Blog #277                                         June 30, 2022

 

Do you like dogs?  I like dogs.  On my last trip to North Carolina, I took one of my daughter’s dogs to my granddaughter’s soccer game.  There were lots of dog-people there and the routine is always the same.  My dog sniffs your dog; your dog sniffs my dog and then we exchange breeds.  Mine is an Australian Shepherd kind of mutt, I volunteered.  She’s a rescue dog.  “Oh, mine is a Gerberian Shepsky,” the haughty, short-haired woman replied.  A Gerberian WHATSKY?  Is that the name of a dog or a hockey goalie?  “A dog,” she replied without the slightest display of a sense of humor, “It’s a mix of a German Shepherd and a Siberian Husky.”

 

Well, excuuuuuse moi!  You know, it used to be we’d show off our wealth with an expensive purchase, a Porsche 911 or a cute little Judith Leiber clutch.  Now the glitterati among us show their hifalutin bona fides by mixing up a batch of doggie genes in a blender, and when they blend the dogs, they blend the names.  No longer do they have collies or poodles or cocker spaniels.  Now they have Yoranians, Chiweenies and Double Doodles.  They have Cockapoos, Corgipoos and Labradoodles.  They have Bassadors, Cavapoochons and Pitt Plotts.  These are real.  How could I make these up?  Now, instead of hearing “Hi, what a cute dog”, I hear “Would your Double Doodle like to sniff my Chiweenie?”  I just want to go up to these people and scream, “Kiss my Bassador!  Save the three thousand bucks you paid for that high-priced hound and adopt a rescue dog.”  And Cockapoos?  I haven’t heard that since I was toilet-training my first grandchild.  A chiweenie, by the by, is a cross between a Chihuahua and a dachshund.  You should have known that.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  My hounds are bred of the Spartan kind (A Midsummer Night’s Dream).  I’m a cross between a lion and a female dog.  I guess that makes me a lion son of a bitch.  But I would never lie to you.  Purr. 

 

It's strange that I used the name Judith Leiber before, because I remember somehow that she passed away a few years ago at the age of 97.  I wonder if they buried her in a tiny, little heart-shaped coffin covered in rhinestones.  I bet they did.

 

Do you feel smart today?  Do you feel like Sherlock?  If you said “Sherlock who”, skip this section.  That’s right. It’s time for more questions from my Address Quiz.

This will be our third week, and the questions are getting harder.  These addresses are from song lyrics.  Are you ready?

 

1.     What is down at the end of lonely street?

2.     What did Madame Ruth sell at the corner of 34^th & Vine?

3.     Where are there a barber showing photographs and a fireman with an hourglass?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Did you realize that 2022 is half over?  Most of us probably wish it had never started.  War, inflation, gasoline, guns, abortions!  I feel like I’m being pushed around by all these forces I can’t control.  As Robert Brault said, what you discover about life’s shell game is that it’s hardest to follow the pea when you’re the pea.

 

I hope you’re feeling well, at least, and learning how to deal with this inflation we’re experiencing.  It’s becoming very expensive to fill up nowadays, and I don’t mean gasoline.  My McDonald’s has just raised the price of a Diet Coke from $1.00 to $1.18.  (For those of you who think a polynomial is a kind of parrot, that’s an increase of 18%.)  Inflation has made everything go up, including my golf score.  I played nine holes of golf this week, one hole like Tiger Woods and eight holes like Stevie Wonder.  And the Dollar Tree is depressing, watching the containers getting smaller and smaller.  Today I bought a bottle of laundry detergent the size of a ChapStick. 

 

Answers:

 

1.     At the end of Lonely Street was Heartbreak Hotel.

2.     Madame Ruth was selling Love Potion #9

3.     The barber and the fireman were on Penny Lane.

 

Saturday is Carol’s birthday.  I gave her my present early.  It was a framed picture of me.  She examined the frame, took out the picture and replaced it with a mirror.  Who can blame her?  Who would you rather look at?  So I took the picture, folded it up and safety-pinned it to the inside of that cute little dress I’m pretty sure she’ll wear to her second wedding once I’m gone.  When that time comes, she’ll take the dress off the hangar, find the photo and unfold it.  “I remember him,” she’ll say.  “He used to write limericks.” Yes, I did.  And I shall continue, until they put me in that little heart-shaped coffin with the rhinestones.  I made that all up, of course. Carol would never replace a picture of me with a mirror.  Would she?  Would you, Honey?  Maybe I should have saved the effort and just buy her a mirror.  Happy Birthday, Sweetheart.  I love you.

