American Fez

Escape From Kvetch Cubicle

The labors of Hercules were a part-time job compared to the exhausting shift Edward Lollygag puts in each working day. The punishing, repetitive drudgery of Sisyphus nothing but a slight convenience compared to Edward's relentlessly backbreaking schedule. At least, that's how Edward tells it, albeit without classical reference and a pronounced emphasis on the physical ailments that are the result of his fastidious daily toil.

And does anybody thank Edward for his efforts? They do not. In fact, they barely notice his existence until it's time for them to bid him a good evening as they leave the office at five-thirty. Edward will still be tethered to his desk, of course, burning the midnight oil so slowly that he must be trying to set fire to it by rubbing two sticks together. God knows if we gave him a flame thrower and barrels of kerosene he'd still be there long after the office cleaners had left.

Why Edward cannot complete his duties during regular office hours I do not know. They are far from onerous, not complicated, and not really that important either. Perhaps if he spent more time with his nose to the grindstone rather than with his nose in the air complaining about the grindstone he might accomplish more? What if he used a drop of that midnight oil he claimed to burn to lubricate the squeaky wheel inside his own bellyaching? These were just two suggestions I made to Edward that imperiously ignored. After all, who was I to question the modus operandi of the Blessed Martyr?

But as we're all working from home now, email has become the only method by which Edward can communicate. There are no more weary ears at nearby cubicles to whom he can grumble about the imaginary demands of his mysteriously substantial workload. No canteen water cooler he can use as a pulpit to preach the gospel of his own 'work-life balance' self sacrifice. Surely he can just get down to business and complete his tasks before sundown? Yet somehow his emails always arrive when the rest of us are thinking about retiring for the night.

So I wonder how Edward still manages to procrastinate in a pandemic? Does he spends from nine to five whining to the four empty walls of his undoubtedly dim and depressing abode. Maybe he even takes a brief break for lunch, phantom workload allowing, when he whines to his featureless front yard. it's his neighbors I feel sorry for, as I can easily picture Edward shouting his "Woe is me" stories over the fence, yelling through their letterboxes, inviting himself over to deliver another moaning monologue. But better them than Edward's colleagues. Productivity is on the rise since we've escaped his clutches.

Game Over

Perhaps the world will end with neither a bang nor a whimper but a sigh of relief: Thank God that's all over. Only the fungi can be proud of their contribution to life on Earth. The rest of us should be ashamed.

Frankly, I doubt the people of the End Times will even know the consolation of living in proverbially double-edged "interesting times." In fact, so tedious will Doomsday brinkmanship be that even endless global conflict will be called The Lukewarm War. I imagine it will be fought by international robots while humans are busy binge watching so-called Reality TV, until they and their screens are finally vaporized by smart bombs dispatched from rent-by the-hour missile silos somewhere in Asia.

Such a bleak vision of the future. Alas, even the briefest perusal of current events makes it impossible to predict any other outcome. It's as if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse had taken up equestrian show-jumping, enjoying a spot of fancy dressage before their last gallop across the world's paddock. Look closely and you can see Trump and Biden et al queuing up to feed apples to the ponies.

But if we're lucky, this will turn out to be just a computer simulation, a holographic game in which we only manage to achieve Level Two of Ten before losing the plot, and maybe our player-God can insert another quarter to start over again.

Vote Johnnie Walker (40% ABV)

Election Day 2020 and there were no long lines at my liquor cabinet. I arrived, poured myself a drink, then sat down at my bar and drank it. After draining the glass, I left, my rights to having a drink being fully exercised. One citizen, one drink. God bless America. The whole process was very easy and I encountered no problems at all. Or so I thought.

Apparently, there is to be a recount concerning claims I consumed more than my allotted two drinks. Despite the overwhelming evidence of only a single glass on my counter top, it seems Antifa activists shrieked that I secretly drank all the booze myself to prevent others from imbibing, while hard-right white supremacist factions denounced me as dark rum-loving progressive partial to mixed drinks and unAmerican tropical cocktails.

From the fringe came yet more accusations. The Greens said my drink of choice was not distilled from sustainable sources, and the Libertarians declared that I should have made a stand for freedom by drinking lighter fluid if I so wished.

None of that is true, of course. I just sat down alone with a small tumbler full of Fernet Branca. God knows I needed to wash the foul taste of twenty-first century Presidential politics out of my mouth.

The Collaborator

One of my earliest memories concerns a crude picture of a rainbow taped to the classroom wall on my first day of kindergarten. Rendered in broken crayon on cheap white paper, it was more of an elongated hump shape than an elegant arc. The spectrum of colors were probably incorrectly ordered, also, and there was no blue sky or green grass to add context. It was just a wonky rainbow suspended in blank space, signed Alice Stilton in a combination of upper and lower case letters.

But the picture's message was clear, nonetheless: "Fear not. School is not as bad as it seems. You Are Here at the start of the rainbow and there is an educational pot of gold at its end. Perhaps, in time, if you don't blot ink all over your books, daydream while staring out of the windows, or repeatedly kick the back of Peter Reynolds chair, you too might be rewarded with a picture of yours taped to the wall like Alice."

I wasn't fooled, of course. Partly because even at such an early age I had wisely developed a deep mistrust of institutions, but also because I happened to know Alice Stilton. She lived on my street. Hers was an ugly, vinyl-sided modern house, fronted by an incongruously Victorian solid oak door with a huge decorative brass knocker that I thought might turn into the face of Jacob Marley at any moment. 

Most adults in the neighborhood seemed to think of Alice as the proverbial girl-next-door. Sure, if the girl-next-door was a ponytailed Quisling who invariably denounced her playmates' wrongdoings to their parents. Had she lived in occupied France, I have no doubt Alice would have drawn rainbows for the Nazi officers. Alice Stilton was a collaborator with the enemy as far as I was concerned.

So it was no surprise to me when Alice was afflicted with a case of hair lice and the nurse threatened to shave her head. Poetic justice for a traitor to her own peer group, we all agreed. The phony rainbow had finally faded from Alice Stilton's sycophantic life and clouds were rolling in. A case of "Vita Longa, Ars Brevis" I think you'd have to conclude.

Send In The Clowns

If it is any kind of race at all, the "race for the White House" is a carnival sideshow pitting a senile slug against a psychotic slug, dragging their aging sacks of slime across a strategically salted course in the general direction of a disputed finish line. Other sideshow attractions include the Congressional flea circus and the fire-eating Supreme Court justices. There is Nancy the bearded lady and some sort of squid-faced pinhead freak called Mitch. Roll up, roll up.

These red, white, and blue spangled hucksters have pitched their greasy, stinking Big Top tent in town for far too long. Surely it's time for them to move on? Unfortunately the inbreds who live around here seem to enjoy betting on the slug race, watching the sleight-of-hand fleas jump around in the senate and the justices swallowing more balls of flame. Meanwhile, outside the Big Top tent, banished to the fringe, the Libertarians and Greens go around and around the Wall of Death, the ostracized looping circuit that for them has no beginning and no end. 

Fantasia On A Theme By L. P. Hartley

These days, I'm not so sure the past is a foreign country where people do things differently, but is really more of rogue nation under martial law. In short, if I had to pin the past down with a geographical simile, I'd say the past was rather like Turkmenistan.

And of course you are President for life in this Turkmen past. Revisionist memory erects colossal equestrian statues of yourself in the most de Chirico-esque squares of your mind. Interior monologues are restricted to only repeating the self-aggrandizing party line, and any dissenting synapse that dares questions your supreme authority is ominously "disappeared."  

Of course, establishing your sense of the past in Central Asia means it's always threatened by revolutionary insurgents, which is why you still feel anxious and exposed when remembering that thing that happened eight years ago. It's a stress point in your ego's Great Wall. Frankly, you'd be better off renouncing this dictatorial sovereignty over the past and relocating your new Anarcho-syndicalist awareness to Switzerland.

So henceforth the past will be like Switzerland; people don't dwell on it there. They are simply forever in the cuckoo clocked moment.

But what does all this say about the future? Well, the future is usually like an Orwellian dystopia where everything people do is supervised by Big Brother. Or perhaps the future will be like a spaceship traveling to an unknown galaxy where people can't actually do anything anyway because they are all sleeping in suspended animation for centuries. Or maybe there will be no future to speak of since humanity has been wiped out by Coronavirus? It's a tough call.

Personally, I think the future will be much like the present; people will do things much the same way only with different tools. At our current precarious point in time, I'm not sure whether such a passively apathetic vision of Things To Come is optimistic or pessimistic. But at least we'll have one. So there's that, I guess.

Invasive Species of the Political Season

No longer green, the local gardens have turned red, white and blue. Political placards now bend in the breeze where summer's flowers were: clumps of cardboard Trumps and fluttering Bidens all in a row. Why do people willingly plant such poisonous weeds in front of their houses? They only attract angry, militant locusts instead of thoughtful butterflies.

Meanwhile, angry neighborhood 'activists' both red and blue are grinding up their candidate's agenda into a potpourri of bullshit bullet-points; a stinking compost heap of half-truth and platitude arranged in a decorative presentation basket which they leave on my porch. But I'm not bringing such parasite-laden herbage into my home. Vote for him? No, but I will spray him with powerful pesticide.

Politics, of course, is a type of self-perpetuating fungus that feeds on infected human brains until it becomes a pulsating, walnut-sized ball of inflexible rage. And once politics has entirely consumed the host, its venomous slogan-spores are spat into the world. Stuck to the bumpers of collaborating cars, these slogan-spores scatter their dogmatic contagion around town, seeking to impregnate gullible brains with militant seeds to propagate even more of their kind.

I limit my own gardening to a simple evergreen border of bemused detachment. The only decoration is a modest pumpkin carved into the likeness of the sort of benevolent spirit I'd like to see become President. There's a lantern inside but the light just gets dimmer with every passing year. It's almost extinguished altogether.

