Blog #416                                February 27, 2025

 

I got on an elevator the other day along with another man – tall, big, 40ish.  In other times, you would look at the person, smile, nod your head, maybe say an innocuous word or two.  Not anymore.  Now, you can’t even make eye contact because everyone is reading a device.  They are reading their texts or their emails or their Twitter or Limerick Oyster.  What have we become when we no longer interact with the people around us?  We have become a sad and robotic society.  Social media has made us anti-social.  Obviously, Mr. Big-Tall-40ish and I did not communicate.  His loss.  Maybe mine too.

 

But, later that day, I went to get a blood test.  I hate blood tests.  Even somebody else’s blood test!  When the young man began to take my blood, he asked me about my book.  I had a book. Is there ever a time when I’m without a book?  Is there ever a day when a mattress is not on sale?  I sat with this young man for 15 minutes after he was finished.  We talked about books and his job and his trip to the Grand Canyon.  What a pleasure.  I didn’t want to leave.  He didn’t want me to leave.  Simple, friendly, social contact.  If you’re ever down on people and need a lift, just go get your blood taken.  It’s fun.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Tomorrow Carol and I are going to sea.  No, not a three-hour tour on the Minnow with a rotund and jolly Skipper.  Not a three-year voyage on the Pequod with a wretched and maniacal Ahab.  We will be embarking instead on a three-day cruise to Key West and the Bahamas.  I am certainly relishing a chance to get away from the freezing winter in St. Louis, but I do harbor (there’s a nautical term for you) a good deal of trepidation about traveling.

 

Carol and I travel almost every year to Naples to visit friends, then to Carol’s sister in West Palm and up to my daughter in North Carolina, but it always makes me anxious when I go out of town.  And for good reason.  Once, when I was out of town, I had quadruple bypass surgery.  Another time I was in the hospital with pneumonia.  Another time I was hit with a urinary infection.  I think I have a new plan:

 

Whenever I travel I dread

Winding up in a hospital bed

I’m thinking next year

I should leave my wife here

And take all my doctors instead.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Now I am alone. O, what a rogue and peasant slave I am! (Hamlet).  Why doesn’t he take me?  I hate being alone.  My neighbors come by and feed me and pet me, but I’m so sad.  Send him home soon.  Purr.

 

You know, everything I tell you here is the truth.  Sure, there is an obvious joke here and there, but the stories I tell you are true.  And I know you can tell they are.  There is something about the truth that makes itself understood.  I don’t have to make up funny things; much of life is funny.  You just have to listen.

 

For instance, I heard a funny thing on the TV the other day.  It was Princess Kate advising other women how to be a good mother.  We all love Princess Kate, don’t we?  She’s pretty and the kids are cute and – they’re Royalty.  Here in the Colonies, we love the English Royalty.  I mean -- Downton Abbey!  We loved Princess Di; we adored her as if she were our own Princess.  And now we adore Princess Kate.  But not satisfied with pretty little princesses from across the Pond; we try to create our own royalty.  When I was growing up, we worshipped Elvis Presley, so we called him The King.  And John Wayne – he was the Duke.  Even today, well, would you go to see a singer named Stefani Gaga?  Of course not!  But call her Lady and she’s a star.  How about Dana Latifah?  No chance.  But call her Queen and she makes the big bucks. 

 

But I digress.  I passed up the major point which was:  Princess Kate is telling us how to raise our children!  Are you kidding me?  Her children are never woebegone.  Their only trauma is that on Tuesdays and Thursdays they have to share the same palace.  Raise her children?  She doesn’t raise her children; they have nannies, maids, tutors, riding coaches, voice coaches, piano teachers and, of course, royalty coaches.  And besides, they’re grandfather is the King.  Kate is the only person in the world whose father-in-law, husband and son are all a King or in line to be a King, and she is presuming to “relate” with the common woman?  Nobody in my family is a king, although I do have a queen and a few princesses.  And I am the poor Court Jester, just a silly fool in a funny hat.

 

Weekly Word:  Woebegone means sad or miserable.

