Blog #385                                July 25, 2024

 

After I retired, and before I rearranged my life with volunteering at the Zoo and the County Jail, teaching ESL and writing a blog, I would get up each morning, grab a Diet Coke at McDonald’s and go to the main branch of the County Library.  It was a large, old, red-brick building, quiet and comfortable, crammed with stacks of books, racks of magazines and piles of newspapers from around the world.  I would grab the Wall Street Journal and a plushy chair and relax.  The library was warm in the winter, cool in the summer, quiet and secluded.

 

They tore that old building down last year and replaced it with a new glass and steel mega-brary which opened this past week.  It is a state-of-the-art, hi-tech, child-oriented wonderland of electronics.  There must be 100 computers available, rooms to make videos, every kind of media paraphernalia, sound studios, art studios, craft aids and an entire section dedicated to genealogy.  Carol and I and our 12-year-old California grandson, Parker, visited there the day after it opened.  Parker played the drums in the music studio.  Carol made a weather video just like on TV.  She predicted no humidity and temperatures of 73⁰ for the rest of her life.  There were dozens of other helpful and fun things to try.  I hated it. 

 

Play drums or play PAC-MAN or cook

Make videos, records, and look:

Computers galore

3-D printers and more

They’ve got everything there – but a book.

 

I found the books eventually, but not the quiet spots with the plushy chairs.  Now the chairs are all hard plastic “designed by computers for your ultimate comfort”.  It’s like sitting on a potato chip.  It’s not a place for an old man looking to relax and read in comfort and quiet.  Now it’s Disneyland and I don’t belong.  I’m happy for the youngsters who can experience these technological opportunities.  But I’m sad for the loss of the world that used to be mine, a world that no longer exists anywhere but in an old man’s memory.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and getting older with grace and aplomb.  Aplomb, our Weekly Word means self-confidence or assurance.  When I have to write something or speak, I generally feel self-confident and assured.  But when it comes to technology, I’m like Venus de Milo trying to juggle.  I have often told you that I am technologically challenged, but I have recently discovered a quote by Elbert Hubbard which gives me some spirit:  One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men. No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.  So there.  Maybe in my next life, I’ll come back as somebody technically ept.  Is that a word?  Isn’t it the opposite of inept?

 

Our world right now is too full of politics:  we hate Trump, we love Trump, we hate Joe, we love Joe.  Wait a minute – Joe’s gone!  Goodbye Joe, me gotta go, me oh my oh.  That’s from an old song called Jambalaya.  Jambalaya is actually a Creole hash of rice and all kinds of other stuff, kind of like the hash the Democratic Party is in right now.  But they’ll work it out and the game will be on.

 

Until then, let’s not talk about any of that.  Let’s talk about something really important -- the new Bris Festival appearing at your local movie theater.  The festival includes movies about the Jewish circumcision ceremony.  A strange choice to me, but the titles sound intriguing.  First is the Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan classic You’ve Got Mohel followed by Billy Crystal and Robert De Niro in Circumcise This.  The festival ends with a new Star Wars spin-off called May the Foreskin Be With You.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  There is throats to be cut and works to be done (Henry V). They cut off my leg and some other parts, but they left me with one foreskin and nine lives.  So I guess I’m coming back more times than acid indigestion.  Or Barbra Streisand.  I think next time I’ll come back as a black cat.  I hear that black cats matter.  Purr.

 

See, wasn’t that more fun than politics?  Now let’s talk about NASA which announced last week it would begin reviewing and, where necessary, changing the names of astronomical bodies that are deemed racially insensitive.   Ok, People, they’ve torn down our statues, changed the names of football teams, military facilities, government buildings and pancake syrup, and now they’re coming after our planets.  And, of course, in today’s jabberwocky world every planet is offensive.

 

Mercury is a poison that corporations dump into the ocean to poison our fish.

Venus rhymes with penis which is gender-specific and sexist.

Mars is named after the God of War.  We should never talk of war – or God.

Jupiter is the King of the Gods and that reeks of royalty and colonialism.

Saturn has rings and rings are where boxing occurs and boxing is violent.

Uranus – I mean, are you serious?

Neptune is the God of the Sea and the seas are polluted with mercury and plastic.