Birds of North America

Mid-autumn, flocks of squawking ideas take flight against a darkening skull. The annual migration of neurons to the southern hemisphere of the cerebellum has begun. Alas, only half of them will complete the journey. Some will fall out of the ears when heads are shaken in disbelief; others are expelled through the nose when snorting with incredulity.

My own idle thoughts, however, are hardy fellows and hang around the whole winter through. They neither hibernate nor wither but go bob bob bobbin' along like a Robin Redbreast of the mind. What does that mean for this blog? It means there will always be a warm nest of insignificant nonsense to welcome the news-weary, even if from time tot time it's not inspired

Dark Greensleeves

As a child, I was not afraid of whatever eldritch phantasms might be hiding in the shadows beneath my moonlit bed. They were swiftly vanquished by merely shining a flashlight in their fanged and hairy faces. What did frighten me, however, was the wild-eyed, forked bearded, and rictus grinning countenance of the clearly demented musician featured on the 1960s-era record album sleeve of 'Thirteen Favorite Melodies For The Glockenspiel.'

No doubt he was merely trying and failing to express enthusiasm for the hitherto unknown tonal qualities of this rather boring and rudimentary instrument, but he looked more like a cruel dungeon master intent on torturing his victims with a bloodcurdling clink-clank rendition of She'll Be Coming Round The Mountain. Or perhaps an evil warlock summoning his demon legions by pounding out a profane version of Greensleeves backwards. No matter the spine-chilling image conjured, clearly this glockenspiel maestro's face was a warning to the curious: herein was a vinyl equivalent of Pandora's Box and listening to its contents would unleash aural terror upon the world. 

Alongside an equally ancient and macabre copy of The Young Person's Guide To The Orchestra housed in a crumbling cardboard slip-case, Thirteen Favorite Melodies For The Glockenspiel took pride of place in my junior school's record collection. It was as if the educational authorities actively wished to dissuade students from developing an interest in music, like stocking their libraries with nothing but musty, leather-bound editions of lengthy Victorian novels to discourage reading.

Consequently, I have always viewed the process of institutional education as a dark, satanic mill grinding impressionable minds into philistine dust. Imagine a glockenspiel mallet hammering a human eardrum forever, if you enjoy Orwellian paraphrase, as I certainly do. The ineradicable memory is almost enough to drive me to purchase a CD of Pink Floyd's The Wall. Almost, but my subsequent nightmares are not that desperately bad, thank God.

No Home For The Gnome

A lost gnome in an overgrown garden. Perhaps seeking that lush, lily-padded oasis of an ornamental pond where he once happily fished all day, following a half-remembered trail of stepping stones sunk into the soil long ago and now obscured by looming weeds and uncut grass. He must negotiate a minefield of rusting sprinkler system heads and avoid the predatory neighborhood cat that claims this front yard jungle as its exclusive feline domain. He could navigate by the stars but those lights of the night sky are forever extinguished by a thick layer of city smog, so he must use a nearby street lamp as his Polaris.

Of course, when the lost gnome finally reaches his destination, he will discover all the goldfish gone. At least, I'm assuming there is no life left beneath the black stagnant surface of the abandoned ornamental pond. But who knows? Who knows how deep the opaque, wild water runs these days and who knows what strange, aquatic vermin have evolved in those unknown depths? What I do know, however, is that at some point in his journey our questing gnome will come across the gleaming 'For Sale' sign emerging from the overgrown garden.

Apparently the gnome will soon find himself standing in the shadow of a renovated condominium. The overgrown garden will be transformed into a landscaped lawn and the ornamental pond drained and filled with flower beds. He will become a forgotten refugee of urban gentrification, like the plastic pink flamingos, bathtub Marys, stone lions, Greco-Roman water bearers, and other old-fashioned front yard ephemera deemed too gimcrack for contemporary urban homes. Rest in peace.

As Above So Below

Brutalist architecture, if you ask me, is any exclusively box-shaped building. But mostly it's the functional, almost pre-fabricated apartment blocks of the nineteen-fifties and sixties. Those rectangular machines for living with clean lines and ergonomic spaces connected by concrete passageways. Narrow balconies with views of the narrow balconies next door. Perhaps a regimented parade of low maintenance bushes or even trees. Metal benches that face each other across a no man's land of sunbaked asphalt. Such were the architect's utopian plans, his idealized sketches and immaculate scale model. Where did it all go wrong?

I often think the mysterious world of the enchanted forest must operate in the same manner. Here, for example, an unscrupulous goblin property magnate has redeveloped a former pumpkin patch into ugly brown mushroom condominiums. The poor pixies are evicted from the shade beneath their tiny toadstools and forced to relocate to the top floor of a massive fungus. Richard Dadd's faery fella with his craftsman's axe has been replaced by an army of elvish bulldozers, empty acorn cups repurposed as magical cement mixers, and spider's webs are the scaffolding for new high-rise woodland tenements. I think I could be the J. G. Ballard of children's picture books if I could find the time.

Morpheus The Scrivener

I used to keep a notebook beside my bed for recording all the inconvenient brainstorms that assailed me in the middle of the night. I'd quickly jot these thoughts down for safekeeping until morning, when I'd have the time and energy to give them my full attention. At least that's what I told myself as I fell back to sleep. Alas, the following day would offer nothing but broken lines of illegibly somnambulant handwriting, compared to which a scribbled doctor's prescription displayed all the elegant penmanship of Japanese calligraphy.

Thumbing through this notebook now, I mourn the many potential stories and novels that are lost within its unreadable tangle of ill-formed letters and indecipherable words. Long buried and sand-obscured Egyptian hieroglyphics in pitch black tunnels are easier to understand. The Voynich Manuscript is a model of literary clarity suitable for kindergarten book groups. Even the Rosetta Stone cannot help with my collection of incoherent doodles. I could have been a modern Charles Dickens if only I had learned to write clearly while drowsy and heavy-lidded. If only my mental secretary had learned shorthand before getting into bed.

Frankly, I blame being taught to write with an ink pen and blotting paper. No easy task for five-year-old fingers with a penchant for making amusing curlicues with extravagant flourishes of his over saturated nib. In fact, there was probably an element of looping seventeenth-century script about my early handwriting efforts. No doubt the letters s and f could be easily confused. That was a workable excuse for my poor pre-teen spelling, at any rate. And then I discovered the Rorschach Ink Blot Test.

Making elaborate, psychologically significant shapes with my writing materials was far more interesting than composing another dull essay for school called 'What I Did On My Vacation.' The Rorschach blots were more truthful too, as I tended to exaggerate the geographical distance traveled by my family in during the summer holidays. As far as I was concerned, the teachers could either read six paragraphs of spidery scrawl about my fictional adventures in Sumatra, or examine a symmetrical vampire bat-shaped ink blot from which they could draw their own conclusions about my activities. That they persistently chose the former is exactly what's wrong with education in this country, if you ask me.

Fortunately, the coming of the computer age means aspirant novelists don't need to worry about illegible handwriting in notebooks anymore. We can simply speak and digitally record our midnight inspirations into bedside mobile phones instead. Alas, I personally tend to mumble a lot when tired, so when I listen back to these recordings in the morning they are mostly inaudible and not worth transcribing. Thus are the libraries of the world denied the benefit of my imagination and the Tower of Babel is one brick shorter.

Now Appearing

Walking down a road not taken since March, I came upon the Tyvek shrouded exoskeleton of a new condominium complex under construction. That went up quick, as the saying goes. But what old building occupied this address pre-gentrification, demolition and redevelopment? I must have strolled past it a thousand times over the years but could not bring to mind the identity of the previous tenant. It had been commercial premises of some sort. An unpopular beauty salon, perhaps, skilled in the over-application of industrial-strength make-up and hairspray. Maybe a poorly stocked convenience store selling nothing but lottery tickets, cigarettes, and international pre-paid phone cards. Possibly even the grim facade of law offices specializing in divorce proceedings and personal injury claims. That's what most of the real estate around here used to be. 

Then I remembered. The site had been a store-front church purveying some sort of social justice based derivation of the Christian gospel. It once echoed with the boisterous rhythm of clap-along hymns sung in Spanish and the low murmuring buzz of prayer recitation that sounded like bees in a hive. I recalled feeling underdressed in weekend jeans and a casual shirt when the congregation spilled out on the sidewalk in their vividly colorful Sunday best. But I don't think they ever proselytized to me or any other passer-by. Theirs was a culturally-insular, self-contained nucleus of Jesus worship. And now it was gone, replaced by box-shaped apartment building divided into two-bedroom units with deeded parking, where anonymous, asocial twenty-something occupants will binge-watch Netflix TV shows while nurturing their insecurities and transforming language into emojis.

Don't Shoot The Would-Be Piano Player

One of my greatest regrets is not learning to play the piano, although I can't quite decide what sort of piano player I should like to be if I were proficient. Perhaps a rowdy ragtime tickler of the ivories with a toothy grin, straw boater, and those shirt clips that hold billowy sleeves in place. Maybe a grim-faced, wild-haired, and tuxedoed virtuoso sweeping my fingers across the keys as I chase the muse of Tchaikovsky. Or, God forbid, a bearded bohemian hammering my way repetitively through the minimalist oeuvre of Philip Glass. Alas, it's a mute question now as I can't even manage to complete 'Chopsticks' without making a mistake.

The lid of the piano slammed shut for me after a viewing of The Five Thousand Fingers of Doctor T when I was nine. Nightmares ensued and any plans for a potential career in the concert halls were promptly abandoned. The teachers tried coaxing me back gently with a xylophone and dulcimer but I had already made a firm decision to exchange musical instruments for paint brushes and a sketching pencil (themselves later swapped for notepad and pencil when I realized my imitations of Modigliani looked more like a misshapen self portrait an over indulgent mother might tape to her fridge door).