 

I finished a book the other day, and the ending made me cry.  I’m not embarrassed.  A lot of things make me cry:

 

·        The ending of Puff the Magic Dragon

·        The ending of The Miracle Worker

·        Every episode of The View.

 

Now I’m looking for a new book.  I have a bad back.  Do you have a bad back?  I hope not, but if you are vertical long enough, your back gets messy.  So I looked on Amazon for books about bad backs.  Here’s what I found:

                            

Moby Disc                                         Frankenspine

A Farewell to Backs                           Bonfire of the Vertebrae

Atlas Limped                                     Up the Down Steroids

Fifty Shades of Ouch                         The Andromeda Pain

 

Have you noticed that this is Blog #416?  Do you know what that means?  Well, to those of you who thought 2^nd Grade was the best three years of your life, let me explain:  416 blogs in 416 weeks; divide by 52 weeks in a year and you have eight years of blogging and whining and rhyming and scolding.  How could you have put up with it all?  You deserve a medal.  And I deserve a rest.  But no, your indefatigable correspondent will faithfully plod onward and be back next week.  Be there.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #414                                February 13, 2025

 

I’ve been having this cough for months now and it is made me languorous, listless and languid.  Many of you well-meaning and loyal readers have offered various diagnoses: pneumonia, long-Covid, bronchitis.  I appreciate the concern and the helpful advice, truly, but even so, I went to see Dr. Lung this week.  And you know what?  All of you were wrong.  Acid reflux!  That’s what he says.  I don’t believe him, but he seems to be a knowledgeable and very pleasant fellow, so we’ll see.  He prescribed an inhaler.  At least he’s not making me eat kale.

 

My daughter, Jennifer, eats kale.  She loves kale.  She calls it a Super-Food, and I have figured out why it’s called kale.  You know who Superman is.  Remember?  The it’s a bird it’s a plane guy?  Well, Superman’s real name on Krypton was Kal-El.  Sounds pretty much like kale, doesn’t it?  If you want a super-food, name it after Superman. 

 

Jennifer makes salads of kale and fries it in olive oil for a snack and tries to sneak it into my food.  I’m not interested.  I’m not excited about reinventing the wheel, or the salad for that matter.  Any bowl filled with something that looks like a divot is not for me.  They tried kale once before, a couple of hundred years ago during the French Revolution, and it didn’t work.  You know, of course, that Marie Antoinette actually said, “Let ‘em eat kale!”

 

The peasants were starving for bread

When Marie Antoinette rudely said,

“I hate when they wail

“Just let ‘em eat kale.”

And that’s when they chopped off her head.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Dream on, dream on, of bloody deeds and death (Richard III).  In one of my previous lives, I was Meow Antoine-Cat and I said “Let ‘em eat cat-food.”  That’s when they cut off my leg.  That was supposed to be a joke, but I’m only a cat and not very funny.  Neither is Pops most of the time.  Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  I know you watched the Super Bowl.  Here are some of my thoughts:

·        If you were an Eagles fan, you were as happy as a small flea on a big dog.

·        If you were a Chiefs fan, you were as miserable as Kamala Harris watching the returns from the battleground states.

·        If you were neither, the game was pretty much over at half-time.

·        I didn’t watch the half-time extravaganza.  I don’t know who Kendrick Lamar is.  No-one will remember Kendrick Lamar in 50 years, but I still remember the Dinah Shore Chevrolet song.

·        In recent years, Super Bowl commercials have all been We love rainbows and puppies and raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens, but you never knew what they were advertising.  This year’s were better. My favorite was the Harry Met Sally scene for Hellmann’s Mayonnaise.  My second favorite was the Budweiser ad with the little Clydesdale who they said was too small to pull the wagon.  Poor little thing.  But then he saw a barrel fall off the wagon and pushed it himself all the way to where it was supposed to go.  I cried.  I actually did.  Such a pretty little horse.

