Blog #381                                          June 27, 2024

 

Every blog I write finds me a week older than the blog before.  But I’m trying my best to stay healthy.  We all are.  We stopped smoking, we stopped drinking, we exercised, we ate the right foods and put on sunscreen.  We ate only the egg yolks, then only the egg whites, then no eggs at all.  We switched from Coke to Diet Coke to Caffeine-Free Diet Coke to Snapple to water.  We even got on a low-carb diet which some fool named Starch Madness.  We did everything the World Health Organization, the Surgeon General and Richard Simmons told us to do in order to stay healthy so we could live a longer life.  And what are we doing with those extra years we gained by being such good little Kens and Barbies?  Hiding from rioters and carjackers, avoiding the local shootings and searching for the cheapest eggs at the grocery. Wait, are we allowed to eat eggs again? Hardly seems worth it all.  But hang in there, my friends.  As Robert Frost said, “Provide, provide.”

 

And while you’re doing all that to stay healthy, you might as well stay wealthy and wise.  I know you’re being wise because here you are reading my blog.  But wealthy?  You know how you can recognize a wealthy person?  To a wealthy person, the word summer is a verb.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  You are gluttons for punishment, so let’s see how much of it I can supply.  First, I hope you are staying well and staying cool.  Summer is officially here and it’s hot.  It’s so hot, the carjackers will only take a car with the air-conditioning on.  It’s so hot, homeless people are carrying signs that say WILL WORK FOR SHADE.  It’s so hot, there’s a sequel to the Disney movie Frozen – it’s called Melted.  It’s so hot that in tonight’s Presidential Debate, the candidates will be allowed to wear bathing suits.  Now I know for sure you’ll watch it.  I don’t know what is rising faster, the temperature or the President’s age.  Some clever cartoonist has labelled the debate the Antiques Roadshow.

 

I’m not going to engage in a long polemic here, but isn’t it sickening that these two old men are the only ones we can choose from?

 

They’re going to have a debate

With two men we all love to hate

Before it all ends

They will both need Depends

And we’ll call the whole thing Diaper-Gate.

 

“Freedom is hammered out on the anvil of discussion, dissent and debate,” said Hubert Humphrey, but the candidates are so old, they remember when we had nine planets.  They’re so old, they remember when Tonto was allowed to call a white man Kemosabe on television.  In one episode, Tonto told Lone that Kemosabe meant “trusty scout”, but today it translates into White-Supremacist Bastard.  Actually, and this is the truth, Kemosabe is an Apache word for idiot.  Did you notice the word polemic?  It’s our Weekly Word, and means a strong written or spoken attack.

 

Politicians aren’t the only ones getting older.  My wife will be celebrating a birthday next week.  Actually, her birth date is just the start of the celebration which will last nine months and include lunches, brunches, dinners, dances, buffets, soirees and happy hours hosted by every senior Jewish woman west of the Mississippi.  Let me get my two cents in first: Happy Birthday, Honey.  You’re the best!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  A turn or two I’ll walk to still my beating mind (The Tempest).  Happy Birthday to Moms.  She’s a good woman.  Every morning we exercise together.  She does her yoga poses and stretching and walks all over the house a dozen times.  I lie on the carpet, stretch my three legs and purr.  Purr. 

 

For Carol’s birthday, naturally, I will be a reliable and loving husband and schlep to six different places to get my wife’s favorite candies, chicken salads, fruits and crackers.  There’s an old Pomak saying that goes, “It’s the thingiest thing on this earthly earth to give a soul something to eat.”  The Pomaks are Bulgarian Muslims.  Don’t ask where I get this stuff.

 

The Ten Commandments – remember the Ten Commandments?  They won the Jewlitzer Prize.  Well, they’re back in the news now that Louisiana wants to have them posted in schoolrooms and the Left has gone as bonkers as if the Commandments were the table of contents to Mein Kampf.  Did you know there were originally more than ten commandments?  Yes, poor old Moses dropped one of the tablets.  Here are some that we never got to see:

 

·        Commandment XI:  Thou shalt not wear linen after Labor Day.

·        Commandment XII:  Thou shalt not elect anyone as old as Moses to be your leader.