Of course, you're never too old to learn new skills (unless you suffer from crippling arthritis). I have often considered purchasing one of those portable electronic keyboards and a copy of 'The Idiot's Guide To Performing A Chopin Recital At Parties.' Alas, I cannot recall a social gathering I've been invited to where the other guests would appreciate half an hours worth of clumsy Chopin interrupting the conversational flow. Come to think of it, I doubt ham-fisted versions of Scott Joplin, Tchaikovsky, or Philip Glass would be very popular, either. People tend to prefer pre-recorded music at an indistinct volume during dinner.

Consequently, I must be content to merely hum along to the vague tunes in my head: the grand piano of the mind performing upon the stage of the mouth accompanied by the orchestra of the throat conducted by the baton of boredom. It's not Glenn Gould but it works for me. 

Pick Your Poison

More and more poisoned chalices are appearing on the altars of daily life during these "Covid times." It's as if someone somewhere is selling poisoned chalice franchises in the manner of MacDonalds restaurants. After all, where better for a poisoned chalice to be displayed than beneath a golden arch. And, like a giveaway MacDonalds movie tie-in soda cup, you get to keep the chalice after the poison has been drunk.

But what do you do with a used poisoned chalice? Once drained of its poison the chalice loses its luster, becoming a sort of mundane Secular Grail rather than a potential Holy Grail, and stored in the brain's equivalent of the back of the kitchen cabinet next to those plastic tiki goblets of the soul. Even an extra rinse cycle in the bottom rack of the dishwasher can't remove the stain of Lady Macbeth's lipstick from the rim. Believe me, I've tried and it won't come off.

Of course, the wise thing to do when presented with a poisoned chalice is covertly pour its contents into the nearest plant pot when nobody is watching, then boisterously wave the empty chalice around in the air while claiming to have downed the poison in a single gulp. Gradually lose your grip of the chalice until it sails out of your hand and across the room, hopefully shattering into many pieces on the floor. Make it look like an accident, as they say.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned current proliferation of poisoned chalices makes this a difficult trick to pull off these days. Not only does the poisoned chalice recipient have more chalices to juggle, but dependable potted plants are being usurped by trendy air plants containing much less soil with which to absorb all that extra dumped poison. You'll end up with telltale wet spots on the carpet. Trust me, I've spent a lot of time on my hands and knees with paper towels recently.

Invisible Man

Like an ostrich plunging its quivering head into the sand, a terrified squirrel clinging to a telegraph pole thinks it cannot be seen. But even we supposedly rational humans experience moments of believing we have become invisible. Mine used to happen when sitting on a crowded commuter bus, an idle impression created by disgruntled fellow nine-to-fivers being loathe to acknowledge their equally world-weary counterparts, not alas the successful result of a magical spell to promote physical transparency on my part. Nevertheless, I was often amused by these brief intervals of apparent non-presence, surprised nobody wedged themselves into my lap assuming it was an empty seat.

I am perhaps an uncommonly pale person but rapidly advancing age has yet to condemn me to completely see-through skin and bone, so now that I no longer commute on the bus every day I must resign myself to always being seen. If only I could learn a few invisibility tricks by observing this squirrel, but despite his best efforts to hide he remains almost brazenly conspicuous. He might as well use all his acorns to make an arrow pointing to himself. But why, apart from enjoying a private joke, do I want to be invisible? Well, the season of political canvassers with clipboards and signs waylaying passersby in the street is upon us. Vote for Bozo. Re-elect Numpty. Send Doofus to the Senate. How I wish I could simply slink past them undetected instead of being forced to step into the road to avoid their demented ranting.

Great Expectations

The sunflowers have turned their faces to the sea. Somewhere across the ocean it might still be summer, but soon there will be nothing here but bare rocks and a cold wind blowing across the bay. Boats will sail south and the tourists exchange water skis for snow skis and flee to Vermont. The innate human inability to simply sit still means most people must escape the blue-grey boredom of a bleak off-season coastline. But being a dyed-in-the-wool misanthrope, I enjoy an empty horizon with a black smudge of storm clouds and no other footprints in the sand except those of my dog. Release your Krakens into the wintry waves. What do I care? I've got a library of unread novels, a fireside, and many bottles of tawny port to see me through to Spring. The bookworm's dream of cozy seaside erudition.

Of course, books reserved for winter are much weightier tomes than typical beach reads. Summer just seems to be the wrong sort of weather for a zillion chapters with a convoluted plot featuring a cast of thousands. I can't commit to Charles Dickens, for example, between early April and late September. In fact, nowadays I experience difficulty involving my mind in any kind of story when the daily temperatures rise above sixty. Perhaps that is some unexplored bibliographical effect of climate change unique to myself? If the world keeps heating up at its current rate I will be capable of reading nothing but short stories and travel guides to Iceland before too long. Tourist season will extend well into December and recommence by February. The window of opportunity to luxuriate in my bookworm's dream will dwindle to a few preciously cold days in January. What will I do with all my unread novels in the incessant tropical humidity of the future? I guess I shall use them to press the overabundance of perennial sunflower petals that have turned this rocky shore into a jungle.

Photo by me, if anyone cares about such attributions.

View of Delft, Massachusetts

The backs of houses in the old harbor at Bearskin Neck, presenting a facade of serenity that belies the busy tourist hubbub that usually engulfs them. Fifty-seven flavors of ice cream are available here, plastic scrimshaw, bobblehead pirate, and a polyester sweatshirt with an anchor printed on the chest. The same sorts of souvenirs you can buy anywhere and everywhere, transported on great ships from across the seven seas like whale blubber once was when the harbor was an actual safe haven and not just a photo opportunity. But I had to take a picture because we all have to take a picture nowadays. If you don't, it didn't happen, apparently. Such are the responsibilities and obligations of the modern weekend vacationer.

This area has always attracted the makers of images, whether their medium is pixels, water color, or oil on canvas. It is, after all, home to the bemusingly famous "Motif #1," supposedly the most painted building in America, but actually a rather uninspiring red fishing shack with no appeal to my eye. I don't think it would have appealed to Vermeer's eye, either. He surely would follow me to the old harbor wall, setting his easel down to capture the backs of houses in the afternoon sun. Meanwhile, his girl with the pearl earring might watch her reflection ripple in the dark water. Or perhaps she'd be waiting in line at the ice cream shack for two scoops of black raspberry with chocolate chips in a sugar cone? 

A Storm Out To Sea

Looking out to sea, I always expect something to happen. Perhaps the dorsal fin of a shark to stealthily emerge from the depths and slalom through the waves. Maybe a whale to suddenly leap into the sky and bellyflop back into the blue. Perhaps even a brass-helmeted deep sea diver to drag himself from the surf and crash along the shingle on the shore in his big lead-lined boots.

But when I’m on vacation and paying for a view, I not only expect something to happen, I demand that something happens. Alas, all I get is storm clouds across the bay. If I’m lucky there could be a cruise ship looming on the horizon, so far away that it seems to be stationery, anchored in a sunlit spot in the middle of the ocean. 
Oh well, I guess I should be grateful to be just sitting here on the deck in peace and quiet. After all, there desperate men on distant coasts for whom the kraken has been released. My only worries are overcooking the cod and running out of booze.

photograph by me 

Waiting For Daybreak

Waiting for daybreak, I leant against a marble column to observe the golden-green Maxfield Parrish sky, although I was wearing rather more clothes than a figure in one of his paintings. I'm more twill-trousered Norman Rockwell Main Street interloper than Neo-classical sprite. No dainty pink toes dipped in a cool, calm lake for me, my heavy hobnail boots track muddy footprints all along the gleaming colonnade instead. Still, I saw this ivy-clad Greco-Roman villa advertised for rent in the Saturday Evening Post classifieds and thought "I'd like to get away from it and have some peace and quiet for a change." If only in my mind.

Someday soon, when the city skyline is crowded with luxury condominiums, a fee will be charged to watch the sunrise from a public balcony with stadium seating. There will be a gift shop with posters of parting clouds for sale, and an onsite cafe called The Crack O' Dawn. Perhaps they will even provide sightseeing tours of the dewdrops from a fleet of air-conditioned buses. Before too long, of course, even this state-sponsored sunrise will be obscured by mountains of uncollected plastic garbage.

Daybreak: to be woken with a whispered word of timeless truth, a brief aubade already fading into an indistinct echo as your eyes open, then completely forgotten amid the clamor of the daily grind. But I have a feeling morning's timeless truth is not so ineffably profound, after all. Merely a reminder to fetch a mop and bucket to wipe away those muddy footprints you left behind last night. They only lead back to the way you came in, not the direction you want to go. There is still time to exchange your dark suit and overcoat for a skimpy incandescent toga, although you might want to lose a little weight first.

Honeycombs

A little rough around the edges by August but this zinnia can still attract the bees. Well, this particular bee at least. To be honest, I haven't seen any other bees buzzing around its dehydrated petals, waiting for their chance to scrape out whatever dregs of pollen they can find.

Perhaps, then, the bee has also seen better days? I've certainly seen fatter and fuzzier specimens in the garden, paying court to fresher flowers. So they make a suitable pair, I guess, the wilting zinnia and the ragged bee. There is someone for everyone, after all. Behold, you can see this timeless truth in the natural world should you care to look.

I'm reminded of the stooping, elderly Casanova and the plump jolie laide who runs my neighborhood coffee shop. Rather rundown and grubby, it's not a popular cafe. Most locals choose to walk to a gleaming Starbucks farther down the street. I only patronize the place when I'm in a hurry but Casanova is a regular customer. He's in there all the time, flirting with the barista of his dreams, chatting about how things used to be in bygone days.

"My usual, please, beautiful," he says when ordering. It's a love potion of hot coffee with milk and two sugars that she starts concocting the second she sees him walk through the door. "The nectar of the Gods," he says, taking his first sip. 

What Gods? I wonder. Ancient, forgotten Gods, no doubt. Chthonic spirits of the Earth who still dwell in the tree roots, the undergrowth, the soil, the fungi, and even the compost of decaying flowers and grass clippings where dead bees take their rest until all is recycled by Mother Nature.

