Skip to main content

Bloggy Blog #85

Thanks to quarantine, my exceptionally chiseled physique has fallen into such sad atrophy. Unscrewing jars with my left hand has now become a silly, yet challenging task. Twice in the last couple weeks I have managed to sprain A) a knee and B) an ankle while doing things I always do - getting into a car, and walking. Looking forward to falling in the shower. 

And speaking of walking, the only appropriate time I can do it is very early in the morning. Sure, maybe seven or eight in the morning doesn't seem that bad to some, but it is to me. It's too damn early! And there's too many people, with their dogs and cats and chickens or whatever they're walking up and down these streets. So I have been "postponing" the walking, to later, or mostly not at all. My cardiologist (if I had one) would be proud.

My local grocery store has been playing some corny, yet timely, overhead announcement lately. The last line she utters is "we're all in this together." The classic vanilla platitude in such a perilous time to live. As she says this, there's a handful of shoppers around me not wearing masks, and not obeying the one-way arrows in the aisles. Nobody cares in this country anymore. Or should I say, whatever is left of this country, the "United" States. 

And speaking of states, this one in particular is on a straight trajectory into a moldy toilet bowl. Cases are spiking, people are dying, and the governor is nothing but an obdurate schmuck in the matter. Along with good portions of the country, this state is gung-ho at shipping kids right back to school in a couple of weeks. And since we do absolutely nothing after school shootings, expect us to do the same when these buildings turn into prime petri dishes for our new airborne friend. Why do we hate children and teachers (and other school staff as well) so much? Let's ask our Secretary of Education, as soon as she docks one of her yachts for the weekend. 

If I were a good swimmer, I would breaststroke my way over to Europe and try and start the next chapter of my life there. Or maybe Australia. Or maybe go by boat, or flight (if I could afford either), or maybe hope my car could at least make it to Canada's border. Of course, none of us can travel to these countries right now, because we're now the immigrants from the "shithole country." 

So on second thought, maybe we truly are all in this together, since we are now all trapped here. 

Popular posts from this blog

Bloggy Blog #84

The first time I visited, I had to park across the street in the lot of an abandoned gas station. The lot itself went up a slight hill, and the station's sign would occasionally spin some slow turns whenever the town spirits wanted to have some fun.  She lived in a questionably constructed building on the second floor of this sleepy Revolutionary War town, adjacent to a craft store that was hardly ever open. In the basement sat a four-lane bowling alley and a small bar. It was by appointment only, which really meant the building's landlord had to be there to serve drinks and keep an eye on the action. I didn't get a chance to bowl down there, but seeing the construction of the building, this was probably a good thing. When she moved out of her place, part of the process involved placing a three-foot wide plank over the bowling alley basement stairs, in order to move big furniture out. Needless to say she left the heavy lifting to the moving experts.  The new plac...

Bloggy Blog #97

   A few weeks ago, the last of my father's counter top appliances went kaput. It was an unnecessarily large microwave. I used it from time to time to heat up frozen dinners for him, or to reheat my own leftovers. He used it a whole lot more than I ever did, specifically to reheat coffee. He'll brew his little hotel-sized pot of coffee every morning around six-thirty, pour it into a cup, place a lid on it, then let it sit on the kitchen table. About two hours later I'm up and moving around, and that cup is still on the table. He'll reheat it before 9:30, then leave it covered on the table. Sometimes he will reheat it two or three times, thirty seconds to a minute each, in the span of an hour. I don't know what the proper temperature he desires for his coffee, but most of the time, whatever it is, is not it. So he puts a lid on it and just...walks away.  My parents moved into this apartment fifteen years ago. I was living three time zones away at the time, unable to ...

Bloggy Blog #93

  In all fairness, I've just stopped counting the years. I mean, I know how old I am today, sure. I just don't care to tell anyone. And there's nothing wrong with this approach, really. I'm not lying on any application forms, nor any other random documents that ask for my date of birth. Those who need to know, know. And that should be good enough, right? A friend recently asked if I knew what time I was born. For some reason I thought this was listed on birth certificates, but they are not - at least not back then at this particular hospital. I remember my mother saying sometime in the very early hours overnight, to perhaps sometime at dawn. I also remember her saying I was supposed to be born on the 16th. That must have been pretty annoying for her. Imagine hoping to get some rest overnight and then BOOM, it's time. Guess I needed an extra day's nap in there? Who knows. I do share a birthday with a handful of celebrities and great people. Michelle Obama, Jim Ca...