Blog #438                                July 31, 2025

 

I just came up with a great name for an architect – Joaquin Closet.  And speaking of closets, I don’t have any.  First of all, the woman takes the biggest closet.  My wife’s closet is so big it has a food court.  Then she takes the second biggest closet.  Then (you know I’m right) she takes the third biggest closet.  I have a drawer by the front door and a manila envelope under the couch.  I don’t care.  The less clothes I have, the less choices I have to make in the morning and the less chance of hearing, “If you’re going out dressed like that, I’m not going with you.”

 

Because who really looks at a man the most?  That’s right, his wife.  And who looks at his wife the most?  Well -- she does!  The bathroom wall is 100% mirror.  There are makeup mirrors and hand-held mirrors, magnifying suction mirrors and full-length mirrors.  Next to the front door is a “decorative” mirror.  Decorative my behind! It’s so she can get one last look before she goes out. Then to the car which is loaded with mirrors.  The only reason the rear-view mirror swivels is so she can look at herself while she’s driving.  The only time she ever looks in a man’s eyes is when he is wearing mirrored sunglasses.  With assorted sun-glazed store windows, polished countertops and backs of spoons, she is never too far from a mirror.  Too far from a mirror?  Horrors!

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and staying cool.  It has been stunningly hot here in St. Louis.  It’s hotter than a Taylor Swift ticket, hotter than a Caitlin Clark rookie card, hotter than the Jeffrey Epstein list, hotter than Joy Behar’s temper.

 

I know you all love Joy Behar, but every time I see her, I tell my wife I’m moving to Mudville.  Why Mudville, she asks.  Because, I reply, there is no Joy in Mudville.  If you don’t get that reference, it’s from a famous poem called Casey at the Bat, one of my favorites.  My favorite poem is The Raven by Edgar Allan Poe.  You knew that, of course.  But did you know that I can recite the whole thing?  A few years ago, I just decided to memorize it.  I might have been seeing a psychiatrist at the time, which makes some sense.  I started with the first line, and when I had repeated it hundreds of times and had it down pat, I moved to the second line.  It took me six or eight months to get all 108 lines memorized, and I keep the memory fresh by repeating the entire poem at least once a week.  It takes about 6½ minutes.  Now, please, if you happen to see me out in the real world, don’t ask me to recite The Raven.  It’s happened before and I start and then they get bored and make me stop.  That gets me Raven mad.  Nevermore!

 

I have a new idea for a book, a steamy, sensual, scandal-filled exposé of a high-priced Texas accounting firm.  I’m calling it Debit Does Dallas.  Then. I’m going to write a self-help book for overweight Catholics.  It’s called Original Thin.

 

Speaking of books, I went to the library to pick one up, a 900-page hardback called The Arms of Krupp.  Nine hundred pages!  I asked the librarian if I could have the book longer than two weeks as I didn’t think I could finish the monster in that time.  You never know, she said, maybe you won’t be able to put it down.  Put it down? I said.  I can barely pick it up.

 

Here, in my Wonderful World of Weirdness, I like to tell you stories, mostly about my family and mostly true.  Here’s one.  My grandson Austin is 15 now, but when he was in pre-school, he was proudly showing off his alphabet skills to me one day.  He was perfect until he reached “P”.  Then he stopped; he couldn’t remember the rest.  “Poppy”, he said apologetically, “I only could get up to P”.  I told him it was ok.

 

He did all his letters just right

Then he stopped, but I said “That’s alright

“You got up to P

“And that’s OK by me

“I get up to P every night.”

 

I know that sounds contrived, but it is absolutely a true story, and the last three lines of the limerick were exactly what I said to him.

 

Here’s another story.  My daughter in North Carolina, Jennifer, is an animal lover with a motley collection of dogs, cats and chickens.  A few months ago, I was driving and she was in the back when I heard her say, “Oh-oh”.  I turned around and she pointed out a spider the size of a blueberry pie resting on the back of my seat.  I hate spiders. I hate spiders worse than Trump hates CNN.  Spiders and cement mixers, but that’s another story.  “Kill the damn thing,” I shrieked.  Well, Sister-Save-The-World wasn’t about to destroy a fellow creature, so she coaxed the puppy-sized monster out of the car and onto a nearby lawn.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:  Weaving spiders, come not here (A Midsummer Night’s Dream). My Pops loves animals.  He loves me.  But if he sees a spider, he always says, “Shakey, go get that thing.”  I never do though.  I hate spiders too.  Purr. 

 

I met a friend and classmate this week and in our discussion the word motlier came up.  I think we both made it up at the same time.  He suggested I should include that as the Weekly Word.  I always try to keep my loyal readers happy, but I looked up motlier and it doesn’t exist.  But motley does.  So, Neil, here it is.  Motley means greatly diversified or multi-colored.

 

Last week, I told you I hated shots.  That elicited a response from another friend and classmate, Joel, who told me the Marine Corps would have taught me how to deal with fear -- and then I would be scared all the time.  I told him I am scared all the time – I’m married.  But I’m brave enough to come back next week with some more drivel.  Don’t miss it.  Meanwhile, stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com