Humble Brag

My bookcases are crammed with two kinds of books: the kinds of books I like to read and the kinds of books I think I like to read. The latter are betrayed by pristine, telltale bookmarks emerging from their non-dogeared pages, usually about a quarter of the way through, sometimes as far as half. "I'll come back to this book when I'm more in the mood for this kind of thing," I promise myself, but seldom do. Once such a book has been passed over or put to one side, it is never brought to mind again. "The mood," whatever that might be in literary terms, does not return.

Perhaps it's a seasonal thing. A certain book might convey a wintry feel and it happens to be August. Another book might seem redolent of heavy rains and thunder clouds but there's been nothing but bright sunshine for weeks. For example, I purchased a novel by Andrea Camilleri, set in the heat of Sicily, that I thought might provide a little Mediterranean escape for me in mid-December. I couldn't get past the first sun-baked, sweat-soaked chapter and stuck my freezing nose in a history of Stalingrad instead.

Many of the neglected books are nineteenth century novels; books I not only think I like to read but also think I *should* read. That unopened copy of The Mill On The Floss has been sitting forlorn in my bookcase for as long as that unopened package of dental floss has been abandoned in my medicine cabinet. I need to get around to both of them one of these days. I'm fortunate there is no 'sell-by-date' for paperbacks.

Although it would interesting if unread books did begin to rot like uneaten food left in the back of the fridge. "Does anyone want this old copy of Moby Dick that's been in the bookcase since last February?" You could demand of your family members. "It's starting to smell bad and there's a layer of green mold all over chapters five through thirty-seven. Plus, I need to make room for this fresh translation of Proust that Amazon just delivered."

Ultimately, of course, the phrase "books I think I like to read" is merely a less self-deprecating version of "I'm not as smart as I want to think I am."  Fortunately, it contains the qualifying inference that, although I don't read those particular weighty tomes, I'm still not as stupid as most other people because I do actually read some tomes, even if my choices are not the weightiest available. I'm led to understand that this is what is known as a humble brag in modern Internet parlance.

Mysterious Ways

The local vicar was famous when I was a boy; not for the quality of his sermons, alas, but for keeping the numerous soccer balls accidentally kicked into his vicarage garden. The heart-rending question "May we have our ball back, please?" that desperate plea of needy children the world over, was always met by this particular representative of God with a curt refusal. A distressing state of affairs that seemed, at least to my nine-year-old mind, to be not only the actions of an unconscionable killjoy but also demonstrably unChristian.

So when my own soccer ball, a souvenir of the 1974 World Cup, was confiscated in this manner, I duly denounced the vicar in Sunday School by invoking the eighth commandment and the Golden Rule, for which "impertinence" I was sent to sit by myself in the last row of pews, where I secretly read the latest issue of Dr. Strange instead of whatever remedial version of the Gospels I was supposed to be studying. And that was the end of my religious education. But not of my thirst for vengeance.

Many plots were hatched, mostly involving clandestine distribution of dog crap to prominent locations around the vicarage to cause maximum inconvenience. There was even Tom Sawyer-ish talk of the vicar's ears being a target for catapult dispatched projectiles. Of course, none of these anti-social strategies were actually pursued. They remained the adolescent fantasies of cold but ultimately impotent eyes cast upon the vicarage garden, where soccer balls were lost forever, slowly deflating in a locked and bolted shed where the evil vicar imprisoned all symbols of youthful joy.

Several years after these events, I was press-ganged into playing Sir Toby Belch in my High School's production of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. I'm a terrible actor and theatrical performance is never an enjoyable experience for me, especially when I'm forced to strap a pillow across my stomach to fabricate a drunkard's paunch. So I was an especially moody Sir Toby Belch, mumbling my lines and shuffling about the stage. Except for the hallowed evening I was informed the local vicar would be in attendance. And my ancient nemesis would be sitting in the front row, no less.

I'm not sure if the dozing audience noticed when, striding determinedly into the spotlight, I declaimed as loudly as possible: "Dost thou think because thou art virtuous there shall be no more cakes and ale and soccer balls?" But I like to think the vicar heard me and wriggled guiltily in his seat. Sure, my short Shakespearian paraphrase was no dog crap pellet in the back of the episcopal head, but for me it was closure. After all, some are born petty, some achieve pettiness, and I had had pettiness thrust upon me.

A Brief Comedy of Manners

Two words I often confuse are "gregarious" and "egregious." Possibly, being naturally reserved, I subconsciously believe these similar sounding words also ultimately mean the same thing: people cannot be gregarious without being egregiously gregarious. And it gets worse if they are gratuitously egregiously gregarious when greeting others. That level of gregarious egregiousness is regrettable, not to say grotesque. No doubt egregiously gregarious greeters have reservations regarding my reserve, my reverse egregious gregariousness as it were. Will we ever find common ground?

Ablutions In Time

One hot summer long ago, after waking late with a post-party heavy head, I found it necessary to eschew showering in order to arrive at work on time. To compensate for this shameful neglect of personal hygiene, I applied such an excess of roll-on deodorant to my underarms that the spindly hairs hanging there clumped together, taking on the semblance of impressive stalactites suspended from the caverns of my armpits. I also enveloped the bathroom and myself in a blizzard of talcum powder, then slathered inexpensive aftershave around my neck and across my wrists. Despite my emergency estrangement from soap and water, I was determined not to stink. At least, not of young man smells anyway.

The industrial-strength mentholated talc, minty fresh deodorant, oil slicks of Old Spice, and the residual essence of too much booze seeping from my pores combined to turn me into a sort of walking mojito scented candle, burning at both ends. "Did they shampoo the carpet last night?" someone asked as I passed by their desk. To make matters worse, I'd decided to sprinkle a lot of talc into my shoes as well, so little chalky clouds of powder puffed out of the sides of my penny loafers with each step, as if I was wearing a pair of steam engine funnels instead of socks. The lesson I learned that day was this: bosses don't really care if you're behind schedule provided they don't require breathing apparatus in your presence. 

Nowadays, of course, I work from home and could postpone showering indefinitely. But the experience described above scarred me for life, so standing beneath a cascade of hot water has become an essential stage in my morning transformation from groggy biped larva into fully-fledged human being. I simply cannot function without washing away the cocoon of sleep with a steady stream of powerful detergents. I don't know how I would cope without the convenience of modern plumbing. I certainly wouldn't survive in a dystopian, post-apocalyptic America where provision of public utilities was cut off. Don't expect me to leave the compound at dawn to scavenge for supplies in the ruins of civilization if I reek of my own perspiration, that's all I'm saying.

Rabid Dogmatics

An interest in politics is rather like a virulent and seemingly incurable case of rabies in humans. Observe the crazed, fang-bearing, frothing at the mouth, inchoate barking of so-called facts and opinions by those infected with politics. They are vicious beasts to be avoided at all costs.

Fortunately, political animals are easy to detect, even in the wild, since they betray themselves with car bumper stickers and badges proclaiming their own deadly nature. Placards promoting pathogens such as "Trump" and "Biden" in the windows of homes are warning signs of which the cautious visitor should take heed. Do not enter and stumble into the jaws of insanity. God knows what disorientating, brain-devouring, savage dangers lurk within. 

But, alas, evasive action becomes more difficult with every passing year. The rabid dogs have taken over the kennel and relentlessly chase the rest of us around the neighborhood. It's only a matter of time before you are stricken with Blue Death or Red Death, probably sometime in November when the political animals are in heat.

Is there an antidote? The rabid fangs of the dogmatics are sunk so deep into our skulls that it seems unlikely. All we can do is desperately try to think for ourselves as the deadly virus seeps into our systems. Nurturing a sense of gallows humor is a good place to start, although apparently supplies are already running very, very low.

The Path Mistakenly Taken

I've always thought of the Kabbalah as esoteric Hopscotch, a mystical version of Snakes and Ladders, a parlor game that should definitely be played instead of studied. On a recent slow news day, I thumbed through a local newspaper article about a self-described wizard. At first I thought he was merely an overgrown child playacting his Harry Potter fantasies, and vainly scanned the accompanying photographs for that revealing claret and banana colored Hogwarts rugby scarf. But no, this wizard meant actual reality-altering business. He mentioned the Kabbalah frequently and a diagram of its pathways was tattooed upon his forearm. To be fair, he called himself a  'chaos magician,' not a wizard, although the difference between that area of speciality and reading spells from a book while wearing a spangled conical hat was not made clear. Surely one cosmic conjuror is much the same as another? As long as summoned succubi do his bidding, what does the wizard care about nomenclature? I guess even enlightened masters enjoy their little cliques.

Rather obese, balding and squinty-eyed, sloppily dressed in a Heavy Metal t-shirt and cargo shorts, he looked more like someone who spends too much time sitting down watching television than an explorer of Astral Planes. Perhaps the numerous metal piercings in his face made it difficult for him to achieve any sort of transcendent travel arrangements? I also wondered why, if he could command the spirits of the air, he was still living in a studio apartment? And why was he running a Go Fund Me campaign to self-publish his guide to chaos magic for beginners? Could he not both resolve his inadequate living situation and satisfy his authorial ambitions with two waves of his magic wand? Apparently not. My reading suggested he always needed to push his bed up against the wall to create enough space to chalk a magic circle on the floor, conditions that hardly seemed conducive to lording it over powerful demons.

No doubt the wizard would claim material success was not the goal of his craft, that he was seeking sacred knowledge and not money in the bank. But he didn't know anything beyond vague intimations of a primitive animist philosophy. His magical studies appeared to be nothing but the extensive coursework for a doctorate in gibberish, a lot of theatrical sturm-und-drang effort for zero tangible reward. I couldn't help thinking how humans complicate everything and that the wizard was a prime example of such self-delusion. The secret of life is probably much simpler than we can ever understand. The Kabbalah is a map of psychic territory that needs no mapping, and those who consult it only become further lost than they were already, not being able to see the ladders for the snakes.