 

Alert the media, notify the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund – my wife has learned to Venmo and can now instantaneously scatter money anywhere across the occupied Universe.  So be alert; you may soon become a happy recipient of her electronic largesse.   That should be our Weekly Word, largesse, which means gratitude shown by giving lavish gifts.  But you won’t get any from me! 

 

You go to Venmo and unlock it

Then send out your funds like a rocket

But do I Venmo?

The answer is no

I’m keeping my cash in my pocket.

 

I eschew the digital world whenever I can and refuse to disseminate anything electronically other than to send you my blog every week.  That’s because I’m a confirmed stick-in-the mud who clings to the old ways.  There’s an old maxim that says “willingness to change is a sign of maturity and excellent mental health.”.  Well, I have the maturity of day-old bread and the mental health of a Crab Rangoon, so I guess I’ll just stick to my old habits.  Like saying stay well, count your blessings and stop playing with your Chiweenie!  See you next week.  Enjoy the Fourth of July, buy a sectional.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #276                                June 23, 2022

 

$62.00.  Sixty-two dollars.  Sesenta y dos dólares.  六十二美元

 

However you say it, that’s how much it cost to fill my wife’s tank this morning.  Well, it’s not actually Carol’s tank.  It’s the tank of her car, but you were probably not confused.  It is becoming impossible to live in this country for people who were just getting by only a few months ago.  In January of 2021, the Dow Jones Industrial Average was about $35,100 and the average price of gasoline was $2.38 per gallon.  If you took a little share of your nest egg, based on the Dow, say you took $35.10, you could buy 14.7 gallons of gas.  Today, with the Dow at $30,700 and gas at $5.01, you could take the same share of your nest egg ($30.70) and buy only 6.1 gallons of gas.

 

What in God’s green universe is this senescent old lunatic talking about with all those numbers that we don’t understand?

 

It means that your ability to fill up your tank with gas has gone down 59%.  And expecting our politicians to do anything about it is “like asking pears of an elm tree” (Don Quixote).

 

I was complaining about all this inflation and financial angst to Dr. Doctor as I was getting my physical.  He told me not to worry about money.  What’s important, he emphasized, was that even though I was showing my age I was the picture of health. 

 

I went to the doctor today

He said, “Everything is ok.

“Just forget about wealth;

“You’re the picture of health

“But the picture is Dorian Gray.”

 

Ugh, now he’s talking about some ancient book they wanted me to read in high school, but I read the Cliff Notes instead.  And quoting Don Quixote.  When is he going to talk about something we understand?

 

Hi there and welcome back, you gluttons for punishment.  I’m so glad you’re here and hoping you are well and happy.  I apologize for all the math and Dorian Gray crap.  Last week, in commemoration of Father’s Day, I told you a little about my Dad, but on Father’s Day I thought about my grandfathers too.  Do you remember your grandfathers?  My mother’s father didn’t like children, and I don’t remember ever getting a hug from him in the 21 years I knew him.  But my father’s father took me to the Zoo.  His name was Ben Fox; I called him Papa.  We would walk around the Zoo hunting for tigers and throwing popcorn to the fish in the lakes and eating hotdogs.  I was working at that same Zoo this week when a tourist asked me a question.  I get hundreds of questions, but I’ve never had this one before.  “Where are the foxes,” she asked.  My response: “There’s only one fox in the Zoo and you’re looking at him.”  Then I sent her to the African Painted Dogs. When I work at the Zoo, dressed in my green sash and handing out maps, I run into lots of different people.  Here are a few examples:

 

·        The Amish.  They always come in a group of a dozen or more, all dressed in their distinctive attire.  If I approach to offer my help, the main man confronts me.  He will instantly and gruffly refuse my offer of directions.  No-one else in the group will look at me or speak.  There’s a lesson to be learned by his clan – never speak to an old man wearing a Girl Scout sash.

·        The Married Couple.  The wife points to me, turns to her husband and says, “Go get a map.”  Lesson to be learned by the husband – do what your wife tells you or she will feed you to the hyenas.

·        The Unmarried Couple.  When I ask if they would like a map, the man says no and walks on by.  The woman follows with her head lowered.  Lesson for the woman – get rid of this control-freak loser and find a pleasant man who does what you want, someone nice, like the Girl Scout guy.