Pluto is no longer a planet except to old people who think libraries should be quiet.

 

You might as well start learning the new planetary names now.  Here they are:  Happy, Sleepy, Dopey, Doc, Grumpy, Bashful, Sneezy – and Earth.

 

Here’s another new subject, and I just know I’m going to get in big trouble here, but what the Hell!  What can they do to me, make me watch that debate again?  I want to know why more and more girls and women have what were traditionally boys’ names.  I have a granddaughter Charley.  And her girlfriends are Ronnie, Sam, Jo, Madison, Morgan, Michael, Sydney and others.  But there are no boys named Phyllis.  Moby Dick does not begin Call Me Edith.

 

And women yearn to wear what traditionally were men’s clothing -- jeans, cowboy hats, boots, vests.  But I have never thought about wearing an off-the-shoulder gown.  Well, there was that one time in Phoenix, but . . . never mind.  I’d better go now before my wife cuts my clothing allowance.

 

But we’ll be back next week – me, Shakespeare and whoever is running for President.  Stay well and count all your blessings.  Me gotta go, me oh, my oh.

 

Edith                              Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #384                                July 18, 2024

 

I don’t know what to say about the shooting of Donald Trump.  Besides, you’ve been listening to every person who has a mouth for over four days now and there’s nothing left to say.

 

But, as long as you’re here already, drinking your orange juice and resting in your comfy chair, here’s what I think.  The media is awash in well-worn and ridiculously jejune stupidities.  “This is not acceptable.”  “This is not who we are.”  “We have to come together.”  That’s all great, but the truth is that the world is never at a loss for crazy people who for some reason decide to shoot a candidate.  Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed John Kennedy.  Sirhan Sirhan shot and killed Robert Kennedy.  Reagan was shot; Ford was attacked twice. You can’t follow everybody in the country.  You can’t know who is the next would-be assassin.  And you can’t protect a candidate or sitting President from every danger.  It’s just not possible.  The world is teeming with evil.  The only original idea I heard all week came from the girls on The View.  We all know they hate Trump worse than ants in their purse, but they were horrified by the assassination attempt.

 

The shooting of Trump was a shame

But he’s just got his big mouth to blame

It all makes us sick

Maybe next time they’ll pick

A guy who has got better aim.

 

Let’s talk about something more pleasant, like the Weekly Word.  Jejune (both Js are pronounced like the French pronounce the J in Jacques) means naïve, simplistic and superficial.

 

Or maybe we should talk about movies.  Rotten Oyster:  Parker, my 12-year-old grandson from California was in town last week and, among other adventures, we went to see Despicable Me 4.  If you like cartoons, and if you’ve seen any of the other Despicable Me movies, this one’s truly entertaining.  I chuckled throughout the whole thing.  The only drawback was that buying a movie ticket has become as intricate as buying a car.  Do you want the 3D version?  Do you want food delivered?  Do you want the seats to recline?  For $49.50 a ticket, you can have a seat that’ll heat up your ass like a flapjack while massaging your prostate.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and learning how to play Name That Candidate.  In 1960, John Kennedy and Richard Nixon were both in their 40s, two Young White Men vying for the Presidency of the United States.  Now, sixty years later, it’s another election year and who are the candidates?  Two Old White Men in their 70s or 80s.  It doesn’t seem like our country has made progress; it just seems like it has grown old.

 

Will Joe Biden be the Democrat candidate in November?  Or will it be Kamala?  Or Michelle Obama?  Or Hillary Clinton?  Maybe Kamala and Michelle should be on the same ticket: the Kamala Obamala Ticket. I’ve heard talk that the Majority Leader of the Senate is going to run.  That’s the Schumer Rumor.  Or maybe we all should just vote for Tony the Tiger. MAKE AMERICA GRRRRREAT AGAIN!   Or maybe somebody is going to shoot them all.  Sorry, but that’s on my mind.  This is what it’s like being inside my head.  I’ve warned you.  Some people have a train of thought; I have a train wreck!

 

Let’s talk about old people.  I seem to do that a lot, but giraffes have giraffes, apples grow on apple trees and old people talk about old people.  For instance, I’m sure you have noticed that old folks, to a large degree, are slow drivers, and I want to explain to you why we are.  It’s not that our eyes are blurred or our reflexes are poor.  No, the real reason we drive slowly is that we are no longer in a hurry.  Where do we have to go, Senior Day at Walgreens?  It can wait.  When you’re young you want everything to come fast.