Class A

"Religion is the opium of the people." But considering modern man's numerous dilemmas, perhaps it is truer to say that religion is the medical marijuana of the people. After all, such a therapeutic effect is how the various religions of the world ameliorate the day to day terrestrial experience of their adherents. 

And there are many similar comparisons we can make. All human activities have their analogous drug-of-choice. Social media, for instance, is the heroin of the people, reducing its users to isolated and anxiety-wracked addicts incapable of any action except desperately seeking their next update. Spectator sports are the PCP of the people, inducing violent spasms of adrenalin in agitated fans leaping up and down in front of their big-screen televisions. Politics is clearly the dehumanizing crystal-meth of the people, resulting in the destruction of communities, mental derangement, and loss of interest in personal hygiene.

So what is the opium of the people? Where might you find an old-fashioned opium den still serving customers? Obviously it's Hollywood, befuddling easily-distracted viewers into imitating its tinsel-tinged, technicolor simulacrum of what is already an ersatz version of reality. So stick that in your pipe and smoke it, Mr. Disney.

As for blogs like mine, I feel they are the narcotic equivalent of some mythical plant only found in the deepest recesses of the Amazonian rainforest, requiring five days of fasting and participation in a bizarre torchlit ceremony while wearing a feathered headdress before any effects can be felt, specifically telepathic communication with 'Blogger,' the wizened and inscrutable spirit who lives in the magic Internet tree. Hi there!

Radio Waves

If you clasp a seashell to your ear, so it is said, the roar of ocean surf can be heard, and by extension, I suppose, the sounds of mermaids singing, although their voices are seemingly obscured by some sort of aquatic static. But perhaps that's just how mermaids sing? An inchoate whooshing noise that resembles the roar of the surf that modern man, with the notable exception of T. S. Eliot, no longer recognizes as serenades from the watery depths. Alas, we shall never know, since Eliot doesn't elaborate on the substance of mermaid song, merely claiming it was audible to him despite not being sung to him. So who can tell the truth of the matter? A seashell held to the ear could merely contain the echo of severely flatulent fish and nothing else for all we know.

A large conch shell decorates my bathroom. Rescued from the shores of Antigua, I can still recall standing on the golden Caribbean sands with it pressed against my ear. All I heard was a reproving inner voice telling me I should have washed the thing off first because it could be dripping with local sewage and bacteria. Or perhaps some malevolent Antiguan invertebrate might use the opportunity to squirm its way through my ear into my head and begin the slow process of devouring my brain. Not quite the tropical island experience I was hoping for. Nevertheless, I rinsed the shell clean in saltwater, safely packed it in my luggage, and flew it home to my bathroom, where the gurgling of pipes and buzz of a ceiling fan are too loud to hear anything at all, no matter how hard I try to listen.

So if you really want to hear the sounds of the sea, I suggest listening to one of those commercially produced therapeutic audio recordings of the ocean. Although what is exactly "therapeutic" about twenty foot tidal waves slamming into a pebble beach in the middle of a tsunami I shall never understand. The tape I heard was called Coastal Meditation but was more like Neptune's Fury. All I could think about while listening to it was the hulls of wooden ships being smashed to smithereens and the cries of drowning men. And that, of course, is the real hardcore music of Davy Jones' Locker radio, not that namby-pamby, whooshing mermaid muzak that pretty seaside shells held to the ear disseminate.

The Odyssey

Many years ago, when I was a small boy at the seaside, I plucked a gleaming amber colored pebble from the surf and put it in my pocket. I was merely following the suggestion of a popular nursery rhyme that advised such action when catching a falling star, but I had never even seen a falling star, never mind caught one, so the amber pebble would have to do. It was shiny, after all, so what was the difference? There were many other attractive pebbles on the beach, but only that particular pebble, I decided, would not look out of place in a heavenly constellation.

Back at home, I set the pebble down on the top of my dresser, which served as a makeshift altar for all the found objects I had brought in from the world outside and deemed worthy of display: a crispy length of shed snake skin, a kaleidoscopic toy marble, a damaged tintype image of an ancient couple, an old, chipped Toby jug. Alas, being no longer wet, the pebble had already lost its luminosity and the gleaming amber color faded to a dull tan. It looked like any other ordinary stone you might find on the ground. No longer a shiny substitute for a falling star, it was also no longer worthy of display in my youthful eyes.

Of course, nowadays I realize that was a shamefully shallow judgement. Jejune, as they say. Clearly the pebble was still an object of wonder despite losing its wet-look allure. Because what an amazing journey it had made from unknown foreign shores to the top of my dresser. A falling star simply drops out of the sky and is either caught, supposedly, or just disintegrates upon impact with the Earth. My pebble, however, was the Odysseus of pebbles. How I wish I'd kept the heroic pebble instead of disappointedly tossing it into my mother's garden. I sometimes think about where it might be now. I hope it made it back to its Ithaca.

Staycation Blues

July has caught me by surprise, as if slapping the back of my head with a rolled-up brochure advertising all-inclusive summer vacations in faraway, virus-free, coastal resorts.

'Shouldn't you be somewhere fun by now?' July says, getting up close and personal, its hot breath searing my face. 'Why are you still working from home when you could be working from the beach, laptop balanced on a beer crammed cooler, answering emails while sitting in the shade with autofill spreadsheets and all conference calls on mute.'

It's a good question. But, alas, all travel options are impractical this year. After all, who really wants to wander through a tropical paradise wearing a plague mask and flip-flops, or annex a six-foot circle of socially distanced personal space on the lanai, afraid of boisterous bacteria partying in the hot tub?

At times like these, I stare out of the window thinking an Olympic size swimming pool would easily fit in my driveway. Some deckchairs, a few potted palms, a makeshift cabana, and I can pretend I'm holidaying on the French Riviera. I'd be forced to risk parking on the street, but that's an inconsequential inconvenience compared to enjoying my fantasy version of Saint-Tropez each day.

'You should have thought of that before,' July tells me, exhaling yet another blast of super-humid breath. 'It's too late now. If you started building a pool today it wouldn't be finished until the Fall. I bet the planning permission alone wouldn't be granted before October.' 

Ah yes, the Fall. I wonder what words of wisdom November will have for me. 'Stay inside. The second wave of Coronavirus has arrived. It's not safe out there anymore.' Summer's chiding and cajoling to leave my house rapidly turning into Winter's full-blown paranoia for hibernation.

Frankly, I'm already nostalgic for this past Spring and the early days of lockdown, when a break from routine seemed like an adventure and an interesting challenge to the daily grind, those April and May mornings that truly made a novelty of the Novel Coronavirus.

Add To Basket

The ancient agora became the medieval market square, and from the medieval market square grew the corner store, and the corner store was dwarfed by the shopping mall, and the shopping mall was demolished by Online retailing, so what, I wonder, will eventually supersede Online retailing? I'm no futurist, I'm barely even a presentist, but I have a few ideas.

Luxury goods, which will be the only goods worth buying, will be hand-delivered directly to the lunar estates of one-percenters by courier astronauts wearing zero gravity livery. The rest of us won't be able to afford such quality products and impeccable service, never mind the shipping costs from terrestrial warehouses to the moon.

We will still be residing back on Earth, herded into consumer-economy ghettos patrolled by an army of intrusive and persistent door-to-door robotic salesmen hawking nothing but cheap and disposable junk. An indestructible titanium foot wedged in our front doors will be much harder to dislodge than a human foot, and their pre-programmed digital sales patter much harder to resist. Buy one, get one, even if you don't want one, never mind two.

But on the bright side, when Online shopping is made obsolete by vending-bots and dealer-drones, perhaps the Internet might return to being a simple forum for exchanges of useful information and interesting ideas, and we can browse a web page about Heraclitus without being bombarded by advertisements for creature comforts. It's unlikely, I know, but I am an incurable optimist.

Pneumatic Drills

Everyone knows the ancient Greek word pneuma can mean both 'breath' and 'spirit.' Therefore a ghost of yourself appears whenever you exhale upon a mirror and write You Are Here in the mist created with your fingertip. As encounters with the numinous go, it's perhaps not the most revelatory or profound experience, but I don't claim to be any kind of metaphysician. In fact, the only time I tried dancing to the Music of the Spheres I trod on my partner's toes. But that's what you happens if you try to lead when waltzing with a discarnate entity.

But back to our concept of pneuma. Obviously there are mouth-breathers (Protestant) and nose-breathers (Catholic).Those who assume the lotus position even follow a highly structured breathing regimen. Agnostics, meanwhile, breath on cracked or frosted glass mirrors. And let's not forget about those who require iron-lung breathing apparatus (Materialist philosophers), and only breathe into empty frames from which the glass has been removed.

I like to think of my own breath as puffs of cherubic zephyrs, some armed with bows and arrows, some carrying curlicue scrolls announcing the thoughts of my subconscious, and one or two playing the trumpet, occasionally the bassoon or sousaphone. I can just about make them out when I exhale upon a mirror, if only as smudgy abstract forms, but they fade as quickly as they appear. They last barely long enough for me to write You Are Here, so sometimes I think perhaps I am not.

Sunday School Dropout

Joseph of Arimathea is my favorite New Testament character. In the gospels, after the death of Jesus, Joseph appears out of nowhere (literally, as Arimathea is not an actual place) to claim and subsequently bury the Messiah's body. 

And that's the first and last we hear of Joseph of Arimathea in the good book. Considering he performed such an important role in the Christian story, you might think Joseph would have his own gospel, but he doesn't, unless it's still hidden underground somewhere about ten miles north of Nag Hammadi.

But fortunately our knowledge of Joseph of Arimathea is not limited to Biblical sources. According to medieval legend, Joseph took the Holy Grail across the seas to England. Fellow wayfarers probably though Joseph strange to have brought his own cup on board ship, but I like to think he inspired some Roman entrepreneur to market the first travel mug.

