A Taste Of Summer

I was not born in the South, which perhaps explains the fact that I don’t particularly like eating some of the Southern food staples such as collards, field peas and chicken livers. 

And while I have come late in life to enjoy the finer points of grits, I suppose I will never be considered a true Southerner despite living in various parts of the South since I was 12 because, well, there simply is no way to put this politely: I don’t like tomatoes.

No juicy slab of Big Boy or Red Beefsteak on two pieces of white bread slathered in Duke’s mayo for this boy, no sir. Eating the devil’s fruit, unless it has been converted (and consecrated with some wine) into tomato sauce or sliced, diced and overpowered with peppers in salsa, is not going to happen.

This distaste for this ubiquitous Southern fruit was never held against me by my mother, who grew up on a North Carolina farm during the Depression and therefore ate any and everything put on the table (although she confessed to me more than once that she never did acquire a taste for possum). 

And my wife, who knows her way around a ‘mater sandwich, no longer encourages me to try a slice or pop a cherry tomato in my mouth, having given up on that fight after raising two children with their own distinct and confounding eating preferences (I mean, what exactly is the difference between Kraft and Velveeta macaroni, other than one child will pout or sob if their preferred brand of cheesy noodle was not being served that night?)

On the other hand, there’s nothing that says summertime food in the South more than corn on the cob. 

I was wildly naive and, shall we say, lacking the proper palate for appreciating the subtleties of corn varieties during my early years eating it off of the cob. In the Midwest at that time, all I remember being available was the large, fully formed, dark yellow ears with kernels you really had to gnaw at to dislodge from the cob.

Later, as I was indoctrinated into Southern cuisine, I discovered that what I had thought of as corn may as well have come out of a can when compared to the holy grail, the creme de la creme, the pinnacle of modern agricultural achievement: sweet corn. Preferably plucked from the stalk and immediately plopped into water that you already had boiling. 

Ah, butter dribbling down your bare arms as you munched through row after row of indescribably sweet goodness, your teeth barely grazing the surface as the kernels graciously jumped off the cob into your mouth. At our house, my mom would cook vats full for our family of five. Because we weren’t allotted just one or two ears apiece, we consumed four or six (or, in the case of my sister, eight or 10). All other food on the table had to wait its turn to be eaten, because it’s corn, it’s gonna get cold (and then the butter wouldn’t melt on it), and my sister just finished another ear and is grabbing for the next best one available.

Poor Mom, she would get to nibble on an ear, then she’d jump back up and rush into the kitchen to empty another pot (this was before microwaves, which is how we cook ours now unless there is a hot grill nearby) and deliver its contents to us slavering beasts waiting impatiently for some more hot ones like we were hogs grunting and rooting around for just one more kernel in the slop, which I guess we kind of were.

Nowadays real sweet corn – I was always partial to Silver Queen myself – doesn’t seem to be as prevalent, but that just may be because we live in the mountains where, while we are geographically in the South, our weather and much of our culture and customs are uniquely our own. Most of what we’ve been eating lately is bicolor corn, alternating light and dark yellow like a checkerboard. I don’t know exactly what bicolor corn is, some sort of politically correct hybrid? Are you throwing in some dark yellow kernels to attract the non-Southerners who don’t know what real sweet corn is? Whatever, it’s still corn and it’s still good.

Second only to sweet corn in the summer panoply of great veggies are cucumbers. I remember as a kid helping my relatives pick and wash cucumbers when we visited the farm where my mom grew up and watching my uncles grade them for market, so I think I know a thing or two about cukes. I won’t say I eat them every day in the summer, but there are not many days that go by that I don’t if I have access to ones I know my uncles would have approved of.

F and I used to grow all these wonderful veggies, plus many more. Squash that would come so fast and plentiful you couldn’t give them away. Green peppers that you could watch turn red, snow peas that rivaled corn for their sweetness if you waited until right before dinner to pick them, green beans that you had to snap by hand but that forced you to sit and relax (preferably in a rocking chair) while you did it, just as you had to sit and shell those wondrous bits of beautiful greenness, butter beans.

