New Year’s Dissolutions

On this last day of the year 2020 I am smiling. I’m just so damned happy, for so many reasons. And as I begin my meandering preparations to return to my slightly disheveled home, a job I love and those pesky boys of mine, my mind boggles as it always does at the magic of travel. And I am left in wonderment once again at the fact that the Universe, even when we try our best to fuck things up, protects us.

I’ve always felt rather arrogantly that the Universe favors me, and today, on December 31st, 2020, I woke up convinced of it. Because this past week, while I haphazardly and deliberately stoked a strange and sketchy situation, the Universe sent me red flags. There were red flags to the left. Red flags to the right. Red flags in front, in back, on all sides of me.

My friends were worried about it, and tried to warn me.

“I don’t know, Mary,” my friend said to me at lunch yesterday, shaking her head. “I don’t like it. Something seems off.”

“Text me first thing in the morning,” another friend texted me, “so I know you’re not dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“And you’re going through with this?” a third friend said, when I showed her the texts. “Are you crazy? Don’t do this.”

The Universe told me point blank I was fucking up. “Mary!!” it said, waving its damn red flags furiously, “that’s the wrong way! What the fuck are you doing, are you crazy? Have you forgotten who you are?”

Yes, I did. I did forget who I was, briefly. But all good writers take risks to acquire content, whether they be emotional or physical risks. And I am happy to report to my readers and my friends that I have emerged from the dark shadows unscathed and with a great freaking story. A story so good that once written, it will be stored in a special file in my computer, only to be unveiled when the time is right.

Life is simply perfect in its absurdity.

I will observe this for now, like a piece of fine art. It is still too fresh, and laugher is brimming too easily to the surface. Writing while laughing or crying is never a good idea- it means it is still too close to your heart. You must hold it away from you for a time, and simply consider it, the way Van Gogh considered his chair.  

Ah, life. Its great and constant bounties never fail to delight.

And neither does travel. It has once again managed to do that thing it does for me. You know, the filling the empty throbbing place in my heart thing?

I’m going to miss it here. I’m going to miss this magical place where seventy years ago my mother the waitress and my father the bartender met, wooed and pledged their troths. I’ll miss the snow, the views, the stores and the wonderful people I have met. I never got my horse-drawn sleigh ride, but I took some great hikes in the snow, and today I’m sneaking in some ice-skating with a friend before I get on the road, and hopefully a couple of hours of skiing on the over-booked mountain. I promised a new friend that I will be returning soon, hopefully for a weekend in January, to do everything I wasn’t able to do during my short stay.

So I will return home not with New Year’s resolutions, but with New Years’ dissolutions. Stopping the squandering of money and energy and resources, and channeling my energy into my current lifeforce.

Just silly stuff, like not buying any more coffee mugs. Using all of my current makeup. Taking books out of the library instead of buying them. Relaxing more in the physical spaces in my house- I have all of these beautiful chairs, and I never sit in them. Getting better at my relationships, my job, and my golf game.

Never forgetting that while the world is filled with wonderful people, it also has its share of shady phantoms. Never forgetting, not for a second, that I am my father’s daughter. Never forgetting that I am a mother to sons. Never forgetting that those red flags are being waved in front of my face to keep me on course. Never forgetting that even when I wander off the trail, to remember that the path to enlightenment is a different path for everyone.

Get Out Innit

Remember the snowstorm that hit before Christmas but South Jersey was pounded by a Nor’easter?

Yeah, that one.

Well, some barrier islands flooded, as they tend to do. Now in the good ol’ days, when the flood waters make it dangerous for buses and cars and bikes and walkers to navigate the islands, schools call a flood day or a late opening, enabling teachers and students to get to school safely and dryly. My boys loved when flood days were called. Sometimes they’d sleep in, sometimes they’d go out to breakfast with friends. Maybe they would put their homework on the backburner for a day, and enjoy their 24-hour reprieve from academic structure.

But this is 2020, baby.

Because Zoom education makes it possible for students to log into their classes no matter what the weather. No flood day needed. The word is that even up north where they got a blizzard, some schools required students to log into Zoom despite the weather.

Bravo! What a fantastic advancement for American education.

Time for kids to stop acting like kids, I say. I mean, what kid needs days at the sledding hill, or impromptu trips to the local ski mountain or empty meandering days spent grabbing pizza with friends, going to the playground or riding bicycles around aimlessly for no apparent reason? Who needs kids like that? Kids who climb trees, make snowmen, have flooded gutter wars or grab their boogie boards to skim the surface of the flood waters? Who needs aimless, directionless, non-goal-oriented kids like that?

Not us. Kids need direction. Kids need structure. Kids need constant vigilance. This loosey-goosey approach to raising our children needs to stop. And Zoom has figured out a way to stop it.

So I say, hurray for educational technology! Now not only can the kids be denied their friends, their teachers, their activities, their classes, their sports, their clubs, and their socialization, now we can deny them the simple sweetness of an unplanned and spontaneous day off from school! Now everything can be regimented and structured, and we no longer have to leave anything to chance!

What a relief. Now there will be no more missed assignments or late essays or late-night cramming. Because now, no matter where the kids are, whether it’s a family Disney vacation, or baseball camp, or simply a day spent playing hooky at the beach, now there is no longer any excuse for that child to not be able to access his or her education 24 hours a day, 365 days a year.

Yippee!

I was driving to an old historical farm yesterday morning, and the only radio station I could access was some backcountry talk show on which the female hosts were discussing the joys of staying in bed all day. Staying in bed. All day.

What is this strange new preoccupation with American sloth? This new push to keep our young people bubble-wrapped in their homes and scrolling Instagram? And none of that “but we’re in a pandemic” stuff, please.

We have clothing brands exhorting young girls to spurn outside activity. “Namaste in bed!” their sweatshirts read.

We have music that sings the praises of inactivity. Avicci doesn’t want to be woken up until it’s all over. Bruno Mars doesn’t want to do anything but lay in his bed. Chris Brown wants to lay in bed and ignore the light in the window (this is a little riff-off from Romeo and Juliet, by the way).

