Blog #272                                May 26, 2022

 

My wife went out with some girlfriends for Cranky Hour.  They don’t call it that, of course.  They call it Happy Hour, or sometimes The Half-Price Is Right, but often it gets to be a little cantankerous.  For instance, they ordered the $11 dollar glass of wine which was $6 for Happy Hour, but the restaurant was out of that label and would not substitute a different one at the Happy Hour Price.  Who did they think they were dealing with, the Lennon Sisters?  These were four strong, insistent women who knew their rights.  They summoned the Assistant Manager, the Manager, the Regional Manager and three senior members of the legal staff, but all those high-powered restaurant execs were out-gunned.  As soon as the women reminded them of Johnnie Cochran’s famous line -- If the wine don’t pour, we’re out the door – the battle was won.  They got the best wine for the cheapest price. 

 

Congress is holding hearings on UAPs (Unidentified Aerial Phenomena) which we used to call UFOs (Unidentified Flying Objects).  The question is whether there exists extra-terrestrial life somewhere out there?  As a science-nerd, I know that most scientists would say yes.  But I’m curious to hear what religious leaders might answer.  It seems to say in the Bible that God created us all and apparently found no need to create other worlds because over and over again, we hear “and God saw that it was good.” 

 

Excuse me, God, but it was good?  You call this good?  School shootings, war and genocide, planet-wide pandemics, poverty, hatred, hunger, natural disasters, Johnnie Depp?  This is what You call good?  I need a Happy Hour!  Although I’m pretty sure it’s going to take more than an hour to make me happy.  And what would I get at my Happy Hour?  I don’t drink any alcohol, so I’d have to stick to the appetizers, like the Brussels Sprouts Sliders.  I’ll bet God never said that was good.  But, as long as I have you here, God, I do have one humble and respectful request:

 

You’ve created this world where we dwell

But there’s one thing I’d like to expel

It would really be good,

Dear God, if you would

Send Vladimir Putin to Hell.

 

Oy, now I’ve got God and the KGB after me.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying dry.  As I am writing this, it is pouring outside.  Carol hates rain.  Rain is anathema.  I’m not sure whether it’s a hair thing or that she’s related to the Wicked Witch of the West.  Maybe I shouldn’t have said that.  She is constantly tuned to at least one weather app so she can plan when to leave the house.  My oldest daughter is like that too.  We were on a vacation in North Carolina with Jennifer and her family and had stayed inside the whole night because Carol and Jennifer had determined that the forecasts were ominous.  It did not rain a drop.  Then the next morning, right after breakfast, the two of them, whom I had begun to refer to as Cloudy and Cher, were watching their electronic devices again.  “I think today is the day we should stay in the house; the forecast is 60% storms.”  While the Storm Sisters were thus preparing to ruin my day, I was on the porch where I could see a beautiful sunny sky with not a cloud in sight.

 

Anathema is a great Weekly Word.  It means someone or something intensely despised or loathed.  Like this whole Johnnie Depp and Amber Heard thing.  I’ve never heard two people call each other such horrible things – unless they were running for the Senate.  Are you not tired of these people and their fifty-million here and hundred-million there and she hit me first, no he hit me first?

 

And speaking of actors, I saw an ad for a new movie.  Amidst the lengthy and legally required cautions that accompany a PG-13 rating, I discovered the following words:  Thematic Material, Disturbing Images, Some Strong Language, And Historical Smoking.  I’ve never heard that Historical Smoking warning before, but someone has determined that smoking is bad for children to watch.  It’s probably bad for the actors as well.  I have always wondered why they have to show the actors smoking.  And don’t give me the argument about historical accuracy.  That didn’t seem to bother anybody when the show Hamilton made George Washington black.  And, by the way, they’re actors being paid millions of dollars to make us believe they are something that they’re not.  Ok, big-shot actors, make us believe you’re smoking.