We don’t garden much anymore, long ago surrendering to the critters that ravaged our rows of goodness just as we were about to harvest them. The deer, the rabbits, the groundhogs, the raccoons … just like the little masked bandit who recently has been nightly raiding F’s two potted tomato plants sitting on the deck right outside our bedroom door.

Fortunately, however, we don’t have to depend on grocery stores for most of our vegetative intake during the summer. We have a nice farmer’s market that offers a variety of locally produced food including all types of meat, supplemented by an online, virtual farm-to-table market available year-round (the High Country Food Hub). We have roadside produce stands that offer stuff that isn’t easy to grow in the mountains, like peaches and, another of our summertime favorites, okra. And we have a son who is a farmer who generously shares his bounty with us, perhaps as a way to pay us back for the thousands of ears of corn he ingested as a child.

The key to all this great food is that it is seasonal and it is fresh. If you are buying your vegetables during the summer in a way that they are not fresh – in cans, in bags, in the freezer section – don’t. Just don’t. Go find a place that sells fresh stuff. It will taste better, last longer, be healthier for you, and it will support your neighbors. 

And unless it’s grown in a greenhouse, it will only be available for a sweet, short while. Just like summer.

In The Good Ol’ Summertime

When I was growing up there were only two seasons that I was aware of: in school and out of school.

Oh sure, you instinctively knew the joys of hot summer days, but that just meant it was summer vacation, and you knew winter meant sledding and snowball fights (at least during those years when I wasn’t living on a tropical island, where seasons are a whole different story), but that was only on weekends or holidays when you didn’t have, well, school.

And don’t get me started on spring and fall. Spring meant that summer vacation was approaching, while fall meant it was ending.

If this gives you the impression that I hated school, I apologize. I generally enjoyed school, even though as I’ve mentioned before I was a Navy brat so we moved a lot and I was the new kid in school every two or three years, but my dazzling academic brilliance made up for the fact that I was shy and, looking back, pretty much a nerd. (This academic prowess, by the way, dissipated in college when I discovered a social life I had not previously enjoyed, not to mention some alternate means of enlightenment not found in the classroom.)

No, what I really enjoyed was summer. Long, hot sunny days spent outside running wild until dinnertime, swimming and playing endless made-up games, cooling off by running through a sprinkler or plopped down in front of a fan (we didn’t always have air conditioning in the old days), drinking gallons of Kool-Aid and downing dozens of ice cream cones, not having to wear unnecessary attire like shoes and jackets and shirts….

And, of course, running around in the yard on warm, humid evenings catching fireflies in jars and putting them on your nightstand by your bed as a natural nightlight while you slept in your warm, humid bedroom (see no AC, above).

I had a wonderful childhood and I remember almost all of it with great fondness and nostalgia, but it wasn’t until I grew older that I started appreciating the seasons. Part of it was the fact that you trade the academic cycle when you had those precious few weeks of summer for the endless grind of a job and precious little time off in any season. 

I feel that now I pay attention to nature more than I ever did. While I will never be a fan of cold weather, I can appreciate the beauty of snow and the brilliance of the stars on a cold winter night. Autumn means cool nights, the smell of leaves and, sadly, the reintroduction of socks. Spring is all about green after months of brown and gray, and watching the magical transformation of yards and trees and flowers into what ultimately becomes, yes, my favorite time of year.

We live in the mountains, so we are blessed in the summer with cool or, at worse, warmish nights, perfect for sitting outside after the sun sets watching darkness descend. The tree frogs or crickets or katydids or whatever they are start up their buzzing and chirping, the quintessential song of summer if there ever was one. At our house we watch the bats flap out into the darkening sky, snatching up insects as they dart and zigzag about, only occasionally getting tangled in your hair or going for your jugular (just kidding!). And, best of all, the fireflies come out flashing and blinking in their spectacular light show, just like they did when I was a kid.