Our young people are besieged by this message on social media. Celebrities brag about their day-long and week-long binge-watching sessions of Netflix. LinkedIn posts articles about the delightful benefits of reporting to work in pajamas. Influencers comically bemoan their binge-eating and day-drinking, and brag about the massive amounts of money they spend on food delivery services like Grubhub and Doordash and Uber Eats.

“NOW YOU DON’T EVEN NEED TO LEAVE YOUR HOUSE!”

our kids are told.

Really? Ever seen the movie “Wall-E?” How far are humans from descending into helpless corpulence and laziness brought on by rampant consumerism? Is Amazon comparable to Buy-N-Large? The current generation is going to have to fight back hard against these big corporations trying to brainwash them into thinking that the world can be conquered inside their own four walls while staring at a screen and wearing their pajamas. And maybe it can be.

But at what price?

Most families will be able to rise above it. Most families I know have their priorities straight, and understand that the values being taught by these media conglomerates are toxic. But those unfortunate families on the fringe, families whose worlds have little to offer outside their four walls, must submit to the skewed social media message of “Alone Together.”

What a load of dog doo-doo. How about “Atrophied Together?” “Unsocialized Together?” “Unemployed Together?”

The continental divide between these two classes of children will be starkly evident by the time they are applying to college and ultimately seeking careers. I’ll get to more on this another time.

There are no easy solutions. Jaron Lanier states that social media and technology have often been compared to the addiction of smoking. But he disagrees. He thinks it is more like the discovery of lead-based paint.

“When it became undeniable that lead was harmful,” he said, “no one declared that houses should never be painted again…smart people simply waited to buy paint until there was a safe version on sale.” Simply put, this electronic-addiction is toxic, and there are safer ways. But Lanier thinks time is running out to find an equitable substitute.

Let’s start small. Keep those snow days intact. Let those kids run around and be kids. Instead of getting dopamine hits off of social media, let them get it through snowball fights, igloos, sledding, frozen digits, hot chocolate, and snowmen.

“But all they’re going to do on a snow day is sit on video games, anyway,” you may argue.

Perhaps that’s true. But it’s important to note that you are the parent, and you can deny them access to video games if you so choose. And I’m no hypocrite- my sons loved playing video game on a precious snow day. But not all day. And not anymore. Because the older they get, the more they realize that snow is too precious to be wasted sitting indoors. They figured out that while their computers and phones will always be there, the snow won’t. The snow is there to be enjoyed, raced down, and flopped into.

So screw Zoom. Grab your kid, tell his teachers you have something more productive to do with him, and drive north until you find the snow. Education will still be there waiting for him when he gets back.

But his childhood won’t be.

Beauty in the Ugly

(My site crashed this morning. Thanks for checking back).

I died for beauty, but was scarce
Adjusted in the tomb,
When one who died for truth was lain
In an adjoining room.

He questioned softly why I failed?
“For beauty,” I replied.
“And I for truth – the two are one;
We brethren are,” he said.

And so, as kinsmen met a-night,
We talked between the rooms,
Until the moss had reached our lips,
And covered up our names.
Emily Dickinson


You gotta hand it to Emily Dick. She managed to write some of the most famous American poetry dealing with themes of love and sex and passion and eroticism without having once experienced love or sex or passion or eroticism. She sat virginally in that little chair overlooking her garden and just bust-a-rhymed. I think she is overrated, but I’ll tell you one thing: she was talented enough to be able to summon the words necessary to move her readers without even knowing what the words actually meant.

I, on the other hand, cannot.

My words flow from personal experience and perspective. If I am to write about the mountains, you’d better believe I’m standing in them or staring straight at them, like I am right now. I am sitting on my balcony, and as the snow falls gently and covers the white-capped ski mountain that sits majestically before me, I could easily dash off some quick accolades of the glory of winter beauty. Words to describe the smell of the firepit below me, the snowflakes on my eyelashes, the distant clomp-clomp-clomp of ski boots, and the laughter of children.

Without these sensory images, I am an empty vessel.

The point of this post is not Emily Dickinson. The point is personal perspective. Last night I deliberately stayed in an ugly airport hotel before making my way to this mountain town. I wanted to get some work done, maybe immerse myself in the city, a city that shall remain nameless due to the fact that I have some fine friends who consider that city home, despite its ugliness. However, I never felt so empty, vulnerable and uninspired to write than I felt last night.  I felt a gaping loneliness I had never experienced before. I knew I had made a mistake going there. Because the city I had pictured was not the city I saw.

The city was in full lockdown. If you’ve heard this phrase and have never personally seen it, it would disturb you. Bums on corners in the middle of the day drinking from bottles wrapped in brown paper bags. Shuttered restaurants. Defunct businesses. Deserted capital buildings. Trash in the streets, in the gutters, spewing out of sidewalk trash cans. No business men walking to and from their offices. No moms pushing babies in strollers. No runners getting their daily morning run. No one walking around with coffee cups, or standing in line for donuts. No cabs, no buses, no cars. No noise, no jubilation, no sirens. Just…nothing. An absence. Zombieland. Post-apocalyptic America.

I have visited, walked in and enjoyed most large American cities: Seattle, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles, New York, Philadelphia. I have always loved the energy and vibe of cities, and my work even takes me on occasion into the roughest parts of Atlantic City. But I have never EVER been afraid of a city the way I was yesterday. I was afraid of getting out of my car. I was afraid of stopping at red lights. On a fruitless 15-minute ride through the city in search of coffee and food, my car was the only one on the road. I felt true fear, and hated the city for its ugliness.

Then I felt shame. Because as a writer, if I cannot find the beauty in the ugly, I am lost. The greatest of literature contains the vast themes of rejection and pain and greed and betrayal. If the world was all about bunnies, sunshine and rainbows, we’d all still be reading Dick and Jane, and watching “Sesame Street.” But life is not always fair, or pretty, or sensible. Life can be one smelly-bitch when she wants to be. I’ve seen that up close, trust me. But the degradation of this city hit me deep in a place I didn’t know existed.

I am here in this upscale mountain town, a day early. I was not supposed to arrive until tomorrow, when I am meeting an assortment of friends. But I felt an urge bordering on hysteria to flee from that gloomy empty hotel, that defunct vapid city, to the tune of an astronomically expensive extra night here at the resort. Because here is life. Here is what I understand. Here are families, and shopping, and Golden Retrievers, and craft beer. Here my senses heighten, and I feel the words form around the experiences.

