Blog #359                                         January 25, 2024

 

What with everybody and his Grandpa running for President, the promises, insults and invective flying around are as plentiful as green hair at the Grammy’s.  And one of the more popular forms of entertainment is to accuse drug companies of being greedy, manipulative corporations.  Well, they are, but somehow these terrible Machiavellian drug behemoths have invented Lipitor which keeps my arteries from clogging and Carvedilol which keeps my heart from dancing the cha-cha and my pacemaker from getting hotter than wherever Jeffrey Epstein is.  So I have some appreciation for their skills.

 

And anyway, greedy, manipulative corporations are what Capitalism is all about.  Apple is a greedy, manipulative corporation.  So are Netflix, Verizon, Starbucks and Amazon, and they all have made your lives better.  And come to think of it, McDonald’s and Coca Cola are too.  And Spotify.

 

Spotify is a music app which allows you to download your favorite songs.  Spotify now has a service that puts together song-lists for your pets.  Yes, your dogs, cats, lizards, hamsters and even tropical fish.  I wouldn’t make this up.  Included in the list for your dog’s entertainment are songs by Joe Cocker Spaniel, The Beagles and Sonny and Shar Pei.  Favorite numbers are Hotel Collie-fornia, Let It Bichon and Bark the Herald Angels Sing.  They also have a list of books about your pooch.  One is a handbook to canine coloring called Fifty Shades of Greyhound and another about what dogs are the best to give as gifts, called I Don’t Give a Shih Tzu.

 

Ok, now that we’re warmed up, let’s get started.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re all feeling fantastic.  One of my loyal readers sent me a note saying he had shared last week’s blog with his grandson.  The grandson liked it and wanted to be on my e-mailing list.  The reader, a fraternity brother of mine, is about my age, so his grandson will be in the 18-22 range, I presume.  I have four grandchildren in that range and I’m not sure any of them read the blog.  We are, after all, separated by two generations and barely speak the same language.  Does this young man know what a slinky is?  Has he heard of Sky King or Mr. Green Jeans or Tonto?  Does he know what a collect call is?   Or a decoder ring?  Or a DeSoto?  Does “Plop Plop Fizz Fizz” mean anything to him?  If I mention Mr. Potato Head, will he think I’m talking about one of our Presidential candidates?  Maybe both.

 

Well, young man, welcome.  Glad to have you on board.  Each week, I’m going to teach you a Weekly Word.  Today it is Machiavellian, which means sneaky and cunning and lacking a moral code. 

 

While I was writing the above paragraph, reminiscing about the “good old days”, I received a notification from my library.  Do you remember the libraries when we were younger?  Stacks of books concealing in their dusty and mysterious pages the wisdom and the art of all humankind.  Silent scholars bent over worn tomes in search of elusive knowledge.  Libraries were quiet and old and stodgy.  Not anymore.  The notice I received was to announce that RuPaul was coming to the library in March to promote his (yes, his) new book about his life as a drag queen.  RuPaul was an experimenter in gender-expression before the concept was de rigueur, and I’ve enjoyed his escapades for decades.  He is 63 years old and I would wager that none of my grandchildren, or even my children, has heard of him.  I might just go to see old Ru.  “We’re all born naked and the rest is drag,” he said.  I could never be a drag queen.  I haven’t figured out how to dress like a man yet, let alone Carmen Miranda.  Oops, there’s another reference to something nobody younger than me would understand.

 

For my new readers, I have a three-legged cat named Shakespeare.  The past week, we in St. Louis have been visited by a wintry mix of bitter, cold weather, and Shakespeare has been torn between a desire to see it and a fear of being left out on the porch.  So he has vociferously demanded entry or exit to the porch area a total of 67 times so far, each of which requires me to open and to close one of the three exits.  This must have broken the world record for master-beast entries in a single day.  Obviously, I consider myself the “beast” in these transactions.

 

Just give me the freedom I seek

Or Pops, you will be up Shit’s Creek

If you don’t let me out

Then I promise, no doubt

I will not let you sleep for a week.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Methought I heard a voice cry, “Sleep no more! Macbeth doth murder sleep.” (Macbeth).  Damn right I won’t let him sleep if he doesn’t do what I want.  You have to train these humans. Wasn’t that a good limerick?  Better than the ones the Old Man writes.  Purr.

