Days of my Life #39

Give me a break!

I spent most of yesterday with my head in a book, coming up for air only to eat and drink, to relieve myself, to briefly walk with daughter and two of the dogs down to the nearby creek, watch said dogs splash in the water And frolic hither and yon, climb up to the park, walk home in the humidity and sun, sweating profusely and ponder why I could possibly feel like doing anything other than lie down, indefinitely.

I had begun my day bright and early, staring listlessly into my hot, steamy cup of liquified 2%caffeine, realizing I had absolutely nothing in my head, with not even the remnants of an interesting dream and what surprised me more than my lack of intelligent or creative thought was that I couldn’t give a shit. This was an aha moment while at the same time an ever so slight shock and still I rolled with it after all was said and done, all the way into a reclining position.

Obviously today is quite different, well more so than yesterday, in that while I did drink my habitual cup of “why bother” my brain was far more active; I consciously chose to not think about last night’s perplexing dreams and instead mentally mapped out my new exercise routine. A step to somewhere other than back to bed.

I’ll admit, here and now, that in the past two months I have been a slug, with the exception of taking short walks in my hood. Hmmm. Did I mention this before? Well, whatever, the truth is out now and I am no longer a victim of the “shock and ah fuck” of the (named after a pisswater Mexican beer) virus and am merely staying at home to let the idiots outside prove themselves right or deadly wrong. So far from the latest reports, the outsiders might rethink their steps and bring their selves back inside.

Whatever others choose do, my plan is to get myself in shape. You know, daily yoga, facials, hair masks, exercise bike routine, walk a couple miles, positive affirmations, protein shakes…the whole nine yards.

For what? Hell if I know, but this seventy year old broad is gonna have herself a fantastic bod…or die trying, (hopefully not the latter) so when the science nerds say it’s okay for us to safely leave our hovels, I’m gonna step outside feeln’ mighty damn fine and lookn’ and a feeln’ a hell of a lot better than I currently do. This gives me purpose which, in addition to my writing, is a good thing.

Why all of a sudden am I auditioning for the “get your shit together show”? Because I just realized I’ve been riding down pity party lane in an outta shape vehicle that I can actually steer myself to enable me to merge onto “happy healthy highway” quite easily. All I need is a map and a plan. So, you read step one of the initial plan- to get in shape. Step two is for me to “give me a break” from from worrying about outcomes which in and of itself may sound counterproductive but hear me out. I just gotta do what’s on my PLAN. Step three will include doing stuff for other people, which I did early on but I’m gonna ramp it up now because it helps to help others. Step four will be a continuation of my writing, reading and the transformation of refuse into art.

In general I feel I may have happened upon a personally fulfilling solution for the interim. Besides it’s worth a go.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #36

Flashback time. I’m siting here with our new puppy Zappa. Nope I’ve not been taking psychedelics, even though I did, way back when I was adorable, skinny and sexy with curly hair (that hasn’t changed much, except for the color) and platform shoes, yep, those days when casual sex and rock n’ roll were part and parcel with the territory. Those were interesting and mostly fun times.

It was the time of my life when I was a model, volunteered at the LA free clinic and lived in Laurel Canyon with the crazy daughter of my dad’s business partner. Rent was cheap in those days; we had a small 2 bedroom house with a teensy back yard and a one car garage that was just big enough to park my Fiat 124 sports coupe.

My then boyfriend, Lee, (since deceased) was bass player in the Iron Butterfly and we mostly hung out with other musicians and their girlfriends. There were many occasions when we happened to be at the Log Cabin, home of Frank Zappa, at the corner of Lookout Mountain and Laurel Canyon Blvd., smoking pot with Frank and a bunch of others but I’m not sure who else. You see, at the time marijuana cost $30 for an ounce of the good shit and this was really good, so it is no wonder my memory fails as to the other who’s who.

All this is relatively unimportant except for the time that stands out most in my memory. Halloween…and don’t ask me exactly what year …maybe it was 1969? Anyway there we (about a dozen of us) were, sitting on the large sofas in this cavernous living room with a giant stone fireplace, and tall ceilings, munching on god know what, (but I wouldn’t be surprised if it had been hash brownies), talking about music, the Hollywood scene and upcoming tours. When all of a sudden, Frank says, “Hey, you guys ready to go under the street to Houdini’s castle?” If Lee had mentioned this before I can’t be certain but whatever. We all said sure. We were also totally stoned.