And while some things here are closed too, it is different. Here there is a sense of hope, rather than desperation. Optimism and opened hearts, instead of shuttered ones. And as I write these words to you, my music playing softly and my balcony door flung wide open to the falling snow, I remember that just twelve hours ago, I was lying in a cold bed in that lonely hotel, waiting for the sun to rise, and not really believing it would.

But the sun did rise there. As it does everywhere. Some say it rises more beautifully in some places than others, but again, isn’t that perspective? Is the glory of a sunrise any less majestic over towering cement project apartment buildings than it is over a fancy ski resort? Maybe there was beauty in that empty shattered city, beauty that I couldn’t see.

But this morning, I said a prayer of thanks that I could leave it. Because others can’t. The ugliness is part of their day-to-day lives, and they must work harder to find the beauty in the pavement, in the bottle, and in the desperation.

One day great art will result from the desperation and pain and loneliness of 2020. Great artists right now are recording the ugliness and the beauty of our time, and the death and the desperation and the despondence will be recorded through music and painting and dance and literature and sculpture. For only through the ugly can we reach the beauty.

And so it goes.

Gottathanka Wawa

(This is a travel and content week, folks, so posts will be short and pithy. I’ll have some good stuff for you in 2021, and a website re-design is on the way.)

I knew my plan had failed.

I was driving my son and his friends home from the airport, and my mission had been to return the rental car with a bone-dry tank. But when I felt that tell-tale empty thunk of the gas tank, I knew Robert Burns was right- the best laid plans of mice and men are bound to fuck up. I knew the kids were anxious to get home after a two month stay in Hawaii, but I didn’t want to run out of gas on the Atlantic City Expressway. I broke it to them.

“I have to stop at this Wawa really quick, I’m sorry. Get anything you want, my treat.”

The truck got very quiet, so I thought they were disgruntled. But when I looked at them in the rearview mirrors, all I saw were beatific smiles. A Wawa run meant they were really home. They came out of Wawa slurping hot chocolate and coffee, happy as pigs-in-shit.

Maybe you have Sheetz. Perhaps QuikTrip? I’ve been to both of those, and neither rival Wawa. Not for food, not for coffee, not for customer service.

I don’t think I have ever stopped at a Wawa and not been received kindly and warmly. Wawa employees treat you like you’re the most important part of their day. I have logged the hours, and I figured I would eventually witness a slip up. I mean, sooner or later some Wawa employee somewhere in the Northeast would eventually act rudely or impatiently, right?

Never. Not once. Not in my experience.

My favorite day was when I pulled in to get gas, and the gas attendant smiled broadly at me through my window and said, “Welcome, thanks for coming in, we’re glad you’re here.”

I mean, who says that?

That guy is local, and still pumping gas at my Wawa (everyone has a Wawa they call “my Wawa.”) One day I pulled in to get gas, and I was with a friend visiting from out-of-state. As I placed my gas order and the attendant took my credit card, my friend turned to me incredulously.

“You don’t have to pump gas in New Jersey?”

The Wawa attendant returned my credit card, looked my friend straight in the eye and said, “Our Jersey girls don’t pump their own gas. They’re all princesses. You from outta town?”

Boom roasted.

So thank you Wawa. Thank you for always being open and warm and inviting. Thank you for feeding our kids in the middle of the night, and for being a place they can go to safely. Thank you for your great coffee, your macaroni-and-cheese, your wraps, your milkshakes, and your warm coffees. For your lottery tickets, and your no-fee ATMs, and your bags of ice. Thank you even for those nasty hot dogs that roll around in that cranker all day. Thank you for being our jewel. We love you.

So you go right ahead and laud the praises of doctors and nurses in 2020. I shun the obvious, so allow me to shine a spotlight on some other of my personal unsung heroes.

My massage therapist: For rubbing with love, using scented oil on my feet, and always looking away in the hallway when bumping into me after my massage. Everyone looks rough after a massage, so awkward eye contact in the hallway after sharing such intimacy is taboo. There you are with glazed eyes and your muscular skeleton gooshy like a scoop of flan, and all of a sudden you’re being issued directions on how to get to the cashier. No words should be spoken after a massage. You should be taken to a decompression chamber, where you can slowly regain consciousness and prepare yourself once again for the outside world. It’s like having gorgeous sex in a candlelit bedroom, then entering a garishly-lit bathroom for a post-coital pee. And then the guy walks in. Look away, gents.

My airport transportation guy: For not talking to me once on the ride to the airport. That’s a first for me.

That Guy Waiting Behind Me to Use My Airport Kiosk: For saying, “I wouldn’t do that” when I paused and hovered my finger over the Priority Seating button. When I turned to face him, he was already shaking his head, and reminded me that spending $34 to board an airplane 30 seconds early was a rip-off. Although he most certainly violated my personal space, he was also right. Thanks, guy.

Captain Doogie Howser: For getting me safely to my destination, despite looking as if his mother picked his pilot costume out of a sale rack at Spirit of Halloween.

Tomorrow: The hidden benefits of locked-down cities

Expand Your Joy

Merry Christmas Eve!

While Fourth of July is one of my least favorite holidays, Christmas Eve is one of my favorites. Trying to explain the wonders of Christmas Eve is like trying to explain a magic trick.

It just takes all of the magic out of it.

Christmas Eve is like…fairy dust shimmering in the glow of the autumn moon. Glitter confetti falling in a dimly-lit white-silk tent. Bright stars, brilliant against a cold winter sky. Diamond dust tossed by a jewel-encrusted glove. Bejewelled grains of sand glimmering on a bright summer beach…

Bad similes all. And I even stole the last one.

After Christmas festivities have ended, I will be headed north to spend time with friends in New England. For the first time in 22 years, I have the freedom to go where I please for the holidays. No more long sweltering days spent in hot gymnasiums at high school wrestling tournaments. No more school schedules. And while I loved them, it is time to bid goodbye to those days. For now, simplicity reigns. I am looking forward to seeing my friends. Below 0° temperatures. Walks in the snow, skiing, hiking. The fires, the brandy, the laughter. There is even talk of horse-drawn sleighs.

