one Holiday Party, I asked Ernie if he had gotten his deer this year.  He said that he had indeed bagged a deer and so did his nine-year-old son.  He had yelled at his son and felt bad about it, so he bought the kid a rifle.  What, I wondered, would he get if he had really treated the boy badly?

 

Last week I was really a sorehead

And I smacked my poor kid in the forehead

So I bought him with love

A new baseball glove,

A bike and a nuclear warhead.

 

Nine-year-olds with guns!  What can I say?

 

Farrago is our Weekly Word, and it means a confused mixture, a hodgepodge.  Kind of like this silly blog sometimes.  Hey, where else can you read about guns, hotels, ketchup and little pricks?  With that image fresh in your mind, I’ll say goodbye.  Please stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #254                                January 20, 2022

 

I never thought my own daughters would turn against me.  It happened last Sunday night when the family gathered on Zoom to conquer, as we always do, the New York Times Sunday Crossword.  The clue was Look or manner – four letters, starts with m.  I suggested mien, which fit nicely, and, since it reminded me of The Raven, I immediately launched myself into reciting the appropriate verse:

 

But with mien of lord or lady perched above my chamber door

Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door

Perched and sat and nothing more.

 

I would have continued for the full five-minute recitation had I not heard my daughters, in unison, scream.  “Stop, Dad, stop!  Not again, or we’ll put you on mute.” Mute?  You’d put your own loving, if strange, father on mute?  They repeated the warning:

 

This whole Raven thing is a bore

We’ve heard it so often before

Be still, you old coot,

Or we’ll put you on mute

And listen to you nevermore.

 

I guess I have to give them credit for inspiring a good limerick and our Weekly Word – mien, which is a person’s look or demeanor. 

 

I went to a doctor one day last week (there’s a shock!) and was waiting in the room aptly named for that specific activity when a nurse entered and called out “Michael”.  I have been highly conditioned, in the true Pavlovian method, to respond to a woman’s voice calling my name, and I arose.  But I was reminded of a day years ago when Carol was having an early-morning operation.  We waited in a capacious room at the hospital with a dozen other people until her name was called and the nurse led her into the operating theater.  I went to the cafeteria to get a Diet Coke, returned and opened my book.  About an hour later, a different nurse came out and called “Michael”.  It seemed like not enough time had passed, but, as I said, I am highly trained.  I grabbed my book and my soda and followed the nurse like a dutiful poodle toward the double-doors.  As we walked, she looked at me and my Diet Coke and said, “You know, we told you not to eat or drink anything this morning.”  Whoa, I said!  Stop!  I’m not having an operation.  I’m waiting for my wife.  Apparently, I was not the Michael she was looking for.  Boy, that was close.  If I hadn’t spoken out, they could have dragged me in and cut off my Slauson, or any other attractive body part they came across.  I understand why they can’t say your last name when they call you in the waiting room.  It has to do with privacy and HIPPA, as if sinister and subversive agents are skulking through the nation’s waiting rooms collecting the names of patients and exposing their vital information to a vindictive and curious world.  MICHAEL WENT TO THE EYE DOCTOR, I hear them scream.  Seriously, who gives a flying HIPPA?

 

This compulsion with secrecy and security is out of control.  How many passwords do you have?  Dozens?  Hundreds?  What are you afraid of?  That someone will steal your access to Candy Crush?  That someone will find out what songs you like?  That someone will find the picture of your vaccination card and use it to gain entrance to Barbra Streisand’s 19^th Farewell Concert?  Plus, with all those myriads of passwords, you have to write them all down somewhere, so all a thief has to do is find your list. Besides, creating an acceptable password nowadays is harder than getting into Stanford.  I tried to register a password the other day.  I started with something simple:

 

jetson

Sorry, that password is currently being used.

jetsonx

Sorry, your password must include a capital letter,

Jetsonx

Sorry, your password must be at least ten characters long.

Georgejetsonx

Sorry, your password must include at least two numbers.

Georgejetsonx123

Sorry, your password must include a punctuation mark.

Georgejetsonx123!