·        The Woman with Three Children.  She takes one map and, when her children cry that they each want a colorful map with the pictures of cute animals, she says, “No, one is enough.”  Lesson for the children – your mother is a bitch.  You should have let your father have custody.

 

Ok, time for some more questions about addresses:

 

1.     Who lives at No. 10 Downing Street?

2.     Who lived in the cupboard under the stairs, 4 Privet Dr?

3.     Who lives at Wayne Manor, Gotham City?

 

The Tony Awards were on last week.  I thought the Award Season had ended when JLo received the ICON Award.  ICON, according to JLO stood for I Can Overcome Negativity.  To me, listening to one of the most beautiful, most talented and richest women in the world advising us not to worry about negativity is kind of like having LeBron James telling us not to be depressed if we’re short.

 

Speaking of acronyms, I have discovered an organization whose name needs to be revamped -- The National Association for the Advancement of Colored People (NAACP).   It’s about time, I believe, to change the “colored people” designation to “African Americans”.  Don’t you agree?  That will make it the National Association for the Advancement of African Americans (NAAAA).  The N Double-A Double-A.  It’s still a catchy name, and I sent a letter to the organization asking if they’d like to make the change.  Their answer was “Naaaa”.   Well, I tried.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I have my own Anagrammatic Association.  It’s called ANIMAL, and stands for: Anyone Notice I’m Missing A Leg?  That poet guy said, All the water in the ocean can never turn the swan’s black legs to white (Titus Andronicus).  I can never understand what he’s talking about.  Who gave him my name anyway?  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is senescent, which means old and deteriorating.  You’re not too senescent to do the quiz, are you?  Here are the answers:

 

1.     Downing Street?  The Prime Minister of England.

2.     Under the stairs?  Harry Potter.

3.     Wayne Manor?  Batman.

 

You’re getting better.  Next week, we’ll get some tougher questions.  Study up.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and visit the Zoo.  Look for me.  I’ll be the one wearing a Girl-Scout sash.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog #275                                June 16, 2022

 

Happy Father’s Day to all you happy fathers out there.  I wonder if there’s a Sad Father’s Day.  I hope not.  I was lucky enough to have my father past his 96^th birthday.  He was a good man, a polite and chivalrous man and a proud man.  In his later years, blind and in a wheelchair, he was not able to do certain things, among them tying his shoes.  He was resigned to having his nurses do these things for him, but when I offered to tie his shoes one time, he balked.  He was too proud to admit needing help from his son.  I talked him out of that feeling by reminding him he had done the same for me.

 

Now tying your shoes is a chore

If you’re 90 or if you are four

You taught me a knot

When I was a tot

I’m glad I can even the score.

 

I am basically a mild-mannered man, calm and generally imperturbable.  I am sitting at my desk right now – FREAKED OUT!  A few seconds ago, as I was writing that limerick, I felt a little tickle on my neck.  I rubbed it away, assuming it was the label of my shirt.  But then I felt it on my arm and looked down.  It was a spider.  It was not a large spider, not a particularly ugly spider and most likely not a pernicious creature.  But it was a spider.  I am not afraid of snakes, barking dogs, Ethiopian medicine men or live tuna.  In fact, there are only two things I fear – spiders and linen.  I love all God’s creatures, except that spider, which I crushed in a paper napkin and threw in the trash.  I’m feeling better now.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I trust you are feeling well.  I hope it’s not one of those days for you.  You know what I mean, a day when everything is wrong, hopeless or broken.  When gas prices are higher than Don King’s hair and the stock market is lower than Dr. Ruth’s navel.  It’s not fun watching your nest-egg getting poached, is it?  I’m feeling it too.  Maybe it’s just my weekly angst over finding something that will entertain you.  I mean it’s been 275 weeks and often I worry where the next thought is coming from.  Two hundred seventy-five weeks!  That’s longer than any of JLo’s husbands lasted.

 

But I decided not to worry.  Worry is like a rocking chair – it’s something to do, but it doesn’t get you anywhere.  Besides, I’ve come to feel confident that some bizarre concoction of insanity and foolishness will pop out of my strange head if I squeeze hard enough.  Let’s see what’s hiding up there.  How about assassinations?