·        Commandment XIII:  Thou shalt not shoot your puppy, then write about it in a book if you want to be the Vice-President.

·        Commandment XIV: In Louisiana, thou shalt not abort.

·        Commandment XV:  Thou shalt not use Roman numerals for the Commandments because Rome won’t be invented for another thousand years.

 

Recently, I received an email from one of my readers practically begging me to write a book, incorporating these blogs.  I was very flattered.  James Eads said, “The love of praise is, I believe, common to all men and whether it be a frailty or a virtue, I plead no exception from its fascination.”  James Buchanan Eads engineered and built the Eads Bridge in St. Louis.  Opened in 1874, it was the first bridge across the Mississippi River south of the Missouri River.  So yes, I was flattered, but don’t worry, I’m not going to get all famous on you.  I don’t want to be famous.  I’m in a really good place -- my family loves me; you tolerate me and the IRS has lost my address.  But, as Ishmael said, I try all things. I achieve what I can.  And if you don’t know who Ishmael is, you’re in the wrong blog.

 

Were finished now.  I’ve given you quotes from Robert Frost, Shakespeare, God, James Eads, Ishmael, Hubert Humphrey and some old Pomak.  I’ve given you a limerick and five new Commandments.  And here’s one more Commandment, the most important – Thou shall count thy blessings, stay well and get your asseth backeth here next week.  Don’t you love when I talk biblical?

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #380                                         June 20, 2024

 

This week, I went to a luncheon with 27 other guys from my high school class (1963, University City High School).  Go Indians!  Except now they are called the Lions, because – well, don’t get me started.  It was very nice, and thanks to my friend Joel for arranging the whole thing.  As we waited for lunch to be served, each of us was called upon to share a memorable episode from our high school years.  I, of course, mentioned meeting my future wife when we were seniors.  What could be more memorable than that?  But many of the guys shared stories about drag racing, tunneling into the girls’ locker room, getting drunk, going to whore houses, getting into fights – all wholesome and normal teenage-boy stuff.  I never did any of that.  It all made me feel like I didn’t have any fun in high school and, in retrospect, maybe I didn’t.

 

But I’m having fun now.  I’ve got my wife and my daughters and my grandchildren and tons of friends.  I’ve got my cat and the Zoo and my books.  And I get to talk to you every week.  Speaking of which, many of the guys at the luncheon are Oyster readers.  One of them ominously said, “If you say one bad thing about me in your blog, I’m going to kill you.”  Well, you know who you are, and I can assure you that you are too nice a person to write anything bad about.  This week.

 

Hi there, folks, and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and enjoying your summer.  Are you a baseball fan?  Baseball, like everything else in this crazy world, has changed.  We went to a game recently, and it turned out to be an exercise in feeling old.  Whatever happened to one-two-three strikes you’re out at the old ball game?

 

·        The parking lot charged $35, but you couldn’t pay in cash.  You had to download an app, take a picture of your license plate, enter your credit card and make a noise like a chicken. 

·        The tickets were electronic and on my friend’s phone.  I had to take a picture of the QR code and show it not only to get into the stadium, but to get into my seat after going to buy a hotdog.

·        The entire stadium is surrounded by electronic displays that are constantly flashing commercials and useless information like the revolutions and spin of each pitch and the pitch count and the exit velocity, and how many seconds are left for the pitcher to pitch and Jesus, what happened to the baseball game!  It felt more like a space launch.

·        Between innings, the stadium erupted in music so loud that you could not hear the vendor tell you that your Diet Coke just cost you $11.11.  Are you kidding me!

 

“We are prisoners of our civilization, tortured with noise and lights, unable to rest,” said Kapka Kassabova.  Maybe it’s a good thing that we’re all growing deaf.

 

This new world of bright lights and loud noises is frightening.  And now we have ChatGPT, the new Artificial Intelligence generator.  You can actually get that accumulation of wires and sealing wax to write you a poem!  Does that mean I’m out of business? No more will I write silly limericks?  No more will I be your fearless amanuensis to guide you through the vicissitudes of senior life?  Well, I’m not giving up yet:

 

We’re having a contest to see

If the A-I called Chat-GPT

Can excel in the test

For the poem that’s the best

Don’t worry, I’m betting on me

 

So there!  I’d like to see some pile of circuits come up with that!  Or use the words amanuensis and vicissitudes in the same sentence.  So there!  Amanuensis, by the way, will be our Weekly Word.  It means a literary or artistic assistant.  Glad to be of service.