Sorry, your password must include an ampersand.

What? I’ve had it.  This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard and you can take your product and shove it up your ampersand!

Sorry, that password is currently being used.

 

Message from Shakespeare: I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than be one of the twenty (The Merchant of Venice).  I don’t have a password; I have a puss-word.  It’s called Meow, and as soon as I say it, Pops comes running to see what I want.  Talk about your Pavlov!  You know that Pavlov could only train silly, stupid dogs.  People don’t train cats.  Cats train people.  Meow!  And don’t you forget it.

 

If you’re so worried about your privacy, how can you possibly tolerate an Echo or Alexa in your house?  Whether it’s Dot or Siri or Echo or Alexa, you know those round little bitches are listening to every word you say and reporting it to anyone who will pay the price.  Just take my advice and don’t talk to anything short and round – including Dr. Ruth.  Especially Dr. Ruth!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well, avoiding Covid and protecting those passwords.  Let’s see, what else happened last week?  Well, I got my 4^th Pfizer booster.  My left arm now has more holes than Pebble Beach.  Did I need the booster?  Do I know what I’m doing?  Does anybody?  The answer to the first of those questions is I don’t know, and the last two questions – well, the short answer in NO and the long answer is HELL NO!  But, as it says in the Odyssey, “Zeus grants us this or that, or else refrains from granting, as he wills; all things are in his power”.  I guess that’s Greek for “it’s all in God’s hands.” 

 

I just welcomed you back and already it’s time to go.  I’ve used up my allotted words and am afraid if I keep talking, you’ll put me on mute.  But I’m saving some truly delectable words for you next week, so don’t be late.  Meanwhile, as it says in Don Quixote, “May God grant you health and not forget me.”  Stay well, count your blessings and memorize all 108 lines of The Raven by next week.  There’s going to be a pop quiz.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #253                                         January 13, 2022

 

“Somewhere in La Mancha, in a place whose name I do not care to remember, a gentleman lived.”

 

Many of you love classical music and opera and are thrilled by the iconic opening strains of your favorite works like Beethoven’s 5^th, Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue or even the William Tell Overture.  That’s how I feel about the familiar openings to classic books – In the beginning -- Call me Ishmael -- It was the best of times.  And, of course, the opening to Don Quixote which I quoted above.  Don Quixote is 500 years old, but it’s still exciting and vibrant and beautiful – just like my wife.  Except the 500-year-old part.  Oy, I’m in trouble now.  Don Quixote is my new side-book which I will read at the excruciatingly leisurely pace of four pages a day.  Since the book is 940 pages, I’ll get back to you sometime in September.  Until then just call me antiquated or call me strange.  Or call me Ishmael.

 

I got many comments from you wishing me a Happy New Year two weeks ago.  Thank you; I appreciated each one.  And by the way, I hope you didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions.  I like you just the way you are.  Then last week, I got even more comments wishing me a Happy Birthday.  Very heartwarming.  But now that New Year’s is over and my birthday is over, you don’t have any more reasons to send me comments.  I guess that means I’ll have to entertain you.  Let’s see what I can do. 

 

All your kind birthday wishes reminded me forcefully that I am getting old.  Don’t expect me to get funnier as I get older.  Aging is not an amusing exercise.  Aging means the hair stops growing on your head but begins growing on your ears like they were Chia Pets.  Aging means they’ve discontinued your blood type.  Aging means - - - now wait a second; it’s coming to me.  Oh, yeah, aging means you forget things.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Age, I do abhor thee. Youth, I do adore thee (The Passionate Pilgrim).  I wish that old man would stop talking about his age.  For every year he ages, I age seven years.  I’m almost three-years-old in people years now so that’s - - well, I was never good in math.  I had a math teacher once who told me to count my legs.  When I only got to three, he flunked me.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well, keeping warm and staying locked in your house in the closet under a blanket with two masks, gloves and combat boots.  What a revolting development this Covid is!  We don’t know what to do, what test to take, where to find the test, how long to quarantine or where to hide.  Plus, we have to learn Greek.