Now let me tell you, I was a relatively saavynative Los Angelina, who even then, at the tender (slightly) age of nineteen (or so) knew the rumors about Houdini’s ghost and the creepy caretaker guarding the estate which stood behind the rock walls along a good stretch of Laurel Canyon. So I wasn’t particularly concerned even if it was Halloween! What could go wrong? I also didn’t scare easily.

We continued to talk, passing and relighting joints, all laughingly meandering our way down, down, down the steps of a darkly lit stone staircase (it was noisy with the lot of us). Clopity clop, shuffle, scrape we went until it was announced we were going to begin our trek through the tunnel which linked the cabin (log) to The Castle (of Houdini) under the street.

The tunnel was large with cold to the touch concrete or stone walls, fortunately we could comfortably stand up and walk two or three across. Several of us held flashlights, otherwise there was very little light to guide us. More laughter ensued…and the nervous type of chatter. We moved, some arm in arm, along the pass under the boulevard. Frank spoke in theatrically measured tones as if he were rehearsing for an upcoming show…for those who knew him it was neither surprising nor particularly ominous, but we all were exceedingly high and the sounds of footstep echoing off the walls, ceiling and path combined with the Frank’s rhythmic speech caused most of us to begin to take more measured steps, our talking now quieted, while couples held each other as we approached the wrought iron gates at the end of the tunnel.

You could’ve heard a pin drop. That is until we heard footsteps…not one or two but many clickety clackety feet approaching the gates. All who had flashlights quickly focused them on the gates. As if frozen in time we paused, peering at many pairs of eyes and lots of teeth. Dobermans? German Shepherds? I don’t know what kind of dogs they were or if they were indeed dogs… it could’ve been wolves for all we knew, but as far as our little messed up brains could fathom we were gonna go back to the cabin, and fast.

Someone (probably Frank) yelled run and enmasse we hightailed it, some touching the cold walls to steady themselves as we all passed quickly back through the tunnel, noisily up the way too many steps, into the giant living, reseating ourselves on couches, chairs and laughing, nervously to one another. I peaked at Frank, leaning against the fireplace with the biggest grin on his face, his fingers twisting his moustache.

I remember little else of that fun evening, but it was enough upon which to flashback..

There are other stories.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #28

Have I developed a habit of writing daily? It’s debatable, even though it is about twenty eight days that I started doing this with surprising regularity and that is, more or less the standard for creating a lasting habit. I woke around 2am thinking I might begin this daily expulsion of words from ether to paper, but I futzed around for an hour …obviously avoiding the work then immediately felt the need to go to back to sleep.

Oddly enough, When I awoke at eight I was totally convinced I had indeed written something clever and had even published it. Why? Because my recent habit of writing is now occupying my bloody dreams. Sheesh!

I was absolutely certain I had a subject, had gotten to the root of it, expanded on the gosh darn thing and reached a abfab conclusion…an editor’s dream…but no such luck, it was just my dream. So, now here I am, it’s seven in the evening, and I’ve done next to fuck all today with the exception of feeding the dogs, myself, grandson and daughter, doing a minor repair on the kitchen island, email, an hour of solitaire, talking with my bff who lives in lalaland and keeping my hyper grandson from destroying various animate and inanimate objects. So why in goddesses name am I tired?

I think I’ve got a case of pandemonium and fauxnews fatigue. It is ridiculously tiring thinking about all the stuff to think about. So many variables and sources. How to choose? Does it even matter and why doesn’t Ben and jerry make mocha fudge ice cream anymore? Don’t you often wonder why they, who ever they are, can’t just make electronics that can be repaired using universally available parts? Why can we get the same shoes a year or five later? And…What happened to penny loafers?…they were comfortable, at least to me they were.

It’s blind, mostly inhumane, capitalism, stupid.

Don’t get me wrong, or do, since everything is in the eye of the beholder and a whole lot of people are devoid of 20-20, it’s not just a year. I’m a former fashion whore….really I am…In my youth I even designed clothing for the rich and infamous. I still know how to tweak a design that makes crowds go wild, but at whose expense?

Uh oh, here comes my inner eco warrior, better look out. In recent years as I’ve been creating/transforming refuse/trash into art I have come to realize just what a waste of everything it all is. No, not my art, silly, my art is totally cool….just go to my art site and you’ll be amazed.

