Blog #216

 

During the Covid months, my wife and I stayed in our condo pretty much all day, and although I flourish in a quiet atmosphere, Carol needs constant noise – the television, some music playing, phone calls with her friends.  It is fortunate, therefore, that our place is big enough for me to escape to a quiet room away from her cacophonous milieu.  Our ability to be apart all these years has kept us together all these years.  Still, on occasion, I overhear some of her conversations, and I have noticed a change.  The gossip used to consist of, Did you hear what A said to B and then B told C all about it and now C is mad at A?  Or, Did you know that E did not invite F to her birthday lunch and F found out about it from G?  Well, since Covid has limited the number of live conversations to be overheard, my wife and her friends have turned to a different strategy -- reading people’s minds.  I know what A thinks about B and B probably thinks the same about her.  So now, if you don’t want to be gossiped about, it’s not good enough just to keep your mouth shut.  You have to keep your mind shut as well.  Some of you may be better at that than others.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Please don’t keep your mind shut for the next few minutes while you read this.  You might miss something amusing.  Spring has been tardy in arriving and St. Louis has been cold and ugly.  I hope you are enjoying better weather and feeling well.  My St. Louis daughter has three children, two cats and a dog, and it is to her house that we moved last weekend so that she and my son-in-law could enjoy a weekend trip.

 

Their dog is a sweet hybrid puppy.  You know, money will buy a fine dog, but only kindness will make her wag her tail.  She is a mixture of basset, boxer, probably some poodle.  Everything has some poodle nowadays.  Labradoodle, Goldendoodle, everything has a doodle.  I think in the future, dogs will be named for the religions of their owners.  There will be Methodoodles, Buddhadoodles, Hindoodles, Muslimdoodles and even Jewdledoodles.  See, that’s what you get when you give a keyboard to an old man with a disturbed mind.  Sorry.

 

Where were we?  The dog!  The dog and the two cats have not as yet come to an understanding, so the dog is not allowed upstairs where the cats hang out.  There is a gate at the bottom of the stairs which is very efficient at keeping dogs and old men from going up the stairs, and I need help from my grandchildren to operate it.  Once upstairs and in bed, there are the cats, two large, beautiful creatures who believe they own the master bedroom.  They have obviously not met my wife.  It took an hour of scratching and screeching and hissing and spitting – and that was just Carol -- before the cats recognized her dominance and reluctantly ceded control of the bedroom.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed (Romeo and Juliet).  I don’t know about those cats at Aunt Abby’s house.  They must be low-class peons.  I, on the other hand, am a genteel and well-mannered pet and Carol likes me on her bed.  I’m such a good boy!  At least until I start biting her toes.  Purr. 

 

One of the evenings, my 11-year-old grandson and I climbed into bed with a bowl of popcorn to watch the movie Troy with Brad Pitt, a great action movie I knew he would love because he has recently read The Iliad.  He is, after all, my grandson.  He loved the movie, until Achilles (Brad) lured a Trojan princess into his bed.  They started to kiss and fondle, whereupon my grandson put a pillow over his face and said, Poppy, tell me when it’s over.  I smiled and wondered if I was the same when I was eleven.  Then I realized that I could not have been.  There were no steamy, seductive scenes on television back then.  The only two characters I ever saw in bed together were Timmy and Lassie.

 

Carol and I, with another couple, are making plans to visit some of our Western National Parks – Zion and Bryce and Grand Canyon – in September.  We chose September because, by then, the parks will not be crowded with school children.  As Phyllis Diller said, We spend the first twelve months of our children’s lives teaching them to walk and talk and the next twelve years telling them to sit down and shut up.  I adore my eight grandchildren but am reluctant to tolerate anyone else’s.  We started our planning by making a list of all the things four old people were unwilling to do. 

                            

We do not ride horses or hike

Go hot-air ballooning or bike

No kayaking please

And no ATVs

‘Cause eating is all that we like.

 

We will not climb mountains nor rappel down them.  No white-water rafts or helicopters.  And we do not camp.  To me, camping is just spending a small fortune to live like a homeless person.  In addition, we do not function well in the rain, and abhor cold weather or hot weather.  It sounds like a lot of fun. 

 

Our Weekly Word is milieu.  It means the environment in which something occurs.  And the environment in which I write you each week is becoming curiouser and curiouser.  For example, Google news reports that Mauro Morandi, the Italian Hermit, who lives as the only resident of a small island off the coast of Sardinia, has recently announced that he will be leaving the island after living completely alone for more than 30 years.  He made the announcement on his Facebook page.  What has this world come to when even the hermits have Facebook pages?

