Tag Archives: COVID-19

Zombie playdate.

2000 Years to Christmas

I think I saw them coming up the road, just past the post office. Did you see them, too? No? Maybe I’m imagining things. Or …. maybe you’re gaslighting me! WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO HIDE! SPEAK!

Oh … hello, readers. We were just, um … going over the household accounts. Seems the electric bill is overdue again. Just like last month … and the 120 months before that. (Maybe that’s why the lights are off.) Okay, I will own up to the fact that we are getting a little squirrel-y here in the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, now that we’ve been ordered to shelter in place. Actually, the order doesn’t apply to us because, well … we’re not supposed to be living here, but what the law doesn’t know won’t hurt it. Still, in these plague times, it’s best to heed the warnings of public health officials. We’re masking up, donning the rubber gloves, and eating out of an autoclave.

Now, I’m not super fond of hoarders. That said, one of our number, and I’m not saying who (ahem … anti-Lincoln), came home with a boatload of canned soup, pasta, and toilet paper this past Tuesday. I know you’re going to tell me that he’s doing it for our own good, but you are so wrong, my friend – he’s keeping it all for himself. Anti-Lincoln has essentially walled himself off in the east wing of the hammer mill, cloistered in with his cache precious supplies, cackling through the brick walls at our hunger and privation. It’s not for nothing that he’s the anti-matter doppelganger of old honest Abe. I mean, think about it – would the great emancipator ever act in such a selfish way? Even when he was running for re-election?

Do not enter!

As the COVID-19 pestilence has closed in on our forgotten corner of the world, people appear to be heading for the hills. Our nasty upstairs neighbors lit out this week, lugging their high explosives and trained pole cats with them. Meanwhile, people from the low country who consider this “the hills” keep showing up at our door, seeking shelter. Some of them appear to think this is some kind of country estate, like in Boccaccio’s Decameron, where they can ride out the pestilence. They march out of the woods like zombies, hoping for a playdate, at least, if no apocalypse presents itself. We’ve stationed Marvin (my personal robot assistant) out in front of the mill as a sentry. Thus far, he has neither stopped any intruders nor invited anyone in, so on balance, I’d call that a success. (He did lose his balance once. Those gimbals need adjusting.)

Okay, well … back to the accounts. WHERE ARE YOU, YOU MISERABLE GUTTER SNIPE! I’VE GOT AN ACCOUNT TO SETTLE WITH YOU!

Plague times.

Greetings from my corner of our national COVID-19 quarantine. As someone who is not unaccustomed to a certain amount of social isolation, I can say with confidence that this new normal has even me a bit more than creeped out. When I was in my teens and twenties, I wasn’t a big believer in psychology, but perhaps the only real advantage of advancing age is that it gives you an opportunity to discover the things you were wrong about earlier on – for me, one of those items was the fact that psychology is a thing that affects me. So, while my life is not all that different from the way it was before this crisis, I feel a lot different … and not in a good way.

Part of what I find disturbing about this pandemic scare is the degree to which so many people in my community are acting out of fear. I don’t mean to single central New York out in any way – similar effects are being seen all over the country. But when I go to grocery stores now, in particular, the evidence of panic buying is all around. I went to the supermarket at 7:30 a.m. last Saturday – half an hour into their business day – and there were gaping holes throughout the inventory. Because it’s kind of a white-dominant bedroom community, the missing items read like Ozzy and Harriet’s shopping list: iceberg lettuce, white bread, cans of tuna fish, jars of tomato sauce, canned soup, frozen vegetables, etc. Of course, paper products were cleared out entirely … 30 minutes into the business day!

Trump's empty America.

Weirdly, it didn’t seem like there were all that many people in the supermarket. And people didn’t seem frenzied, and they didn’t appear to be buying any more than I would have expected to see in their carts on an ordinary shopping day. Strangers were even interacting with me, in a friendly way, which was encouraging. And yet … the shelves were bare, as if Visigoths had marauded through the place a half hour earlier. Like the Coronavirus itself, panicked citizens seem like an invisible menace; you seldom actually see it, but you can see its effects. Then, of course, there are the follow-on effects: when people know their neighbors are buying everything in sight, they then go to the store and stock up before the goods are all gone. Selfishness starts to rule the day as people compete for consumer items suddenly in short supply. This is what late-stage capitalism looks like: very similar to the capitalists’ own distorted stereotype of socialist privation – empty shelves, desperate consumers, valueless scrip.

Of course, now that capitalism is in crisis (businesses shutting down, the stock market crashing), it’s time again for socialism! Trump and the Republicans, along with corporate Democrats, are reaching for massive state intervention in the economy, cutting billions of dollars in checks to individuals, back-stopping banks with enormous credit guarantees, dumping public cash into enormous, well-connected private corporations. All of the television austerians have come to their collectivist Jesus, much like they did in 2008-09. (Elect a Democrat, and trust me, they will be deficit hawks once more.)

So, no, you’re not hallucinating. This is all actually happening. Please stay safe, wash your hands, etc., and don’t freak out. We rely on each other to keep our heads – that may be the most effective thing we can do right now.

luv u,

jp

Keeping distance.

2000 Years to Christmas

Okay, closer. A little closer. I said a little! Right, so push the tray this way. That’s good enough. Great, thanks. Now get away from me, you scavenging ghoul!

Oh, hi. I should have thought someone would be reading this blog today, as there is precious little else to do now that we live in plague times. (I’m sure someone out there is doing something more useful, like writing their own latter-day version of the Decameron.) Frankly, this is when it pays to live in a podunk town. New York’s governor has banned events with audiences of 500 people or more. While that’s a huge problem down in Manhattan, that’s like falling off a log up here. Hell, there aren’t even 500 people within five square miles of the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill. Safe as houses! It pays not … to get paid.

Here inside the hammer mill, we’re taking drastic steps to respond to this crisis. Well, maybe “drastic” is too strong a word. Big steps. We’re stepping bigly, particularly when we see someone coming towards us. In other words, we’re practicing social distancing. In a quick back-of-the-envelope calculation, our mad science advisor Mitch Macaphee has determined the precise distance we need to keep from other human beings in order to remain safe from COVID-19. That’s 47.5 inches. Kind of a problem, as our corridors here in the mill are about seventy inches wide. So to remain on the safe side, we’ve adopted a single-user hallway policy for the foreseeable future. That means everyone walking in the same direction, like those mysterious figures in that M.C. Escher drawing, ascending and descending, except all one way.

That's it, guys. Stay in your lane.

Unfortunately for anti-Lincoln, the local St. Patrick’s Day parade has been canceled. That said, I think he fully plans to roll down main street in his log cabin float made entirely from bricks of expired government cheese. He’s agreed to fly the Big Green banner as a way of signalling that he’s not just some random crazy person, but in fact an antimatter ex-president from the nineteenth century representing a bunch of random crazy people. In the meantime, Anti-Lincoln plans to wear his float around the mill as his own version of social distancing. Marvin (my personal robot assistant) has been recruited to serve as his flag man, so that he doesn’t keep crashing into the hallway walls. Hey, we all cope as best we can.

So no worries, folks – we’re not sick yet. At least not in that respect.