Blog #333                                July 27, 2023

 

Have you been to a Pharmacy lately?  I still call them drugstores.  We used to have Kranson’s and Glaser’s and Gallant’s Drug Store -- small and friendly with maybe a soda fountain.  Now we have Walgreens and CVS – big and unfriendly and loaded with security cameras.  To get a package of razor blades, you have to move a plastic cover device that triggers a camera.  Cigarettes are behind the counter because they have to check your ID.  That’s also where the cold medicines are because they can be used to make meth.  And over-the-counter eye drops are not over the counter anymore.  They are locked up as well to avoid those friendly neighborhood shoplifters.  In the old days, the only items behind the counter were condoms.  Now that’s the only thing that’s not locked up.

 

Like we always say, “those were the days”.  It seems to me that twenty, forty, fifty years have just gone by in a snap.  I remember the first time I saw my wife.  It was 60 years ago in the High School cafeteria.  Sixty years, but I can still see her standing there and still remember the love at first sight feeling.  I wonder who said that first.  Probably Kim Kardashian the first time she saw a camera.  Or Donald Trump the first time he learned how to tweet. 

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and staying cool.  The whole country is blazing in a heat wave.  I guess it’s Global Warming.  Although the phrase Global Warming has morphed into Climate Change and now, more recently, to Man-made Climate Change.  Man-made?  I don’t see the gender-inclusive crowd pushing their way into that phrase. 

 

Austin, my 13-year-old Grandchild #6, loves science.  We read Origin of Species together some years back.  You know -- Darwin?  Evolution?  You remember Evolution, don’t you?  Evolution explains how we all came from apes. 

 

Maybe all of us haven’t fully evolved from the chimpanzees.  I’m talking about myself here.  I’m very knowledgeable about evolution and physics and chemistry.  I have an undergraduate degree in Mathematics and a Law degree.  I’ve taught High School Math and Jail House Math and English.  And yet, today at the grocery store, I had to ask for help to open the cellophane produce bag for my tomato.  No, not Carol, a real tomato.  Wait, that doesn’t sound right.  My wife is a real “tomato”, but . . . oh, you know what I mean.  The bag – not Carol, the cellophane bag -- even has an arrow on one end so you know that’s the place to pull or push or rub or – well, I couldn’t do it.  So I asked a nice young woman who was stacking Ambrosia apples if she could help me.  Was I embarrassed?  Not in the slightest.  You see, age gives you a plausible excuse for not being able to do things like downloading an app or Facetiming or changing a light bulb.  Or opening the simplest little cellophane bag.  The young woman smiled, opened it on the first try and said “magic”.

 

Did you know there are 7,500 different varieties of apples and that 100 varieties are grown commercially in the United States?  Now you do.

 

Ok, back to Origin of Species.  Austin will always remember his Poppy teaching him Evolution.  He’s very lucky.  But I am also profoundly lucky that at my age I have a loving, curious, happy and smart little boy who actually wants to listen to this old man rant on about science.  It’s wonderful!  I hope he doesn’t want to know how to open a cellophane bag.  At lunch the other day, he said, “You know, Poppy, when I think of all the best times of my life, you’re in almost all of them.”  C’mon now.  Can I cry?

 

I’m actually thinking about writing a science book about the variety and effects of laxatives.  I’m calling it The Origin of Feces.  You should read it; it’s got all the latest poop.  Sorry about that!

 

Speaking of books, I finished a book last night, a history book about the explorations and competitions surrounding the discovery of the source of the Nile River.  I read about some of these adventurers and explorers who went traipsing all over the world hundreds of years ago and compare their exciting, unorthodox and dangerous lives to my conservative, safe, mainstream existence.  I am not jealous.  I do not feel any regret.  I like my conservative, safe mediocrity, but I also love the vicarious thrill of reading about the derring-do of explorers and adventurers.

 

 Derring-do, our Weekly Word, means actions of heroic courage.  The only adventure I had this week was Hotdog Day at the Zoo.  Once a year, the Zoo treats all of its employees and volunteers to a hotdog lunch in appreciation for our services.  They treat us well, and on Hotdog Day, I eat like a mosquito at a nudist convention.  Those dogs might be my favorite things at the Zoo. 