 

·        I can’t wait to get a driver’s license

·        I can’t wait till I get rich.

·        I can’t wait till my kids are grown and I have some time to myself.

·        Just ten more years and I’ll have it made.

 

I have never heard a senior say, “Just ten more years and I’ll have it made.”  We can wait.  We have nothing else to do but wait.  Besides, what could I possibly be looking forward to in ten years – Barbra Streisand’s 88^th Farewell Concert?  What difference does it really make if I miss that green light?  I’ll just get to the Dollar Store thirty seconds later.  So don’t honk at me.  Relax, slow down, take a breath.  One of these days you won’t be in such a hurry any more.

 

 

As you know, I often dwell on funerals and burial options.  Here are my latest thoughts.  Most people really don’t want to trudge out in the weather to visit an old grave in a depressing cemetery. We should bury our loved ones indoors, in a big warehouse, and then turn it into a bar.  Every night we could have a special memorial time called Sad Hour where we pay respects to Grandma while eating half-priced calamari.   At least I know Carol will be thinking of me over a chilled Chardonnay and a fried artichoke.  “C’mon, girls, I need a drink; let’s go visit what’s his name.”   And she could drink a toast to my memory while laying empty mussel shells on my plaque.  They’ll call the place “Shots & Plots” or “Tears with Beers” or something goofy like that.

 

I like the idea of people gathering over drinks and food and remembering their loved ones.  I can hear them now: “Wasn’t Grandma terrific!” or “My Mom was such a good cook!” or “My Michael sure had a train-wreck for a brain.  Pass the cocktail sauce.”

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Not in a grave, to lay one in, another out to have (Romeo and Juliet).  I want to be buried right next to my Pops.  One big headstone for him and nine little ones for me.  Purr.

 

Well, it’s time to go.  My trainwreck needs to rest its caboose.  I’ll come back next week and tickle your fancy or any other part you prefer.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Blog #383                                                   July 11, 2024

 

Do you have something named after you?  I have a cake.  My grandkids call me Poppy and the eponymous cake is called a Poppy Cake.  No, eponymous does not mean yummy; it means named after someone.  Simple as that.  The cake is alternating layers of chocolate wafer cookies and Cool Whip Lite.  My mother used to make it and it was a favorite for me and my three daughters.  Back then it was called an ice-box cake and used real whipped cream, but times have changed.

 

The first thing that changed was the whipped cream.  It has too much fat and too much cholesterol and too much cream and too much whip and is banned from my family tree and all its branches.  So now, instead of wholesome natural cream, we use an industrial paste mixed with air bubbles and sugar.  It’s delicious!  And we use the Lite variety to convince ourselves that chocolate cookies surrounded by some Noxzema-looking slime is good for your diet.  And the Cool Whip people can’t even spell lite rite.

 

The next thing that changed was the name.  You can’t serve something called Ice-Box Cake to a generation who thinks that Ice-Box is a form of Norwegian martial arts.  No, the ice-box is a thing of the past, as dead as the rotary phone, the typewriter and Regis Philbin.  My grandchildren love this cake and, since Carol always makes it for my birthday, they call it Poppy Cake and ask for it on their birthdays as well.  I know for a certainty that sixty years from now, my grandchildren will be making Poppy Cake for their grandchildren and telling them who Poppy was, and each time they do, I will smile.  I have never asked for anything in return for giving everything.  All I want is not to be forgotten.  So go ahead, go from anonymous to eponymous.  Name something after yourself – Grandma’s Cookies, Uncle George’s Secret Handshake, Sally’s MAGA Hat.  But not the chocolate cookie and Cool Whip cake.  That one’s mine.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Do you think because you are virtuous, that there shall be more cakes (Twelfth Night). I need something named after me.  I know Kitty Litter and Cat Nap are taken.  How about a little collar that says MAKE AMERICA PURR AGAIN?  No?  Well, since I only have three legs, what if I make a spicy seafood dish and call it Limp Creole?  Purr.