 

This Omicron sure is a spreader

And Delta was not any better

Long ago, a big sneeze

Meant we had a “disease”

Now it means that we have a Greek letter.

 

And even if we do go out, we’re afraid to touch anything, which brings back a strange memory of a night a couple of years ago when my wife and I went to a play.  At the end, as the standing ovation waned, she said to me, “I’m missing a shoe.”  I bent down and looked under my seat.  There was a shoe, and I picked it up and handed it to her.  “That’s not my shoe.”  What?  Am I at a play or a sale at Nordstrom’s?  She quickly found hers and I was left holding a red shoe.   What was I going to do with a red shoe?  Soon, of course, the shoe was claimed by a woman who I’m certain suffered from athlete’s foot, toe fungus, plantar fasciitis and warts.  And probably gout.  I gave the red shoe to the woman with a pleasant reminder that, “There’s no place like home.”  Then I drove home as fast as I could and scrubbed my hands in turpentine.  Why does it seem so disgusting to touch someone else’s shoes?  Can you get Covid by touching someone else’s shoes?

 

With all this coopedupedness, it’s even hard to tell what day it is, except that when Carol makes me pancakes, it must be Sunday.  As I was enjoying my delicious treat, I started to examine the syrup bottle, which said Pearl Milling Company.  It was the same size and shape as Aunt Jemima and it tasted the same, but there was no picture.  I scoured the bottle for an explanation until, on the back, shrouded in darkness, I noticed a miniscule, runic scrawl the size of an ant.  I got my reading glasses and borrowed the Hubble Telescope and slowly deciphered the phrase “Same great taste as Aunt Jemima’s.”  Shazam!  I knew it.  They’ve sent Aunt Jemima to the gulag.  And what about Uncle Ben’s Rice?  He’s gone too.  Now it’s Ben’s Original Rice and the box has no picture of poor Ben.  I realize the reason is that the images of Aunt Jemima and Uncle Ben were redolent of slavery and perceived as insulting and patronizing to African Americans.  I get it.

 

But my ever-fertile mind perceived another sinister reason that may possibly be behind all of this re-packaging.  The food industry has decided to discriminate against Aunts and Uncles.  The only thing they changed in the Uncle Ben’s name was to get rid of the word Uncle.  And why isn’t it Aunt Pearl Milling Company?  And what about Uncle Tom?  Pretty soon they’ll be eliminating Uncle Sam and Aunt Bee.  I wish they’d just let her Bee.  All you Aunts and Uncles out there should be thinking about changing your names to something gender-neutral and uncontroversial, like Cousin.  My Readers keep asking me how I think up all my material.  Sometimes, it’s as simple as having pancakes for breakfast.

 

The Weekly Word is runic which means having some secret or mysterious meaning.  I hope you enjoyed this week’s L. Oyster, packed as it is with runic undertones.  Please stay well, stay hidden in your closet and keep counting your blessings.  And though it’s never over till it’s over – it’s over.  See you next week.

 

Cousin Michael                        Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #252                                January 6, 2022

 

I have not seen a Marmatod in fourteen-hundred years.

A Marmatod is like an ox with feathers in its ears,

But somehow still it hears.

 

Well, it’s not really like an ox because it has four eyes,

A dozen antlers, sixteen legs, two flippers and it flies.

At least it really tries.

 

I think that I remember what a Marmatod has got,

But it’s been fourteen-hundred years and that is quite a lot,

So maybe I forgot.

 

That is probably my favorite poem.  It’s whimsical and silly and all the things that I’m not, at least on the surface.  On the surface I’m logical and organized and practical and dull.  But underneath, somewhere, is a Marmatod, writing poetry and trying to get the feathers out of his ears and looking for someone to play with.

 

Hi there. Wanna play?  Welcome back to Limerick Oyster.  I hope you are feeling well and ready for 2022.  At this time of year, young people hope that the new year will bring them wealth and fame and success and love.  People my age (as in people who remember The June Taylor Dancers) just hope that things don’t get any worse than they are now.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The miserable have no other medicine but only hope (Measure for Measure).  Well, I’m not miserable.  I have a great home and three good legs.  And my biggest hope for the new year is that Pops doesn’t travel very often.  I hate being alone.  And does “New Year” mean a person-year or a cat-year?  Purr.