Fireflies, or lightning bugs if you prefer, are truly wondrous creatures. I mean, think about explaining them to people who’ve never seen them: “Yep, where I come from, we have these bugs, you see, and they fly around at night and their butts light up! Yes, their butts! Blinking on and off. Dunno why, probably attracting the lady bugs – no not those ladybugs, but lady bugs – or vice versa. Say, wouldn’t that be something if humans … nah, never mind.”

I was watching the fireflies the other night when we were outside once again futilely looking for the latest supposedly awesome meteor shower in which fireballs were expected to tear across the sky. F and I don’t seem to have much luck with these types of celestial displays, particularly for two people who spend an inordinate amount of time looking up at the sky. Our adult children still give us grief for the times we dragged them out of bed at 5 in the morning to look at yet another underwhelming meteor shower. But that’s okay, because the night sky even without streaking lights is pretty spectacular, and every four weeks you can count on a full moon to brighten things up.

Since we live in an area with long winters, we keep track of the sun more than a lot of people. We notice where it rises, when and where it shines in our house, and as I have mentioned before when and where it sets. We know when the summer solstice is by how far to the right the sun sets on the ridge line we see from our deck. 

And inwardly I cringe when I can tell that it is slowly inching back to the left, realizing that soon the sun won’t be as high in the sky, or shine as brightly or as warmly, which means that, well, summer vacation will soon be over.

The Hidden Benefits Of Wearing A Mask

I don’t want to get into a political debate about wearing face masks during the pandemic because, well, that’s a subject that shouldn’t be about politics. Few of us enjoy wearing masks, but I was thinking that there are some definite upsides to covering your face. 

Other than spreading a deadly disease, of course.

  • Bad breath is not as noticeable. Forget those breath mints; your mouth is covered! Who’s going to smell that odiferous odor emanating from your otherwise ordinary orifice (sorry, the alliterative aspect of that articulation was altogether too alluring). On the other hand, don’t overdo the garlic for lunch since you’ll still be breathing your own fumes in close confinement, so to speak.
  • Lipstick is no longer necessary. Ladies, who cares? We can’t see your lips, so we don’t know if you’re sporting Flamboyant Fuchsia or Luscious Lavender on those smackers. But if you just can’t bear the thought of someone seeing you lipstickless, you can always paint some on your mask.
  • Nose hair trimming. Why bother? I’m thinking there are people out there growing luxurious nosestaches as we speak, with all kinds of styles from carefully trimmed bristles to full-blown waxed handlebars popping out of those nostrils and hidden from polite society behind a mask. Hey, don’t hate; people poke holes in their noses to stick in rings for some bizarre fashion sense, what with the attendant sideways snot blows when they sneeze, so we should all tolerate a few stray nose hairs. 
  • You are harder to recognize, thus making it harder to recognize anyone else. Therefore it is far easier to avoid people you don’t want to run into by pretending you don’t know who they are.
  • Masks are the great equalizer when it comes to people’s appearances. If you are not particularly attractive, nobody knows! We all look the same – unless you have an unfashionable mask, naturally. Talk about equality; you just don’t know whether you’re talking – from six feet apart – with some amazing Adonis or some grotesque, hideous hag.

Speaking of which, that’s all fine and good, but it’s not so great for handsome devils like me who have to hide our dazzling good looks from the masses. But, hey, we all have to make sacrifices.

Wake Up And Smell The Body Odor

Obliviousness (noun) – a state of being disregardful or unconscious of one’s surroundings, concerns or obligations; unmindful, unconscious, unaware; lacking active conscious knowledge or awareness.

If this describes you at certain times, then you are part of the human race. I know that I sometimes find myself daydreaming or running on autopilot or just plain not paying attention and do something inconsiderate to others in public, such as cutting some little old lady off in line at the grocery store (no, no, no, just kidding!).

