Blog #436                                July 17, 2025

 

Hamlet was wrong.  He said there were a “thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to”.  Now Hamlet may have been good at soliloquies, but his math wasn’t so hot.  He couldn’t even remember what apartment he lived in; he kept saying, “2B or not 2B.”  Anyway, he sorely underestimated the natural shocks that human flesh must deal with.  It seems that people I know are coming up with more exotic and previously unheard-of symptoms, syndromes and diagnoses.  Heart stuff, esophageal stuff, brain stuff, headaches, rashes, back aches.  All of a sudden “ablation” has become a household word.  It’s all very troubling and frightening.  But, here we are, in whatever shape we are, doing the best we can and doing our damnedest to enjoy the world.  I hope I can add to that enjoyment every once in a while.

 

In the past week or so, I’ve had two friends, men in their 80s, tell me they shot their age in golf.  To shoot your age, you must be two things: you must be a really good golfer and you must be old. 

 

Talking about golf makes me think about my father, but before I embark upon this story, I must admit of two probablies.  First, I’ve probably told it to you before and second, you’ve probably forgotten it.  So let’s go.

 

My father loved golf and was pretty good at it.  For about 20 years, from my late 30s to my late 50s, I played golf with my Dad every Friday, weather permitting.  I never beat him, but by the time he was in his late 80s, his vision worsened and he had to give the game up.  He moved into an assisted living facility and got himself prepared by buying a phone (yes, a plug-it-in-the-wall phone) that had large number pads which were easy to see.  Then he memorized every phone number he would need – mine, Carol’s, his three granddaughters, the liquor store, so that by the time he went blind, he could cope.

 

One day he tried to replace the phone receiver into its cradle and put it, instead, in a glass of liquid.  We were never sure whether the glass contained water or vodka, but the result was the same.  He needed a new phone and engaged me to get a replacement.  He insisted it had to be the same one – white, with the big number pads.  Where did you get it, I asked.  Famous-Barr, he replied.  Famous-Barr, for those of you too young to remember, was a department store.

 

So I went to Famous-Barr, but they only had black.  I knew he wanted white, but what difference did it make?  I bought the phone, brought it to him and set it up.  “Is that the same one I had before?” he asked.  I told him it was.  “Is it white?”  Now, I could have lied to him, but he’s my Dad, so I just said, “What difference does it make?  You’re blind.”  “But the white looks better,” he insisted.  Ok, I returned the phone and got him a white one.  Of course I did.  He was my Dad.  He’s the one who taught me how to play golf and baseball and basketball.

 

And speaking of golf.  Were we speaking of golf?  Oh yes, to shoot your age, you must be two things: you must be a good golfer and you must be old.  I qualify in only one of those categories, so I’m not expecting to shoot my age.  I’m happy if I shoot my blood-pressure.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Do you ever have problems with the IRS?  Last week, the mail included a notice from that miserable, draconian agency informing me that I did something wrong and owed them $1700 in penalties.  I was upset, mortified, horrified.  What was I to do?  I took a deep breath and remembered Alice.  This is a story for another time, but there was a period in my life when for two years, every night, every single night, I listened to a song called Alice’s Restaurant by Arlo Guthrie.  The song lasts 22 minutes and used to calm me down.

 

Whenever I’m bitter and callous

And filled with depression and malice

I can always calm down

With the comforting sound

Of 22 minutes with Alice.

 

So I listened to Alice, took another deep breath, found the number to call and prepared myself for the inevitable and endless torture. You know, it isn’t so much the waiting that I mind.  I’m sure all of the vicious, greedy and evil employees of the IRS must be very busy stealing and cheating us poor slobs out of our money.  Plus, I’m certain that each sadistic, sinister agent gets a demonic thrill making us wait on the phone.  No, it isn’t the waiting I mind; it’s the music. Where do they get that crap?  If that’s elevator music, the elevator is on its way to Hell.  I believe most of the mental health problems in America are caused by “hold” music.  Over and over, never-ending, loud and horrible.  But I had no choice, and I punched in the number.  Six minutes later a very polite gentleman answered the phone.  He listened to my story and decided to waive all penalties.  The entire call lasted eleven minutes.  Don’t ever say anything bad about my friends at the IRS.  Thank you, Alice.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  When the sea was calm all ships alike showed mastery in floating (Coriolanus).  He doesn’t need to listen to that song any more ‘cause he has me to calm him down.  When he sits down to read, I jump onto his lap and we purr to each other.  Most of the time, we both fall asleep.  Purr.

 

Mortified is our Weekly Word.  It means embarrassed, ashamed or humiliated, kind of like I feel when I, a college graduate, law-school educated, Phi Beta Kappa member, have to ask help, in order to get a friggin’ sandwich at a fast-food kiosk, from a minimum wage teenager who thought second-grade was the best three years of his life.  Wait, I need to calm down.  You can get anything you want at Alice’s Restaurant.

 

I’d better go now.  Stay well, please, and count your blessings.  See you next week.

 

Michael                          Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com