So no matter what you are doing this week, I hope that you do it safely and joyfully with people you love. *Expand your joy so deep that it doesn’t matter what others do or don’t do. You still have waters of bliss to bathe in at any given moment.

(*Those last two sentences can be attributed to Victoria Erickson).

So why not expand your joy? Considering this past year, I think we all deserve it. Ask yourself, what can you do to expand your joy this coming week? Visiting someone you love? Chasing the snow? Getting outside to breathe cold air (me!) or to sunbathe in the tropics? Hunkering down? Calling out of work?  

Whatever it is, I have a suggestion for everyone: as we approach 2021, let’s not make any New Year’s resolutions. Can we all just cut ourselves a break this year? Let’s just take 2021 for what it will be:

Not 2020.

I’ll be blogging remotely next week. I have a blog on fear ready, plus a new Gab Sesh with an author. The expansion of joy deserves a little more space, and I’m sure I’ll be writing about my time with friends, because when I’m away, new material presents itself on a silver platter. Those are the wonders of travel. A new perspective around every corner.

Merry Christmas, and I’ll catch your act Monday.

Warm and Fuzzy

Christmas Eve. Phone call between the heads of marketing of Apple and Samsung.

John Lavoie: Phil, we have a problem.

Philip Schiller: Jeez, John, it’s Christmas Eve, don’t you have a life?

JL: Not really.

PS: You should get one, they’re nice. I’ll give you five minutes. What problem?

JL: We’re not warm and fuzzy.

PS: Excuse me?

JL: You and I. Apple and Samsung. We’re not warm and fuzzy.

PS: Warm and fuzzy? What the hell does that mean?

JL: Just how it sounds. It’s Christmas. People are tired and depressed. Some can’t see their families for the holidays, they can’t travel. A lot of people are still laid off. Market research right now is showing that the top gifts for this year are not smartphones or laptops, but warm and fuzzy stuff. Warm fuzzy socks. Hoodies. Pajamas. Cozy throws. Cashmere sweaters, thick beanie hats, Golden Retriever puppies.

PS: Of course we’re not warm and fuzzy. You and I specialize in cool and sharp. What’s your point?

JL: We’re missing out on a large part of the demographic.

PS: Let me guess. The warm and fuzzy demographic.

JL: Exactly.

PS: Let’s assume your diagnostics are correct. What are we supposed to do about it now? It’s Christmas Eve.

JL: I’m talking about fixing this problem by Christmas 2021. Hasn’t it occurred to anyone at Apple that we are missing out on the consumers who want to unwrap products on Christmas Day that will make them feel cozy?

PS: Stop saying “fuzzy” and “cozy,” you’re freaking me out. Our products aren’t what people wrap around themselves. Our products are what people reach for once they are already wrapped up.

JL: Point taken. But what if we could be both?

PS: What exactly are you suggesting?

JL: I’m suggesting we create a line of fluffy smart phones.

PS: You’re kidding.

JL: Totally serious. Think about the possibilities. Fluffy pink for the girls, maybe some camo for the boys. People could change themes with the Fluf app. Fluffy hearts on Valentine’s Day, green shamrocks on St. Patrick’s Day. Easter bunny fluff, red-white-and-blue fluff, Thanksgiving Day turkey fluff.

PS:  Are you talking about fluffy phone covers? Because unless you’ve been asleep, that’s been done already.

JL: Not covers. The actual phone. The phone is fluffy, like a fluffy pillow.

PS: This is moronic. How are consumers supposed to touch the apps with a fluffy phone?

JL: I haven’t quite figured that out yet. But I’m thinking some kind of technology where the fluff is fluffy but malleable. Sturdy to the touch. So the consumer gets the warm fluffy product he wants, but can manipulate it like an actual electronic device.

PS: And how is this fluff supposed to stay clean? What if it gets wet, or dropped in the dirt?

JL: We’ve already figured that one out. Space-age technology will enable the fluff to repel dirt and water and grime. The fluff can’t get dirty.

PS: Moron, what about summer? Who wants to hold a fluffy iPhone when it is 90 degrees outside?

JL: That’s the beauty of it. They can default to their original phone through the Fluf app.

PS: I don’t know. Those are some broad strokes, and I’d be interested in seeing the fine print. But honestly, I don’t see consumers going for it.

JL: Oh yeah? What did you get for your wife for Christmas?

PS: Ummmm…

JL: C’mon, what did you get her?

PS: Thick fluffy Chinese-goat cashmere car seats for her Rolls-Royce Cullinan.

JL: Felt good to say “fluffy” didn’t it?

PS: Actually, yes.

JL: You have two sons, what did you get for them?

PS: Bentley Bentayga Speeds. And a golf course.

JL: How about the rest of the women in your family? Mom? Sisters? Nieces?

PS: They all wanted fluffy Afghan and Pharaoh hounds plus a dog sitter so they don’t have to walk or feed them themselves. Fine, you proved your point. Fluff is huge. And while I see your point, this is quite an undertaking. I don’t see this Fluf app being ready for Christmas of 2021.

JL: It’ll be ready. Some of us work through the holidays.

PS: Fuck you.

JL: Thank you. You should see what we have coming next. A Golden Retriever puppy app. It looks like a Golden Retriever puppy. It feels like a Golden Retriever puppy.

PS: (Getting tired). Why not just buy a Golden Retriever puppy?

JL: (Thinks). Well, that’s silly. Why go to all of that trouble?

Confederacy of Dunces Pt. 2

 

So on the same Inquirer page as the poetically-semantic AS TOLL CLIMBS, BAN DEFIED headline is an article written by Marie McCullough entitled, “The risk from indoor gatherings is worse than experts once thought.”

The vagueness of the headline irked me. “Once thought?” Once thought when? The day before yesterday? Last week? At Thanksgiving? During the Black Plague?

My second thought was “What experts?” All I saw was some yada yada yada about Korea.

Further into the piece, the proffered phrase “insidious infectiousness” struck me like an anvil in the ear. Whimsical alliteration and consonance aside, the word “insidious” means “treacherous,” or “harboring hidden dangers.”