 

The polar bear really is fun

And the lions are still Number One

But the best at the Zoo

Just between me and you

Is a sizzling dog on a bun.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon (All’s Well That Ends Well).  They name a lot of food after dogs, don’t they?  Hotdogs and chili dogs.  Poodles Romanov and German Shepherd’s Pie and even Collie Flower.  Well, that’s all those smelly, clumsy dogs are good for anyway.  The only food named after an animal that I want is Chocolate Mouse.  Or is it moose?  Purr

 

Movie Review:  Oppenheimer.  I’m sorry, folks, but I thought it was a bomb.  If you were expecting to learn about the making of the atomic bomb, that part was disjointed and confusing.  If you were looking to learn about Robert Oppenheimer, you could have read the book in less time.  It was way too long!  We should have seen Barbie.

 

In Fairytale News today, Snow White, in a cost-saving move, has laid off Happy and Grumpy and replaced them with a single manic-depressive dwarf.  Plus, Sleeping Beauty is still at the film developer waiting for her prints to come.  You have surely had enough of me by now.  Stay well, count your blessings and y’all come back now, ya hear?

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #332                                July 20, 2023

 

Last Friday, I attended a lovely 90^th Birthday Party for a good friend.  One of the guests asked me if the party would make my blog.  I said, “If you do something funny it will.”  They didn’t, but the party made me think of another 90^th birthday party held in the same room 22 years ago.  It was my Dad’s 90^th birthday.  He didn’t have any friends there; not as many people two decades ago reached 90.  But all my friends loved my Dad and he loved them, so there was a good crowd as well as my three daughters, one son-in-law and one son-in-law to be.  I gave a welcoming speech, and then my Dad made a speech.  He was blind by then, but he had created the speech in his head, memorized it and delivered it perfectly.  At the end, he thanked everyone for coming and called on David, my son-in-law to say some words.  What?  David didn’t know he was going to speak.  Nobody told him he was going to speak.  He was as surprised as Hillary Clinton on election night!  But he walked to the podium and spoke a few words about family and such.  He did a wonderful job considering he hadn’t been warned.  At the end of his speech, David then called on Robert to say a few words.  Robert was my youngest daughter’s fiancée, and he was more shocked than David.  What kind of family is this, he must have wondered.  But he did us proud as well and finally, when the speechifying was over, we got to opening the presents.  Everyone had bought my father bottles of vodka.  They knew who they were dealing with.

 

Later, I heard my Dad talking with one of my friends.  My father had been an avid golfer and an 11-handicap in his prime.  Of course, he was blind and no longer played.  Here’s the conversation I overheard, word for word.

 

Marty: Mr. Fox, are you still playing golf?

Dad:  No, I’m bad now.  Are you playing?

Marty:  Sure.

Dad: What’s your handicap?

Marty:  26

Dad:  Well, I’m not that bad.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and watching your words.  I’m a word guy (you know that), and I pay close attention to words and their evolution.  My middle daughter lives just outside of Berkeley, California.  Berkeley made the news recently by re-writing it’s City Code to eliminate gender-specific words.  For instance, the word manhole can no longer be found in the Code and has been replaced with the term maintenance hole.  And the term pregnant woman has been replaced with pregnant person.  Someone’s going to have to explain that one to me.  There are lots of other changes.  You can find them all in the Berkeley City Person-ual.

 

And now Broadway has announced its new season consisting of the following shows -- Person of La Mancha, The Music Person, Funny Young Person, The Book of Morperson, The Lion Ruler, Parent Mia, Jersey Young People, The Ruler and I, My Fair Person, Mean Young People and of course People and People.  Are you having trouble with that last one?  It’s the show with the song, Luck Be a Person Tonight.

 

I don’t know what to do.  I’m just an old man.  Sorry, a senior person.  I’m no longer confidant I have the wisdom to carry on a conversation with young people.

 

I cannot discuss someone’s gender

And race is a subject that’s tender

And sexual stuff

Well, that’s really too tough

So I’ll just shut my mouth and surrender.