Furthermore, if Joseph had not made that trip with the grail, the knights of Camelot would've wasted their days just slouching around the round table instead of embarking upon heroic quests to find the bloody thing. The world of romantic poetry would be bereft of one of its most fertile inspirations. A retrospective of Pre-Raphaelite painting would consist of far fewer canvases. And worse, there would be no Monty Python movie about King Arthur and his "kerniggits."

Joseph of Arimathea is also, by virtue of providing not only a tomb for Jesus but also his winding-sheet, directly responsible for that wonderful, primitive photographic mystery known as the Shroud of Turin. I'm not sure this ancient fabric does display the actual image of Christ, but it is clearly the face of someone who adept at telling parables.

Anyway, you'd think God-fearing nations like ours would make more of an effort to commemorate such an important Biblical figure. We could at least incorporate a new town in Illinois named Arimatheaville or a waterfront community in Florida called Arimatheaport. 

Theater of the Absurd

There is so much free theater on the streets right now. The Red Players, The Blue Company, and The Purple Ensemble are showcasing alfresco productions of their own Coronavirus opinions for anyone who cares to watch. Alas, it's all predictable, over-emoted melodrama. There is no dialogue, just a series of monotonous soliloquies yelled at the audience, the spotlight swinging wildly around the makeshift stage, searching for the actor with the loudest voice. Numerous Greek choruses wearing masks of tragedy wait in the wings. I think this might be Act Thirty-Seven, Scene Twelve, but I'm not sure. The prompter has apparently already lost his place in the script. 

Fortunately, there is also a lot of free mime to enjoy. For instance, I was walking my dog the other day when an elaborately masked mime appeared about ten feet behind us on the sidewalk. Whenever I stopped at a tree to let my dog sniff neighborhood smells, the mime stopped also, like a living statue, artfully maintaining his ten-foot distance as if separated from me by an invisible bargepole. Then, when sniffing was complete and the dog and I resumed our walk, the mime suddenly sprang back into motion and resumed his perambulations also, always ten feet behind. Highly entertaining if you're a fan of Samuel Beckett.

The other mime who puts on a good show is the in-your-face, confrontational non-mask wearer. I saw his production, entitled 'Bull In A China Shop,' at my local grocery store. It featured the starkly maskless mime shunting a shopping cart containing nothing but frozen TV dinners down the narrow aisles, in the wrong direction, daring anyone to challenge him for ignoring the store's Coronavirus policies. At fifteen minute intervals, a recorded voice on the store's PA system reminded shoppers to wear a mask, keep their distance, and follow directional arrows in the aisles, and each time this announcement was made the maskless mime presented a conspicuous and repudiatory finger to wherever he thought the voice was coming from. A bravura performance.

My play is of little interest, essentially being a comedy of manners which is so out of fashion these days. I stroll about the stage making my own risk assessments of the situations I encounter, trying to be respectful of the risk assessments of others. There is only a single prop: a blue neckerchief I pull over my nose and mouth when I'm around people who care and pull slip below my chin when there's nobody in the immediate vicinity. It won't win any Oscars for Costume Design but I find it to be easy, effective, and relatively non-controversial.

The Emperor's New Palace

Built on what the agent claimed to be "one of the area's most prestigious residential developments," Alfred's new house nevertheless reminded me of an over-sized garden shed. Architecture suitable for California but unlikely to withstand many New England winters. Yet software engineer Alfred pines for a Palo Alto lifestyle so rarely considers north of Boston practicalities.

Inside, the house is no temple of the arts. Alfred likes to bring his work home with him, including the office fixtures and fittings, so his decorating style is best described as contemporary philistine: discount warehouse furniture sets made of synthetic fabrics and materials, designed to be durable rather than attractive. His carpet is stain-resistant, which is fortunate because none of the surfaces are level, especially the floor. 

But it's the cracks already appearing in the wafer-thin walls that worry me. I don't believe they can support the weight of Alfred's cheaply-framed pictures, never mind the ceiling and roof. I've visited portable toilets with sturdier foundations. Never has there been a better example of a house not being a home. If La Courbusier's definition of a houses as "machines for living" is correct, then Alfred's house is a low-tech, hand-cranked contraption barely sustaining the most basic form of life. 

Alfred is most proud of his "prestigious" new address: 12 Newton Court. In fact, all the streets in the development were named after famous scientists. Einstein Avenue, Darwin Way, Edison Terrace, Fermi Lane (cul-de-sac), and so on. "My place is on a corner in the Court," Alfred said. "Top of the range. Great investment, too. I'll sell in five or six years for twice what I paid."

I wondered if the house will still be standing then, but unlike the boy in the story of Emperor's New Clothes I kept my thoughts to myself. Instead, I walked over to the picture windows in the dining room and gazed out at the three giant wind turbines in the distance. "Nice view," I said, tapping the glass with my finger. "But you might want to think about double-glazing." 

To Be A Pilgrim

I passed a monk on the sidewalk who was staring into space; gazing, perhaps, into that numinous infinity only the called can see; or maybe, like Saint Francis, scanning the skies for the preached-to bird bringing lunch from a distant restaurant open for pick-up only. But could he possibly be some Seventh Seal medieval revenant from my imagination, conjured into being by subconscious concerns during this time of plague and pestilence? No, he'd probably just been visiting the nursing home nearby.

Of course, on those rare occasions I do come across a monk, especially a jovial Friar Tuck type, I can't help profanely hoping they reside in a monastery where beer and cheese is made. No doubt there is a particular circle of Dantean Hell waiting for me, forming a Venn diagram with the circles containing gluttons and drunkards and other types of facetious wastrels. Purgatory, meanwhile, would be a monk offering beer and cheese tastings who had taken a vow of silence and was consequently was unable to let me know about his wares. Paradise, a Trappist beer and cheese weekly subscription service with free delivery. by Beatrice Express.

At any rate, it is an unusual experience to encounter a monk strolling around my neighborhood, whether laden with food and drink or not. Although interestingly enough, I had also seen a man dressed in a suit of armor the week before. Judging by his hipster's handlebar mustache, he was actually a refugee from a socially distanced Dungeons and Dragons game. Nevertheless, for all intents and purposes, the image of a perfect, gentle knight was clanking his way down the city streets.

I realize we are a long way past April showers, but, taking these monk and knight sightings into consideration, I do wonder if I will meet every character from The Canterbury Tales by the end of June. There is a definitely a candidate for the Wife of Bath who fails to pick-up after her little pekinese dog when she takes it for a walk. In fact, there are at least three or four Wives locally, several swanky Squires, and far too many cantankerous Reeves. Obviously there are numerous Physicians about at the moment, too, but according to their tales I don't think they're making as much money from the current plague as Chaucer's physician did from his plague. 

Harriet Krishna

The angriest person I ever encountered was a vegan Yoga instructor, controlled breathing advocate, militant meditator, and theoretical Taoist. Unfortunately, she was also the apparently "flexible" girlfriend of my roommate at the time, which made her difficult to avoid. Her personal philosophy was deeply rooted in conspicuous exhibitions of serenity and transcendence. Yet she instantly became a whirligig of red-faced, blustering rage at the slightest provocation, the merest impingement upon her holistic wants and needs: being confronted with a cafe menu that only offered regular tea and no herbal varieties, for instance, would entail a lengthy harangue of the waitress and demands to speak to the manager. 

Her aura of calm shattered easily, like a brick thrown through a plate glass window at point blank range. Her sense of oneness could suddenly split into a zillion infuriated atoms. Her feeling of centeredness might be yanked violently from left to right at any moment. She is almost impossible to describe without resorting to such New Age cliches because she was the ne plus ultra of walking New Age cliches. I often thought of her as a smoldering volcano hidden beneath a Tibetan hat, wisps of smoke billowing out of her ears before she erupted into streams of hot, molten invective. 

Subsequently, she would always pretend these temper tantrums never happened, but quickly flare up again should you insist they had and dare to request an apology. My roommate's day was regularly occupied with making spineless, placatory phone calls and purchasing peace offerings for arguments he did not start. I was expelled from a party at her apartment when failing to remove my shoes before wandering into the room that doubled as a shrine to a collection of mostly Eastern deities, exclusively female naturally, except for the fellow with the elephant's head. Consequently, I complained about being chased away by a herd of stampeding Ganeshas, an attempt at levity which did not improve the situation. I was persona non grata for several blissful weeks afterward. What a relief not to be constantly tiptoeing around on rainbow-painted eggshells.

A working knowledge of the Kama Sutra can only compensate for a certain amount of personality disorder, however, and eventually my roommate dumped her. "I thought she'd be more easy going," he explained. "Because she's such a big hippy." Alas, appearances are deceptive, of course, especially when they are obscured by clouds of incense and ersatz spirituality. After their break-up, she disappeared out of my life for about ten years. Then I saw her again at the Starbucks near my office, unrecognizable at first as her kaftan and Pre-Raphaelite hair had been replaced by business attire and a power perm. But once identified I felt the muscles in my neck stiffen as she ordered a complicated coffee drink, afraid the barista would get it wrong and an unpleasant scene would ensue. 

Fortunately, her order was completed without a problem, so I thought it safe to make my presence known. She had changed far more than I, yet could not place me nor my old roommate. In fact, despite admitting a vague interest in basic yoga she denied ever being an advocate of Eastern mysticism and its various disciplines. Her eyelids were flickering and her lips pursed, always early warning signs of an impending explosion, so I let the matter drop. But it was definitely her. To raise the specter of Ganesha again, I have an elephant's memory for such irritating people. I suppose I should learn to be more Zen when dealing with others, however irksome they might be, but somehow I've never found the right teacher.

Ghost Story

When I was a child, I believed the abandoned, derelict house at the end of our street was haunted. But when I became a man, I put away childish things and realized the house actually provided a great redevelopment and investment opportunity.

The only ghost here was the melancholy specter of that old, crumbling Victorian home, which needed exorcizing then demolishing so a new, nondescript apartment block with underground parking could be built. 