 

Are you ready for Valentine’s Day?  It is because of Valentine’s Day that you are reading this.  Did I mention I have three daughters?  You know how dads are with their little girls, and when they were young, Valentine’s Day was my special thing.  Candy and sweets and cookies for my girls.  We all ignored the “They don’t need that crap” from their mother and everybody was happy.  Then they grew up and went to college and I had to mail all the sweeties to their dorms or apartments.  When my youngest was a sophomore at Indiana, my wife told me that they all had secretly begged her to make Dad stop sending them that fattening stuff every February.  So I stopped.  On February 15^th I got three phone calls.  “Where’s my candy, you disloyal old coot?  What kind of father are you?  Don’t you love me anymore?”  So I wrote a letter of apology and sent a copy to each daughter begging forgiveness.  I kind of liked writing the letter, so I wrote another the next week and now have done so every week for twenty-eight years.  Twenty-eight years – over 1,400 letters. 

 

Eight years ago, my wife suggested I turn that letter format into a blog.  I refused.  She called me stubborn.  Then she noodged, cajoled, browbeat, intimidated and thoroughly stampeded me into doing a blog and I resisted and fought and refused.  Until one morning when my granddaughter said, “C’mon, Pops, I can help you.”  And, my wife was right.  She usually is.  Sure, I write the songs and the poems.  I even wrote her college papers for her.  And yes, I get more of the Final Jeopardies than she does.  But she’s the one with the brains, if you know what I mean.  And, of course, the looks.  So there it is, the story of the blog, and here I am and there you are.  And no, I’m not sending you any candy.  I’m too busy sending stuff to my three daughters, eight grandchildren and Carol.

 

Carol consistently calls me stubborn, and I have finally determined what it is she means.  A man is “stubborn”, according to women, when he does not do exactly what his wife tells him to do:

·        Eat some kale. -- I don’t like kale. -- You’re so stubborn.

·        Read this Holocaust book. -- I don’t like Holocaust books. -- You’re so stubborn.

 

See what I mean!  It’s pretty simple – if you open your mouth and the first two words you speak are not “Yes Dear”, then you’re stubborn.

 

You remember “listless, languid and languorous” from the first paragraph?  Of course not.  How could you?  Let’s make languid our Weekly Word.  It means weak from illness or fatigue.  And that makes me want to rest, so I’ll say goodbye.  But before you go, I want you to take a deep breath and sing the Dinah Shore Chevrolet song.  C’mon, I know you want to.  Nobody’s listening.  Sing it loud.  It’ll make you feel young again.  C’mon!  No?  You won’t do that for me?  You’re so stubborn.  See you next week.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #413                                February 6, 2025

 

I asked you last week to find the only number that, in English, has its letters in alphabetical order.  The answer is FORTY.  To those of you who got it, good job.  To the rest, well, there are many things more important than mathematics.

 

Like being helpful.  I was heading out for Walmart the other day, and I wanted to see if there was anything my wife needed.  I found her on the phone talking to a girlfriend.  By the way, for those of you my age (somewhere between King Charles III and Methuselah), don’t use the term “girlfriend” with your granddaughters.  To a teenaged girl, “girlfriend” means a lesbian relationship.  Anyway, I quietly interrupted my wife and asked in a whisper if she needed anything.  Yes, she said, get me some triple-washed Greenleaf lettuce.  I agreed and began to leave, when I heard the lady on the phone ask Carol who she was talking to.  I stopped and waited to hear my loving wife respond, “Oh, that’s my wonderful, loyal, helpful, talented, handsome and devoted husband.”  Well, I didn’t have to wait that long, for she said nothing of the sort.  Her brief answer was, “Oh, that’s my shopper.”  Well, as John Milton almost said, “They also serve who only go and shop.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  And I hope my good friend is feeling well.  He just called me from a Florida hospital.  He’s having his appendix removed.  What!  He said he started getting a pain and knew it was his appendix. What!  How did you know it was your appendix?  He said everyone knows where his appendix is.  What?  I wouldn’t know my appendix from a hockey puck.