 

I know all your grandchildren are geniuses.  Mine too.  It’s like Lake Wobegon where all the children are above average.  And maybe they’re smarter than you.  And maybe they’re smarter than me.   They’ve certainly transmogrified the way we use words.  And that’s ok.  Progress and evolution are fine.  But, let me ask this, Smarter-than-Me teenager, have you ever had a job?  Have you ever lost a job?  Have you ever raised a family?  Have you ever sat in a hospital room with your sick child?  Have you ever worried about paying a mortgage?  Your parents have!  Maybe there’s still something out there for you to learn.

 

Richard Russo said old age is just disappointment and exhaustion and defeat masquerading as wisdom.  Maybe so.  But I can still talk to you, can’t I?  Transmogrify, which means to change in a surprising and magical manner is our Weekly Word.

 

It’s almost August now, and Deer Season in Missouri starts in September, at least for bow-and-arrow.  Then, in early October, it’s I-pad Season when you can sit in a tree, play multiple episodes of The Bachelorette and bore the deer to death.  The Firearm Season comes next.  To me, it is criminal to kill a beautiful animal like a deer, but I am in the minority, a fact for which I am demonstrably thankful each and every day.  I used to have employees who hunted deer each year, and I would have discussions with them that went like this:

 

DH (deer hunter):  I do it because I like venison and I save money this way.

ME (me):  You spent $7,000 on a deer rifle; ammo another $80; boots are $200, hunting jackets $325, binocs $120.  Ribeye steaks at Costco are only $13.99 a pound.  Who are you kidding?

DH:  The deer are going to die anyway.

ME:  So are all your relatives. That doesn’t give you the right to shoot them.

DH:  They’re only animals.

ME:  So are your relatives.

DH:  God created humans to be hunters and animals to be prey. It’s only natural.

ME:  That may have been true at one time, but it was also “natural” to hit your wife over the head with a club. Let’s see you try that today.

DH:  It’s fun. It’s a challenge and a way to spend time with my friends outdoors.

ME:  Take up golf.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Come shall we go and kill us venison? (As You Like It).  It’s normal for cats to kill mice and birds, but I’m happy with ping-pong balls and little fluffy toys.  And there’s a teddy bear in the guest bedroom that’s tasty.  Purr.

 

Time for Shakey and me to go.  We’ll be back next week, so stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #331                                July 13, 2023

 

Different times of my day are devoted to different things.  This morning was Honey-Time, that’s the time I devote to doing the little things for my wife that make her life easier and allow her more time to play canasta and look in the mirror.  Like accompanying her to the grocery store.  You can always find me about ¾ of an aisle behind the Princess of Usain Bolt, leaning on my cart, panting and trying to keep up.  To avoid the aggravation of waiting for me, she has developed a very accurate grocery-toss and can flip a box of cereal or a bag of marshmallows a good 25 feet with the accuracy of Steph Curry.  Nothing but net!  Now don’t get the idea that I’m a saint or anything like that.  I actually enjoy doing nice things for my wife. 

 

Then there was Poppy-Time.  As I am writing, it is July 11^th – 7/11 – free Slurpees at 7-Eleven.  Did you miss it?  So off I went with my grandchildren to 7-Eleven for the free yummies.  Poppy-Time, you see, is the time I devote to my grandchildren.  I love being with them.  While we were slurping, I asked each of them this question: “If you could pick going anywhere with anybody, where and who would it be?”  Here are their answers, word for word.  I swear.

 

17-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Bahamas with the cutest girl in my class.

13-year-old boy:  I want to go to the Galapagos with Poppy.  He’s my little scientist.

15-year-old Princess:  I want to go to the Mall with Poppy’s credit card.  She takes after Carol.

 

After all that was over, it was Michael-Time, my alone time, when I can write my letter to my daughters, read my book, pay the bills and try to find my cellphone which I know I left on the table but it’s not there.  Fredrik Backman (A Man Called Ove) said that nothing’s really lost until your wife says it is.  She found it in five seconds.  And, of course, Michael-Time is the time I set aside to write to you.  Hi there and welcome back.  I have a lot to tell you, but I’ve wasted so much time already.  I’ll talk fast.

 

I hope you are well and feeling loved and appreciated today.  There are many days when I do not feel that way at all.  Why?  Because I am a Jewish American White Male.  That makes me less popular than cholera.  First of all, 90% of the world’s inhabitants hate me because I’m Jewish.  50% of the them hate me because I’m American.  Another 50% hate me because I’m male.  And another 75% of people worldwide hate me because I’m white.  My math being as impeccable as it always is, that makes 265% of the world’s people who hate me, or, to be simpler, everyone on the planet hates me for two or more reasons.  And that’s not counting the people who hate my blog!