 

The numbing cold we’ve been experiencing has added to the feeling of malaise and helplessness in the world.  It reminds me of the day Carol and I went to an exhibit at the Missouri History Museum.  The exhibit included all the Pulitzer Prize winning photographs since 1942 with an explanation of each.  It was well done, but crushingly depressing.  Almost all the photos were about war, disaster, genocide, famine – the perpetual cruelty and unending human inhumanity that is the heart-rending sorrow of our species.  It was physically sickening, as if the whole world were mankind’s abattoir.  One of the photos was of an emaciated black child hunched upon the ground starving to death in Sudan.  Ten feet behind the boy stood a large vulture, patiently waiting for the world to let this child die.  Four months after taking the picture, the photographer committed suicide, haunted by his choice of taking the picture rather than immediately running to the child’s aid.  I had to sit down and fight the dizzying depression.  Count your blessings.

 

And while you’re doing that, try to stay well and remember to come back next week.  I’ll be somewhere.  Probably here.  You’d better be here too or I’ll send Shakespeare over to meow in your face at 3:00 in the morning.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #358                                         January 18, 2024

 

Carol and I belong to a country club.  We don’t play golf at the club, but we dine there often.  The club, however, is closed for a week at the beginning of January for rest and repairs and whatever else clubs do when they’re closed.  During that week, several other clubs, in the spirit of camaraderie and bonhomie, grant dining privileges to the people from our club to eat there.  So on Saturday night, we went to a very waspy, Christian club that probably has no Jewish members.  We were one of four or five tables from our club, all Jewish.  I was a little anxious, what with the extremely virulent antisemitism pulsing through our country, but my misgivings were unwarranted.  We were treated as pleasantly and efficiently as possible.  Somehow, though, my suspicious mind was convinced that the staff had been warned:

 

Be calm and polite when you speak

And brush up your serving technique

Just watch your behavior

Then pray to your Savior

That the Jews won’t stay more than a week.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and keeping warm.  It has been a chilling week with temperatures here in the Midwest lower than Chris Christie’s poll numbers.  On Monday, it was -5^o, and the high was +5^o.  I don’t know if that’s Centigrade, Fahrenheit, Kelvin or whatever, but it’s so cold that free-range chickens are volunteering at KFC.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Barren winter, with his wrathful nipping cold (Henry VI, Part 2).  Cats get cold too, and when I do, I can always find Pops.  He’s usually sitting in a chair, covered by a blanket and reading some ancient smelly book.  His lap is always warm.  Purr.

 

It’s so cold that I’m reading books about Hell just to stay warm.  Yes, people say that I read a bunch of old and weird books.  I have, after all, read Moby Dick six times.  Paradise Lost by John Milton is certainly old (350 years), but not weird at all.  It is a beautiful allegory about God and Satan, Heaven and Hell, Adam and Eve.  As Satan first comes upon Adam and Eve, he remarks that Adam was made for contemplation and valor, whereas Eve was created for softness and attractiveness.  In other words, men have the brains and the strength, while women are only good for cuddling.  What was Satan thinking?  Hasn’t he heard of Women’s Suffrage and the Women’s Rights Movement and the Me Too Movement?  That’s probably why he was sent to Hell.  Hell is the place where a man goes when he doesn’t respect his wife.  Sometimes, he doesn’t even have to die to go there.

 

With that attitude, Satan could never be elected to public office, although I bet some of you think he was already President once.  No, today, to be elected, you must recognize the worth and importance of women and you must embrace diversity.  In our zeal to appease the god of Diversity, every individual has to be placed in a cubbyhole so that we can keep score.  In every cluster, there must be a fair representation of Blacks, Hispanics, Asian Americans, Native Americans, Ethiopian Midgets, Albino Vampires and Silly Old Men Who Read Moby Dick.

 

Weekly Word:   Each week I attempt to teach you or remind you of a word you may or may not have known.  I am a teacher at heart.  Some of you, I know, need that kind of help.  I have a friend who thinks euthanasia is a group of Chinese students and another who thinks a veterinarian is a retired German soldier.