(Author Note: As noted yesterday, even one person lost to any virus or disease is one too many. I too have a 92-year old father with compromised health, so don’t get your panties in a wad. Allow me to play devil’s advocate):

How is the ‘Rona treacherous with a 99% survival rate? Is a 99 on a test an “insidious” grade? If 99 people out of 100 take a bike ride safely while one dies falling off due to a pre-existing condition, can we consider bike riding an insidious activity? I posit that when McCullough wields a word like “insidious,” one that packs an emotional punch, that she has relinquished her objective journalistic integrity, and has become simply a fiction-writing hack. Spare us the pathos, and get back to us when you pass Journalism 101.

(I guess this is why I have never blogged on this subject. I’m definitely getting coal in my stocking).

The study from the Journal of Korean Medical Science cited in McCullough’s article describes the case of a high school student who supposedly became infected with the virus after being exposed in only five minutes to an asymptomatic contagious person sitting twenty-feet away from her in an air-conditioned restaurant.

I was immediately suspicious of both the conditions and the results. How was this proven? It sounded groundless and ambiguous, and I wasn’t even aware that Korea was so scientifically-minded. Last I heard from Korea they were trying to fix the problem of mitigated speech in their airplane cockpits. Korean pilots kept crashing airplanes into large mountains because they could not communicate effectively with air-traffic controllers. Crashing is not good for business. Feeling uninformed and naïve about Korean medical achievements, I researched the following:

  • Most scientifically-accomplished countries
  • Most medically-advanced countries
  • Wealthiest countries
  • Most intelligent countries
  • Most Nobel Prizes
  • Wealthiest according to GDP
  • Best countries for education
  • Best countries for happiness

Neither North nor South Korea broke the top ten in any category. I googled “Korea’s greatest achievements are in…” and up popped “music.” I searched “Korea is known for…” and I got “plane crashes.” I typed in “Korea’s science…” and the word “fiction” finished off my search.

Apt.

So I figure if the Philadelphia Inquirer can publish dubious Korean medical studies, then I can share my personal insights gleaned from nine months of travel through different parts of the country. The following are Oveservations from entertainment, educational, and social COVID guidelines and are in no particular geographical or chronological order. Simply said, they make no sense.

And that, my friends, is the point.

(I’d like to participate in an American study just like the Korean one. Plunk me down maskless in an air-conditioned restaurant twenty-feet away from an unmasked contagious person, and let’s see if I’m infected five minutes later. So ‘Rona is airborne? Let’s settle this shit once and for all. The gauntlet is thrown).

Oveservations on COVID Guidelines:

  • You can go out to dinner in New Jersey, but not in Pennsylvania.
  • You can sit unmasked at an outside restaurant, but you must wear a mask while walking down the street.
  • You can’t sit at a restaurant bar, but you can sit at a restaurant table.
  • You can sit at a table without a mask, but you must wear a mask walking to the table.
  • You can have a drink in New Jersey at 9:55 p.m., but not at 10:02.
  • You must stand six-feet apart while waiting in line for coffee, but you can stand in a group when adding cream and sugar.
  • You must wear a mask when ordering a sandwich, but you can take the mask off when eating the sandwich at a table that is only two feet away from the place you originally ordered it from.
  • You can shop in the mall stores, but you can’t eat in the mall restaurants.
  • You can’t sit on the benches inside the mall, but you can sit on the stools to get free makeup applications or to ask for directions at the information desk.
  • You can’t sit and get lunch at the mall bistro, but you can stand there and order takeout.
  • You must wear a mask while sitting in first-class, but you may take it off when you eat or drink.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you can’t attend a small family holiday gathering.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you can’t attend church.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you can’t gather with your immediate family to baptize your baby.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you can’t have a wedding ceremony.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you cannot attend a play, an opera, or a ballet.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but not at your local Mom and Pop store where they allow only a half-dozen people inside at a time, and where they sanitize every five minutes.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you cannot get your driver’s license renewed.
  • You can shop at Walmart with 200 strangers, but you cannot attend your child’s band concert or wrestling match. Because sports and clubs are banned anyway. But Walmart is not. Banned, that is.
  • You cannot conduct face-to-face business in your local bank, but you can cram yourself into the Apple store with the other livestock. Mmmmooooo……
  • College students must live in dorm rooms by themselves, but they can attend classes in groups.
  • Students cannot gather together in classrooms but they can gather while waiting in line at Panera Bread.
  • Students cannot be on campuses at all. But they can go to Walmart.
  • Students cannot play organized sports, but they can play these same sports with their neighborhood friends.
  • Children can’t sit on Santa’s lap, but they can sit in drafty germ-ridden doctor’s offices.
  • Children can’t play at playgrounds, but they can play in their friend’s yards.
  • You cannot attend a close friend’s father’s small funeral service, but you can shop for trail mix and fuzzy socks at Target.
  • You cannot escort your elderly father into the lab for his bloodwork, but you can purchase cupcakes at the crowded bakery.
  • Your spouse cannot go with you into pre-op, but he can buy you White Claws at the liquor store for post-surgery sousing. Cigars too. Nothing like a good stogie after laparoscopic surgery.
  • You can wait in the spa lounge on hardback chairs, but not on soft.
  • You can get a massage and a facial, but your son can’t play high school basketball.
  • You can get a massage and a facial, but you cannot attend fitness classes.
  • You can get a massage and a facial, but you can’t hand the cashier your credit card.
  • You can get a massage and a facial, but you can’t place your technician’s gratuity into an envelope and drop it into her mail slot. But you can drop the cash in.
  • You cannot get a haircut from the barber ten minutes from your house, but you can get a haircut from the barber twenty minutes from your house.
  • We must do what our governors say. But they can do whatever they want.

People locked down. Cases “rose.” People wore masks. Cases “rose.” People social distanced. Cases “rose.” People stopped traveling. Cases “rose.” People had their temperatures taken everywhere they went. Cases “rose.” People quarantined when arriving in other states. Cases “rose.” People tested negative. Cases “rose.” People stopped getting elective surgeries. Cases “rose.” People stopped going out to dinner and to the gym and to school. Cases “rose.”