 

I know my appendix is there

With the spleen and the liver somewhere

But where they all go

Is not my job to know

That’s why we all have Medicare.

 

I guess I should find out where that sucker is.  The appendix, not my friend.

 

Message from Shakespeare: If she must teem, create her child of spleen, that it may live (King Lear).  Do I have a spleen?  Or an appendix?  They probably took those away when they cut my leg off.  Well, whatever I have left must be good enough, because Pops adopted me and takes care of me.  Purr.

 

Last week we had snow here in Missouri, and now it is raining.  Actually, it is pouring – really, really pouring.  I’m about to go out and look for two aardvarks.  I know, of course, that Carol is not going to join me.  She promised to love me in sickness and in health, but not in the rain.  It reminds me of the time we had planned a driving trip with another couple to Arkansas and Tennessee.  We had maps and reservations and everything, but the forecast said RAIN!  My wife had consulted the National Weather Service, NASA, the Pope and L. Ron Hubbard and decided that the weather in Arkansas 96 hours hence would not be propitious, so we cancelled.

 

Thank goodness my sweet wife was not on the ship with Columbus.  “Hey, Chris.  Did you know it was raining?  You better shut this ship up, Little Captain.  Nothing’s gonna get discovered today.  Uh-uh.  I’m not getting my hair wet for a bunch of Indians.  You can discover something tomorrow if the sun’s out.  And by the way, see if you can discover a Nordstrom’s.  These Jimmy Choo’s are killing me.”

 

My friend called back.  It wasn’t his appendix.  It was something else less serious.  I feel better – he doesn’t know his appendix from a hole in the ground either.

 

Carol and I belong to a club.  It’s a golf and social club, but we don’t play much golf anymore.  We do, however, still love to go there for dinner.  The staff knows us and they treat us like celebrities.  When Carol and I show up for dinner, they treat us like we were Taylor Swift – and Taylor Swift’s shopper.  Am I behaving like an oversensitive, long-haired, leaping gnome?  It just seems so subservient to be called a “shopper” – like I was just some unselfish, loyal slave whose only mission was to love, honor and obey.  Well, I guess, if the grocery bag fits, wear it.

 

It has been a very slow week so far, which has given me lots of time to think of erudite, illuminating and humorous things to write for you.  But I didn’t, so we’ll have to stick with the same old drivel.

 

My oldest grandson, Zachary lives and works in Madison, Wisconsin.  His job keeps him very, very busy.  Too busy, apparently, to call his aging grandparents.  We try to contact him, but he always responds that he can’t talk now; he’s busy.  So, imagine my glee when I received a text: POPPY, I WILL HAVE SOME TIME TO CALL YOU THIS WEEK.  That was two weeks ago.  Have you heard from him?  Me neither.  So today I sent him a text:  ZACH, I’M WORRIED ABOUT NONNIE.  SHE HAS LOST A LOT OF WEIGHT.  I ASKED HER WHY SHE’S NOT EATING.  SHE SAID SHE DIDN’T WANT HER MOUTH TO BE FULL IN CASE YOU CALLED.  I know that’s an old joke, but he probably has never heard it, because it worked.  He called and we had a great talk for 45 minutes.  He’s such a good boy!

 

Everybody has an Alexa.  That’s the little tubular machine that answers your questions and follows your orders.  “Alexa, what time is it?  Alexa, play James Taylor”.  Carol has programmed ours to give me my own personal messages:

 

·          When I open the bedroom door in the morning, it says:  Are you really going to wear that?  The mirror is to your left.

·          If I ask for the address of the nearest Dairy Queen, it says:  I’m not telling you.  Have a carrot.

·          If I say, Alexa, I’m running short on Diet Coke, it says:  You’re the shopper.  Shop!

·          If I’m finished with the blog, it says:  You forgot the Weekly Word.

 

Oops!  Our Weekly Word is propitious.  It means indicating a good chance of success; favorable.  And I’m hoping the chances of your coming back next week are propitious, so stay well and count your blessings.  I’m certainly counting mine.

 

Shopper                                   Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com