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