But there are also those people who seem to be deliberately obtuse when it comes to human interaction in public places, people whose only excuse can be that their mamma didn’t raise them right. Because mine raised me to be considerate of others.

I started thinking about this the last time we journeyed to the beach, a place where you are on full display, so to speak, and should therefore be a bit more mindful of your actions. There we were, enjoying some sun, sand and solace from the world’s problems, when loud blaring music assaulted our ears. Why do people think the rest of us appreciate their taste, or lack thereof, in music?

What if we all, everyone on the beach or at the pool or in the park or wherever we are, turned up the volume on our tunes on our portable outdoor speakers? Would we all suddenly, sheepishly remember that, oh yeah, that is what earphones are made for? Or would we all engage in a cacophonous game of one-upmanship until we all went deaf?

You also notice obliviousness when people are trying to enter or exit somewhere in large quantities at the same time, such as a movie theater or concert hall (remember them?). As soon as people pass the portals, what do they do? They stop, oblivious to the people behind them, as they look around and get their bearings or chat with friends or decide they can’t wait one second more to check their messages on their phone.  

Even more of an annoyance these days is the lack of social distancing. It’s great most of us are finally on board with wearing masks in public during this pandemic, but what part of the six feet apart is so difficult to understand? Please don’t reach around me to grab a cucumber or a bag of chips just because you are in a hurry; back off a couple of steps and be patient. This would be a good time to check your messages on your phone.

Perhaps if we all stopped bathing regularly then body odor would act as a natural repellant and remind us all of the need to keep our distance. Hey, scary times call for drastic measures.

It’s often said that people sometimes are too much like sheep because they mindlessly do what they’re told and forget that they are supposed to think for themselves. But sheep also just walk around and eat whatever grass they can find, not caring if their baaing is too loud or they’re stepping on another sheep’s hooves or defecating on some grass that I had my eye on. 

So, please, stop being a sheep. Stop being an obliviant (I wish I’d made that up). Wake up, be aware, and start thinking about other people.

Don’t make me turn my music up.

The Right To Bare More Than Arms

I’ve been curious about this particular urge in some people to invoke their perceived right to not cover up and, therefore, be unprotected and expose themselves to others. Since my first career was as a newspaper reporter, I dusted off my old interviewing skills and set out to get to the bottom of this odd pursuit of freedom and liberty.

Herewith is the interview with one such freedom-loving couple:

“Excuse me, sir, ma’am. I see you seem to be protesting, after a fashion. Would you mind answering a few questions? Sort of a person-in-the-street type of thing.”

“Shoot.”

“I see that you, um, aren’t wearing any clothes. What’s that all about?”

“Well, it’s about our right to nudity.”

“Your right to nudity?”

“That’s right. We have a constitutional right to bear arms, so I think it’s a given that we can bare whatever else we want.”

“Um, sir, I don’t think the right to bear arms is the same thing as the right to bare your butt or in your case, ma’am, your chest.”

“What, haven’t you ever gone around without a shirt?”

“Well, sure, at the beach or around the house. But I’m a guy and…”

“Oh, so you believe in sex discrimination when it comes to clothing? It’s okay for you to go around shirtless but not me because I’m a woman?”

“Well, no. It’s just that, don’t you think you might offend people with your, um, freedom?”

“Anyone offended by us or how we look just needs to suck it up. People all the time get their panties in a wad because of sayings or symbols on T-shirts, or they think someone’s dress is too short, or their pants aren’t pulled up high enough. Can’t see how a birthday suit – which, by the way, we all came into the world in – should cause anyone offense.”

“But aren’t you concerned about your health?’

“Hey, things gotta breathe, you know?”

“I mean, aren’t you worried about picking, er, things up when you sit down and the like? And aren’t you concerned about the health of other people who, well, sit down after you’ve been sitting?”