 

A true hermit does not communicate with others, so I suppose I cannot be considered a hermit because I send you this blog, if that can be called communication.  Some people call it gibberish.  Perhaps so, but stick with me and I’ll send you some more gibberish next week.  Stay well and count your blessings.

 

Michaeldoodle                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

Blog #215

 

His Royal Highness, Prince Philip, Duke of Edinburgh died last week.  I feel bad for Liz.  They had been married for 73 years.  You know, all those European royal families are inter-connected.  Both Philip and Queen Elizabeth are great-great-grandchildren of Queen Victoria and both are also descended from King Christian IX of Denmark.  Philip’s most famous quote was, “When a man opens a car door for his wife, it’s either a new car or a new wife.”

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well and enjoying nice weather and beautiful scenery.  I was in a doctor’s waiting room this week.  I was getting tired of reading my book (I always have a book) so I got up to stretch and look out the window.  Did I see lovely meadows of verdant veldt and crystal-clear brooks of cool water?  No, from the fifth-floor doctor’s office the only scenery was a concrete morass of overpasses and underpasses and a cloverleaf that had more bypasses than my heart.  It was ugly and artificial and depressing.  I could not wait to get home, put on my walking stuff and head out on the suburban streets around my house.  The weather was perfect, the birds were melodious and welcoming and the lawns and trees were at their springtime best.  There was even a bubbling brook.  It was probably filled with agricultural runoff and industrial waste, but it calmed me nevertheless.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  In nature's infinite book of secrecy a little I can read (Antony and Cleopatra).  I have a wonderful porch to play on with lots of windows that look out to trees and birds and squirrels and people walking their dogs.  Pops leaves a window open so I can sit on my cat-tree and smell and hear everything, watch the birds and laugh at the stupid dogs.  Purr.

 

Tomorrow, April 23^rd, is Shakespeare’s birthday.   He’s either 2 or 447, depending on which Shakespeare you are talking about.  My cat was left on the doorstep of the animal shelter with a mangled leg, so no-one really knows his exact birthday.  I decided he should share birthdays with the other Shakespeare, so happy birthday to my wonderful three-legged cat – and to that other guy as well.  

 

Now that we’re feeling vaccinated and liberated and ready to re-enter the society of restaurant-going oldies, I feel it a public service to remind you of the restaurant etiquette you may have forgotten from lack of practice over the past year.  Here’s what you need to remember:

 

1.     Call ahead and reserve the round table next to the window.

2.     When you arrive, reject that table immediately because it is near a table of eight noisy young women.  Move to a table in the main room.

3.     Reject that table because the main room has music playing that is too loud.  I never sit at a table until my wife has already moved twice.  I guarantee that when she gets to Heaven, she will reject the first table God gives her because it’s too near the Holy-Rollers.  Put me near the Mormons; they’re quieter.

4.     At Table #3, make sure the women sit on one end and the men on the other because the men are boring and the women need to talk even though they have spoken on the phone with each other for at least ten hours in the past five days.

5.     Ask the server, Guido, who has followed you from table to table like a groupie following a Phish tour, to bring you water.

6.     Send half the waters back because two wanted water with no ice and one with only light ice. 

7.     When the waters arrive, order drinks.  Make the server bring you a taste of the house Chardonnay.  Then make him bring you a taste of the premium Chardonnay.  Then order a half-glass of the house.  If he says they don’t serve a half-glass, make him ask the manager.  By now, Guido will be offering $50 to any server who would switch with him and take your table.

8.     The half-glass arrived but in a glass without a stem.  Make the server go back and find a glass with a stem.  Then make him go back and get you a glass of ice to add to the half-glass of wine that is now in a glass with a stem.

9.     Order half the house salad with no onions and the dressing on the side, half romaine and half iceberg and chopped.  And can you bring me a taste of the house dressing.

10.  This woman and I are sharing the chicken sandwich.  Can you split the plates and she’ll take French fries extra crispy and I’ll have fries, not crispy, no salt, and not fried in oil.  And can we have the honey-mustard on the side and a thing of barbecue sauce.

11.  And when you do the checks, she’s with that guy over there, she’s with the guy next to him and I’m with the one hiding behind the napkin dispenser.  And don’t forget to split the price of the chicken sandwich.