 

It’s good to know new stuff, although nobody ever tells me anything.  My daughter never told me about the parties she had at the house when we were out of town.  Don’t tell my Dad.  My business partner never told me about all the traffic tickets he fixed for my daughters.  Don’t tell Fox.  My wife never tells me anything.  Sit down and shut up.  In fact, I am perpetually on a Doesn’t Need To Know Basis.

But I know a lot of important stuff.  I know that Timbuktu is in Mali and bonhomie means good-natured friendliness.  So there!  It’s so cold that my pet store is selling penguins. 

 

Monday was Martin Luther King Day, which always reminds me of Friday, April 4, 1969.  It was my first job after college, teaching high school math at Kinloch High School in St. Louis County.  Kinloch was an all-black school with not one white student, teacher or administrator.  Except me.  That Friday was the first anniversary of the assassination of Dr. King, and the Superintendent of Kinloch Schools called an all-school assembly for speeches and remembrances during which the vitriolic hatred of white people was often and clearly elucidated.  I was hiding under the bleachers. 

 

 

On page 29 of the Union Prayer Book (that’s a Jewish thing), we are assured that, “There will come a time when morning will bring no word of war or famine or anguish.”  Really?  Well, God in all His glory notwithstanding, I’m not convinced.  Where are the Good Old Days (and I don’t mean the 1950s) when God would smite the bad guys, like the Hittites?  There doesn’t seem to be a lot of smiting and smoting of the bad guys these days.  I guess we live in the No Smoting Section.

 

Thank you for listening to all that; I needed to get it out.  And I apologize to all you Hittites out there.  But now I need to cheer you up, although it’s difficult at this time of year.  To celebrate all this depression, we should all gather at a local restaurant for Miserable Hour, where we can bitch about our health and the price of medications and our daughter-in-law’s parents and why it is that our neighbor is paying $5 less for cable than we are.  That, and half off on the Chicken Parmesan, will make us as happy as we’re going to get.

 

It's so cold, middle-aged women are begging for hot flashes.  And the rest of you are begging for me to go away.  And so I will, but I’ll be back next week.  Stay well, count your blessings and pray for Israel.  I’d say chill out, but it’s too cold for that.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #357                                        January 11, 2024

 

This sad world is full of hatred, isn’t it?  Like the words from the old Tom Lehrer song:

 

          Oh, the Protestants hate the Catholics

          And the Catholics hate the Protestants

          And the Hindus hate the Moslems

          And everybody hates the Jews.

 

Tom Lehrer is kind of my hero.  He was a mathematics professor and a writer of outrageously clever songs about political and newsworthy topics.  Yes, I stole the lyrics from his song above, but if the President of Harvard can do it, so can I. 

 

The song was called National Brotherhood Week and was written about 60 years ago.  Not much has changed.  I am not a believer in the “Let’s just all hold hands and everything will be alright” philosophy.  Hatred and jealousy and envy just seem to be part of human nature.  We need to stay close with our families and our friends and our traditions.

 

You’re my family and friends, right?  Hi there, welcome back and thank you for all the birthday wishes you sent last week.  I hope you’re feeling full of happiness and full of spunk.  By now you know that I am full of something, so let’s see what it is.   First of all, I apologize for the depressing diatribe with which I began.  Let’s get started with a Weekly Word.  A diatribe is a forceful and bitter attack against someone or something.

 

I have some thoughts about changing the world.  We need to replace some of the world leaders.  Here’s my plan. To replace the Ayatollah, send Joy Behar to Iran.  At least that would get her away from here.  We’ll call her the Joyatollah.  I’d send Whoopi, but I’m not sure the Iranians are ready to be ruled by somebody named Goldberg.  To replace the President, Harry and Meghan, of course.  The White House is a little small for them, but they’re looking for a new place to live and the American people adore them already.   And England?  Well, I miss Elizabeth. England needs a new Queen.  My wife would be perfect.  She’s had a lot of practice, and I guarantee you the Changing of the Guard would not take more than thirty seconds.  She likes the idea. 

 

I’ll drink from a solid gold chalice

And rule all the world without malice

Get my face in the news

And import a few Jews

To play mahjong in Buckingham Palace.