 

Wouldn’t that depress you?   I used to think I was bi-polar.  I think we all are to some extent.  But lately, I’m convinced I am octo-polar.  That’s a condition where at some point during each day you behave like every one of Snow White’s dwarfs.  Yes, I know octo means eight and there are only seven dwarfs, but Carol decided that, in the state I’m in, I should add another Grumpy.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  In time we hate that which we often fear (Antony and Cleopatra).  Nobody hates cats.  Cats don’t bark, don’t need to be taken for a walk, don’t smell and don’t eat your homework.  Cats are soft and pretty and very smart.  Some even write to you every week.  Purr.

 

I always have some miscellaneous stuff to share with you, and I have some room this week.  I was looking through some old letters and found one I wrote to President Bush back in 2006.  You know, Dubya, Donald Trump, Bill Clinton and I have something in common – we were all born in 1946.  Anyway, here’s what I wrote:

 

Dear Mr. President,

          The word is “nu-cle-ar”, not “nu-cu-lar” as you continue to say.  Didn’t you ever go to school?  You are the leader of this country.  I would expect that you could at least pronounce a common three-syllable word.  And what about your staff?  They must either be deathly afraid to correct you or are as ignorant as yourself.  How can your entire staff not know how to pronounce “nuclear”?  I am embarrassed for our great country that we chose to lead us some hillbilly clown who can’t speak the language properly.

 

Sincerely

Your friend Michael

PS: That’s “my-cull”, you nimrod, not “my-ca-ell”.

 

I never sent the letter, but I kept a copy and now I’m using it to introduce our Weekly Word, nimrod, which means an idiot or jerk.

 

I also found an old menu from the fancy restaurant where my granddaughter works in North Carolina, a lovely spot where the world’s exhibitionists flock as dazzled moths to lamplight.  I remember ordering the “Game Trio” special which consisted of portions of pheasant (which is a bird), gamecock (which is a bird) and kangaroo (which is a big-footed, floppy-eared, hopping gym-bag).  The gamecock was the best.  I’m not saying the taste of the kangaroo lingered on, but during the night I kept hitting my head on the ceiling.

 

Last week I talked about the death penalty and firing squads.  I know one thing for sure.  My wife, and any of her friends for that matter, will never have to worry about capital punishment.  You see, they would get to order a last meal and the jailers could only put up with so much of their mishigas before just telling them to get the Hell out and go home.

 

Now please, Mr. Warden, be nice

I only have changed tables twice

So don’t pull the trigger

Bring a wine glass that’s bigger

And water with lemon, no ice.

 

Oh-oh, I hear a voice.  It must be Honey-Time again.  Gotta go.  I know where my priorities lie.  Maybe I am a saint after all.  Keep yourself well, enjoy the warm weather and count your blessings.  I’ll be back next week.  “Yes, Honey, I’m coming.”  Gotta go.

 

Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy – and Grumpy                   Send comments to:  mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog # 330                               July 6, 2023

 

What are you good at?  I’m having trouble answering that question.  I cannot go anywhere without getting lost.  I cannot fix a toilet or anything else.  I don’t know how to use Twitter or grow plants or open those stupid produce bags at the grocery store.  I could go on forever about the things that I’m bad at, but I’m bad at remembering them all.  I’m not strong like Superman or handsome like George Clooney, or humble like Donald Trump, and I often feel about as useless as a Munchkin at a Globetrotters’ practice.  No, I’m not Mr. Right.  But I am not completely without skills.  I am pretty good at writing little poems, speeches and songs.  Not a bad talent, mostly frivolous, but handy to have at times.  No, I’m not Mr. Right, but I’m close.  I’m Mr. Write.

I actually enjoy writing.  It’s “the most intimate, solitary pleasure that one can imagine” says Gabriel García Márquez, so let’s see what I can write for you today.  First of all, hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling happy in this hot month of July.  “People don’t notice whether it’s winter or summer when they’re happy,” said Anton Chekhov, and he was surely a happy fellow.