Now a vaccination is here. Governor Murphy says it is possible that we will be back to semi-normalcy by summer of 2021. But the wise and powerful Bill Gates sees our current way of life possibly continuing until 2022.

Pay no attention to the men behind the curtain. Oh, and by the way, Walmart sucks. Shop Local.

Confederacy of Dunces Pt 1

Picaresque: (noun)- fiction dealing with the adventures of a rough dishonest but broadly-appealing character.

“I’m surprised you haven’t blogged about it.”

On Thursday I had run into an acquaintance at a coffeehouse, and as we stood in line next to the periodical stand we browsed the headlines. The article facing us on the front page of Thursday’s Philadelphia Inquirer was in a bold-faced 78-font proclaiming, “AS TOLL CLIMBS, BAN DEFIED.”

How clever, I thought wryly. A double anapest with end rhyme.

This headline referred of course to the at least 150 foundering restaurants in Pennsylvania defying the state ban on indoor dining. “The restaurant owners could face fines or temporary closures for flouting the new restrictions,” the article stated.

He was right. I should blog about it. Because when it comes to social distancing, masks, Zoom education, lockdowns, the eradication of high school sports, the closing of college campuses, the disintegration of family holidays and the ruining of people’s livelihoods, oh boy, do I have strong opinions.

I’ve taken notes on it. Written about it. Debated with friends and colleagues about it. Stayed up at night running the arguments through my mind. But no matter how hard I try, I simply cannot comprehend what is happening in this country. There seems to be no logic to it. The state and national decisions that are being made seem arbitrary and capricious, and not actually based on science or reason. But I’m not sure. I mean, I’m not a doctor, so in the immortal words of Miley Cyrus, WTF Do I Know.

But I do know that I’m worried.

I’m worried about restaurant and gym owners who have sunk every dime they have into their businesses. That they can’t pay their mortgages, feed their children, save for college educations. They have to nip away at their savings, clear out their nest eggs, all for…what? For that rogueish imp ‘Rona, with her *98% survival rate?

I worry that our beautiful cities, run by immoral goons, are on the verge of ruin. That theater, dining and culture will never recover.

I worry about the children who live in low-income, abusive or addiction-riddled homes for whom school and coaches and teachers and sports and activities is their only refuge from neglect and abuse. Only teachers see firsthand the full-impact that a warm classroom, a beloved teacher, a hot meal and a friendly smile has on these disenfranchised kids. For them, school is all the structure they have.

I’m worried about the future of education, and that this generation of students will never recover from such a serious lapse in face-to-face consistent instruction. The sociological, psychological, and educational impact will not be seen for decades. By then I’ll be an old lady, but just remember you heard it here first.

But there are two bright spots.

One is that fireworks are on sale everywhere. I guess firework companies are capitalizing on the fearful consumer. I mean, in the scheme of things, is anyone really worried about little Johnny losing a finger while lighting a cherry bomb in the front yard when a “deadly” virus with a 98% survival rate is sweeping through the country? The debate of bottled water vs. tap has also taken a backseat to Fear of the ‘Rona, as well as grim warnings about swimming in brackish water and walking on thin ice. And to my knowledge no oil tankers have spilled oil into our oceans recently, which will make for a very happy Lil’ Miss Thunberg and some super safe fishies.

Simpler times. But I digress.

The second bright spot is that I am currently not a journalistic prostitute on the payroll of any newspaper masthead with the power to coerce me to write crappy shitty poopy excrement-filled biased headlines like, “As Tolls Climb, Ban Defied.” I’m not under any contractual obligation to publicly vilify struggling business owners who are simply trying to pay their bills and their employees.

(How long have I been asleep? What has happened? How have business owners who simply want to meet their payroll become the bad guys?)

I’d like to offer some alternatives to that underwear-stain of a headline that paint these restaurant owners for what they truly are- struggling heroes:

“Despite Threats of $300 Fines, Steadfast Restaurant Owners Band Together”

“Struggling Pennsylvania Restaurant Owners Stay Open to Avoid Laying Off Loyal Employees Before Christmas”

“Trade Group Says Restaurant Industry on the Brink of Disaster, and ‘Just Trying to Survive’”

“Pennsylvania Department of Agriculture Threatens Unannounced Visits to Noncompliant Restaurants. Owners Welcome the PDA to Kiss Their Asses and Shove It Where the Sun Don’t Shine”

I like to think that if I were a Pennsylvania restaurant owner, that I’d be non-compliant too. If the Pennsylvania governor and the Department of Agriculture threatened me, I would keep opening and keep paying fines until I was broke. Then I’d keep opening some more. And as I was being dragged away in handcuffs, I’d smile as the Philadelphia Inquirer staff photographer snapped my picture (unless of course I was tazed, which in that case I would not be conscious). I’d smile, knowing that one day I could show that picture to my grandchildren and tell them that against all odds, I had stood up for what I believed in.

Flashforward:

Grandchild is visiting, and sitting at my kitchen counter looking through an old photo album. “Look at this one, Grandmom.  Who are those policemen? And why are you sticking your tongue out at the camera?”

Using spatula to pry warm chocolate chip cookies off the cookie tray. “Well, it seemed like the right thing to do at the time, honey.”

Grandchild looks up. “But why are you holding up your middle finger?”

“Same reason. Here, have some cookies.”

*Of course even one mortality is one too many. It’s silly of you to think that I am implying otherwise; also, while I was asleep, the survival rate has changed from 99% to 98%. It’s a lot of Fauci-speak, but here’s the link if you want to read it:

https://www.usatoday.com/story/news/factcheck/2020/05/05/covid-19-fact-check-coronavirus-mortality-rate-misleading/3019503001/

(Tomorrow: Confederacy of Dunces Part 2: Oveservations. If what we’ve been asked to do for nine months hasn’t worked, why do we have to keep doing it? Ever hear of the definition of insanity?)

mrrrrrawr

Top things missed in 2020 due to lockdowns depends on who you talk to. 

Some people missed the cinema. I was surprised recently to read The New Yorker’s top-rated movies of 2020. Film studios made films in 2020? Where? How? Weren’t theaters closed? I didn’t recognize one title, not one. Did you know Sofia Coppola made a movie this year with Bill Murray called “On the Rocks”?