 

The quote about not wanting to be forgotten is from Kapka Kassabova.  I know that sounds like a new disease, but is, in fact, a young Bulgarian woman who writes wonderful books.  Only me, right?  I do my best not to be forgotten.  I save on paper everything I have ever written – poems, stories, letters, blogs, songs – so that when I’m gone, they’ll either have a lot of things to remember me by or the

biggest bonfire since Mrs. O’Leary’s cow.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling ebullient.  That’s our Weekly Word and it means lively and enthusiastic.  Have you decided yet who you’re going to vote for?  Trump, Joe, Kamala, Elmer Fudd?  I think we should all vote for Jill Biden.  It would save the government a lot of money.  They wouldn’t even have to change the sheets.

 

I checked my emails yesterday and found one from a person I didn’t know, thanking me for renewing my subscription to McAfee for $350.  McAfee is a legitimate computer security company, but I did not have a subscription.  It must be a mistake.  I thought I’d clear up the confusion by calling the number provided.  I got a gentleman with an Indian accent and calmly explained to him that I didn’t have a subscription and was certainly not renewing one.  He began to describe the process which I would have to go through to cancel the order – texted ID codes, visits to websites, recitations of tantric mantras.  I, demonstrably less calmly than before, interrupted him and told him I was doing none of that and admonished him not to contact me again.  He responded, in his lilting, charming Indian voice as follows: “Go to hell, asshole!” after which he hung up on me.  Not very customer friendly.  Two more comments:  first, that was an absolutely true story, word for word and second, “hanging up” on someone is pretty much archaic now, isn’t it?  I mean, we don’t hang up anything to end a call; we just push a button.  So from now on, I won’t say he hung up on me.  I’ll say he buttoned me.

 

Rotten Oysters:  The movie we saw was called One Life and starred Anthony Hopkins.  It is a true story of the rescue of Jewish children from Czechoslovakia after the Nazi invasion of 1938.  It is a Holocaust movie, a tear-jerker and a feel-good movie rolled into one, and it is very, very well done.  I recommend it highly.

 

I often use Google on my phone, and each time I open the app, it shows little articles of interest, some newsworthy, some just strange.  Here’s one:

 

OKLAHOMA WOMAN THROWS ABUSIVE HUSBAND’S ASHES IN THE TRASH.

 

I immediately yelled, Right on, Sister.  There’s no reason we have to say nice things about a bad person just because he’s dead, is there?  I know one day I’ll go to a memorial service and the wife will take the microphone and tell us what a beast her deceased beast was and that she’s thrilled he’s climbing the Stairway to Heaven – or wherever.  Well, this Oklahoma woman did it.  She wanted nothing to remind her of that creep.  Well, actually, she did keep a small memento or two.

 

I burned George’s body to ash

Then I threw the whole thing in the trash

But although he’s in Hades

I kept his Mercedes

And four-hundred thousand in cash.

 

Ok, I’m ashamed, so I’m sending myself to my room.  But I’ll be out by next week to send you more nonsense.  Be there.  Stay well and count your blessings please.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Just a note about your comments.  Please continue, I love them, but when you do, make sure you use REPLY, to send the message to me only.  Do not use REPLY ALL, which sends the message to everybody.  They don’t love you like I do.  See you next week.

 

 

Blog #382                                         July 4, 2024

 

In our glorious quest to browse every fast-food restaurant, Carol and I and some friends visited Jack in the Box, my favorite.  Their Chicken Teriyaki Bowl is absolutely gourmet.  I love it.  It came with a very tasty, crisp eggroll and an empty cup.  I searched for a conventional soft-drink dispenser, but what I found instead was a gleaming, modern behemoth that looked like Robby the Robot with acne.  On closer inspection, the acne dots turned out to represent the various beverage choices that this amazing, technological beast had to offer.  I chose Sweet Tea and pressed the circle.  A little light came on: not available.  Ok, I’m flexible.  How about Unsweet Tea: not available.  My steamy, delicious teriyaki bowl was waiting, so I decided to go right to Diet Coke: not available.  What?  The single most-sold soft drink in the Western Hemisphere was sold out?  That’s like an undertaker running out of coffins.