Message from Shakespeare:  I like writing to you too.  And I can quote people too, like that Shakespeare dude.  He said, “He capers, he dances . . . he writes verses (The Merry Wives of Windsor).  And I can write verses too.  Here’s one:

I have to leave you now.

                   I’ll write next week.  Meow.

 

Shakespeare and I both hope you’re feeling well.  I’ve recently had my standard semi-annual blood test.  Wait, is it biannual or semi-annual?  That has always confused me, so I Googled.  The answer was that either word can be used to mean either every two years or twice a year, so you’re safer just saying “twice a year”.    My twice-a-year blood test revealed that my HDL, LDL, PSA, QVC, ESPN and MTV are all exemplary.  My medical complaints to you throughout the years have, of course, been tongue in cheek, which can be very painful.  Anyway, thanks to the miracles of modern medicine, I’m doing great.  I have an artificial joint in my right hip, a pacemaker in my chest, a female cornea transplant in my left eye and some guy’s cornea in my right.  I have more replacement parts than an ’87 Chevy.  But you can still recognize me – just look for the guy who is ten paces behind a comely, fast-walking woman.

 

And I sleep like a baby.  Isn’t that a strange expression – sleep like a baby?  Babies wake up every two hours, crying and spitting.  Who would want to sleep like a baby?  Another strange expression is -- she’s like a sister to me.  Do you have wonderful, loving and considerate sisters?  My sister was like an erratic, psychotic cuckoo clock to me.  So next time I say, “You’re like a sister to me,” don’t make the mistake of taking it as a compliment.

 

And my brother, by the way, was an eccentric, bizarre Dickens character who saved toilet-paper rolls, so it should not be a surprise to you that my brain is at times unstable.  You seem to like it enough to come back every week, so let’s move on.  Our Weekly Word is comely.  It means having a pleasing appearance.

 

The trial of the Idaho student killer is about to start, but if he is convicted and sentenced to die, Idaho may have a problem.  The Idaho law specifies that executions should be performed with a lethal injection, but recently it has been impossible to obtain the requisite drugs because no manufacturer wants to make them, so Idaho will use a firing squad.  Arkansas has a different solution.  Last month, a condemned Arkansas man was fed his final meal and brought out to the courtyard.  He was blindfolded, placed against a wall and given a cigarette.  When he asked, “How long will it be before the firing squad shoots me?” the Warden reluctantly admitted, “We don’t actually have a firing squad.  We just make you keep smoking.”

 

I would like to suggest a method of execution much cheaper and easier than lethal injections or firing squads. Put the condemned in a small room that contains a chair, a television that plays continuous reruns of The View and a bottle of poison.  It shouldn’t take long.

 

I’d shoot myself right in the head

Or swallow that poison instead

If you make this poor boy

Watch Whoopi and Joy

It’d be a relief to be dead.

 

The FIFA Women’s World Cup (that’s soccer) will begin this month, with the USA being the reigning champions.  I love women’s soccer.  My three daughters played it, and my favorite player on the USA team is the fabulous Megan Rapinoe.  But I also think she is an embarrassment to the team.  Not because of her feet; she is terrific – because of her mouth!  She will never put her hand over her heart during the National Anthem; she will never sing the National Anthem; she will never visit the “f***ing White House”.  These are all things she has said, and has every right to say in this country.  Here’s what I want to know, why is someone who refuses to respect the USA flag, refuses to sing the USA National Anthem, hates the USA President and hates the USA iconic home of government – why is such a person playing for the USA?  There are enough people around the world who hate Americans.  We don’t need to compete in Australia and New Zealand with an American player ragging on her flag, her anthem and her President while wearing USA on her shirt.

 

You’re probably mad at me by now, and here’s why:

 

·        I ragged on the View

·        I ragged on Megan Rapinoe

·        I mentioned Gabriel Garcia Márquez, Anton Chekhov and Dickens.  Too many authors.

 

Well, here’s another one –Richard Backman said, “You hardly ever disappoint anybody if you just stay silent.”   But I won’t apologize and I won’t be silent.  I just might be lonely.  No, you’ll come back next week, won’t you?  I need you.  You’re like sisters and brothers to me.  Count your blessings, stay well and don’t stay silent.

 

Mr. Write                                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com