 

I’m not sure where that would leave me.  Court Jester, I suppose.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown (Henry IV, Part2).  They should make me king of the world.  I’d make a law that says everybody has to nap for 18 hours a day.  Less time to get into trouble.  Purr.

 

Did you love the Golden Globes on Sunday?  I didn’t watch it at all.  Award shows are sycophantic, narcissistic, anti-government, unentertaining publicity parties put on by people who think parading your butt in a thong bikini is a measure of talent.  And those are my good comments.  But my wife was glued to them.  She likes to see what all the stars wear. 

 

I’m sorry, that should be “who” those skinny, pasty actresses are wearing.  As if any of us commoners could afford a de la Renta.  Most of the women I know couldn’t even afford to rent a de la Renta or get their foot in the Dior.   Or pronounce Hermes.  The last time anyone asked me “who” I was wearing, I answered Fred Flintstone.

 

As I said, I didn’t watch the awards, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if Robert De Niro had been there saying F*** Trump six times and Gwyneth Paltrow had started telling us how the government is corrupting our youth while she’s selling vagina-scented candles on her website.

 

You know I love getting comments from you.  They’re great feedback and often very helpful.  C.M. read my tale last week of moving my plant to give it more light at night and corrected me by suggesting I leave the plant in the dark at night.  She’s pretty smart about plants, so I have begun to do that.  And the story about my psychoanalysis prompted several of you to call for more personal stuff about me.  How about some personal stuff about Carol?  Does that count?  I told you that last week we went to the neighborhood pot dispensary to get my wife something to help her sleep.  I can’t remember the name of the place, but it was something like PotSmart or Burlington Toke Factory or Grass Pro Shop.  Well, here’s the scoop:  she tried one of the CBN Gummies and had a terrible reaction.  Nausea, dizziness, strange hallucinations and no sleep at all.  There’s no joke here.  That was the truth.  Ask her.  She’ll be happy to tell you how awful it was.  She loves to tell juicy and scandalous stories over and over again.  I only have to tell a story once, right here, and it gets to hundreds of people all at once.  Saves a lot of time.

 

Just one more thing before I let you get back to your busy and fascinating Thursday.  I was looking through my saved letters that I have been writing to my daughters every week for the last 27 years.  Sometimes they remind me of old stories that I might share with you.  In a letter from the first week of September, 2001, the week before 9/11, I noticed this entry from Sep 8:

 

At 8:30, we met the Rosenbaums and Hodes for dinner at Café Napoli. 

 

8:30 for dinner?  Unthinkable!  Were we so energetic and carefree, so full of frivolity and frolic in our middle age that we would dine at such a late hour like some Spanish aristocrat?  Last week on New Year’s Eve, we had dinner at 6:30 like proper old folks.  Just thinking of it makes me sleepy.  I’d better go.  

 

This week I’ve insulted Protestants, Catholics, Hindus, Moslems, Joy Behar, Robert De Niro and Gwyneth Paltrow.  I couldn’t be in more trouble if I had gone to a Trump rally dressed as Barbra Streisand.  I’ll have my legal staff prepare a disingenuous apology.   I’ll be back in a week and I expect to see you here.  Until then, stay well, count your blessings and put that thong bikini away.  Trust me.

 

 Jester                                       Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog #356                                January 4, 2024

 

Carol has a sleeping problem, and she is constantly looking for ideas to help her sleep.  Someone suggested CBN, which is, I believe, a marijuana derivative.  Pot sales are legal now in Missouri, so off we went to the marijuana market.  I wish they had asked me what to name it because I have the perfect name for a store that sells mind-altering drugs – Quick Trip.  The place, including all the people working there, was as bizarre as the Star Wars Cantina, but Carol bought a few pills and we left.  She hasn’t tried them yet, but I’ll keep you posted.

 

Speaking of pot, McDonald’s has a new spinoff opening soon in Seattle.  Instead of Mickey D’s, they’re calling it Mary Jane’s.  The whole menu is based on marijuana and CBD derivatives.  Its most popular item is the Really Happy Meal:

 

Now Mary Jane’s totally woke

And most of our food you can smoke

We know what you need

Quarter Pounder with Weed

Hemp Fries and a Large Diet Toke.