 

Do you remember John Hinckley, Jr?  In 1981, Hinckley shot President Ronald Reagan in the chest.  Hinckley has now been unconditionally released from any confinement and will join in glorious freedom both Squeaky Fromme and Sara Jane Moore who, on different occasions, assaulted President Ford with guns.  They now compose the infamous triumvirate of the only three living persons who have attempted to assassinate a President and who are all free and could be sitting next to you in a movie theater or at Starbuck’s.  This country does not have a crime problem; it has a punishment problem.  Hinckley was never even convicted of a crime because he was deemed to be insane.  In my opinion, anyone who tries to assassinate the President or slaughter children in a school is insane, which ensures that they will never be convicted of the crime – because they’re insane!  Remember Catch 22?  Well, this must be Catch 23.  Does it make us feel better, more humane, more loving and compassionate as a society to know that three people who have fired guns at the President of the United States are roaming around free to sit in the bleachers of your grandson’s baseball game?  Or does it make us feel ridiculous and helpless?

 

How about a quiz?  That should cheer us all up.  I’ll just give you three questions today, all about addresses.

 

1.     Who lives at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave?

2.     Who lives at 124 Conch Street, Bikini Bottom?

3.     Who lives at 221 B Baker Street?

 

Answers later.  If you do well, I’ll give you more next week.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  And who lives on the porch?  I do.  Although I can go anywhere in the house, the porch has windows to look at the birds and lots of sunshine.  The other place I like is on Pops’ lap when he’s reading.  Life is good.  Purr. Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe (The Taming of the Shrew).

 

Are you staying busy?  I have been busy renewing our passports, which expire in December.  There were forms to fill out, photos to get, checks to write.  And even though we have no plans to leave the United States, I think it is wise to have a valid passport.  You never know what might happen:

 

·        I might win the Noble Prize for Limericks and be required to travel to Stockholm.

·        California might one day succeed in seceding from the United States, and I would need a passport to visit the Western Foxes.

·        My daughters might decide to take me on a year-long cruise around the world.

·        Carol might be invited to the King Arthur Exposition in London to advise them on round tables.  Every time we go out to dinner, it is a night at a round table.

·        Besides, the hairdo in her passport picture from ten years ago was out of style.

 

Ok, I think that’s enough various and sundry persiflage for one week.  What?  Persiflage.  It means light and contemptuous mockery or banter.  What a great Weekly Word.  I do have some answers for you to the addresses above:

 

1.     The President of the United States

2.     Sponge Bob Square Pants

3.     Sherlock Holmes

 

Tuesday was my lucky day.   I arrived at McDonald’s, sat down with my Diet Coke and started WORDLE.  I always begin with ATONE and, believe it or not,  that was Tuesday’s word. Amazing!  There are 12,972 five-letter words in the Wordle Dictionary, so my word should come up again in another 35½ years.  I can wait.  Can you?  While you’re waiting, count your blessings and stay well.  And think about your father.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #274                                June 9, 2022

 

Do you know the difference between someone who is weird and someone who is a hermit?  A hermit carries a sign around with him that says DO NOT DISTURB.  A weird person carries one that says ALREADY DISTURBED.  I try to carry one of each.  You can always find us weird guys at McDonald’s in the morning.  Here’s who I saw today.  These are real people.

 

·        Little Man:  He’s 4’6”, Hispanic, speaks no English, eats an Egg McMuffin.

·        Clean Man:  Wipes his table down with a pertinacious zeal that is mesmerizing, leaning over to get within an inch of little spots that he wipes aggressively with wet napkins.  He continues to find new spots as he eats his sandwich.

·        Loud Man:  Always at the same table with the same computer and the same headphones talking to someone in a loud voice as if he thought the rest of us couldn’t hear him.

·        Blog Man:  Reads his book, always has his Diet Coke, always does his Wordle, always looking at everybody else as if he were collecting stuff to write a blog about.

 

There are more.  None of us has ever said a word to the others.  Maybe a nod once in a while.  There are two aspects to being a hermit -- one, you want to be alone; two, who the hell wants to be with you anyway? 

 

Do you remember Elizabeth II, Queen of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland?  Last week she celebrated 70 years of reign, and we here in the Colonies have just been going ape.  Kate is so this and Meghan is so that and the children are adorable and look at her dress and on and on and on.  Didn’t we fight a war to get rid of that family?  Haven’t we outgrown the adoration of foreign royalty? Didn’t we make George III the only white character in Hamilton to emphasize how much we hated him?  I don’t get it.  We don’t need royalty in this country.  We have Johnny Depp and Kim Kardashian.

