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