Yeah, me neither.

Some folks missed eating out in restaurants. I don’t know, I kind of enjoyed cooking at home with my sons. The day we made homemade shawarma stands out, and until you make homemade pasta with fresh tomato and basil with some crusty bread and a nice bottle of Chianti for a grand total of about 25 bucks, you don’t realize how badly you are being ripped off when you are presented a restaurant bill of $150.00 for the same food.

People also missed going to the gym, attending school, working at the office, enjoying a drink at a bar, seeing relatives, and celebrating events like weddings and graduations. Stuff like that.

I missed bookstores. Shocker. I was the only lunatic standing at the door of Barnes and Noble the first day they reopened after lockdown, the second they reopened. Since I was the sole customer in the store, the over-solicitous manager followed me around from section to section, hoping that maybe if I shirked my mask-wearing responsibilities, he could assert his power and validate his existence. I finally turned to him and said, “Can I help you?” He laughed nervously and answered, “Hey, that’s my line.”

(Ha-ha. No. Fuck off).

Literary offerings were bizarre for most of 2020. There was the meandering Hadrian’s Wall of Vapid Fiction. The Stultifying Tower of Orange Man Bad Tomes. Titles dedicated to the subject of race and racism generously scattered throughout the store. Other than those three categories, it was like the literary world was constipated.

And the election was the laxative.

Bookstore shelves have veritably exploded with provocative titles, my most recent conquest being Jaron Lanier’s thin yet powerful Ten Arguments for Deleting Your Social Media Accounts Right Now. I’ve wanted to write about this topic for years, but Lanier beat me to it. Drat. And he did a hell of a job explaining it, too. Double drat.

Understand that Jaron Lanier is not your common run-of-the-mill schlepp proselytizing about the dangers of social media and mind-altering algorithms. Wired named Lanier one of the top 25 tech icons of the last 25 years. His start-up creates avatars, virtual-world experiences, and surgical simulation. This guy is personally ensconced in the exact field that he is touting as dangerous, and he has written this book to tell us we are purposefully and consciously letting our minds be manipulated by companies like his.

So it would serve us well to listen.

I have never personally bought into the Facebook and social media nonsense. I have one very lame Facebook account I rarely use, and on which I have, like, twelve friends. I occasionally indulge on Instagram animal rescue videos on the Dodo. But that’s it. Pretty innocuous, I think, in this day and age of social connectedness. And if you know anything about me by now, you know I have no desire to be socially connected. I’m more about anti-social connections.

I’m not sanctimonious enough to suggest that just because I’m not on Facebook or Tik Tok or Twitter, that it means I’m not offering my brain cells up to the media gods. I know that whenever I go on Google, or Amazon, or even Pandora, they’re tracking me. No matter what we do, we are all chasing that little rush. Picture it: Mary is working out, and a new song plays on her Pandora workout playlist. Whoa, she thinks, this song is awesome.

Click. Thumbs up.

Got dopamine?

We all do. It’s what they all want, for us to chase that “little dopamine hit,” which is what the former CEO of Facebook Sean Parker says happens when you “like” or comment on a Facebook or IG post. Responding to something online is like a dog responding to a dog whistle. And we’re the dogs. Imprisoned inside of our Skinner boxes disguised as iPhones by the likes of Zuckerberg, Dorsey and Bezos.

Chamath Palihapitiya, former vice-president of user growth at Facebook, had this to say about her own product:

“The short-term, dopamine-driven feedback loops we’ve created are destroying how society works…I feel tremendous guilt. I think in the back, deep recesses of, we kind of knew something bad could happen…So we are in a really bad state of affairs right now, in my opinion. It is eroding the core foundation of how people behave by and between each other…I just don’t use these tools anymore. I haven’t for years.”

So the former VP of user growth at Facebook was afraid to use Facebook. That would be like the VP of Schwinn afraid of his own ten-speed. The VP of Breyers afraid of Butter Pecan. The VP of Adore Me afraid to wear the cherry red Christmas bustier (I recommend it highly. Prance around in that thang, Queenies, whether you have someone to wear it for or not. Who cares? Look beautiful for yourself. But I digress).

How can you promote a product that you don’t believe in? How do you push a product that you know is inherently harmful? Even Sean Parker is aware of its toxicity, and its negative impact. “God only knows what it’s doing to our children’s brains,” he said.

That’s just great.

To add insult to injury, while these tech Cyborgs force Zoom education down our children’s throats, addict them to their iPhones and video games, and keep them freebasing on Tik Tok and Twitter, guess where their Silicon Valley children go to school?

Waldorf schools. Where technology is forbidden. Yep. Here is the Waldorf school Media and Technology Philosophy:

Today’s children spend far less time than earlier generations engaging with other children, caring adults, and nature. The lure of electronic entertainment in our media-infused society influences the emotional and physical development of children and adolescents on many levels, and can detract from their capacity to create a meaningful connection with others and the world around them.

Hahahahahahahaha. Isn’t that a fucking kick in the teeth? The guys selling the crack to our children don’t let their own children use the crack. And we’re so gullible that we actually smile gratefully at the Apple Store candy-man as he rings up our purchases:

*”Thanks for the pookie. Gotta run. I have a roast in the oven and I gotta get this Gucci Mane home to the kids so they can toot the rock before band practice.”

Here’s some more from the Waldorf website:

Brain research tells us that media exposure can result in changes in the actual nerve network in the brain.  This can affect such things as eye tracking (a necessary skill for successful reading), neurotransmitter levels, and how readily students receive the imaginative pictures that are foundational for learning.  Media exposure can also negatively affect the health of children’s peer interaction and play.

Waldorf educators believe it is far more important for students to interact with one another and their teachers, and work with real materials than to interface with electronic media or technology.

Sooooo….we are allowing Silicon Valley Cyborgs to treat our children like lab rats, while they treat theirs like…gosh, what’s the opposite of a lab rat? A toy poodle sitting on a personal monogrammed pillow? A prized young thoroughbred getting massaged in his stall and fed sugar cubes every night?