 

Speaking of loud noises, I know you’re happy that the cicada infestation is pretty much gone.  But now we have another plague from the animal kingdom.  You know that I love animals.  I work at the Zoo because I’m an animal guy.  I love cats.  I love dogs.  They love me.  Rabbits snuggle up to me, turtles call my name, zebras follow me in the street.  So what animal could I possibly dislike?

 

Canadian Goose (goosus obnoxifus).  The Canadian Goose is a large, feathered creature the size of a watermelon whose habitat consists of Canada and the little pond in our subdivision.  It is loud, messy and impolite, holding goose concerts at 3:00 in the morning and defecating exclusively on the sidewalks I like to use.  This activity begins in early February and lasts until I can get my hands around their scrawny, ugly necks and squeeze every drop of goose-pooping life out of the messy little bastards.  I’d talk about ducks, but I’d get in trouble with Quack Lives Matter.

 

Father’s Day was very, very nice for me.  I hope it was for you.  My father was a kind and generous man and always careful to do what was right.  When he was growing up, it was the custom to call Blacks “colored”.  When the term “black” became common, he was careful to change.  And then the accepted term became “African American”.  One day, in 1994, my father was 83 years old and Nelson Mandela had just been elected the first black head of state of South Africa.  So my Dad, always precise and cautious, said, “Wasn’t that great that South Africa elected an African American?”  I replied, “Dad, he’s not an African American; he’s an African African.”  He smiled.  True story.  Happy Father’s Day, Dad.

 

Message from Shakespeare.  If by chance I talk a little wild, forgive me; I had it from my father (Henry VIII).  Happy Pops Day to the old man.  He’s a good human and he treats me well.  But he is old.  I’m worried about what will happen to me when he goes to that Old Stupid Limerick Writers’ Lounge in the Sky. I guess I’ll just have to enjoy him while I can.  C’mere you old fool, gimme some lap. Purr.

 

Ok, I guess I have to go, somebody’s purring for me.  We’ll be back next week, the furrball and me.  Take care, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Chat-MBF                               Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #379                                         June 13, 2024

 

I told you last week that my anniversary was coming, and I thank you for all the lovely congratulatory wishes.  You are nice people.  A few days before the date arrived, I went to buy a greeting card.  The cards were so effusive, I decided to get two.

 

The big Anniversary Elf

Went looking for cards on the shelf

Every one was so sweet

And the praise so complete

That I bought one to give to myself.

 

I deserve it, don’t I?  The card I bought said I was the best husband ever, and I gave it to Carol to sign and to give to me on the appropriate date.  If I wanted a card, I pretty much had to buy it myself, because over 57 years my wife has bought me – let’s see, seven times four, carry the two, divide by . . . well, NONE.  While I was there, I bought one to give to her.  It said, “It’s so wonderful being married to the greatest spouse in the world,” and when you opened it up it said, “Isn’t it?”  Last week she told me not to say so many nice things about her, so this week it’s all about me!

 

But enough about me.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and enjoying the warmer weather.  I used the word, effusive before.  It’s our Weekly Word and means expressing feelings of gratitude, pleasure, or approval in an

unrestrained manner.  Basically, it means “gushing with praise.”

 

If you’re not out there gushing with praise about the weather, you’re probably inside?  Has the trash gone out more than you?  I bet you’ve been doing a lot of cleaning.  Even if you live alone, I bet you’ve been cleaning. Solitude is no excuse for sloppiness, said Armistead Maupin.  A funny name and a funny author.  Did you ever read his books called Tales of the City?  No?  Well, it’s too late.  The books are about the singles scene (gay, straight, trans) in San Francisco in the 1970s.  There are nine books in the series, and they are amazingly charming and full of laughs.  The problem is that they are full of 50-year-old references like Dorothy Hamill haircuts and the Bob Newhart Show. 

 

This week, there will be no reason to send me congratulatory notes.  No birthdays or anniversaries coming up.  Too bad, because I do love your comments. They’re the only way I can tell whether I’m doing a good thing here or “just standing in the rain talking to myself” (Cool Hand Luke).  I hope I make you happy once in a while and never make you miserable.