I’m talking about the waste of resources, human life, animal and plant life and nature itself…for what? So a few insecure, nihilistic, feudalistic asshats with so much money and no soul can control the world? I say fuck that. Them too.

The Beatles wrote a little ditty, some of you might remember, “can’t buy me love” was totally true. Yeah, yeah, yeah, sure you can get laid with money, and you can buy fake friends with money and some people may love that you have money …but it ain’t going to buy you love or real friendship or inner peace.

And the “poor” schmucks… And you know who they are, want us all to believe that money or the promise of it is the answer to our woes. Except funnily enough those same perpetrators of the capitalist mystique don’t want you to have enough money to fully pay your bills …housing, food, medical or otherwise. And they could care less if your water is clean enough to drink or if your daughter gets raped or your son (especially if he’s a color other than white) gets offed by an officer of the law. Because there’s a line miles long and around the globe who will take y’all’s place, to keep the money ball rolling.

Do I sound like I want a revolution? Not exactly…certainly not a violent one. And we’re not gonna even go into the people toting around guns because that’s an entirely different bit of writing. I’m kind of thinking that with all of us sitting around baking sourdough bread and planting our gardens, wrangling children and zoom chatting that the revolution won’t need to be televised – it will just be that we’re not gonna go back to the way things were because we’re getting some quality time to develop new habits. I Think the dreaded virus may be affording our world the opportunity to make a mega shift…so that we can actually EVOLVE into caring about each other.

Oh my, I’m sounding like my old hippie self! Whoopee!

Tune in.

Days of my Life #24

My deceased second ex-husband, Peter, was a volatile SOB whose idiomatic language would always amuse and infuriate me. It’s not exactly because of the actual words he used, it was that most of his “isms” were at the same time both silly and mean-spirited. He was a deeply injured soul. This wasn’t the reason I made him an “ex” exactly, though it may have had something to do with it.

His clever word combos often became distorted and ugly in the fury of the moment. Take for instance the quote “hangin’ would be too good for him”. (Which now might be applied to certain politicians, naming no names). This particular phrase pulled an amusing verbal punch when, let’s say we might be watching soccer and the ref made a decision about which “Ex#2” disagreed. Obviously, it was a game. Obviously, “no one should ever be hung,” I would remark. “Maybe the ref’s uniform might be removed, trampled, then hung out to dry…a more humiliating but undeadly experience.” I’d suggest. He would momentarily look at me, or in my direction, I couldn’t tell, pause, then just crack open another beer and continue his tirade against people who could not possibly hear him, and I would move to another room or go for a walk and eventually told him to take a hike, permanently…off a cliff I might’ve said, though conveniently I can’t remember. Alcoholics do drive people away…or people tell them to get their keys and leave. I did the latter. He died a few years later. When I heard I vomited all over the driveway.

Words, singularly or bunched together, can really pack a wallop. I do recall being called a collection of names by bullies when I was in grammar school. Yes, they called it grammar school in those days before spell check and voice recognition. We learned a good deal of grammar and spelling and even the beginnings of how to think, critically. The bullies, as I recall, were not concerned with using grammar – they did their damndest to belittle me and utilized some sort of critical thinking in their focus of my large eyes and curly hair, which unbeknownst to them would later be my best and most enviable attributes.

Who would’ve known, in those days of relative innocence and teachers, then woefully ignorant of dyslexia and hyperactive kids, who advised my parents I’d probably never be able to read, much less write properly, that people would later pay me good money to put words together (those foolish, big city newspaper editors) or that I would author books and plays and have my words reach across the world to people I didn’t even know, just by the push of a button.

Ah, notoriety, or whatever this is that you might wanna call it. I’m delighted when I craft words together these days because I never know exactly what is going to happen. I owe my turns of phrase and in discovering expressive art to a woman I met years ago who became my teacher and friend. Whatever spirits watch over me must shake their heads (or whatever body part they might have) to demonstrate their disbelief at what situations I find myself and then the methods I use to I create my way through it all.

Life is strange, isn’t it? I mean now, it’s totally weirdo, wacko, sci-fi, with governments coming out admitting ufos are real, that we have a five year old running the USA telling people to stick lights up/in their orofices, and that his cadre of ass kissers have thrown any semblance of critical, or for that matter, humanitarian thinking out the window…etc. I mean really?

