Blog #371                                         April 18, 2024

 

I went to get a routine blood test this morning at the hospital.  I had the paperwork, so I just asked directions at the reception area.  The lab was right next to the reception and the nice young lady told me I could register using the kiosk or just write my name on the clipboard.  There were 6 or 8 people, already registered and waiting to be called, and one man working the computer in the kiosk.  I stood behind him.  After all, I’m a modern kind of guy.  I can manage each week to write you a blog, so I’m certain I can navigate my way through a little kiosk .  I mean, what could go wrong?  I can read English; my IQ is higher than the average bear; my reading glasses are strong enough.  What could go wrong? 

 

The guy in front of me was now frantically tapping buttons and cursing.  He looked to be a tad younger than me.  I waited.  I mean, why should I surrender to the demons of progress by admitting my uselessness and incompatibility with the modern world?  I am not going to give up and ask for help.  I’m smart enough and determined enough and capable enough to get through this.  The man in front of me was now alternately feeding his insurance card through one slot in the machine and then retrieving it as it was rejected from a different slot.  He began looking over his shoulder toward the young lady at the reception desk.  I had now been standing behind him for four minutes or so, but I was still determined to persevere and to validate my masculinity and worthiness.  The nice lady approached the man and began to help him feed his driver’s license into another slot while slapping the monitor with her shoe.  I went to the clipboard and wrote my name.  Thirty seconds later, I was called and my blood was drawn.  I knew that kiosk was a bad idea.   

 

Do you remember when TikTok was the sound of a clock, when “gay” meant happy and carefree, when “Amazon” was a river, when O.J. stood for orange juice?  Orenthal James (O.J.) Simpson has died.  What a monstrous, omnipresent and divisive episode that was in our lives back in the 1990s.  You all remember it and I don’t have to remind you, but do you also remember that the O.J. saga was the first time we ever heard the name Kardashian?  Robert Kardashian was Simpson’s friend and kind-of lawyer and father of what have now become a gaggle of media royalty that include Kim, Khloe and Kourtney.  Somewhere in that K-mart, you can also find Kris, Kylie, Kendall and Caitlyn and --- goodness, do I really care?

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you feeling well?  I hope so.  The weather is getting warmer and Passover is approaching.  Carol and I are going to California for Passover.  California has its own set of plagues, but it also has my middle daughter and my two youngest grandchildren, so off we go.  I will tell you all about it next week. 

 

What should we talk about this week?  Robert, a friend of mine, recommended a book to me, a memoir by Larry McMurtry that engulfs his career as a book collector and seller.  The name of the book is Books.  I looked it up on Amazon by typing B-O-O-K-S in their search window, and was rewarded with the iconic Amazon book department complete with all 33 million titles for sale.  So, once again, I typed in B-O-O-K-S.  Nothing happened.  Amazon was confused.  Maybe I need a kiosk.  So I went to the library. 

 

What do you want?  A book.

What’s the name of the book?  Books.

Do you want more than one book?  No, just one.

Then what’s the name of the book?  Books.

Who’s on first?  Yes.

 

Ok, this is getting soporific, so let’s move on.  In fact, let’s move on to the definition of our Weekly Word, soporific, which means likely to cause sleep.  Where does he come up with these words, I hear you cry.  My granddaughter wonders the same thing.  Every time she has a vocabulary quiz coming up, I help her study the new words, and she is constantly amazed that I know every one.

 

If it’s fractious, frenetic or fission

He knows every damn definition

I think he must carry

His own dictionary

Like an elderly verbal magician.

 

And speaking of words, I heard a new word yesterday.  We all believe that medical workers and first responders are heroes.  But some woman, a Governor I believe, called them Heroes and Sheroes.  Hey, I understand that female letter-carriers should not be called mailmen.  We’ve accepted that.  But most words that start with HE do not have any gender reference.  If we get a birthday balloon for a girl, is it filled with shelium?  Does the First Lady ride in a shelicopter?  Do women, when they die, go to Sheaven or Shell?  It all gives me the sheebie-jeebies.

 

Let’s end with a joke.  Do we have time for a joke?  You’re not going anywhere, are you?  Ok, here it is.  George takes Stella to a nice restaurant to celebrate their 20^th Anniversary.  During dinner, a lovely young woman comes to their table and gives George a huge hug and a sloppy kiss.  “Who was that!” says Stella with appropriate venom.  George replies that the woman was his mistress.  “What?  Your mistress?  I can’t believe it, George.  I want a divorce immediately.”  George reminds her that if they divorce, she will no longer have her Mercedes or her Country Club or her shopping sprees at Saks.  Stella is silent.  Minutes later, Stella sees a neighbor, Frank, dining with another lovely young woman.  “Who is that woman with Frank,” she asks.  George tells her it’s Frank’s mistress.  She looks again, turns to George and says, “Ours is cuter.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Parting is such sweet sorrow (Romeo and Juliet).  Did I hear him say he was going to California?  I hate when he goes away.  And I hate his jokes too.  Purr.

 

I’m sorry.  I will miss my Shakespeare.  And I’ll miss all of you for the next seven days, but I’ll see you next Thursday.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Sent comments to mfox1746@gmail.com.