 

We’re right in the middle of Awards Season now!  Oscar, Emmy, Grammy, Tony, Golden Globe, People’s Choice, Critic’s Choice, SAG.  It seems that every week there’s an extravaganza where societies of rich people give themselves awards.  Have you ever really looked at the audience at these award shows?  I certainly hope Nancy Pelosi and Elizabeth Warren are watching, because if they want to tax the rich, this is the place to be.  Prices are sky-rocketing; violence and poverty have infested every large American city, Covid is careering through the entire Greek alphabet.  But what do we see at these award shows?  A bunch of Barbie dolls strutting around in their Versaces and Jimmy Choos, signing $20 million contracts for their next movie, cable series or music video.  And when they accept their awards for being rich and skinny, or their awards for being ruthless and powerful, they always take the opportunity to tell us how to live our boring and normal lives.  They wouldn’t know what a normal life was if they ran over one with their Maserati. 

 

Our Weekly Word is careering, which means rushing around in a reckless and uncontrolled manner.  A lot of people use careening (with an “n”) instead, but that actually means tilting to one side.  And while I’m at it, the first two letters of the Greek alphabet are alpha and beta.  Put them together and you get alphabeta, so it’s easy to see where the word alphabet comes from.

 

I know you’re tired of listening to my medical stories, but there’s usually something amusing there.  For instance, I just went to see Dr. Doctor because my blood pressure was high.  I just love him because he cares about me and always asks the right questions.  His first question was:

 

Why are you taking your blood pressure at home?

I’ve been having headaches every afternoon and my wife says they could be caused by high blood pressure and she has a cuff, so she’s been taking it.

I have one of those at home too.

A cuff?

No, a wife.

 

That is word-for-word.  I didn’t know doctors could be so funny.  I giggled like one of the mice in Cinderella.  The bottom line is that he does not recommend taking BP at home because doctors are trained to do it the right way and the home cuffs are not really that good, so he increased my meds and told me to keep a log of my BP using the same home device he doesn’t like.  Go figure.

 

Movie Review:  We haven’t been to a movie in a very long time, but on New Year’s Eve we went to see American Underdog, the story of Kurt Warner, the hall-of-fame quarterback for the St. Louis Rams.  I don’t envision any Academy Awards here, but Warner is a sports god in St. Louis and we all loved the movie.  It’s a tear-jerking rags-to-riches story about a really good man who turned out to be a really great football player. Kind of like Rocky with shoulder pads.

 

After the movie, we met with friends for dinner and were home by 11:00.  As Bill Vaughn said, “Youth is when you are allowed to stay up late on New Year’s Eve. Middle age is when you are forced to.”  And old age, I might add, is when you just can’t.  Bill Vaughn, born in St. Louis, was a columnist for the Kansas City Star for more than thirty years.  Another one of his quotes describes this New Year’s Eve perfectly: An optimist stays up until midnight to see the new year in. A pessimist stays up to make sure the old one leaves.

 

Last week I got an email from something called Match Seniors – Meet Happy, Loyal Women.  A friend of mine, thinking loyalty was an important quality, tried this dating service for Seniors and found a great woman.  He told me all about her:

 

Her wit is as sharp as a knife

She’s a beautiful thing in my life

She makes my heart boil

And they say that she’s loyal

So maybe she won’t tell my wife.

 

In 2021, I read my 800^th book.  I made myself a promise in 1979 to read at least ten pages every day, and, except for that day twelve years ago when I was deader than Jimmy Hoffa, I have kept that promise.  Of course, I keep a list of everything I read.  I’m shooting for a thousand books, and I think I can make that in about seven more years.  Since tomorrow is my 76^th birthday, that would make me 83.  I expect to make it and I expect all you Loyal Readers to be right there with me. So count your blessings, count your books, stay well, and be back next week.  No excuses.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com