Blog #425                                May 1, 2025

 

Oh!  Sweet friends, hearken to me.  As a child seeks its mother, as a river seeks the sea, as the swallows by design return ever to Capistrano, as the rosebud yearns for the sunshine, as the night follows the day, as the moth is inexorably drawn to the flame; so it is that I am drawn once again to Melville and to Moby Dick.  Carol says it is a waste of my time to read it for the seventh time when there are so many other books to read.  But do we not listen to the same familiar music because it soothes or stimulates; view the same movie because it frightens or amuses; visit the same places for their beauty or the same people for the comfort they give?  Thus it is with the wanderings of the Pequod.  They bring me the warmth and the beauty of the English language; they sooth and invigorate my soul.

 

Ok, enough of this flowery bullshit.  I like the book!  Call me silly. Call me Pisher.  Or, better yet, call me Ishmael.  It has been my habit, the last few decades, to read Moby every five years, but now for the first time, I am wondering whether this will be my last voyage.  Will I be around to read Moby Dick when I’m 84 or 89 or 94?  Well, I won’t let it worry me.  I’ll just continue to read my 30-plus books a year, adding to the accumulated knowledge in my brain, all of which will dissolve when I die.  More’s the pity.  And besides, even seven trips aboard the Pequod puts me in an elite company.  It might even be, perhaps, that I have read the book more than any other person.  I doubt it though.  Somewhere, in a gray and dusty attic, surrounded by spider webs and petrified mouse droppings, sits a wizened and wrinkled old fool with a magnifying glass, reading Moby Dick for the eighth time.  Gee, I sure would like to get there some day.

 

But I’m already 79.  I would be 84 the next time I read it and 89 the next.  I’d better stay healthy.  As a matter of fact, I had my annual physical this week with Dr. Doctor and everything looked pretty good.

 

My vitals are right on the stick

There’s no reason I should be sick

My heart is still strong

And my life should be long

Long enough to re-read Moby Dick.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are well and enjoying your Spring.  Around here, Spring is road construction time, and the roads are full of trucks, tractors, barriers, detours and orange cones.  I haven’t seen that many cones since the High Holidays.  But, as I told you last week, you must relax, be patient and follow the detours without complaint.  I usually roll down my window and thank the workers who are directing traffic.

 

Roll down my window was an interesting phrase.  I don’t think any of us has “rolled” down a window in 40 years.  Or “dialed” a number.

 

Have you guessed what our Weekly Word is?  It’s wizened, which means shriveled and wrinkled with age.  Of course, that doesn’t apply to any of us, because you look marvelous!  Thank you, Billy Crystal.

 

Here’s a strange question for you – do you look like your name?  I mean, if your name is Sally, do you really look and act like a Sally?  Or if your name is Pete, do you look and act like a Pete?  Or, if your name is Dick – well, never mind.  This all came up the other night when my wife was talking about someone named Heather and commented, “She doesn’t look like a Heather.”  Well, maybe, thought I, we shouldn’t give names to people until we can see how they turn out.  My wife could have been Brin #2 until she was 13 or 14 when someone would determine she looked like a Carol.  Actually, that method is used for assigning nicknames.  When a child becomes distinguished for some look or size or activity, he or she becomes:

 

·        Red Skelton  (you all know him)

·        Fats Domino  (I found my thrill on Blueberry Hill)

·        Too Tall Jones  (defensive end for the Dallas Cowboys)

·        Stubby Kaye  (sit down, you’re rockin’ the boat)

·        Snake Plissken  (Escape from New York)

·        Refrigerator Perry  (da Bears)

 

I think I look like a Michael.  Or maybe an Ishmael.

 

Message from Shakespeare: What’s in a name? (Romeo and Juliet.  I like my name, but I don’t look like Shakespeare.  I look like Ahab, the crazy captain in that silly book Pops always reads.  He was missing a leg, just like me.  But you can still call me Shakey.  Purr.

 

I saw some talking heads today pontificating about playing games with your young kids, and the conclusion was that, after the age of 4, it’s bad for the kids if you let them win at Crazy 8s or ping pong.  Where do they get these people?  And what right do they have to tell us how to raise our kids? These are the same pompous busybodies who for years have been telling us that there shouldn’t be any winners or losers in children’s sports.  That no-one should keep score.  That everyone should get a trophy.  Now these same bobbleheads are telling us to beat the crap out of our five-year-olds at ping pong.  Did they go to college to learn this preposterous drivel?  How is a child ever going to get interested in anything if he fails every time he tries?  “Oh, Honey, you really tried hard even though I beat you 21-0 for the 19^th time today. Wanna play again?”  What monumental idiocy!  Of course I let my girls win at cards, at ping pong, at baseball. They were five or six or seven.  Do you think they would have been anxious to play again if every time they played, their old Dad would beat their butts and chuckle?

 

And now that I’m old and can’t beat them at anything, do you think they’d let me win at pickleball or a card game?  Never.  But that’s ok, you let me win every week by reading my silly thoughts.  Don’t stop.  We’ll do it again next week.  See you then.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Ishmael                           Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com