 

And what about the stock market?  The Dow Jones is falling faster than the availability of baby formula.  God, are you listening?  You still think all this is good?  I’m sure God doesn’t think this blog is good, so I’d better shift to something lighter.  I have a great idea for my girl audience: Wardrobe History Tags.  Attached to the hanger holding that cute little black dress will hang one of my Wardrobe History Tags, a small, round, voice-analytic device.  We’ll call her Dressy.  When you pick out what you’re wearing tonight, just press the button and say, “Dressy, I’m going to Tony’s tonight with Fred and Ethel Mertz.”  Dressy will respond, “Hello, Carol.  You wore this dress to Tony’s last November, but you’ve never worn it with Fred and Ethel.  It’s ok to wear tonight.  Try those little black boots with the silver buckles.  The pink nail-polish will look fabulous!”  Or, it might say, “No, no, you wore that dress with the Mertzes two weeks ago.  I know Ethel; she’ll remember.  Wear that nice gray dress on Hanger #47.  Black flats.  And, take a sweater.  Tony’s sets its thermostat at 67^o.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  The apparel oft proclaims the man (Hamlet).  A cat has no apparel to pick out.  I have my own fur coat and the only thing I have to choose is what comfy place I’m going to nap on.  A cat’s life is easy.  Sorry, I’m leaving now to take a nap on the cat tree.  Purr.

 

Time to go.  I think I hear the KGB knocking.  Stay well, count your blessings and have a safe holiday weekend.  I’ll be back next week, unless they get me first.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #271                                May 19, 2022

 

I told you last week I was going to the Opera, and I did.  It was Puccini’s Turandot, and was a monumental and intricate performance.  I tried to concentrate on the plot, but there was one thing that really disturbed me: for hours, the tenor (there’s always a tenor) expounded with glorious musical talent upon the opera’s leitmotif, his unquenchable love of Turandot, who was the soprano (there’s always one of those too).  Turandot was a Chinese princess played by a Ukrainian diva singing in Italian.  No wonder it’s hard to keep track.  It was perfectly clear, however, that the tenor adored Turandot, even though she had the body of a small grain silo and the face of a portobello mushroom.  Ah, but love is blind, right?   Apparently, so are tenors.

 

Our Weekly Word is leitmotif which means a dominant and recurring theme.  I shall endeavor to make humor and good cheer the leitmotifs of today’s blog.  Hi there and welcome back.  What are you doing?  Watching the 9^th Hour of Hoda?  I swear she’s on TV more than that stupid Emu.  I hope you’re feeling well and stocking up on baby formula.  I remember, and this is a true story, Carol and I were shopping in a Sam’s or Costco somewhere.  Suddenly, she grabbed me by the elbow and said, “I want one of those!”  One of what? I replied.  She pointed to a man 18 aisles over who was carrying something on his shoulder, something big, something blue, but from that distance, I could not tell what it was.  “That!  Get me one,” she insisted.  Ok, I said.  What is it?  “I don’t know,” she replied, “but everybody’s got one.”  Sure enough, I looked around and there were other people with the big blue thing in their cart or on their shoulders, and even though she had no idea what it was, she wasn’t leaving the store without one.  I investigated and discovered that the big blue things were 36-roll packages of Charmin’s Ultra-Soft which were on sale.  We got two.  She was happy.  Later that day, I told her to embrace her mistakes – so she hugged me.

 

Last week, I told you that I was not a highbrow, didn’t have the gene for appreciating the symphony or opera.  “Call me a boor, call me Ishmael”, I wrote.  Some friends commented that I couldn’t be a boor and still quote “Call me Ishmael”, the opening line of Moby Dick.  In high school, I got a D in Miss Bowers’ English class because of Moby Dick.  It was the only D that I ever received.  As a freshman in college, I got an A+ in English Literature, so I took the grade report back to Miss Bowers just to show her how wrong she had been.  She had forgotten who I was.  Did you know that Starbucks was named after a character in Moby Dick?  I have read Moby Dick six times.  Call me Ridiculous!

 

I am so fed up with this cough that I don’t know what to do.  I am trying to ignore it by proceeding with my normal schedule.  I took my daily walk, during which I talked with my daughter Jennifer.  She told me that to get my mind off the cough, I should just splurge, treat myself to anything and everything that will make me happy.  She suggested the following:

 

·        Cheat on your diet.  I’m not on a diet.  I eat anything I want.

·        Read a good book.  I’m already reading a good book – Billy Summers by Stephen King.  Do you think I sit around looking for bad books to read?

·        Be with people you like.  I like being with my wife; she’s right over there watching television, reading a book and playing bridge online.  And I like being with my friends.

·        Have a glass of wine.  There is not one thing in this world that could persuade me to take a drink.

·        Go to the Opera.  I’d rather cough.