12.  By now, Guido has changed his name to Genevieve, entered the Witness Protection Program and moved to Poughkeepsie.  Your table is now being served by the Assistant Manager.

13.  The food arrives.  Send back the chicken sandwich because it isn’t hot enough and the fries because they weren’t extra-crispy.

14.  Eat.  Ask for more napkins and whether they have a senior discount.

15.  Ask if they give a complimentary dessert for a birthday?  Someone must be within six months of a birthday.  The Assistant Manager has, by now, resigned and become a drug-runner for El Chapo, but the Manager brings the free dessert and hopes you enjoyed the meal.

16.  Tell her you’ll be back.

 

The Manager said with much sorrow

That a plane ticket she’d have to borrow

‘Cause it came to her ear

The worst thing she could hear

When we said we would be back tomorrow.

 

Let’s make our Weekly Word morass, which means a confusing and complicated mess, like this week’s blog.  I’ll have another one next week, but now I have to go.  Maxine Waters called and said if I don’t stop, she’ll set my house on fire.  Stay well and count your blessings.  And enjoy the Spring!

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #214

 

I have a strange story.  It’s not funny, just a bit bizarre.  I called a good friend last week and scheduled a meeting at McDonald’s to catch up.  My friend showed up wearing a blue baseball cap.  You remember MAGA hats.  They were red and stood for Make America Great Again.  This one was blue and said MASA on it with the words Make America Sane Again.  Cute.  He said he doesn’t wear it very often because he’s afraid someone will shoot him.  When we were finished talking, he put his hat back on and we started to walk out when a man accosted us.  He was 40-ish, tall, slender, wearing a khaki-green jumpsuit festooned with golden pins, little eagles and rifles.  “Hey, Man,” he said, “I overheard you saying you were afraid of getting shot.  You need to be carrying.”  At this point he pointed to a large handgun sticking out of a loose pocket below his right knee.  It was large and metallic and serious.  He then, very politely, suggested we should buy guns and get trained and carry our weapons so we wouldn’t be afraid of being shot.  This was in the middle of McDonald’s!  He was not threatening at all.  Actually, it was sort of comforting to know this guy would eagerly protect us if some danger arose by blasting holes in the offending parties.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are all feeling well.  I have seen lots of cowboy movies and crime TV, but actually seeing a gun that near, especially in the possession of a jump-suit wearing, medal-festooned cowboy telling me the only way I can be safe buying a Big Mac is to walk in looking like Wyatt Earp – well, it was disturbing.   Festooned is a good word, isn’t it?  Let’s make that out Weekly Word.  It means adorned with ribbons or other decorations.

 

Last week was Opening Day for the St. Louis Cardinals.  I don’t know about other baseball towns, but here in St. Louis, Opening Day is Mardi Gras, St. Patrick’s Day and the Fourth of July all stuffed in a duffle bag with beer and red hats and Clydesdales.  Those are the big horses which are the hallmark of Anheuser Busch Brewing Company which sponsors the Cardinals.  Each opening day, those huge Clydesdales prance around the stadium (Busch Stadium) to show off their strength and beauty.  But is it safe?  I consulted the CDC guidelines to see if, during Covid times, the large horses were allowed onto the field of a crowded stadium. Yes, I found out, they were fine, but ponies were not allowed. 

 

The CDC governs, of course

Their guidelines we all must enforce

You’ll have to stay off

With a fever or cough

Or if you are – a little hoarse.

 

Little hoarse?  Pony?  Just wanted to see if you were awake.  As long as we’re doing pony jokes, I have a dog joke. 

 

Fritz and Pedro are out walking their dogs.  Fritz has a big, beautiful German Shepherd; Pedro a tiny Chihuahua.  It’s a warm day and Fritz says, “Let’s go into that bar and get a beer.”  Pedro replies, “The sign says NO PETS ALLOWED.”   Fritz says, “Watch this.”  He puts on dark sunglasses and saunters into the bar with the German Shepherd.  A few minutes later he comes out looking refreshed.  “Well?” asks Pedro.  “No sweat,” says Fritz, “with the dark glasses they thought I was blind and that the German Shepherd was my seeing-eye dog.  The beer was great.” 

 

So Pedro borrows the dark glasses and heads into the bar where he is immediately accosted by a burly bouncer.  “No dogs, Mister,” he barks.  Pedro responds with confidence, “Can’t you see I’m blind?  This animal is my seeing-eye dog.”  “No chance, Bozo,” growls the bouncer.  “That’s a Chihuahua.”  “What?” shrieks Pedro.  “They gave me a Chihuahua?”