 

I visited Dr. Retina this week – no shots; I’m cured.  On the plexiglass separating me from the receptionist was a sign informing us that anyone verbally or physically abusing an employee will be ejected and prosecuted.  I said to the receptionist, “Wow, this must be a tough job.  What’s that all about?”  People who don’t want to wear masks cause lots of trouble, she said.  Geesh, what a world!

 

And now we don’t even have enough lifeguards.  Honestly, this country is becoming more dysfunctional by the minute.  But I have a simple solution to the lifeguard problem: any immigrant who sneaks into the country by swimming across the Rio Grande should instantly be certified as a lifeguard and given a job.  What a spectacular example of the American Dream!

 

We’ll give you some shades and a Speedo

Some chips and a breakfast burrito

Won’t need a Green Card

When you’re a lifeguard

At a country club south of Toledo.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and not feeling as depressed and disappointed as Amber Heard’s lawyers.  Here’s another thing I’m riled up about: Motel 41, Room 150 in Evansville, Indiana.  Do you remember the tall escaped convict and the little blond guard who recently helped him escape?  They were Casey White and Vicky White, and in their Bonnie and Clyde flight across America, they stayed at Motel 41, Room 150 in Evansville.  And now, believe it or not, that room is booked solid for months in advance by people just itching to revel in the aura of those disgusting examples of White trash (they were both named White; get it?)  I know we’re all trying to figure out how to red-flag potential killers.  I’d start with the guest list for that room.

 

Let’s shift to something fun and exciting, like baseball – the hitting, the running, the spitting.  What’s with the oral fixation of American baseball players?  And by American, I mean the Dominicans, Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Venezuelans, Koreans and Japanese who make up most of the American National Pastime.  They spit, they chew, they expectorate.  They fill their mouths with nuts, gum, tobacco, candy and pebbles and constantly and noisily pollute the dugouts and the field with filth.  Am I over-reacting?  It’s disgusting.  Basketball players don’t spit.  Football players don’t spit.  Bowlers don’t spit.  Teachers don’t spit on the classroom floor.  My rabbi doesn’t spit.  Even the announcers are commenting on the action:  Yadier Molina just set the new record for spitting forty-two bags of polly seeds onto home plate during a nine-inning game.   It’s disgusting!  Did I say that already? 

 

Polly seeds, for those of you who are too young to remember Foghorn Leghorn, are what we used to call sunflower seeds.  Urban Dictionary, another electronic resource no human being can do without, suggests the name came from the fact that parrots eat sunflower seeds and all parrots are named Polly. 

 

I had a friend who bought a parrot.  On the first day, the bird said a dirty word and, as punishment, my friend stuck the bird in the freezer for twenty minutes.  When she took the bird out, it shivered uncontrollably and said, “I’m so sorry.  I’ll never say a bad word again.  But let me ask you something -- what did that poor chicken say?”

 

Message from Shakespeare: Foul words is but foul wind (Much Ado About Nothing).      I never say bad words, only meow and purr, so Pops will never punish me for that.  I do scratch his arm once in a while, but he loves me anyway.  What a pushover!  Purr.

 

Movie Review:  Top Gun – Maverick was good.  Not the greatest movie ever, but a rip-roarin’ action flick with a large and well-done performance by Tom Cruise.

 

Our Weekly Word today is pertinacious, which means holding tenaciously to a fixed purpose.  And my fixed purpose now is to make sure you stay well, count your blessings and come back next week.  There might be another parrot joke.

 

Michael                                   

 

Another week without mentioning my wife, but I haven’t forgotten how much I love her.  Saturday is our 55^th Wedding Anniversary.  If you’d like to send congratulatory wishes, please write them on the signature line of a deed to a 40-acre ranch in Napa Valley and forward an image to

 

mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #273                                         June 2, 2022

 

I hate when people don’t hold the door open for me.  It’s just common courtesy to hold the door open for the next person.  Didn’t your mother teach you anything?  Today someone held the door open for me.  He was 55 or 60-ish.  He looked at my gray hair and my face, held the door and said, “After you, sir.”  I hate when people hold the door open for me.