 

So I guess there’s nothing I would treat myself to that I’m not already doing.  I suppose that makes me about the luckiest man around.

 

Those things that would brighten my day

Are the things that I do anyway

I’m a fortunate dude

And don’t need a new mood

As long as my cough goes away.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Those that are betray’d do feel the treason sharply (Cymbeline).  What am I?  Chopped cat liver?  He raves about his books and his wife and his friends, but do any of them curl up on his lap and purr?  Well, maybe one or two of his friends.  But not as well as I do.  He should have mentioned me.  Purr.

 

I finally convinced my doctor to prescribe an antibiotic for the cough and I looked it up online to check out the side effects.  Here’s what I found – dizziness, drowsiness, weakness, tired feeling, blurred vision, headache, strong cravings for McDonald’s in the morning and a strange compulsion to read Moby Dick.  I’m pretty sure I can handle it.

 

I will add the new pill to my already impressive menu of pills, capsules, ointments, salves, nose sprays, lotions, potions and gels.  I have carefully categorized pill-takers into four groups. The groups are Free Lance, Organized, Anal and Screwball.   Free Lance includes those of you who simply know what pills to take and when to take them.  Organized pill-takers need some additional help and use a pill box with seven compartments marked with each day of the week.  Anal pill-takers – you know, maybe that’s a poor choice.   By anal, I don’t mean suppositories; I mean someone who makes sure the oven is off before leaving the house – five times.  Or someone who goes to McDonald’s every single morning.   Anal pill-takers have a pill box with fourteen compartments so the medicines can be split between a.m. and p.m.

 

And then there is the Screwball category which includes me.  I just fill each compartment with one kind of pill.  When it’s time to take pills, I open them all.  I still think a great parlor game would be for each person to write down all his or her pills on a piece of paper and throw it into a pile.  One list would be chosen at random and everybody would guess who it belonged to.  We’d call it Who Wants to Be a Pillionaire?  Kind of like Colonel Mustard in the Kitchen with the Stool Softener.  

 

Alright, that’s enough merriment for one week.  May you have wonderful days and crisp clean nights.  May your troubles be light and your delights many, and may you have peace and happiness all week long.  Sounds wonderful, doesn’t it?  Hell, I’d settle for the whole week to go by without getting beaten up by Will Smith.  Stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Ridiculous                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #270                                May 12, 2022

 

I have been doing all the grocery shopping since Covid arrived.  I enjoy it; it’s my version of “hunting and gathering”.  But I think the stores should be planned better.  I’m developing a plan for grocery stores that arranges the items by age.  Aisle 1 for young parents; Aisle 2 for parents of teenagers, etc.

 

Aisle 1 (age 20-35) – Diapers, formula, oatmeal, wine

Aisle 2 (age 35-50) – Cereal, ice cream, soda, anxiety medication, wine

Aisle 3 (age 50-65) – Diet soda, low-fat ice cream, anti-depressants, wine

Aisle 4 (age 65-80) – Caffeine-free diet soda, yogurt, fiber pills, wine

Aisle 5 (age 80+)  – Ensure, Depends, stool softener, cheap wine

 

Don’t you think that would make life easier?  You could even make the store circular, because Aisle 5 looks a lot like Aisle 1.

 

First diapers and oatmeal and then

The stuff for a child of ten

You’ll pass low-fat food

And finally conclude

With oatmeal and diapers again.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Did you have a nice Mother’s Day?  A lady named Mildred Vermont said, “Being a full-time mother is one of the highest salaried jobs in the world, since the payment is pure love.”  I hope you all are feeling well.  I was a bit under the weather most of last week.  I’m pretty sure it was a cold – cough, sneeze, runny nose.  I didn’t have a fever, but I took a COVID test, twice.  Both were negative.  I discovered a few things though.  The first thing I discovered was that chicken soup doesn’t do shit.  I ate chicken soup with vegetables, chicken soup with chicken, chicken noodle soup, chicken gumbo.  I tried them all and they were all good, but they did nothing for my symptoms.  I think this whole thing about chicken soup’s palliative powers was made up by Jewish mothers trying to ensure their sons’ meekness and dependence upon them.  “If I weren’t here,” they warn, “who would make chicken soup for you?”  And if you let them get away with this fake-news power grab, then they had you by the matzo balls.  Next, they would start working you over with other myths:

 

·        You can’t wear white after Labor Day.

·        Your socks have to match (I never saw the purpose of that).