 

We used to have a dog named Alex.  After writing that joke, I started thinking about him and I commented that Alex was a wonderful dog and that I missed him sleeping on my pillow.  Carol said, “That’s alright, you’ll see him in Doggy Heaven.”  Doggy Heaven?  First of all, I’m not even sick.  And second, is that where she thinks I’m going?  Doggy Heaven?  I guess I’m nothing more than an Alta-Cocker Spaniel to her.  Probably on our wedding night she thought to herself, “What! They gave me a Chihuahua?” 

 

Message from Shakespeare:  Well, heaven knows I love you (Othello).  I certainly love him more than some stupid dog could.  Dogs are loud, drooling, pooping monsters who are too stupid to know a squirrel from a bean bag.  Cats are always climbing because they know they belong in Heaven.  Dogs are always digging down because they know where they belong.  Purr.

 

Last Sunday, the 11^th, was National Pet Day, and I must admit that Shakespeare is a loyal, loving and beautiful pet.  So there.  Wednesday, the 14^th, was National Gardening Day.  I have no gardening skills.  I love flowers and all growing things, but I am just no good at it.  Besides, it feels like growing tomatoes is a lousy way to spend a lot of time and effort trying to save a dollar and a half.  And today, the 15^th, is Tax Day.  But it’s not.  They’ve changed it to May 15^th because, since the entire country has been locked in their houses with nothing to do for 12 months, they couldn’t possibly have had enough time to do their taxes.  Genius!

 

I finally have a solution for this “feeling old” thing.  As soon as we reach Medicare, we should change our ages to Centigrade.    I’m serious now.  Listen, I am 75 years old, but in Centigrade (let’s see, subtract 32 and multiply by five ninths) -- that makes me 23.  Now doesn’t that sound better?  80 becomes 26; 85 becomes 29.  I bet you feel younger already.

 

This blog has been festooned with stories of dogs and ponies and, of course, Shakespeare.  I hope you got a chuckle or two.  I don’t know what we’ll talk about next week, but it will be strange.  See you then.  Stay well and count your blessings and change your age to Centigrade.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

Blog #213

 

My wife and I are both 75 years old, and we look like a 150-year-old couple.  She looks 45 and I look 105.  Hey, mirrors don’t lie.  I just wish mine would stop laughing.  Carol’s big birthday was last summer, but Covid prevented her friends from celebrating and treating her to a ceremonial “Big Birthday” dinner.  This week, however, they decided it was safe enough to spend lots of money on a lavish meal, and while they were out hotsy-totsying with wine and oysters, I went to a sandwich joint with some boyfriends.  By the way, here’s some advice.  Don’t ever ask your grandsons about their boyfriends or your granddaughters about their girlfriends.  To their generation, if a boy has a boyfriend, they’re obviously gay.  Same for girls.  It’s part of the reason our grandchildren look at us as if we were the original cast of the Bible.

 

Anyway, I got home about 90 minutes before she did.  The silence hit me like a religious epiphany!  There was no television, no phone calls, no bridge games or canasta games or mahjong games online.  I was alone with no noise or distraction.  It was as quiet as an Andrew Cuomo re-election rally.

 

Tonight I was home on my own

No Netflix, no iPad, no phone

Though I love my sweet wife,

(She’s the light of my life)

Sometimes I like being alone.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I myself am best when least in company (Twelfth Night).  Alone?  He was alone?  What am I, a toilet seat?  I was loyally waiting by the front door when he came in.  He gave me a nice scratching and called me his sweet baby.  He’s such a juvenile.  And now he says he was alone?  Let’s see how alone he feels when I bite one of his fingers off.  Purr.

 

Carol has rarely gone out without me in the past year, so I took advantage of the peaceful silence and decided to finish the book I was reading, my 57^th Stephen King book.  When she came home, I asked her when it would be my turn to be feted for my 75^th.  She explained to me the calculus by which, among our friends, women are taken out for their birthdays ending in zero or five, but men are treated only on the zero birthdays.  I would have to wait for my special dinner till my 80^th.  I might be pretty hungry by then.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Our Weekly Word is fete which means to honor or entertain someone lavishly. Let’s see if I can entertain you lavishly for the next six or seven hundred words.  Have you gotten your vaccinations yet?  You really should because the shots will protect you from getting the virus, not to mention that proof of vaccination may be required for flying or entrance to concerts or even restaurants.  NO SHIRT, NO SHOTS, NO SERVICE!  Get ready for it.

