Blog #409                                January 9, 2025

 

Holy shit!  I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, but Tuesday was my 79^th birthday.  Seventy-nine years old.  Don’t send me any presents; you’re already too late.  But if you want to send me a Bitcoin or two, I’ll overlook that.  If I had spent all 79 years counting one person a second, I would have counted about one-third of the people on Earth.  And, if I had spent the last eight years writing silly, wordy letters to you, I would be up to 409 blogs.  Four hundred nine blogs?  Holy shit!  Sorry, I’m beginning to sound like a doctor examining the Pope’s stool specimen.

 

Did I tell you it’s my 79^th birthday?  I don’t need a calendar to remind me I’m old.  Father Time reminds me every morning when my hands are a little more numb and my back is a little more sore and my joints are a little more creaky.  As I stand, looking in the mirror and orienting myself to another day, there’s old Father Time looking over my shoulder.  “Hey, Michael, remember me,” he asks?  “I’m still the same old guy I used to be and you’re not.  Have a nice day.”  And the day will move along and I’ll do my thing and enjoy my wife and my family and my cat and all of you.  I’ll go to bed and wake up the next morning. “Good morning, Father Time,” I’ll say.  Just a couple of old friends starting a new day.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are safe and well and warm.  I know many of my readers are in sunny and cozy climes – Florida and Georgia and North Carolina, Arizona and Nevada and California, even Mexico.  But I, your tireless guide, am here in St. Louis, the lint-filled navel of America, where this week it snowed five to seven inches.  The snow is beautiful, of course, but it has confined me to my house and stifled my ability to go to the grocery store, an activity which I call hunting and gathering.  Today, I was planning to hunt and gather a Sumo Orange.  I don’t know what that is and neither does Carol, but Hoda Kotb said we had to have one, so there you go.  If Hoda said you had to have a moose, Carol would sit on the couch and yell, “Michael, get me a moose.”  And I, dumb and loyal Bullwinkle that I am, would do it.

 

I do everything she tells me.  I even let her proofread my blogs.  Every once in a while, she wants me to change a word.  I wonder if Mrs. Poe ever said, “Eddie, I have a suggestion;

 

I’ve read your long poem of Lenore

To tell you the truth, it’s a bore

The bird should not say

That “No way, Jose”

Why can’t he just say “nevermore”?

 

Not a bad suggestion.  I mean “Quoth the raven, ‘No way Jose’”?  That just doesn’t flow.   She also talked Edgar out of writing

 

·        The Tell-Tale Kidney

·        Murders in the Rue Coffee Shop

·        The Pit and the Paper Clip

·        The Fall of the House of Slivovitz

 

Many of our famous lines in history would have been different if some well-meaning wife or friend hadn’t suggested a change.  Lines like:

 

·        I came, I saw, I took a selfie

·        The only thing we have to fear is Brussel sprouts

·        Ask not what your country can do for you; it won’t listen.

·        To be or not to be.  Bingo!

 

Message from Shakespeare:  They have their exits and their entrances (As You Like It).  Pops does everything his wife says, but he also does everything I say too.  Let me out, let me in, feed me, pet me, scratch the left side of my face.  That’s the only part of my body I can’t reach.  He’s such a good boy.  Happy Birthday, old man.  Purr.

 

Yesterday, I went to a funeral of a long-time friend, Ivan – a good man to be sure.  And of course, the lovely speeches by his son and grandchildren acted as a fillip that started me to wonder what would be said at my funeral.  My children and grandchildren are very smart, loving and eloquent, and I have no doubt they will say nice things about me.  And, of course, I have already written my speech for the funeral.  That doesn’t surprise you, does it?  It is addressed to my family and to you, my friends, and will be read by the rabbi.  It’s a good speech.  Don’t miss it.  

 

And don’t miss our Weekly Word, fillip, which means something that acts as a stimulus or boost to an activity.

 

 

 

Since this is the first blog of 2025, I hope you’ll give me permission to bore you with a poem I wrote some time ago.  It’s a little long, but hey, you’re my loyal reader.  You can handle it, but in case you drop off to sleep before you finish it, Happy New Year to everyone.  Stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.  Here’s the poem.

 

I write so darn much poetry – I do it all the time

That people think that everything I write has got to rhyme.

Well nothing could be sillier or further from the truth

For I’ve been writing prose, you see, since I was just a youth.

And prose is so much easier, it’s cleaner and it’s neater

Because it doesn’t have to rhyme or have a pleasing meter.

So you can go on thinking that I’ve only one dimension,

But I can write prolific prose, if that is my intention.

To prove my point, I shall herewith submit this simple letter.

No evidence besides this little prose could do it better

Because it doesn’t rhyme at all; indeed this little sample

Is unpoetic prose, of which it is a fine example.

But wait, the last two lines – they rhymed.  I’m filled with such revulsion!

Perhaps it’s true: I’m riddled with obsession and compulsion.

To think that I can’t write without a rhyme is just pathetic.

The next two lines I promise won’t at all appear poetic.

It’s surely just as trivial as putting on your socks.

I told you I could do it and I’ve done it.

 

Michael Fox                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

Did you make it all the way through?  Thanks.