·        If you go out without a coat, you’ll catch your death.

·        You can only date a nice, Jewish girl.

 

All a teenaged boy ever wanted was a girl who would put out like a Pez Dispenser.  We didn’t really care about her religious leanings, her mental acuity or how her chicken soup tasted. 

 

The other thing I learned during my self-quarantine was how nice it was to sit in a comfortable chair with a blanket on my lap, a Stephen King in my left hand and a Shakespeare in my right.  Nothing better than a good book and a good cat.  Except maybe that Pez Dispenser.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Knowing I lov’d my books, he furnish’d me with volumes that I prize above my dukedom (The Tempest).  My favorite thing is to sit on Pop’s lap while he’s reading.  He’s warm and he strokes my neck.  But he can only last for 15 minutes.  Then he loses interest, slides me off his lap and goes back to writing his stupid blogs.  He may be warm, but he’s weird.  Purr.

 

I was never a fan of the Opera or the Symphony.  Call me low-class, call me a boor, call me Ishmael.  I went to the Opera last night.  Now obviously, I have had to write this blog long before Wednesday night, so, as I write to you now, I haven’t been there yet.  I go because a friend of mine loves the Opera and gathers a few guys to go once or twice a year.  I like the friend, so I go.  This will be my seventh adventure into operaland, and I truthfully cannot say I’ve ever considered it glorious entertainment.  I used to think I was just a plebian with low-class tastes. (Except in women, of course.  Oy, and I love your chicken soup too, Honey.)  But lately, as I’ve come to understand myself better in my senior years, I think it’s some form of ADD.  No matter how elegant and talented the performers are, I get bored listening to a bunch of Italians singing their meatballs off for four hours.  According to the translation, the Italian women sound just like my mother: “If I weren’t here, who would make meatballs for you?”

 

I lose interest.  Maybe that’s why I don’t go to the Symphony.  Maybe that’s why I’m not a big lover of golf.  Maybe that’s why I can’t watch an entire baseball game.  They all take too long!  And maybe that’s why I push poor Shakespeare off my lap after fifteen minutes.

 

By the way, our Weekly Word is palliative, which means a treatment that relieves the symptoms of a disease or disorder without curing it.

 

You’ve likely read books about Victorian England or watched Downton Abbey, and you probably noticed that, for dinner, the Lady of the house would take particular care with the seating arrangements.  The Duke must sit next to the Ambassador’s wife, the Count next to the American cellist, the Marquis next to the Duchess, the French Ambassador next to Lady Asbury.  Always male-female-male-female.  This week we went out for dinner with four other couples and the seating arrangements were as expected: all five duchesses sat together at whatever side of the table they deemed superior after which their loyal footmen occupied the other side.  The server was instructed as to which woman belonged with which man and which women wanted water with no ice.  And that was that.

 

So what did the five abandoned men talk about for 2½ hours after being made to feel as useful as Dave Chappelle’s bodyguard?  Much of the conversation was taken up with a detailed discussion of how best to open the often-sticky checkout bags at Walmart and wasn’t it helpful that the produce bags at grocery stores had an arrow and an OPEN THIS END notice on the bag.  It was pathetic!  No wonder the women didn’t want to sit near us.  And no wonder you want to stop reading now and go do something important, like WORDLE.  Stay well, my people, and count your blessings.  I’ll see you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #269                                         May 5, 2022

 

Do I look Italian?  I was standing in line at Best Buy when I felt a tap on the shoulder.  “Are you Italian?” said the white-haired gentleman behind me.  I told him I was not.  For those of you who don’t know what I look like, I am a stunningly attractive man.  For those of you who do know what I look like, hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and know how to keep your mouth shut.  When I had finished checking out, I turned around and said arrivederci to the nice man.  Do you think I look Italian?

 

I’ve lost my wife.  I thought it would be to a rich, handsome, debonair dude with a good sense of humor, an addiction to The View and a love of round tables.  Maybe an Italian.   But no – I’ve lost her to the world of electronic communication.  Her smart phone talks to her iPad; her iPad talks to her Apple Watch and her Apple Watch talks to her phone.  Nobody talks to me.  Her triumvirate of devices tells her everything she needs.  She can talk to her friends, get the weather, play Wordle, Bridge and Canasta.  She can read books and get very important alerts, like the one we got at midnight recently.  “Cher’s Birthday” it said.  Good to know.  She has an app to tell her how many steps she has taken, where the nearest toilet is, or the nearest Vietnamese woman with a nail file.  She has a different ring-tone for every person in the Western Hemisphere.  I cannot compete.