 

I used to have a poker game every Friday.  Nine or ten old men, two decks of cards, some poker chips.  The yelling and confusion and the screaming and the cursing – we all love it!  But we haven’t played in over a year – until this week.  All the players have been vaccinated, and we decided to resume the poker wars.  Everyone looked good and the game was as raucous as ever.

 

Plus, Carol and I played golf this week.  Oy, the yelling and confusion and the screaming and the cursing.  What fun!

 

Besides the mirror and the aching back after playing golf, there are other nagging little reminders that I have passed my prime.  The main one is that I can’t even remember my prime.  When we were in North Carolina recently, I took my wife to the store to shop. Shopping for clothes is an activity I rate one step below watching C-SPAN and one step above having a tooth pulled without Novocain.  Luckily, I had a volume of short stories by Rudyard Kipling (does that even surprise you by now?) and I went to find a seat.  There were no seats for patient husbands, but near the door were two soft, comfy-looking wheelchairs.  So I picked one, relaxed and opened my Rudyard.  Not a minute later, a woman carefully led her shuffling and drowsy mother to the other chair and left her.  And there we were --   the ancient and nearly-comatose woman and me sitting in our wheelchairs.  You don’t have to say it – I know.  But I bet she doesn’t have a blog.

 

Whenever we visit my daughter and her family in North Carolina, I often visit her chickens.  They are very attractive birds and they live in a coop that, if it were listed on Priceline, would cost you $129.00 a night.  It has everything but cable TV.  I told Jen she should install cable and let the little cluckers watch some movies.  And what movies, you ask, would I recommend?  Well, Chick Flicks of course.  You know I like silly lists and I know you do too, so here are my favorite Chick Flicks. 

 

A Few Good Hens

The Maltese Chicken

A Flock-Work Orange

Some Like It Fried

Pulp Chicken

 

And speaking of food, (don’t tell my daughter I used food and her chickens in the same thought), this week, Carol and I visited a local donut shop that actually serves donuts with bourbon, amaretto and other alcoholic flavorings inside.  They call it Daylight Donuts.   Why didn’t they call it Drunken Donuts or even Tipsy Kreme?  They needed some Smart Alec like me to come up with a catchy name. I’m still available to name the individual offerings.  Johnny Walker Red Velvet and Beer Belly Jelly Donuts come to mind.

 

Smart Alec is an interesting phrase.  It comes from a man named Alec Hoag, a pimp in New York City in the 1840s, who used to take the cash from the pockets of the male customers while they were enjoying the feminine company they had paid for.  Now, it just means an obnoxiously conceited person who thinks he’s clever – like me!  But I know you love me anyway, so stay well, count your blessings and come back next week.

 

Alec                                         Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

 

 

 

Blog #212

 

Back in St. Louis now after a brief trip to North Carolina and Florida.  We made the drive from West Palm Beach to St. Louis in one day – 18½ hours – and arrived with a sore back, a sore tush and bugs from eleven states plastered to the windshield.  Shakespeare was very glad to see us and we schnuggled for a long time.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  O Lord that lends me life, lend me a heart replete with thankfulness (Henry VI, Part 2).  As much as I complain about the old man, I was very happy to see him.  We hugged and scratched.  We’re best buddies and I’m glad he’s back.  Don’t tell him I said that.  It’ll make him even more arrogant than usual. Purr.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you’re feeling well.  Have you all gotten vaccinated?  I hope so.  Maybe we are finally emerging from the horror that was 2020.  Who could have imagined a year:

 

·        When entering a bank without a mask was forbidden

·        When, at a family gathering where everyone was smoking pot, the only thing that was illegal was the gathering

·        When the only math the children learned all year was how to measure six feet

·        When “dining out” really meant out

·        When finding a needle in a haystack was easier than finding a roll of toilet paper in a grocery store

 

The shots have allowed Carol and me to feel liberated and almost normal.  Well, I suppose I will never be almost normal.  You probably have figured that out by now.  It’s April already.  Be careful and don’t let anyone play any April Fools’ Day tricks on you.

 

You know, April Fools’ Day is connected with the Jewish celebration of Passover.  We celebrated Passover this week in remembrance of the liberation of the Jewish people from slavery in Egypt.  Let me refresh your memory: The Ten Plagues, the parting of the Red Sea, Charlton Heston.  How could you forget?  We call it The Days of Wine and Moses. Late in the story, after the Jews have fled to safety, Moses shows up with some commandments.