Even without wading through the above exaggerated bull poop, which most of us would love to do without, life can be pretty unexpected and often wonderful. We don’t have to be mean-spirited or cruel, but we can find creative ways to use our words to express ourselves, to get our point/s across and make our world a better place. I’m working on it.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #23

Little Red Riding Hood. You remember the story don’t you? Ya know the one where Mom warns Red about the Wolf, and naive little Ms.Hood ignores her mommy’s wise words as she hops and skips through the forest to visit G’ma, only to be preyed upon by the big bad Lupus?

Myths have been used in every culture to impart wisdom, though not in a Disney way as most of us were conditioned to believe. Well the Riding hood story came to my somewhat imaginative mind this morning as I was reading the news (or should I say, perusing the tales being woven by various and sundry) media outlets. Since i was just sitting here at home, metaphorically twiddling my thumbs I chose to give the various players in this global drama some mythical names and twist the Red story, in order to fashion something interesting and perhaps clarifying (should you wish it) for all you in Blogland.

The Bluebees in The Hood

Once upon a time there was a bunch of Momsies who told their offspring, the Bluebees, to take some goodies and pay a visit to their Grandmas who were stuck at home, because of the Big Bad Reddies who were causing a great awfulness on the planet. “Watch for those BBR’s, both the ones you can see and those you can’t, because they are very dangerous. Also look out for the Ignoramies, cause they don’t pay attention to their Momsies. And touch nothing, keep your mask on…and don’t dawdle… you get yourselves to your Grandmas ASAP, and when you get there, wash everything and absolutely don’t let anyone in who’s been hanging out with the BBR’s.”

Now a trip so far from one’s hood and one so full of distractions can be especially tempting, even for the most careful, well behaved of Bluebees, but ours, after a long hot afternoon trek, got sidetracked with a break along the Amazon, to watch some mind numbing vision, and to have a wee snack.

Some of the Bluebees had been complaining about the hardship of having to wear masks – some wanted to occupy themselves with something other than visiting Grandma and some just wanted to bitch moan for the sake of it. They put down their bags of goodies and began to relax. It was then that they heard a rustle in the bushes (though it could have been one of the Bluebees’ chip bags, but whatever). The Bluebees all jumped up, remembering the Momsies’ warning, quickly gathered their stuff, donned their masks and hurried on a bit farther.

They were, one can only estimate the exact distance, but in our approximation, two thirds of the way up a hill and almost at Grandmas, when they saw a bunch of red balls bouncing toward them, weaving indiscriminately about but definitely in their path. “Yikes it’s the Big Bad Reddies!” They cried. The Bluebees scattered and climbed up the nearest trees, watching in horror. “Whew! That was close!” They remarked to one another, as some began to descend their respective trees, thinking the coast was clear. “Hold on,” said one of the older Bluebees, “Remember, there might be some BBR’s we cannot see, so we should be very careful from now on.”

A few of the Bluebees, paid no heed, took off their masks as they hit the ground and were soon met by a loud, ragtag group of Ignoramies, none of whom were wearing masks, and had the gross affectation of wiping their faces with dirty hands. The Ignoramies laughed at the Bluebees and their fear of the BBR’s. The more cautious Bluebees could see their friends quickly getting swept up by the noisy crowd. Only when they had passed by and could no longer be seen, did the sensible Bluebees cautiously come down from their safe perches.

With shaking heads and mournful sighs at the loss of some of their friends, the Bluebees headed to their Grandmas’ homes where they washed everything before entering, put on fresh masks to make sure they didn’t infect their loved ones and set about to unpack the goodies.

The Grandmas were very happy to know they were cared for, fed the Bluebees delicious soup and homemade bread and made certain to not open the door to the Big Bad Reddies or any Ignoramies at least until the Momsies gave the All Clear.

The moral of my story? Don’t be an Ignoramie, Beware of the Big Bad Reddies and wait til the Momsies say it’s safe.

Tune in.

Main Characters

Momsies- mother’s/scientists/epidemiologists, i.ei. people with our best interest at heart

Bluebees – you, me and some of the mostly thinking public.

Big Bad Reddies -the nasty virus

Ignoramies- those who care nothing for anyone but themselves

Grandmas-our friends/family/neighbors

Days of my Life #17

Are you at a loss for what to do? I am. And this is odd, since I have always thought my creativity was endless, that it would never be a problem to imaginatively concoct/solve something/anything which would occupy my time, give me a feeling of satisfaction and cause further exploration.