 

What to do?  I was already in the cluster of acne dots representing Coke products, and I saw one labeled Peach Coke.  I had never heard of Peach Coke before.  It sounded like a strange combination to me, like chocolate eggs or shrimp Jell-O, but I was becoming desperate.  I pressed the button, and the dot lit up, indicating it was available.  Of course it was; what tasteless and unsophisticated moron would drink Peach Coke?  Apparently, I not only fit the category of tasteless moron, but qualified as a dithering, useless, old doofus as well, because I could not find the right button that would convince Robby to spit the Peach Coke into my cup.  I asked for help and received it from a nice attendant.  Was I embarrassed?  No.  I do not do machines; everybody knows that.  I have other fine qualities, and given enough time, I might think of one.  Anyway, my cup filled with Peach Coke and I went back to my table and ate my Teriyaki Chicken Bowl.  It was warm and sweet and delicious.  Perfect.  I enjoyed it.  The Peach Coke tasted like shrimp Jell-O.

 

Happy Fourth of July!  I really think that the Fourth of July should be moved to December so that we can start the fireworks at 5:00 when it gets dark instead of 9:00.  We old people need to get to bed early.  Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well and have recovered from last week’s Presidential debate.  I’m not sure I have anything to say about that, which is odd.  I usually have plenty to say about everything.  Maybe later.

 

Ok, it’s later.  Here’s what perplexes me:  The Democrats are apoplectic.  “Oh, my God, Joe had a bad debate.  He can’t be the President.  Throw him under the bus.  How can this have been such a surprise to them?  Where have they been the past three years?  Did they never see Joe stumble or fumble or wobble?  Did they only watch CNN?  Even the women on The View are saying Joe should step down.  How can they have been so surprised?

 

But let’s move on to something much more important – my wife’s birthday, which was Tuesday.  I arose slowly in the morning and waited for my brain to determine what the abrupt change from horizontal to vertical really meant.  I limped into the bathroom and took a pill for my heart.  Then I rubbed on some cream to help my dry skin and walked slowly to the study, favoring my hip.  I got my 2.75 reading glasses, took some fiber pills and a Senior Multi-Vitamin.  Carol walked in looking fresh and perky.  She had just finished the treadmill, done her yoga and was on her way to play golf.  I wished her happy birthday.  Poor girl is getting old.

 

She received a plethora of phone calls and cards and well wishes for her birthday.  She even received a message from one of her favorite stores.  They’ve missed her:

 

This summer our styles are fantastic

And the sales and discounts are drastic

So bring your small carcass

Down to Neiman Marcus

‘Cause we miss your smile – and your plastic

 

Let’s make our Weekly Word behemoth.  It means an extremely large or powerful entity.  Like Godzilla or Mt. Everest or Donald Trump’s ego.

 

Every day, I exercise Shakespeare.  Here’s how that works.  We sit at one end of the hall and I roll a ping-pong ball to the other end.  He either chases it or he doesn’t.  Either way, I have to go to the other end, pick up the ball and roll it back.  Sometimes he’s really into it and runs his fur off.  Other times he just sits and watches the old man going up and down the hall.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast. (Romeo and Juliet).  I do love my Pops, but he is a ridiculous old fool.  I have him trained now to run up and down the hall chasing a ball.  Can you imagine?  He’s such a good boy.  Purr. 

 

And speaking of fools, My Mama didn’t raise no fools.  Did you ever use that phrase?  Even though the grammar is terrible, I bet most of you have said it.  I’ve used it a few times, and each time, Carol looks me in the eye and says, “Your mother raised three complete fools”!  She is right, of course.  Fool #1 was my older sister, who was nuts.  She thought she was smarter than everyone else, including doctors and never went to one.  She died at the age of 63 from a curable disease.  Fool #2 was my older brother, a lovable and outrageous eccentric.  He never went to a doctor because that would be admitting that he might, someday, get sick.  He died at the age of 61 from a different, but curable, disease.  Fool #3, of course, is me.  My wife says the only smart thing I ever did was marry her.  Her humility overwhelms me.

 

In this blog, I have already been called a fool by my wife, my cat and the person at Jack in the Box.  I need a hug.  I’ll settle for your coming back next week.  Maybe by then we’ll know if Joe Biden is still running for President.  I bet he will be.  Meanwhile, stay well and count your blessings. 

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com