 

Wake up, People!  It’s a new year and I’m still as nuts as I was in 2023.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and I wish you a happy, happy year to come.  Another year!  Use it kindly; you will not have it long.  But don’t worry.  I shall be at your side, your guide and cicerone through another year of lunacy, humor and strange new words.  Like cicerone, our Weekly Word.  It means a guide who gives information to tourists.

 

One of you tourists sent me a comment last week wishing me a Happy New Year and thanking me for making her Thursdays extra-special.  That was very nice.  Reading all your comments makes my Thursdays extra-special too.  It's the other six days when I have to write this crap that are dreary.

 

I’m only kidding.  My life is reasonably happy and I do not complain.  But it was not always so.  There was a time when I was not happy.  And don’t say that’s because I was Grumpy, Sleepy and Dopey.  No, it was 2007 and I was visiting a shrink twice a week for depression.  I was also listening to Arlo Guthrie’s song Alice’s Restaurant, all 22½ minutes of it, every night.  Every single night for an entire year.  He thought I was obsessive-compulsive.  I guess he was right.  I hope I’m not spilling too much personal information here, but we are kind of family, right?

 

Television news reports love to show Iranian street mobs burning American flags.  Where do they get all these American flags in Iran?  Where would you go to get an Iranian flag should you feel so juvenile as to burn one?  I am beginning to believe that the entire Iranian flap is being fomented by the guy who makes American flags.  His sales of American flags must be on fire.  And his sales of suicide vests are booming.

 

Next Sunday will be my 78th birthday.  I’m not upset.  It’s just another candle on the cake, another notch on life’s belt, another nail in the ever-closing coffin.  I thought getting older would take longer. But, as God said to Methuselah, “If you can make it to 800, your chances of reaching 900 are pretty good.”  Still, old is old.

 

·        I’m so old, they’ve discontinued my blood type.

·        I’m so old, I found a picture of Cleopatra in my Yearbook.

·        I’m so old, I have an autographed Bible.

·        I’m so old my license plate is in Roman numerals.

·        I’m so old, I walked into an antique store and people started to bid on me.

 

Is that enough?  The only consolation I have is that many of you out there are older than me.  Sorry about that.  But you look marrrrvellous!  I’m not so certain about me, however.  I just took a hard look in the mirror and tried to count my wrinkles.  I stopped counting at Oh, my God and told Carol I wanted to get my face done.  She looked at me, the sweet, sugar-tongued, loving woman that she is, and said, “I like you wrinkled.”  That made me feel so much better. 

 

Last Sunday night, New Year’s Eve, I got dressed about two hours early.  This was necessary, of course, because I knew my sweet wife would have something to say about my sartorial choices.  She did.  In fact, she rejected my first attempt, my second attempt and my third.  I felt like a square table.  Eventually, I believe it was the fifth try, she pronounced me “streetable” and we left for a lovely dinner with friends.  I looked marrrrvelous!  So, of course, did my beautiful wife.  We got home early and I began to get ready for bed.  Part of that nightly ritual contains taking my plant for a walk.  Do you ever take your plant for a walk?  I have only one plant, Nemo, a small jade plant that I transplanted from a branch that fell off my neighbor’s plant about two years ago.  Nemo spends the winter in the kitchen, with minimal light.  At night, however, I take Nemo for a walk into my study where I place her on my desk underneath the lamp that is on all night.  She does not talk or smile, but I think she likes the light all night long.  Did I not tell you I was nuts?

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Joy, gentle friends! Joy and fresh days of love (A Midsummer Night’s Dream).  I was alone New Year’s Eve, just me and that stupid plant.  Then Pops came home and we jumped into bed and watched some ball drop somewhere.  I would have preferred a mouse.  Purr.

 

Rotten Oysters:  Yes, it’s time for a movie review.  I saw The Color Purple on Monday.  The opening song was a rousing, cheerful number.  The acting was good; the singing voices were great and there were plenty of familiar actors.  But, to me, it fell short of being consistently entertaining.  I’ll give it a 2½ out of five.

 

Well, all good things must end.  I hope you had a lovely New Year’s Eve and are itching to read more Limerick Oysters in 2024.  Stay well, count your blessings and remember, you can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant.  And you really do look marrrrvellous!

 

Michael                                    Sent comments to mfox1746@gmail.com