 

It all makes me feel as useless as a snake trying to ride a bicycle.  Or a guy who is fluent in Aztec.  Or a man who repairs typewriters.  Or Donald Trump’s humility coach.  I no longer have a purpose.

 

Unless she needs a banana.  “I need a banana,” she said.  “Thou art indeed fortunate, fair Princess,” I replied, echoing Don Quixote. “I am he for whom are reserved grave dangers, great deeds and valiant feats.”  Damn, that book will take me forever.  I grabbed my sword and shield and headed out into the cruel world to find a banana.  You would think that would be a simple task, but you would be wrong.  I drove to my nearest grocery and located a suitable banana, one with a little green so that it would be fully yellow by tomorrow.  This was not my first banana!  Then it began to get complicated.  The store had very few checkers because it is apparently bad for you to actually interact with a live person, and the few checkers that were available had lines of people waiting with full shopping carts.  I had one banana.

 

I went to the self-checkout where it took me several button-pressings to convince the machine that it was indeed a banana that I was weighing and not a miniature chihuahua.  The entire purchase amounted to 24 cents.  Then the machine began to interrogate me as thoroughly as if I were a newly-arrived prisoner at Guantanamo Bay.  No, I do not have any coupons.  It’s one banana.  Yes, I have a shopper’s rewards number.  I entered that.  Yes, I would like to pay cash.  The machine did not accept cash.  I was forced to use a credit card, for which I had to enter my password, my pin number and the name of my first pet.  I could have grown a banana in less time.  Why is everything nowadays so complicated?  But I persevered, completed the valiant feat and carried the trophy home to my Princess.  “Thank you, Honey,” she said.  “Was it hard buying the banana?”  No, I said, piece of cake.

 

But that wasn’t the real excitement of the week.  The real excitement was that my 16-year-old granddaughter in North Carolina went to her prom.  This was occasion for my wife, the self-appointed Doyen of Prom, to butt in, wheedle, cajole and otherwise insinuate herself into every aspect of the event.  She wanted to know the boy’s height, weight, IQ, shoe size and every detail of his family history since the Mesozoic Era.  Her expertise was indispensable, she felt, in choosing the boy’s boutonniere, our granddaughter’s shoes, her makeup and, most important, the dress.  Being a chicken-raising family, they had chosen from the highest echelons of chicken-related designers like Oscar de la Henta, Egg-scada and Tommy Chickenfinger.  (You knew that was coming.)  They chose two dresses and my granddaughter tried them on for us at Passover upon which I gave her my frank opinion: 

 

In any dress, you are a looker

But this choice is a big pressure-cooker

In the first one you wore

You’re the Sweet Girl Next Door

In the other one you’re the Town Hooker.

 

Well, it was red, tight-fitting and slit up to her earrings.  She chose the hooker dress.  What girl wouldn’t?  She looked absolutely dynamite! 

 

The one who was the most tense throughout this whole ordeal was my daughter, the mother of the little hooker.  Henny Youngman said, “Adolescence is a period of rapid changes.  Between the ages of twelve and seventeen, a parent ages as much as twenty years.”

 

It's May already and golf season is getting into full swing.  Ah, the wonderful game of golf in the great outdoors.  The indigenous trees, the beautiful grass, the placid lakes, the mosquitoes carrying West Nile Virus, the ticks carrying Lyme Disease, the brown recluse spiders, the poison ivy, poison oak and poison sumac, the pesticide coughs and herbicide rashes.  What a wonderful game!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  How hard it is to hide the sparks of nature (Cymbeline).  I never get to go outside.  Nature, to me, is looking out a window at the birds.  On the other hand, I never get too hot or too cold or wet or get hit by lightning.  The last time I went outside, I was hit by a car. I’ll be very happy to stay inside.  Purr. 

 

Oh, oh – it’s time to go.  The Doyen needs another banana.  A Doyen (Weekly Word) is the most respected or prominent person (usually a woman) in a particular field.  And bananas grow in a field.  There you go!  Oy, it’s definitely time to go.  Please stay well, count your blessings and pray for Ukraine.  See you next week,

 

Michelangelo                                     Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com