“Look, there is no scientific evidence that wearing clothes is healthier than going naked, provided you put on sufficient sunscreen, especially in those places the sun don’t normally shine. We have a right to tan.”

“Yes, but, not wearing any clothes … it just seems other people….”

“You know what? We’re tired of people telling us what we can and cannot do. What we have to wear and where we have to wear it. Nowhere in the United States Constitution does it say we have to wear anything. It’s an abuse of personal liberties for you or the government to tell us that we have to wear something just because we want to go outside or into a store or to a restaurant. This is a matter of personal choice. Of personal freedom.”

“All right, point taken. But I see that, while you otherwise don’t have a stitch of clothes on, you both are wearing face masks.”

“C’mon, man, we’re naked, not stupid.” 

Sunset In The Sahara

I have written previously in the precursor to this blog about our appreciation and enjoyment of sunsets. We are such avid fans of these shows of nature that we probably spend more time watching them than we do shows on television. As some of you may know, we are such sunset connoisseurs that we have our own rating system for the evening displays, the Timometer.

The other night F and I were indulging in our usual evening cocktails (in hindsight, a Tequila Sunrise might have struck my fancy) when we decided to head out to our front deck to catch the show “in person,” i.e., outdoors as opposed to lazily watching it through the windows from our living room, because it was supposed to be a particularly spectacular sunset due to the Saharan dust cloud that had settled over our part of the world.

The dust cloud, to quickly review, is a perfectly natural phenomenon that happens every year when a mass of dry, dusty air forms over the Sahara Desert and is blown across the Atlantic Ocean. This one, however, was the most massive in decades and was particularly thick in the Caribbean, with plumes extending over the southeast United States as well. The sand can reduce visibility, affect air quality and present health problems for people with allergies and other breathing issues, but it also helps prevent tropical storms from developing and can produce colorful sunrises and sunsets.

Anyway, as we settled in our seats for the show, blinking through the haze to take in the valley below and the hills in the distance, F mentioned that there had been an air quality alert issued for our area due to the dust. So we debated heading back inside when we realized that, what with the mad, mad world we are now living in, we had a ready solution: our coronavirus masks! 

After memorializing the moment with perhaps the first and only selfie I have ever taken, we decided to live, or at least breathe, dangerously and took off the masks. And, not to mention, it’s very difficult to drink with a mask on.

Sunset watching in the new age.
My first selfie, complete with blurred finger

As we sat there contemplating the wonders of nature, I couldn’t help but be amazed that these particles hanging in the air before me had traveled thousands of miles across an ocean from a distant and exotic land. I swear I thought I caught a faint scent of camel dung, and idly wondered why those same air currents couldn’t drop us a few dates or figs out of the sky. 

Dust imported all the way from the Sahara Desert in north Africa

Man oh man, I thought, if travel is going to be restricted and we can’t really go anywhere, then this is the life: virtual travel in which north Africa comes to the mountains of North Carolina. A taste – or breath – of foreign lands brought right to our front porch. How weird, how wacky, how wonderful.

Oh, and the sunset turned out to be a murky mess, failing to live up to the sand cloud hype. No more than a 6 at best on the Timometer, but another 10 on whatever scale you might use to rate having a good laugh and a good time with the one you love.

Tucking It In

I recently was talking with a friend when he mentioned that it distressed him to see men who didn’t tuck in their shirts. I feel it’s admirable of him to still be my friend since, distressingly, I have rarely been in his presence with my shirt tucked in.

To me, shirt tucking is like tie wearing. Sure, it may look nice, but it’s uncomfortable. I get that there are times when form triumphs over function, but short of weddings and funerals I just don’t have much need to dress up or be fashionable, although I will admit that I look pretty darn snazzy in a suit. But I have no need to dress to impress anymore; I don’t need to look my best for my boss or coworkers because I don’t have a job, and the only woman I feel the need to impress is quite content to let me lounge around untucked and, for that matter, is unconcerned if I choose not to wear a shirt at all, provided I put one on at the dinner table.