Lanier has it right. **We are dogs. We are heeding Silicon Valley dog whistles, lapping up everything that is fed to us. We are fetching, rolling over, heeling and playing dead. But everyone loves dogs, right? Dogs are obedient, subservient, loving, loyal and dependable. Easy to train, easy to domesticate, easy to control.

Yes, indeed, the Cyborgs love us dogs.

But oh, what if we became cats? What if we became less easy to predict, more autonomous and independent? Less taken to training? What if we were once again in charge of our own actions, rather than letting some creepy rich oligarchs manipulate our behavior?

Well, now, wouldn’t that be something.

(*I have no idea if I used these drug references from Urban dictionary in the correct context.)

(**All clever dog-and-cat metaphors are attributed to Lanier).

Wishing You a Day

Wishing you a day

of remaining in

the moment. Not the

past or future or

story. Not your

thoughts or

anxieties or lists.

But right here,

right now,

straight into the

center. -Victoria Erickson

I’m blowing off the gym this morning. I’m going to spend it enjoying my Christmas tree, nibbling some cinnamon-raisin toast and watching the blustery weather outside my window. While the entire state of New Jersey prepares for a festive holiday snowstorm, our trusty Atlantic Ocean, the party-pooping winter bitch that she always is, plans to change our snow into an ugly Christmas Nor’easter.

(I loathe south Jersey. There, I said it. I’ve hinted at it, but now you know the real truth. I’m texting a friend in Buffalo, and he has kindly offered his snow to me. “Sixteen inches,” he texted, “is not fun.” Well, speak for yourself, buddy, sounds fun to me. And you can take that anyway you please).

Anyway, today I’m going to allow myself To Just Be. To relax. Yep. Believe It or Not, Ripley.  Because right around December 15th or so, I can feel the Universe temporarily loosening its stranglehold from around my throat. It’s imperceptible at first. Just a feeling, a warmth that rises up from my belly, spreads across my shoulders and leaks into my heart. For a small amount of time, I let myself ignore that loud voice in my head that is always telling me to “Move, Groove and Improve.” I give in to my cravings for comfort and rest, and preparation for the long, gray winter.

It doesn’t last long. January 2 is like a switched flip. What had flown just fine a week earlier simply does not fly with me on January 2. So I enjoy my two weeks of abandonment. The last two weeks of December for me are like the airport: anything goes, and nothing is out of the question. So enjoy my list of:

Five Things That Fly Just Fine With Me in December

Carbs. Eggs and avocado, Greek yogurt, protein shakes, steel-cut oatmeal, almonds, spinach, salads, carrot sticks, poached chicken breast, asparagus and assorted berries and melons are invited to kiss-my-ass and please-just-for-awhile-butt-the-fuck-out-of-my-life in December. So pumpkin pancakes and breakfast potatoes at brunch? Yep! Crumbly coffee cake with morning java? Mmm, o.k! BLT and French fries for a late lunch? Hell ya! Pasta Pomodoro and New York style cheesecake at our favorite little Italian restaurant? Bring it on, baby!! I don’t give carb counts one single solitary thought in the last two weeks of December.

Alcohol. A glass or two of Pinot Noir every night while watching Christmas movies is hardly out of the question. How about a small sherry on a chilly Saturday morning? A warm glass of brandy after a long day of holiday shopping? Some sangria or Moscato at dinner? A martini with lunch? A couple of post-golf Michelob Ultras at the country club bar? Indeed! Yes yes yes yes yes! (That was my re-enactment of the orgasm diner scene from “When Harry Met Sally”).

Movies. News and politics have no home here in December. This is not the time of year for pragmatism. Christmas and feel-good movies only, thank you. And my strict house rule of No Living Room Television on During the Day is happily waived during the last two weeks of December. “Frosty the Snowman” plays at 7:00 a.m., “The Christmas Carol” at 2:00 p.m., “Home Alone” and “Four Christmases” and “The Family Stone” whenever they’re on. No holds barred. Surround me with the holiday spirit.

Sloth. There’s something to be said for a little bit of laziness in December. Not a lot. But a little. I occasionally skip the gym, read all day, cook for hours and hours, enjoy music or binge-watch Netflix, sometimes in the middle of the day. And watching the boys loafing around the living room, holing up in their rooms or vegging in their man cave just doesn’t bother me in December. I find it quaint, and homey, and comforting. All-day video game marathons, late-night Risk tournaments, all-day jammies? Fine with me. Oh, you say didn’t get a shower today, you’re blowing off your haircut, and you forgot to cut your nails? And you want to wear sweatpants and ratty t-shirts? And you have suspended your part-time job search? Okey-dokey. But they don’t even be trying that shit with me in January, or they be catching Holy Hell (that lapse in grammar was on purpose, I thought it made me sound tough).

Hygge. I like my house and my family to feel as cozy as possible as Christmas approaches, so the more hygge the better. Scented candles are always going, the Christmas tree is always lit, and there’s always something delicious cooking or baking. Christmas cookies lie around in tins on the counter to be nibbled with morning coffee, warm banana bread beckons from the sideboard, and bakery boxes appear seemingly out of nowhere, filled with sweet treats. Plush throws are draped over the furniture to use as needed to ward off the chill, flannel sheets are made on the beds, Uggs are taken out of closet storage, and puffy coats stand at the ready. We cozy in, cozy down and cozy up. No such thing as too much cozy for me in December. Hygge starts in the heart and mind.

Then, like a match blowing out, it ends. The three pounds I gained in December are lost in a week. No more bread or donuts or pasta, at least not as much, anyway. And I’m not that person who leaves Christmas lights up well into January. On January 2nd, it just ends. My household is back to discipline, protein, hydration, news, travel and achievement, with gluttony and sloth being an exception instead of the rule. And although I vow every year that I won’t do it, I take down all of my decorations on the 1st. I just can’t bear looking at them anymore. The tree is to the curb by the 2nd.

So today begins my Christmas season. I blew off the gym, ate raisin toast, ordered some Christmas lingerie, watched “Rudolph” and lit some candles. We’re going out to lunch in a bit, then watching Christmas movies later while a casserole bakes in the oven.  

After all, ‘tis the season. Here’s wishing you a day.