Am I complaining? Naw! What would be the point? Besides, I am well aware of and consistently grateful I have the luxury to await something to do during these more than strange times. For this reason I have made the choice to seek out a new “good” habit to practice daily.

Oh no. A regular pastime for a person as I, whose attention span is perfectly in line with daytime television avec ten minute ad breaks? Is this me, laughing at the possibility I might actually adopt regular daily weight training exercise or carb counting? The former, maybe, but counting calories is beyond anything worthy of my consideration.

It was just yesterday I was discussing how much and how little things might change once we are free to go about our business again. My immediate concern, and maybe because today is Earth Day…(And also my dear son’s thirty-seventh birthday), is: Are we going back (whenever that is) to polluting our planet at the same abhorrent rate or will we have awakened our sense of responsibility for all life? Will or can our world change for the good?

Oh yes, I’m on a roll… My inner Eco-warrior is beginning to reawaken and she is revving up her solar powered scooter to kick some wasteful do-badders butts. Where shall I start? With myself. I’m going to go through my trash, remove non recyclable stuff (that isn’t rotten or stinky) and make something to commemorate Earth Day. But wait a moment… first I need to clear the presently dirty air with my daughter.

Okay, I’m back and that didn’t go well. You see my six year old grandson, and possibly his mother, decided I am the pariah, and may be the cause of his little narcissistic brain to have problems, consequently I am the brunt of his occasionally but disturbingly nasty behavior. Apparently nothing I do will quell his temper for much longer than it takes for him to consume the food I prepare with grandmotherly love or destroy the art project we had initially begun together. And when I loudly voice my dismay/shock/horror when he chooses to swing a six foot metal curtain rod in my direction, like he did last night, while I was trying to eat dinner, I get reprimanded by my daughter for doing so. “Don’t yell at him. Obviously, You are the adult and doing something wrong,” She just told me in so many words, for reacting, and now has suggested I read the books “see, here they are” on dealing with hyper sensitive children, which I have, at length, ad nauseum. Hmmm. What would you do if some kid tried to maim you? I know what my grandmother might’ve done, but back then we were taught to speak and act with respect toward our elders, which I am. Times are different, especially now in the times of pandemic-monium.

It could be said that the poor kid is having problems, like the rest of us, but this behavior came down long before the virus caused us to be confined to quarters, only now it’s in my (closer than I deem safe), face. As a result I am hyper-vigilant, often finding myself tiptoeing so as not to disturb the beast, because, believe it or not, though in my own mind a super hero, I seek not to go to urgent care. The poor thing believes I am the reason his father doesn’t live at the house anymore. One can only wonder where he got that idea since dad was long gone when I moved in.

Am I considering a move or at the very least extended trip? Maybe. But where…and more importantly when and in what condition will I be?

To her credit, I don’t think my daughter, a single parent, has an easy time of this – she is doing a pretty good job at parenting an obviously challenged, bright, creative in his own right, angry kid. She, herself, was a near-perfect child…always speaking and acting rationally – was even given the title “professional preschooler” by her teachers when she was four as she resolved quarrels on the playground. Yes all kids are different, but sheesh!

How can anyone prepare, much less cope, with a child whose operating system constantly is at odds with those who care for him and they are consistently penalized for their efforts? Her level-headedness is required in her job counseling senior high school students through the challenges of both teen drama and college prep. But dealing with other people’s kids problems is often a hell of a lot easier than when it’s your own kid having a (very) rough patch.

I also don’t envy my daughter’s task of dealing with my fears resulting from the abuse being meted out by her rapidly growing offspring. While a temporary solution for me might be to Hide out in my room, venturing out into the rest of the house when the kid is plugged into mind-altering media, asleep, being entertained by his mom or at his dads, it’s not long term or good. A friend just offered her place as another possibility but that seems like I’m giving in to the whims of a tiny sociopath, and super heroes never retreat! I’ve even considered having California friends ship me edibles so I’ll be too high to give a fuck, about anything, but that stuff just makes me depressed and jail in Texas doesn’t have much appeal.

No, I think I’m just gonna head on over to my studio and thrash around, create with the trash to give me a sense of purpose, satisfaction and ease, at least for now. Then book a session with my therapist.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #13

Mocha is currently tap dancing in her sleep on the cushion next to the bed. Her soft shoe/paw is tapping at the cabinet abutting the cushion. This is why I am awake at 3am. I suppose I could’ve just gone back to sleep but then I got up for a glass of water, a visit to the bathroom and thought “might as well stay up and write.” So, here I am. Excuse my mini-yawn.