For years I had a job that required me to tuck in my shirt and I didn’t much care for it then (the tucking, not the job), much less the tie I was also forced to wear. I know women have it even worse what with all the paraphernalia they are supposed to wear but, seriously, what fashion maven thought a piece of material tightened in a complicated knot around the neck like a noose was the be all and end all of attire? Why the neck? Why not move it up and around, so it’s like a sweatband around your forehead with it hanging down your back? Now that’s a fashion statement. Plus, it would keep your hair out of the way while providing a handy hanging piece of cloth you can whip around and use to wipe your mouth or blow your nose.

Look, I know lots of people and lots of cultures have their own dress codes and types of clothing. Each to their own. Personally, I think the robes Buddhist monks wear look both comfortable and fashionable; remember, before they were frat party outfits, togas were what everyone who was anyone in ancient Rome were wearing. On the other hand, I just don’t see the need for any type of clothing that constricts, conforms, discomforts or discombobulates.

I feel as though I come by my fashion sense, or lack thereof, honestly. I spent several of my formative years in Bermuda, an island famed, of course, for its pink sand beaches and distinctive shorts. But despite being associated with what most people consider a casual choice in attire,  Bermuda has, or it did back in the day, a rather stuffy dress code (shirts required in public unless at the beach, for instance). Those renowned shorts were considered official attire by Bermudans in businesses, offices and government. My father was in the Navy and his work uniform included shorts. And yes, everyone tucked in their shirts – a loathsome acknowledgement to some perverse puritanical desire that we must find a way to make people uncomfortable even while living in a sub-tropical paradise. 

Speaking of which, my first experience in uncomfortable clothes was when our family would dress up to be presentable and respectable in church, although even at an early age I had my suspicions that we were trying more to impress the other attendees than any sort of supernatural manifestation, holy or otherwise. My mother eventually saw the light and graciously returned my Sunday mornings to me when she realized that dressing up and pew sitting were not attributes that were going to stick with me for life.

Further mangling my appreciation for fashion at such an impressionable age, I attended a British school for a year in Bermuda, a delightful experience but for my struggles in learning how to add and subtract pounds and shillings and the fact that I had to wear a uniform. White dress shirt tucked into green shorts with a green and white striped tie and knee-high green socks – and, as I recall, a green blazer for formal school occasions such as when parents were in attendance. I will say this about school uniforms: you don’t spend much time every morning worrying about what to wear to school.

But other than that, my attire on the island consisted of as little as possible – a trend that has stuck with me for life even though I now live in a decidedly less than tropical clime. The shoes I had to wear to round out my school uniform I considered needless torture to feet that were happiest in flip-flops or unshod entirely. Shorts and a T-shirt were what I wore when not in a swim suit. I don’t think I wore long pants for three years.

But since I am nothing if not tolerant, I say wear what you want and tuck in whatever you feel needs tucking. But know that I consider Hawaiian shirts to be formal attire and they are definitely not meant to be tucked in by civilized people. 

One other problem I have with tucking is that my shirts don’t stay tucked in and they tend to bunch up in front, making them uncomfortable and unsightly. I think we can all agree that tucked shirts just are not all that flattering on people who need to shed a few inches around the tucking area. 

And now that I have been afflicted by self-isolated laziness and the obvious consequence of supplementary pandemic pounds, I certainly have no intention of tucking in my shirt any time soon.

It’s All In How You Slice It

Although 44 years speaks to a high degree of compatibility, F and I have several noteworthy differences, some of which I have discussed previously. I wouldn’t go so far as to say opposites attract, because we have a lot more in common than we have differences.

I actually am all in favor of differences, variations, uniqueness. Vive la difference, as the French like to say, although of course they would because everybody thinks the French are different, including the French.