 

Originally, Moses only had two Commandments, Thou shalt not kill and Thou shalt not wear brown sandals with a black yarmulke, but, as he was coming down the mountain, he ran into a couple of slick salesmen.  Moses could never resist a good deal. 

 

He had two Commandments, but then

He met these two fast-talking men

“More Commandments, you see

And besides, they’re all free.”

In that case, he said, I’ll take ten.

 

Those were the Gefilte brothers, Harry and Sol, who then convinced Moses to buy their whole supply of spoiled fish and eat that instead of shellfish.  And that is how Moses became the first April Fool. 

 

Oy, am I in trouble for that story!  God is probably looking on Amazon right now to find a plague for me.  “Hey, God, with all due respect, Covid was enough!”   I’m not really worried. God loves a good story.  I knew that as soon as I read about the Virgin Mary.  Oy, now I’m in trouble with the Jews, the Christians and God.  In hockey, they call that a Hat Trick.  The Jews call it a Yarmulke Trick.

 

By the way, what do you say to God when God sneezes?  Ok, I’d better stop playing with God here.  In Job 38:12, God counters Job’s arrogance by asking, “Have you ever in all your life commanded a day to dawn?”  I can’t even command a cat to get off my pillow.  And I would not even think of commanding my wife to do anything.  You think those plagues were tough?

 

It is ironic that just as Jews were celebrating their escape across the Red Sea, an immense cargo ship, the size of a shopping center, was stuck in the Suez Canal, preventing hundreds of other ships from escaping the Red Sea.  So they called Charlton Heston and he and Yul Brynner dug it out.  Tell me how it is that a “boat” that weighs half a billion pounds can float and yet every time I go into a pool, I sink like a jar of the Gefilte Brothers’ fish.

 

In related news, the football coach at Duxbury High School in Massachusetts has instituted a new series of audible signals.  Those are the code names for football plays that the quarterback calls out at the line of scrimmage when the defense has changed position.  Usually you’ll hear “Red Left” or “Fox Down” or something like that.  This coach invented plays whose code names were “Hitler”, "Auschwitz” and “Holocaust”.  I have not made up one word of this story.  God, if You’re still listening, do You have any plagues left over for that moron?

 

In other news - - - let me just point out that if you are writing a blog and need some extra wacky, weird and strangely unbelievable material, the news is just full of it.  Funny, that’s just what my wife says about me.

 

Back to the news, Bill Gates is about to institute a plan to shoot chalk dust into the atmosphere of Sweden to absorb the sunlight and cool down the planet.  Does this not frighten you?  Surely the inventors of the internal-combustion engine did not imagine they were polluting the atmosphere with their carbon-dioxide.  They were wrong.  But now Billionaire Bill has the hubris to shoot calcium carbonate (chalk dust, also full of carbon) into our air without knowing the consequences.  One of the side effects of this lunacy will be that the sound of thunder will henceforward be the sound of fingernails scratching a chalkboard.

 

Our Weekly Word is hubris, which means extreme pride or arrogance, and I am proud to be the poster boy for both.  I will come back next week to exhibit more of the same.  That is, if God lets me.  For those of you who celebrated Passover, I hope you had a wonderful holiday.  For those who celebrate Easter, I hope yours is full of peace and love.  And for all of you, keep counting your holiday blessings and stay well.  I’ll be back next week, whether you want me or not.

 

Michael                                    Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

Blog #211

 

Here I am in North Carolina, just in time for tornado season.  The last time we were in North Carolina, in August, we survived a direct hit by Hurricane Francis and a tornado.  But we are not deterred because North Carolina is the home of my daughter, son-in-law, three grandchildren, three dogs, two cats and 13 chickens.  We are currently under a tornado-warning for the rest of the evening and all our friends are calling us, worried about the chickens.  They don’t care if we humans are swept away by the storm and dumped on the Yellow Brick Road, but they’re worried about the poultry.  Nice.

 

Actually, one of my grandchildren, Zachary, is not here.  He is a sophomore at Duke and currently under Covid quarantine as is the entire campus.  We have tried to call him, but talking to him is harder than getting a National Security Clearance.  He is always too busy.  My daughter wheedled and cajoled and finally convinced him to Facetime us.  There he was, sporting a bad Bob Dylan hairdo and a bad Cat Stevens beard.  Apparently, he is also too busy to shave or get a haircut.  Carol thought he looked like a terrorist.  I thought he looked like a hostage.  He’s such a good boy.