 

“Miserable it is to be to others a cause of misery.”  That’s what Eve said in Paradise Lost right after the little bitch infected us all with original sin by breaking her promise to God.  That was the first pandemic, because Eve actually infected the whole Human Race.  At the time, of course, it was just her and Adam, but it meant that all of their offspring were infected to Eternity, or a Trump second-term, whichever comes first.

 

What was Eve thinking?  This wasn’t a silly, insincere promise like promising your husband to honor and obey.  No, this was a promise to GOD, the Big Dog, the one to whom everyone is praying to give them everything they want.  No, not Joe Biden!  Pay attention.  It’s GOD I’m talking about.  The old guy up in the clouds with the white beard and the direct land-line to Joel Osteen.  I’m fond of Eve, actually, a beautiful woman who got everything she wanted by lying to and manipulating her husband.  Makes me feel right at home.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Misery acquaints a man with strange bedfellows (The Tempest).  Cheer up, Pops.  Don’t be such a Downer Dog.  Life is good.  We have lots of food and a comfy couch to sleep on.  We play with each other and we have that woman who sleeps in our bed.  She’s not so bad.  C’mon, I’ll jump on your lap and let you scratch my neck.  Purr.

 

And that woman who shares our bed loves to shop.  Carol approaches shopping like a lioness stalking a gnu.  (What’s a gnu?  I don’t know, what’s a gnu with you?)  To her, shopping is a two-day event.  Day One is hunting – locate your prey, mark it with your scent, withdraw.  Day Two is gathering – move in for the kill with a vulpine and hungry ferocity, zap it with your credit card, drag it home.  Men don’t have that shopping instinct.  They go to the store, grab the first thing they see and that’s it.  Wham, Bam, you know the rest.

 

Buying on Amazon just doesn’t satisfy the same sensory longing that a day in the mall provides.  The girls can’t smell the item or feel it or match it with their nail polish.  But Carol has adapted.  She’s found a new way of shopping.  It’s called “Michael, buy this for me”.  It works pretty well for her.  I either buy it online or actually leave the house, not daring to return until I have fulfilled her order.  Sometimes I have to go to more than one place.  The other day, I told her, “You know, I had to go the extra mile for you.”  She said, “Going the extra mile just means you missed the exit.”  How did she know I missed the exit? 

 

Have I mentioned any shootings today?  My grandson Zachary, who turned 23 on Saturday, lives in Madison, WI.  Zach was lying in bed Saturday evening when he heard shots and screams and sirens.  Right next door to his apartment building, nine people were shot during a high school graduation party.  My goodness!  What a world!

 

One thing that’s good about the world is that it contains three glorious, intelligent and beautiful women who call me Dad.  Sunday is Father’s Day, and I know I will get three phone calls and some cards as well.  I am a supremely lucky fellow.

 

And you are lucky too, for I know that no matter how many challenges, disappointments and sadnesses that you have experienced, you still have some heartwarming blessings you can count.  Go count them right now, and stay well.  See you next week.  And Happy Father’s Day.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog # 378                               June 6, 2024

 

I complain about the weather a lot, and I should.  Spring in St. Louis is always blustery and as wet as Esther Williams.  But last Wednesday was the best weather day of the decade.  Blue sky, 75^o, calm.  And lucky me, I was volunteering at the Zoo, handing out maps and answering questions – where’s the bathroom, where’s the Starbucks, how do you tell the female camel from the male camel?  A wonderful day.  My favorite spot at the South Entrance was manned by another volunteer, so I went to my second-favorite spot near the Galapagos tortoises.  Opposite the tortoises is a kiosk that sells stuffed animals.  Well, we have to make money somehow; admission to the Zoo is free.  The stand had hundreds of stuffed animals, large and small, pink and brown, smiley and growly, and a big sign that read THE LINE STARTS HERE. In the two hours I stood there, not one customer even stopped to look at the little animals, let alone buy one, but the big sign was there to direct traffic if it ever materialized.  I was ready.  I waited and waited and finally – it happened.  Someone asked me where the big cats were.  We have the lions and tigers and leopards and jaguars in an area we call Big Cat Country, a long walk from where we stood.  When the woman asked me for directions to Big Cat Country, I pointed to the sign and said, “Well, the lion starts here.”  She looked at the sign and gave me a big chuckle.  I liked it.  And how do you tell the male camel from the female camel?  It’s easy -- the female has bigger closets.

