Blog #464                                January 29, 2026

 

Doesn’t anybody care about their privacy anymore?  They put their whole lives on Facebook.  They put naked pictures of themselves on You Tube.  They twitter their every thought to the whole world.  They live in a fantastic goulash of continuous and interminable connection to as many other lost souls as they can. I want my privacy and I want my solitude.  The younger generations want to be connected to as many people as possible for as much time as possible and they don’t care who knows what.  I don’t get it.  Doesn’t anybody ever want to be alone besides me and Greta Garbo?

 

Now that I think of it, if I am so passionate about my privacy and my solitude, why am I vomiting up all the secrets of my life to you every Thursday?  I mean, you know everything about me – about my naked light treatments with the brown paper bag over my head; about my obsessive morning visits to McDonald’s; about my utter technological ignorance; about my urine sample.  Have I told you about my urine sample?  Maybe not.

 

A while ago I had to give a urine sample to the lab.  All I had to do was deliver it, but when I arrived, there was a line at the receptionist’s desk.  I caught her eye and held up the filled vial, whereupon she pointed to the back of the line and said:

 

Good afternoon, Sir, I can       C

You’ve brought in a bottle of    P

If we could ask                        U

To stand in the                         Q

We’ll take you as soon as can  B

 

Well, at least I haven’t posted any naked pictures.  Hi there and welcome back to my latest episode.  I hope you are feeling well and staying warm.  I have readers in California, Phoenix, Las Vegas, Georgia, North Carolina, Florida and Mexico.  They are probably warm, but here in St. Louis it has been really cold.  It’s so cold, I saw Rachel Maddow and Tom Homan hugging. It’s so cold that Donald Trump just booked a cruise to Venezuela. 

 

As I write to you, I am looking out the window of my study at a winter blizzard.  The snow is falling like confetti at a Macy’s Parade, and the prediction is for 18 inches.  We have enough food in the house.  Carol and I, after all, eat like birds.  Shakespeare has enough food. It’s warm enough and I have plenty to do – write to you and read my books.  My only fear is if we lose power.  Well, no point in worrying about something I cannot control.

 

Message from Shakespeare, the three-legged cat:   Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where (Sonnet #5).  All that white stuff looks like fun, but Pops never lets me outside.  Oh, look, there’s a stupid dog dragging his human around getting all sloppy and dirty and cold.  I think I’ll stay inside.  It’s warm and the food is good and Pops plays with me and I get to sleep on his bed.  Purr.

 

Is all this giving you a headache?  In my youth – you had a headache, you took aspirin.  You went to the corner drugstore -- Bert & Jeanette’s on Clayton Road next to Lake Forest Bakery.  Mmmmm, the smell of butter cookies wafting through the air!  Where was I?  Aspirin!  There were two kinds – the small bottle of Bayer and the large bottle of Bayer.  The large bottle had twice as many pills and cost twice as much.  And if it didn’t work, the only other course of action was – lie down; it’ll get better.  Now it’s different.  Recently, I went to get something for a headache.  The pain reliever aisle at Walgreen’s was three miles long and the Tylenol section had 100 different kinds, mixtures, sizes and configurations of Tylenol.  They had a pineapple-flavored Tylenol.  They had a Free-Range Tylenol.  And for each one, there was a Walgreen’s store-brand version that was exactly the same.  That made 200 different choices.  And that’s just Tylenol!  Then there were 200 kinds of Advil, 200 kinds of Aleve, 200 kinds of Motrin and yes, there was actually aspirin.  What was I to do?  It’s enough to give you a headache.

 

I just went to get the mail.  Getting the mail is a routine, but very important part of the day.  To many, it is almost a holy pilgrimage to trek to the mailbox or Post Office each and every day without fail.  Our letter carrier (I almost said Mailman which would have been horrible.  After all, it could have been a Femail Man.) – our letter carriers let neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stay them from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.

 

The mail is where you get your bills, wedding invitations, holiday cards and magazines.  I go each day to the mailbox with the same thrill of anticipation and aura of mystery that a five-year-old has when opening a birthday present. Today there was only one item, an invitation to an Open House at the new Senior Lifestyle Community down the street.  Is that sad?  To find nothing but a reminder of how old you are?  Last week I got a catalog displaying the latest in Cremation Urns.  How do they know I’m old?  Do they read my blog?  The older I get, the more I understand why roosters just scream to start their day. (I stole that line from a list my friend Paul sent me.  Shame on me, but it was funny.)

 

While out driving today, I saw a pickup truck with a sign.  Jesus Landscaping, it read.  I’m totally serious.  Jesus Landscaping!  Was the tithe a little short this month, Big Guy?  What do you specialize in, cross-breeding?  How about Walk-On-Water Lilies? Rosary bushes?  I’d better stop before I get hit by a holy roller.  Or lightning!  Actually, I’m not worried.  I’m only joking and I’m pretty sure God has a sense of humor.  He made Donald Trump, didn’t He?

 

Well, it’s time for my ending peroration, but not before our Weekly Word.  We might as well use peroration.  It is the concluding part of a speech, intended to inspire enthusiasm.  And here it comes – stay well, stay warm, stay positive and count all those blessings.  I’ll be back with you next week.  See you then.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com