I jest grimly, of course. I'd much rather reside in a haphazard neighborhood of haunted houses than a planned community gridiron of Soviet revival rabbit hutches.

Alas, each year we welcome more condominiums and increased boxification. It's like seeing the ground beneath my feet shift from handmade walnut backgammon board to some kind of computerized chess interface.

This is progress, no doubt. The modern lifestyle comes to town. The only problem is that the apartment blocks seem to be as empty as the abandoned, derelict houses. Occasionally I spy the blue glow of a widescreen TV as big as the wall but often the windows are dark.

At first, I thought the occupants must toil away all night in their "tech district" offices downtown, not getting back until past midnight. But these days everybody is supposed to be working-from-home and the lights are still out. 

Does no-one live there at all? Perhaps it is these apartment blocks that are really haunted; haunted by the dead financial dreams of their developers and investors, by the phantom of ground-floor retail-space zoning. 

Practice Makes Perfect

"Practice social distancing," an epidemiological edict reminiscent of my musical tutor's persistent demand that I practice the scales of the piano, current domestic quarantine situations being an ideal opportunity to practice both at the same time. Although one end of a piano is only about five feet away from the other, so I imagine performance of compositions for four hands are out of the question. C-sharp could easily catch Coronavirus from B-flat by virtue of its unsafe proximity. At least that's how I recall the opposing notational poles of a piano keyboard, not having practiced playing the instrument for many years (and only very irregularly back when I had a tutor, hence his constant hectoring).

But that is mere idle reverie. Obviously human life is more important than hammering away at the works of Chopin, so I practice social distancing with great application. By standing exactly six feet away from the coat stand in my hallway, I am able to memorize the amount of space between it and I, then remain that mental measurement apart from other people when walking abroad or buying wine at the liquor store. Having done this for several weeks, I now have a great eye for distances provided they are divisible or multipliable by six. If I don't think the distance is not a variable of six I'll say "about half a dozen" or "roughly three dozen." Such superficial estimations not only seem to cover most spatial queries, but are also useful practice for making lazy generalizations in other scenarios too.

Alas, my fellow citizens are not as diligent as I when social distancing, many of them happy to wander within four feet of others, sometimes just three feet or even only one-fifth of a dozen. I can't believe such potentially deadly encroachments are made on purpose or are due to willful ignorance. They are undoubtedly the result of cash-strapped consumers innocently purchasing fake, truncated yardsticks manufactured in China. So I ask, when will the unconscionable practice of importing cheap Chinese goods into this country finally be banned? Surely people are willing to pay an extra $4.28 per yardstick for an American-made product, at least in practice, if it means we can all accurately exercise our six-foot social distancing. 

Fahrenheit 45Zzzzzz

Reading in bed at night, my eyelids flicker and the pages flutter, the words drift out of focus and the book falls into my lap. The bedside table lamp seems to dim of its own accord and I'm asleep before my mind has reached the end of the sentence. 

Apparently my mind is so fatigued that in the morning I don't remember what information I supposedly digested the evening before. It's impossible to pick-up where I left off in a story because I possess zero recollection of what the characters said or did.

Consequently I can't seem to get beyond chapter one of any book. To tell the truth, I often re-read the first chapter of a novel six or seven times in a vain effort to make some sort of progress. If it's a whodunnit, I never uncover the surprising identity of the murderer. If it's dystopian sci-fi, I never discover whether or not the survivors of Calyx VI manage to repopulate the Zenethian star system. If it's an English tale of social mores, I never find out if the gloomy narrator will finally stop moaning about class barriers and just get on with his boring life.

This is also true of international travel guides. After learning how to leave the airport by train or taxi, I start dozing off before making it into the center of the city. My knowledge of natural history is extinct after the meteorites wipe out the dinosaurs. As far as I'm aware, there are no great feats of engineering after the fall of the Roman Empire. 

So I started reading a short story collection, one easy-to-finish story per night, in order to regain a feeling of accomplishment. The shorter the story the better was the plan. But, alas, I didn't find the form very satisfying. Short stories just don't provide the mental nourishment a novel does. In fact, they are so unsatisfactory that I threw the book at my bedroom wall and lay awake all night feeling cheated.

Masquerade Ball

Many years ago, when visiting Venice, I purchased a souvenir Venetian carnival mask: the 'plague-doctor' model featuring an elongated nose that resembles the face of the Looney Tunes cartoon buzzard. It's white with black curlicue embellishments and ties elaborately around the head by means of a silken ribbon. Besides colorful glass bowls and squares of fancy lace, a carnival mask is the sort of thing tourists bring home from a trip to La Serenissima. Damp socks, too, if their visit coincides with Acqua alta flooding.

At least damp socks can be dried and reworn. You can balance the colorful bowl on the end of a side-table and fill it with pistachios when friends come round. Even the lace can be spread across the back of an armchair or draped over a lampshade to dim ambient light. But what are you going to do with a plague-doctor mask? I guess you can hang it on the wall but it doesn't really fill the space, and as home decor it looks uncomfortably similar to those schmaltzy porcelain Pierrot masks that festoon the bedrooms of teenage girls. So why, you wonder, did you buy the stupid thing in the first place? It's not like you're getting invited to a masquerade ball in some waterlogged Palazzo anytime soon.

Until last week, I kept my my plague-doctor mask in a box of other homeless object d'art in a dark corner of the household coat closet. Since we're in the midst of this Coronavirus pandemic, however, I decided now was as good a time as any to remove it from storage and actually put it on. There is, after all, an actual plague stalking the land you understand. Not that I'm intending to practice unlicensed medicine or paint cautionary crosses on victim's doors, of course, but it does add a sense of theater and historic occasion to our present Quarantined circumstance.

Alas, the Venetian plague-doctor mask was designed to protect the practitioner and not his patient. Consequently it does not comply with State Government guidelines for covering your face in public places, which stress masks are supposed to shield the passer-by from any disease the wearer may carry and not vice-versa. Apparently I could be coughing Coronavirus all over the street (or the Grand Canal) if I coughed while wearing my plague-doctor mask outside. Which means I'm forced to wear this generic, flat, hospital-blue fabric thing with elastic attachments that hook behind my ears. It's not a look even Casanova could have rocked during Carnival.

Pneumatic Thoughts

According to Paul Bowles, whom I've been reading lately, the North African Tuareg people believe that the soul and breath are identical. What this means for common respiratory maladies such as garlic breath isn't, alas, made clear in his narrative. Could an unwary tribesman find himself afflicted with "garlic soul?" Or perhaps the Tuareg never eat garlic? Bowles doesn't say. Tuaregs inhabited an area of the Sahara controlled by France, so garlic soul was obviously a problem. Imagine a poor, Islamic Tuareg goatherd being interrogated by a close-talking French Legionnaire and getting not only garlic soul but also Catholic soul breathed all over him at the same time. The horror, the horror ...

Since COVID 19 infection is communicable by breath, I find myself wondering what the Tuareg think of the current pandemic. Can you catch Coronavirus of the soul? What sort of mask best prevents particles of contagious soul being coughed into the atmosphere? And how long does Coronavirus soul contamination survive on different surfaces? At least the Sahara provides a great deal of space in which the Tuareg can practice social distancing. Just remember not to share camels and wash your hands at the oasis. And on that unwarranted exhortation to an unknown people in uncertain times, I'll conclude this embarrassingly ignorant rumination on Tuareg culture and modern virology. 

Whale Of A Time

Smutney Galleries, dealer in collectible coins and printed ephemera, is closed for the coronavirus season. There is not enough elbow-room to achieve adequate social distancing and, let’s face facts, the yellowed lithograph and oxidised money trade is hardly an ‘essential business’ in anyone’s book.

Nevertheless, peering through the grimy, almost opaque windows, squinting into the interior gloom, I can just about make out the Rockwell Kent woodcut illustration of Moby Dick I’ve been coveting. It still hangs on the back wall in an art deco-ish silver frame which adds a significant amount to the asking price. But I wouldn’t want the picture without the frame, and probably vice versa: they complement each other perfectly. 

My fear is that extended closure will force Smutney Galleries into unresolvable bankruptcy. Then the object of my desire will be forever lost to me: indifferently cataloged in some obscure auction lot far away, receiving no bids and condemned to the local landfill, or sold as novelty dining decor to a philistine seafood restaurateur. Woodcut Moby Dick will be one more unknown victim of the current pandemic instead of gracing the vacant space above my kitchen table.

To be honest, I’m not bothered about the gallery owner’s livelihood, as I believe it’s just a hobby job for him anyway. Judging by his limited opening hours, he can’t even approach earning a living wage from selling vintage travel posters and Victorian pennies on the weekends, so he must possess another, regular and substantial source of income. Probably a trust fund or an indulgent and successful spouse. 

I guess I should have bought the picture when I had the chance. But I didn’t plan for these retail store shuttering quarantine contingencies. Perhaps I could have run down there just as the owner was locking his door for the final time. “Please let me in. I don’t exhibit symptoms and I know what I want. It will only take a minute and I’ll pay in cash.”

Of course, even cold, hard cash is feared these days. Your old crinkled greenback might be diseased, it could be the Typhoid Mary of currency, so beware the bacteria where the pyramid meets the eye. George Washington’s face should be replaced by a biohazard skull and crossbones on the one dollar bill. Now that would be interesting printed ephemera for display.

Such, Such Were The Joys

There is no 'echoing green' outside my front door, but a gang of pre-teen kids once congregated on the street corner, deciding what to do with their day. Running up and down the busy road while shouting was the usual consensus. Such random exertion was obviously a competitive game of sorts although its rules remained a mystery to me despite having taken part in similar activity at the same age.

Coronavirus has now confined these kids to their homes, of course, since the parents whose risk management policy apparently allowed for their offspring dodging speeding cars and trucks are afraid of invisible Covid 19 infection. I suppose a covert enemy always increases paranoia, but still ... the threat of Martian invasion when I was young would not prevent my father from forcing me to go out and get some fresh air. Can Coronavirus really be more deadly than the synthetic world of the 1970s? 