 

To make life easier, everyone should wear a hat with their age on it so the people who hold the door open for you can tell if you’re old enough to be their father or their grandfather.  Yes, I know I just made a mistake.  I should have written, “Everyone should wear a hat with his age.”  My favorite English teacher, Mrs. Gottlieb, taught us that the word everyone is singular and should be used with a singular pronoun.  So “everyone should take their seat” is wrong and “everyone should take his seat” is right.  Right?  But wait!  If I use his, that’s sexist, so I should use his or her.   “No-no-no” – I hear you whine.  The new gender-neutral movement considers his or her inadequate because now there are more gender-selective pronouns than guns in Texas.  I give up.  I’m going to stick with their.  I’m sorry, Mrs. Gottlieb.

 

And speaking of gender, the US Men’s Chess Championship and US Women’s Chess Championship will be held in Rancho Mirage, CA this year.  Somehow, when I heard the two separate tournaments announced, it made me a little bellicose.  Women’s chess championship?  I can understand a separate women’s basketball -- men are, as a whole, taller and stronger.  Or women’s tennis or most other sports.  But chess?  Are men naturally smarter than women?  I think not.  The National Spelling Bee is sexually inclusive.  Mensa is not segregated between men and women.  Jeopardy does not have a Women’s Edition.  There are no Bridge tournaments for one sex only. Why chess?  If I were a woman. I’d be sorely insulted.  And, for that matter, why is the King more important than the Queen?  And what’s with the black pieces and the white pieces.  Is this a racist thing?  And Kings and Knights and Pawns just reek of class inequality.  And Bishops?  What happened to Separation of Church and Chess?  I think we should boycott the tournament and Chess in general.  It’s just some silly, Medieval, racist, sexist, homophobic waste of time!  And who decided to spell Medieval that way?  Ok, I feel better.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Aren’t you tired of me yet?  You should be, because I’m about to tell you the same old story.  I went to have a blood test at one of these independent labs.  I used to hate blood tests and would get nervous and queasy, but I guess I’ve outgrown that along with all the other things I’ve outgrown, like smoking, drinking and sleeping through the night.

 

The first thing I had to do for my blood test was to go online and make an appointment.  Ok, not so terrible, but when I arrived at the appointed time, there was no-one there.  Just a machine with a big sign that said Deal with This Damn Machine or Get the Hell Out!  Well, not those exact words, but pretty much the same idea.  So I dealt with it – name, rank, serial number, insert your driver’s license, insert your insurance card, insert your entire life and wait to be rejected.  I was rejected.  Which prompted the appearance of a real-life, walking, talking human being.  I was relieved.  She walked to the machine, pushed a few buttons and said, “This damned computer never works. Ok, you’re good. Come with me.”  And we proceeded to have a lovely time talking about the Blues game and her children, and I never even noticed that she had taken my blood already.  What a pleasure!  Now tell me exactly why we had to have that machine!

 

There is one advantage to getting older – you get better at diagnosing diseases.  A friend of mine was complaining about a rash on his forehead and a little pain in his eye.  I immediately came up with a diagnosis of shingles, and a visit to the doctor the next day confirmed it.  Luckily, it’s not a bad case and, I hope, he will get through it without too much discomfort.  As I said, the older I get, the better I am at diagnosing diseases.

 

If something is swollen or sore

Don’t knock on the hospital’s door

Call me! In a whiz

I will know what it is

‘Cause I’ve probably had it before.

 

Oh my, I forgot to say I hope you’re feeling well and had a nice Memorial Day.   Summer is here, unofficially, and the Award Season is, blessedly, behind us.  The last one was something called the ICON Award, and was won by Jennifer Lopez.  I don’t know what the ICON Award is, but in her speech, she created a new anagram for ICON – I Can Overcome Negativity.  I’m sure she’s doing her part to fight against the negativity in people’s lives, and I have never had anything bad to say about J-Lo.  But she’s among the most beautiful, most talented and richest people in the world and having her encourage people to fight their negative feelings struck me kind of like LeBron James telling people not to be depressed because they’re short.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? (Sonnet 18).  Summer is my favorite time.  Pops opens a window on the porch so I can sit all day on my cat tree and watch the butterflies and listen to the birds through the screened window.  Sometimes, he’ll even come out and sit with me and scratch my neck.  I like summer.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is bellicose, which means demonstrating aggression and a willingness to fight.  I do get that way sometimes, don’t I?  Sorry.  Ok, we’ve finished another week.  Seven damn days closer to the future.  Is there anything good in the future?  Maybe week’s blog.  Don’t miss it.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

I just realized that I did not mention my wife once in this week’s blog.  Hi, Honey.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com