KILLING TIME PART II Then there’s the business of wearing a mask. A friend of mine e-mailed me, “Just what is it about wearing a mask and going into a bank and asking for money that makes me slightly nervous?” Have you also noticed that the word “Gesundheit” has disappeared? (What’s German for “get the f*** away from me”?) The “social hug” from near- strangers has vanished as well. I’d like to give the coronavirus a personal thanks for that. Even at an ATM, I worry that I’m going to get a handful of twenties with a dye packet in them. My wife ordered some masks online that she thought were cute. They’re made out of the same blue paisley material as biker bandanas. When I wear one, I look like a combination of Nurse Ratched in the movie One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and a retired member of a motorcycle gang living off my Hells Angels 401k. But it’s nice to be able to go to the grocery store again. (Here’s an idea for social distancing in public places – get yourself two pole-vaulting poles and slip them though your belt loops fore and aft. Although this did cause a mess when I got stuck in the condiments aisle.) Have you noticed that all the food fads have gone away? So long to organic, locavore, non- GMO, and gluten free. Now it’s all about the Wonder Bread, Miracle Whip, Ore-Ida tater
tots, and Bubba Burgers. And it’s not hard to understand why. Who ever had a desperate craving for quinoa? Have you also noticed that the word “Gesundheit” has disappeared? (What’s German for “get the f*** away from me”?) The “social hug” from near-strangers has vanished as well. I’d like to give the coronavirus a personal thanks for that. And sporting events have lost the single most annoying and idiotic aspect of professional athletics – the fans. They were worse than the television commercial breaks occurring at every penalty call. I might want to purchase a pickup truck. I do not want to purchase a couple of loud drunk guys holding up a big “D” and a silhouette of a picket fence. Of course, that means I can’t go to sporting events either. Although, under New Hampshire’s limited reopening rules, I can play golf. I’m just not allowed to play it with anybody. Which is fine. It means I don’t get ridiculed for my dribble-past-the-ladies-tee drives, basement excavation sand-trap swings, and chip shots that wind up in the clubhouse rain gutter. Speaking of the clubhouse, it’s closed and so is its bar... and why play a game of golf if you can’t drink to forget? So I still have a lot of time on my hands. One thing I’ve been doing is reading books, in particular books about people who had it worse than we’re having it... (spoiler alert!) Edgar Allan Poe’s The Masque of the Red Death – Everybody dies at the end. Nevil Shute’s On the Beach – Everybody dies at the end.
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June 2020
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