 

Around noon, a very strange thing happened at the Zoo:

 

From nowhere, a strapping male deer

Came running but said, “Do not fear

“I won’t run you down

“I’ll just lie on the ground

I’m tired and the buck will stop here.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  Of course, that buck thing did not happen, but I thought it was a good limerick.  And don’t tell me you don’t know who Esther Williams is.  You must be younger than I thought.

 

I have a question for you.  How do you turn a regular sofa into a sofa bed?  Simple, just forget your wife’s anniversary.  Well, I haven’t.  This week will mark Carol’s and my 57^th Wedding Anniversary.  Fifty-seven years with my beautiful wife!  Fifty-seven years and we’re still talking.  Mostly, my talking consists of Yes, Dear and I’m sorry, but it works.  Plus, that’s why, when I come to talk to you, I have so many words left over.  I remember those early years when we would watch programs like Father Knows Best and Leave It to Beaver and I Love Lucy.  Now we get in bed and watch the nightly Loot ‘n Shoot of crime news and protestors – Palestinians, Israelis, Trump haters, Trump lovers.  There are even new programs on Netflix like The Price Is Riot and Have Palestinian Flag – Will Travel.  In those good old, old days, when the nightly shows were over, we’d get a test pattern.  Now we get a Pro-test Pattern.  I must honestly admit that between the politics and the antisemitism and the price of groceries, my mental health is teetering.  It’s probably not hard for you to tell. 

 

And when all the news is over, we go to sleep.  I close my eyes and hope to open them at 7:30 the next morning, refreshed and eager for a better day.  But that beatific outcome never happens.  First of all, I get up two or three times and head for the bathroom.  Then there are the two or three other times when a furry feline jumps on the bed to announce that he’s not asleep and doesn’t understand why anyone else should be.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Macbeth doth murder sleep (Macbeth).  I’m nocturnal.  I sleep in the daytime and want to play at night.  Pops needs to learn to do it my way.  C’mon, Pops, get up and play with me.  And what’s with the doth word that stupid poet uses all the time?  Do you use it?  I certainly dothn’t.  Purr.

 

Our Weekly Word is beatific, which means blissfully happy.  I wonder, what do people think about when they’re lying awake with a cat on their chest and no prospect of imminent sleep?  Do they wonder what it would have been like to have had a beatific life like Brad Pitt or Taylor Swift?  I actually can’t think of anyone luckier than me.  I’m not sure I could dream of a better life.  I’ve had a wonderful companion for 57 years, three glorious daughters and eight magnificent grandchildren.  What more could Brad Pitt have? Except maybe Jennifer Anniston and Angelina Jolie.  Only teasing. 

 

Fifty-seven years!  You know my famous line:  Our marriage has been successful because we have the same goal in life – to keep her happy.  And it’s true.  We don’t like the same politics or the same television or the same books, but we do like to be together and we both like Chinese food.  Do you like Chinese food?  We had Chinese take-out one night last week.  It was yummy – orange chicken, egg roll, fortune cookie.  My fortune read YOU ARE MARRIED TO A WONDERFUL PERSON.  Carol’s fortune read YOUR HUSBAND IS MARRIED TO A WONDERFUL PERSON.  Those Chinese are pretty smart.

 

And you’re pretty smart too because you come back here every week to see how much trouble I can get into.  So tell me, on a scale from one to ten, how much trouble do you think I’m in?  One to ten, where “1” stands for everyone loves my blog and “10” stands for I’m sharing a cell with Donald Trump.  Hey, some of it’s good and some bad.  As the comedian Steven Wright said, “If you want the rainbow, you got to put up with the rain.”  So stay well, count your blessings and grab your umbrella -- I’ll be back next week.

 

Carol just objected to my writing so many nice, loving things about her, so I had to take some out.  Happy Anniversary, Bitch!  Oh-oh, now I’m really in trouble.  See you next week . . . if she lets me.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com