Daughter and grandson baked a delicious “it’s not my birthday“ strawberry/lemon cake yesterday. We ate it twelve hours ago. I could eat more now but then I’d have to start my intermittent fasting program tomorrow and I’m on a roll with changing old habits, consuming delectable treats being one of them.

Yes, I like many, have expanded my waistline during this time of pandemic uncertainty which I also call my “so what if I have another piece of something to placate my feelings of insecurity” time. Though the ig (immediate gratification) – of shoving snacks stuff into my mouth is momentarily satisfying, it has the unfortunate result of making my clothes tighter, hence I am putting the kibosh on the ig. Plus I am in no mood to shop, which is probably not good for the economy but then spending money on fashion is not good for my wallet, especially now.

I must say (since apparently I have to) that the uncertainty I am sensing is one shared by millions of Americans who are sitting on the ends of their chairs/beds/sofas/etc., some with baited breath others with a hand in their bag of chips, wondering, just when this virus of unspeakable proportions will disappear and we can all go outside and play in the sunshine (those who are independently wealthy) or go back to work, many at two or three jobs due to lack of a living wage and ridiculous rent.

Being a person with too much imagination, and a sense of “por quoi pas?” I am picturing at least two scenarios on the day we exit our abodes:

1. People are singing aloud “free at last” in a sort of high school musical rendition of Porgy and Bess (without the sadness, death, violence, slavery). The children wave as they head off to their schools momentarily forgetting bullies, drills for shootings and fire. Beauty spas, open their doors to people with clogged pores from eating too much sugar, expanded waistlines from same and kinks in their necks from watching Netflix in bed.

2. People stay indoors, depressed, watching others go off to work, gazing back at the pink slips, along with stacks of unpaid bills, on the table which have been gathering dust for the past weeks…and wondering if there will be an election or if Trump is now a fulltim3 golfing dictator.

Excuse me, I must escape for a moment, because I see myself spiraling into a dark hole of pessimism and that will totally screw up any possibility of my going back to sleep without nightmarish dreams. I’m going to walk it off.

Okay, that did absolutely nada, except make me realize I’m actually tired, so I’ll continue this when I wake up again. Wish me luck. Zzzzzzzz

I’m back. Have you had one of those days, in let’s say the past month, where you just wanted to yell FUCK! Repeatedly? Today, even after getting at least 38 1/2 extra winks, is one for me. But, rather than have the entire virtual page filled with that ever so satisfying word, I’ll just get out the thoughts which have been bubbling up inside of me. Read at your own risk.

Besides the fact we are all sincerely worried about our fellow family/community members being carried out in body bags and not being able to attend in person funerals/wakes/memorials where we can cry in each others arms to further spread those nasty germs of wretched plague, it is also time to worry about our basic civil rights, to say nothing of our votes, being conveniently frittered away.

Now hold on a pretty second..I am not one of them gun-toting-Trump-frenzied morons who are calling for civil war in front of the governor’s mansion in this here “keep it weird” Austin, Texas. No indeed. I am sitting here in the convenience and comfort of my home, having washed my hands at least fourteen times since I got up three hours ago – it is now high noon in the Wild West, contemplating where we go from here. A Facebook “friend” has spoken to me about how things don’t exactly add up, that we are all caught up in the fear frenzy which has been fed by news from near and far and thus we may be seeing the erosion of personal freedoms like never before. And to this, I agree in some part. I know we must tread carefully with our eyes open to what is happening around us. The unease I feel is that we cannot possibly know what is really happening and that is the truly scary shit in which we are wading, now knee deep. Who and what can you believe?

The dis-ease we are feeling/witnessing has caused most of us to be neurotic about things, (like the right to vote or being killed by dreaded virus)…we had barely even considered these before. It is said it takes approximately thirty days to change a habit. Besides the obvious issue of exercising constitutional rights, do those habits in peril also include no more kissing hello, smiling at strangers, dining with a group of friends, hanging out at a concert, shopping unmasked, working in an office, kids playing on a playground …etc.?

In case you haven’t already done so, I hope I’ve given you Something to think about. And now I’m going to stick my head outside to yell you know what.

Tune in.