 

I meant to talk to you last week about St. Patrick’s Day, but I guess I was too busy.  Actually, my Irish cousin Seamus sent me a greeting.  Here’s what he said:

 

Faith n’ Begorrah, if it isn’t St. Patrick’s Day!  Top o’ the mornin’ to you, Lads and Lassies, and the rest of the day as well.  It’s your old Leprechaun Seamus O’Fox from County Limerick.  Yes, and sure’n there is a County Limerick in Ireland.  You can trust old Seamus on that.  St. Patrick, you know, kicked all the snakes out of Ireland.  Then he came back with the potato famine and kicked nearly all of the Irish out as well.  But we celebrate him just as certain, and we do it with grand old Irish Whisky.  How else would a good Irishman celebrate?

 

Yes I am the Leprechaun Seamus

In Ireland sure’n I’m famous

And if you should think

That I can’t hold my drink

Then faith, you’re a damned ignoramus.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  I hope you are feeling well.  And you girls, when I called you Lassies back there, don’t get insulted.  I didn’t mean that you looked like a dog.  I had a girlfriend once who was very melancholy.  She had a body like a melon and a face like a collie.  Bada-bing, bada-boom.

 

There has been a lot of talk about Dr. Seuss being offensive to Asians or Aunt Jemima being offensive to African-Americans.  No-one should tolerate insulting, abusive or offensive behavior.  But who gets the most frequent and vicious abuse?  Old people.  Every day I receive cartoons on the internet depicting old men and women with distended paunches, sagging breasts, drooping jowls and vanishing hair.  None of my friends looks like these exaggerated cartoon characters.  Well, maybe one or two.  And what are these characters doing?  Forgetting things, losing things, unable to walk or speak.  And what do we old people do?  We laugh.  The cartoons are funny.  We can take it; we can laugh at ourselves.  Keep laughing at yourselves, My People.  The world’s too serious as it is.

 

Besides, we have the Olympics to worry about.  Specifically, the Old-lympics, the games specially created for us oldies and goodies.  They have Pickle-Ball this year and Synchronized Napping and a new event called Sprint-Sprint.  Contestants start in a sitting position with their cellphones on their laps.  The winner is the first to reach his or her internet provider and speak to a live person.  The World Record is currently 47 minutes.  My wife is entering the Pentathlon where contestants must read a book, watch Netflix, play bridge online, talk on the phone and exercise at the same time.  She’s a shoo-in.

 

From North Carolina, we slid down to Florida to visit my sister-in-law and brother-in-law, very nice people.  Hospitality is the art of making guests feel like they’re at home when you wish they were.  But we stay anyway and they treat us wonderfully.  The weather in Florida is much better -- no tornadoes, no hurricanes yet, very nice.  Florida, fondly known as God’s Waiting Room, has a large population of senior citizens, and why not?  We like high temperatures and low taxes.  This time of year, it is also packed with Gen Z-ers, the generation under 24-years-old.  These are the people who, for 51 weeks a year, without mercy or respect, lecture their grandparents about following science and wearing masks, protecting the environment and spreading love and acceptance.  For the other week, they are down in Miami Beach getting drunk, smoking pot, spreading Covid, beating each other up and polluting the beaches with beer bottles and condoms.  Thank you, Gen Z, for all your advice.

 

I guess all this activism by our grandchildren is a sign of progress. “Progress has never been a bargain. You have to pay for it.  You may conquer the air but the birds will lose their wonder and the clouds will smell of gasoline."  That is a quote from the movie Inherit the Wind.  I am reminded of it often by the ever-growing pace of technological growth and the plethora of new gadgets and ways to download and upload and monopolize your time.  Sometimes it’s nice just to think about a quiet place where the birds are beautiful and the crickets hum and the clouds don’t smell of gasoline.  And you can grow older – and shorter – in peace.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  My soul is full of sorrow (As You Like It).  I am not a Gen Z-er.  I’m a Gen-Cat, and this Gen-Cat is going to bite somebody’s ugly behind if he doesn’t get home soon.  I miss him.  Purr.

 

Cajole, our Weekly Word, means to persuade by sustained coaxing or flattery.  Just like what I do to you every week to convince you to come back next week.  You’d better!  Keep well and keep counting your blessings.  See you next week.  And Shakespeare, if you’re reading this (imagine that!), I’ll be home tonight.