As for us, I’m a procrastinator, whereas F is definitely a doer. In fact, if it weren’t for her putting a foot firmly up my, well, derriere, I would still be contemplating writing a blog one day, but here you are indulging me in the occasional dispensations I have to offer.

Our “message” area (actually, the counter near the phone) is littered with honey-do lists my well-meaning wife keeps jotting down, lists I keep meaning to organize into some sort of highly organized and prioritized system, perhaps even color-coded, but I can’t seem to find the time to get around to doing it.

Another way in which we are different is that she can fall asleep instantly, whereas it takes me at least a few minutes to nod off, unless I’m listening to someone explain their latest medical procedure in excruciating detail. She can doze off in minutes watching TV, admittedly a low bar in sleep inducement, and she can tell me goodnight, roll over in bed and start snoring softly before I have a chance to respond.

But the most significant difference between us, I must say, is in how we cut a sandwich.

I think I’m correct in saying that the proper, civilized way to slice a sandwich is diagonally, whereas F always cuts hers straight down the middle. Never mind that triangular pieces are more aesthetically pleasing than plain old rectangles, you get pointy ends to eat – and who doesn’t like the pointy ends of food that come in slices like pizzas, pies, and quiches?

I think how you cut a sandwich tells you a lot about your personality (I won’t go into what it says, personality-wise, when someone who on the rare occasion does cut my sandwich for me does so in a non-diagonal manner after years of gentle reminders). In this case, I think it reflects a profound display of linear thinking.

This makes sense, as least to me, since F is a numbers person, which comes in handy since she’s a CPA. I, on the other hand, am clearly more of a word guy. She thinks in logical, precise, straight-line terms. I can’t even draw a straight line, but I could probably describe one in vivid terms. She’s an artist at quilting, which requires an aptitude for sharply defined lines and exact measurements and precision, while I’m good at jigsaw puzzles, probably because they don’t require a whole lot of thinking, linear or otherwise.

Anyway, I like that things can be different and I like to be around people who are different from me, with different backgrounds, from different places and cultures, who speak different languages. Rather than be disturbed or frightened or intimidated by these differences, I find them fascinating. Homogeneity makes for blandness, uniformity, and let’s face it, boring sameness. Who wants to have a conversation where everyone is in agreement, no alternate perspectives, similar reference points, the same opinions, all us nodding along, yep, I agree, no dispute here, can’t find fault with what you’re saying, blah, blah, blah, baaa, baaa baaa.

Of course, differences aren’t always celebrated the way they should be in a country like ours that is supposed to be a beacon of diversity. So to that I just say va te faire foutre if you can’t appreciate people’s differences.

Oh, and pardon my French.

Not A Good Year So Far

I used to be a much more cynical person, a trait that sort of went hand in hand with being a working journalist, when you were constantly exposed to the sordid underbelly of the human condition with such things as politics, crime and punishment, corruption, and ghastly school board meetings. (I know what some of you are thinking: Didn’t you mostly ply your trade as a journalist in a small town, so how bad could it be? Yes, I did, and yes, small towns have sordid underbellies, too. I could tell you stories about underbellies, sordid and otherwise, but now is not the time.)

When I stopped being a journalist, my cynicism eased up, and when I stopped working I transitioned to being more of an optimist about the human condition, although some people – particularly the one I live with – would perhaps disagree. (And, yes, some of this can be attributed to the fact that I haven’t been to a school board meeting in a long time.) 

But, man, it’s hard not to be a pessimist now. This has not been a good year. In fact, it has been a year so far plagued with, well, plagues.

We all are aware, obviously, of the coronavirus that has reached pandemic stage across the world. But have you noticed all the other, um, scourges that are occurring on a regular basis? Let’s review:

First there is the phenomenon I’ll call Critters Gone Crazy. A couple of weeks ago, news came out about an invasive bug species nicknamed “murder hornets” that slaughters honeybees and can be deadly to humans. Then came the 17-year locusts about to ravage the the countryside of Virginia and North Carolina. Now there are giant gypsy moths set to “cause serious, widespread damage to our country’s landscape and natural resources,” according to the U.S. Department of Agriculture.