Discretion is the better part of valor, however, and my neighbors are right to follow the latest precautionary advice about social distancing and so on. I've seen some of them at the supermarket is full Hazmat gear. Our sidewalks are not six feet wide so I cling to the curb while they shrink into the shadows of apartment buildings if I pass them when walking my dog. It's possible they're afraid of my pandemic mask. It's modeled on those worn by ancient Greek thespians, albeit with tight-lipped features rather than an openly bewailing Theban mouth, but still unmistakably the grim face of a tragedian. 

Gazing down at the now deserted and silent street corner from an upstairs window, I feel like an audience of one impatiently waiting for the curtain to rise on the second act. God knows this intermission has lasted long enough already. My seat in the stalls is unbearably uncomfortable; the theater bar has run out of both food and booze; and the less said about the toilet paper situation in the restroom the better. So turn the streetlamp spotlight on and let the kids resume their endless pantomime. It's a noisy, incoherent play but it's better than just sitting here in the window watching nothing like a lugubrious Edward Hopper painting.

Modern Doxology

It was in the Year of the Virus, after a take-out feast of Szechuan crispy pork with brown rice and wonton soup, when I discovered my lucky numbers were seven, twenty-three, forty-nine, and Infinity-plus-one.

Fragments of brittle cookie lay scattered across the table surrounding a small, oblong paper fortune that fell out when the cookie was cracked open. I picked the paper up and read its short, pithy prognostication: You will have a pleasant surprise, it proclaimed. Well, that was good if not especially specific news. What could the pleasant surprise be and when would it surprise me? More to the point, would my surprise be big enough and so agreeably pleasant that I'd immediately recognize it as the pleasant surprise foretold by the cookie, and not just some easily overlooked, random, everyday lucky event?

Alas, fortune cookies don't contain a second slip of paper answering such Frequent Asked Questions, and there are no customer service contact details either. Typically inscrutable Chinese soothsaying was at work, obviously. Oh well, I turned the paper over and made a mental note of the lucky numbers printed on its reverse. Maybe simple, unambiguous mathematics would provide a little more practical information.

The number seven wasn't particularly exciting. After all, seven is considered to be an all-purpose lucky number for everybody, so I'd been pretty much cheated out of an exclusive slice of serendipity with that allocation. Numbers twenty-three and forty-nine were also somewhat disappointing, as $23.49 was the total of my take-out order. What the Hell did that mean, then? That I'd be 'pleasantly surprised' to not get indigestion from all the MSG in my dinner this time? I guess so because my stomach did feel unexpectedly non-dyspeptic. So only the dubious Infinity-plus-one remained as a functional integer of good omen, if such an abstract notion could be considered an integer.

Having been dealt this poor hand of lucky numbers, I decided Infinity-plus-one was the ultimate trump card as it must contain every other number. Therefore I could make my own luck by bestowing fortunate properties on whatever combination of numbers I came across. Four, nine, thirteen, Pi, the square root of forty-nine, anything divisible by sixty-three. In my mind, all numbers were indicators of glad tidings now, even 2020, which would be a pleasant surprise considering how the year has begun.

In which regard, let me just say glory be to yesterday, today and tomorrow, as it was in the beginning, and now, and ever shall be, world without end, plus one.

There's No Appeasing Some People

Ancient man performed sacrificial offerings to appease his angry Gods, usually by casting these annual tributes into whichever volcano or waterway their priests believed the God resided. Poor beasts and blameless humans were flung into fiery Krakatoa, submerged beneath the surface of sacred ponds, or swallowed whole by the peat bogs of Northern Europe.

Perhaps tribes possessing the technology might even have catapulted sacrificial victims into the clouds to pacify their sky God? If so I guess they'd need to explain why these airborne offerings fell back down to Earth again, apparently rejected by the deity aloft. Did the ungrateful God in question require much fatter cows than those chosen to be discharged into the heavens? That would mean building a larger, more powerful catapult which might not be practical. Ugh, what a quandary for a Bronze Age brain.

Which makes me wonder how ancient man would face placating a modern God of Coronavirus. It can't be easy to submit your sacrifice to an invisible mist of respiratory droplets. Then again, we know ancient man was keen on wearing masks and other types of protective gear, so viruses probably weren't a problem for him. Ancient man was, however, beset by deadly plagues and pestilence, and any God unleashing plagues and pestilence is a vengeful God who won't be placated by simply slitting the throats of a virgin, some random goats, and a selection of cattle. A vengeful God desires to wipe out the entire tribe and no amount of ritual slaughter is going to stop him.

The contemporary God who merely dispenses viruses among his people seems rather apathetic by comparison. A divine power who merely wishes to exercise a little Adam and Eve-thinning. He coughs into creation and sits back to see where the chips fall. Maybe his contagion will kill a few here and there, maybe it won't, whatever. Like everything else these days, it's a hit or miss affair. We are truly made in our own God's image.

I, Survivalist

The city is filled with wild animals during Coronavirus curfew. Mostly furry rabbits that our ancestors once fashioned winter hats from, and large, aggressive turkeys of the kind you see eaten in pictures of the first Thanksgiving. No doubt both feel safer simply because it's Spring, never mind the current dearth of predatory humans walking the streets after dark.

There are possibly coyotes around also, but being infamous tricksters they probably disguise themselves as the mailman or the UPS guy. And let's not forget that Sasquatch I saw behind the garbage cans. Although I guess that might be just my neighbor with his shirt off. It has been unseasonably warm the past few days.

It's the squirrels and rats I feel sorry for. Their traditional urban territory has been invaded by strangers from far afield, literally. The country mouse is here to steal the city mouse's discarded Chinese take-out.

In fact, considering how many footloose rabbits and fancy-free turkeys are wandering around, it might soon be safer to sneak out at night hunting food with a shotgun rather than buying it at a deadly virus compromised supermarket. But can I bring my self to skin and pluck my own dinner instead of simply defrosting it from a package? It's what cutting-edge anthropologists call the Hunter-Gatherer versus Shopper-Microwaver conflict.

At any rate, I've been checking the social media profiles of all my neighbors. If the community does descend into roving packs of post-apocalyptic barbarians, I want to be sure I join the strongest pack. I intend to volunteer my services as a looting and pillaging strategic-planner. After all, if I'm honest with myself, cooking rabbit stew and turkey meatloaf from complete carcass scratch isn't my area of expertise, and I certainly wouldn't want to weaken my pack by poisoning all its members with E-coli and botulism, never mind the pervasive COVID-19 concerns.

Meanwhile, I have enough canned vegetables and sardines in olive oil to make it through the next month. Let's hope the world has returned somewhat to normal by then. I really don't want to put my survival skills into practice unless it's absolutely necessary. So stay safe, reader, and keep your Bowie knife sharp.

The New Influencer In Town

I began binge watching The Barefoot Chef's Chinese Kitchen on YouTube. It's streaming video of some American wannabe-gourmet without any shoes on preparing various rice and noodle dishes. He kung-fu kicks the door open at the start of each show. Other than that there doesn't seem to be anything Chinese about this chef at all, nor any reason for him to be barefoot.

I was up to episode three, the one about chow-mein, when the barefoot chef accidentally dropped a cast iron frying pan on his foot. Should have been using a wok, I thought to myself as he hopped and howled around his kitchen, a wok wouldn't hurt as much. Obviously that episode was cut short, but between winces the barefoot chef promised to return next week.

I wondered if he would rename the show after his injury: The Chef With The Crushed Toenail's Chinese Kitchen, perhaps? But he didn't. The format was essentially still the same except there was no kung-fu kicking entrance and zero filming below his waist. However, alert viewers could hear the tell-tale clickety-clack of protective plastic clogs on the kitchen tiles instead of the usual slapping sound of the soles of his feet. And it's continued that way ever since.

So why the show's title retains the barefoot reference is a mystery to me. It's a show about basic Chinese cooking, after all, not a demonstration of treading grapes or artisanal kneading dough with heels and toes. I guess everyone feels they need a gimmick on the web and lack of appropriate footwear was his. I'm curious because I'm considering starting a YouTube food blog of my own. The theme is homemade Foie Gras using the livers of geese that congregate in my backyard this time of year. I've never force fed birds before but I'm willing to learn on camera.

I just need a gimmick. Obviously the barefoot thing has already been done, albeit badly, so how about barefaced? The Barefaced Liar's Foie Gras Farm, and my catchphrase would be 'Gavage in. Gavage out,' since the foie gras process is called 'gavage." I think that's pretty neat and definitely worth a million Internet hits, making me the world's foremost foie gras influencer.

Jonah Works From Home

Despite being a morning person, I'm still irritated by Jeremy's cockcrow chirpiness. 'Let's make today a great day' he says every day; and it usually was until his arrival. 

Like a human-shaped locust swarm, Jeremy's appearance in the office blights everything. The switchboard jams; computers freeze up unexpectedly and the Internet fails; coffee suddenly goes cold, muffins disintegrate into inedible crumbs; and I haven't checked but I'm pretty certain our sales fall as well.

He is our equivalent of Coleridge's ancient mariner. God knows what occupational albatross he killed to bring down such misfortune on the company. Someone from the mailroom? A corporate consultant? The guy who fills the vending machine in the cafeteria?

'Let's make every day a great day.' Jeremy might as well be invoking an ancient curse for all the good this cliche does. It's actually a howl of neurotic paranoia in positive thinking clothes. Obviously Jeremy thinks it will magically come true if he repeats the mantra often enough. But then he immediately breaks the printer. 

Unfortunately our office is open plan, otherwise we could confine Jeremy to his cubicle. For his own protection, of course, before an exasperated colleague walls him up in the conference room or buries him alive beneath the reception desk. 

Recently, of course, we've found ourselves working from home because of Coronavirus. We can't blame Jeremy for a public health crisis, but it can't be coincidence that our virtual meeting software frequently cuts out when he is talking.