 

Michael                                             Send comments to mfox1746@gmail.com

 

 

  

 

Blog #210

 

I got on an elevator today 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 smile at each other because you’re both wearing masks.  You can’t even make eye contact because everyone is reading a device constantly, always, 24/7.  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.

 

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 isn’t on sale?  I sat with this young man for 15 minutes after he was finished drawing blood.  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.

 

If I’m beginning to think that having a blood test is fun, you know I have nothing to do.  I have no worlds to conquer, no wrongs to right, no dragons to slay.  I actually went out this morning looking for a dragon to slay, but all I found was a McDonald’s.  I ordered a Bacon-Egg-Cheese-Biscuit for my grandson.  They were out of bacon.  What?  McDonald’s out of bacon?  That’s inexcusable.  It’s like Colonel Sanders running out of chicken, Nordstrom’s running out of shoes, Trump running out of combs.  I got the sandwich anyway.  I’m flexible.  Besides, it wasn’t for me.

 

Hi there and welcome back.  Are you feeling well?  Feeling Springish?  Spring will officially arrive in a few days – the Vernal Equinox, when the day and the night are the same length everywhere on the planet.  When it’s the Vernal Equinox in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s the Autumnal Equinox in the Southern Equinox and --- oh, you don’t really care.  All you care about is what time the next Meghan Markle interview is.

 

I know you’re going to hate me for this, but I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Sussex.  She’s been in the news a lot lately, complaining that the people who gave her a royal wedding, a title and a palace weren’t nice to her.  Do you have a palace?  If somebody gave me a palace, I’d let them drag my nails across a chalkboard every morning.  But I guess I’m just selfish and shallow.  In addition, the Princess complains she has been depressed and has lost weight.  That’s a strange diet when you lose weight while gaining ten million pounds.  Poor Princess!

 

The Princess’s woes are alarming

Her list of complaints is disarming

She fights with the Queen

And from what I have seen,

Her Prince isn’t really that Charming.

 

I have a prediction.  Within a year, Prince Harry will jettison the Fresh Princess of Bel-Air and sidle back to the capacious skirts of Gran-mommy where, I’m sure, he will be welcomed with open tiaras.  Meanwhile, Meghan will be running around Southern California looking for a fixer-upper palace and appearing on Dancing with the Stars.

 

Last Monday was the Ides of March, another thing you don’t care about.  Neither do I so we’ll move on.  Monday was also the day we decided to go even further to find a dragon to slay.  We hopped in the car and drove to North Carolina.  My eyes are fine, we’ve been vaccinated, my daughter and her family have been vaccinated – so off we went.  Thirteen and a half hours, door to door.  Carol says it’s an easy drive.  Of course it is.  I do all the driving while she reads a book, talks to her friends, listens to Dr. Laura and sleeps.  No wonder she thinks it’s an easy drive.  Kind of like being a royal princess, except Carol’s prince is charming.

 

Message from Shakespeare:  I all alone beweep my outcast state (Sonnet 29).  Tuesday was a special day for me.  It was the one-year anniversary of when I was adopted.  And they left me home alone.  Their daughter, Abby, comes to feed me and take care of me, but it’s not the same.  I hope they come home soon.  Purr.

 

I’ve decided I need an exemption.  We all need an exemption from the political correctness culture.  It’s not fair to make people my age change everything they’ve learned and grown accustomed to all their lives.  Anybody over a certain age (say 65) should get a sticker like the ones that say I VOTED.  But this sticker should just have a big “O”.  And it doesn’t stand for Oscar Robertson and it doesn’t stand for Oprah.  It just means you’re old and your allowed to say “policeman” and eat Aunt Jemima syrup and read Dr. Seuss books.  C’mon, everybody, give us O people a break.  We’ll be gone and out of your lives soon enough.  Don’t make us spend our few remaining years worrying about what pronouns to use.  It’s not disrespect or sexism or any-ism.  We’re just at a time in our lives when it’s hard to change our ways.  We’re too O for TikTok and Bluetooth and we’re too O to figure out what to call the person who delivers our mail – a Mailman or a Femailman.  

 

Our Weekly Word is capacious, which means having a lot of space inside, roomy, but it looks like I’ve run out of room for this week, and it’s just as well.  I’ve given you enough ammunition to send me a whole basket of hate mail, but first stay well and count your blessings.  See you next week.  And Shakespeare, I’ll see you next week too.  I love you, Shakey.

 

Pops                                                  Send Hate Mail to mfox1746@gmail.com