And, of course, the stink bugs are still plaguing us here at our house.

Then there are the rampantly obtuse politicians, who admittedly are sometimes indistinguishable from annoying pestilential insects. Many lawmakers are openly encouraging people to break the law by disregarding rules and guidelines designed to keep us all safe. Leaders who we hope will set an example for us refuse to wear masks, congregate in crowds, somehow seem to get haircuts and, of course, say amazingly stupid shit.

Here’s former Republican Gov. Chris Christie of New Jersey urging an end to stay-at-home orders and, clearly, confusing the party of life with being the life of the party: “Of course, everybody wants to save every life they can – but the question is, towards what end, ultimately?”

Alex Azar, the U.S. secretary of health and human services, said this in casually dismissing concerns about Americans who flout the federal government’s bank robbery laws – oops, I mean social distancing guidelines: “That’s part of the freedom that we have here in America.”

Then there’s this: “When you test, you have a case. When you test, you find something is wrong with people. If we didn’t do any testing, we would have very few cases.”

I don’t think I have to tell you which politician said that.

Which brings us to the appallingly stupid members of the public. These are the people who won’t just take prudent precautions not to sicken others, but will shoot, push, and punch others or tote around automatic weapons in protest of their right to spread a deadly disease. Alas, when those bozos get sick, at-risk health-care professionals don’t have the freedom not to treat them.

Then there are those nincompoops who see this crisis as an opportunity to take advantage of the times. Fortunately, karma is sometimes still a bitch, as witnessed by the witless woman who entered a closed-for-coronavirus Yellowstone Park and promptly fell into a hot spring while taking a picture.

Finally, there’s the weather. Need I point out that hurricane season has already begun with our first tropical storm. We’ve already had killer tornados plus some winter storms in spring, and I’m sure we can look forward to the usual allotment of floods, fires, droughts, cataclysmic storms and other assorted raging, relentless meteorological phenomenon that seems to be our new normal.

Yes, 2020 may very well go down as the Year of the Plagues, plural. Oh, and speaking of plagues, have I mentioned this is an election year?

And Now For The News

I’m not making this up, although I wish I were:

  • Doctors are advising people not to drink bleach or inject disinfectants into their bodies in an attempt to cure the coronavirus. I mean, what idiot would suggest such a thing? And are Tide pods still OK, or is that so last year?
  • The Los Angeles Lakers basketball team, worth $4.4 billion – that’s $4,400,000,000 – returned the $4.6 million they received from the Payroll Protection Program so that the money “could be directed to those more in need.” And you applied for it in the first place, why?
  • Stories are popping up about how to cut your hair at home without ruining it. I believe I’ve already addressed this, and the short answer is: don’t.
  • Vice President Mike Pence did not wear a mask during a visit to the Mayo Clinic despite being advised that it was hospital policy and everyone else – patients, doctors, nurses, staff and administrators – all were wearing them because he said when he thanked the health-care workers he wanted “to look them in the eye.” Well, you could have at least worn a Lone Ranger mask then.
  • A leader of the ReOpen North Carolina group organizing protests against stay-at-home orders revealed in a Facebook post that she tested positive for COVID-19.  Well, of course she did.
  • Poultry producers say they are killing 2 million chickens humanely because processing plants are closing due to the pandemic. Well, humanely, OK, then. At least they’re not going to torture them to death. Although burning them at the stake … hmmm.
  • A woman applying for unemployment benefits in Maryland was told she was number 88,000 in line. Could you hold, please?
  • Beer sales have increased as people abide by stay-at-home orders, led by Busch Light, Miller Lite, Michelob Ultra and Natural Light. It’s the end of the world as we know it, people. Drink up. And drink some decent beer, for God’s sake. He’s probably already into the tequila shots Himself.