Days of my Life #41

Ya know, when I woke up this morning all I could think about was the amazing robot vacuum cleaner that had done an absolutely superb job sucking up all the undesirable crap from my floor. Happy to have such a friendly, efficient little rolling vacuuming machine, I decided to immediately do my morning routine in the bathroom after which I planned to make my regular cup of almost java and tune in to what was happening in the world. Yuck!

Reading the news jarred me into an uncomfortable reality and I was reminded of the following song.

The Merry Minuet

By The Kingston Trio

They’re rioting in Africa

They’re starving in Spain

There’s hurricanes in Florida

And Texas needs rain

The whole world is festering with unhappy souls

The French hate the Germans, the Germans hate the Poles

Italians hate Yugoslavs, South Africans hate the Dutch

And I don’t like anybody very much!!

But we can be tranquil and thankful and proud

For man’s been endowed with a mushroom-shaped cloud

And we know for certain that some lovely day

Someone will set the spark off

And we will all be blown away!!

They’re rioting in Africa

There’s strife in Iran

What nature doesn’t do to us

Will be done by our fellow man

Yes, I had hinted in previous posts that I would do my utmost to not bring up politics, since everyone else has been doing such a bang up job reminding us all how fucked up things are. But when the misogynistic, racist, hate-mongering (I could go on, but why) conman with that fat derrière occupying the now tainted White House is fomenting a second civil war, I figured I might as well pipe up with my, welcome or not, opinion.

I mean really. Here we progressive democrats are, sitting on the edge of our sofas, remotes in hand, locked down, masks, Lysol and sourdough at the ready, Zooming, chatting, tuning in to the news, making us want to go into the streets to yell, “No more fucking murders of innocent people of color, no more gun toting, impotent yokels threatening to take down governors who disagree with them, no more asshat Pennsylvania Republicans quarantining themselves yet spitting their covid-tainted vitriol on Democrats across the aisle, no more homelessness, no more corporate welfare…etc. and no more DT or McC or any of those who choose to inspire hate.

But what the hell will marching in the streets do? The racism rampant in our cities’ police departments will continue to uphold their distortion of the law, until education, empathy and compassion replace it. This week we have seen the continuation of systemic racism, the hatefilled rhetoric of a demented, narcissistic President, the frustrated masses who are fed up with the status quo.

People are so angry, frustrated, afraid and confused, which I believe, by the way has been designed and fostered quite carefully, by some very powerful and inhuman feudal monsters. Those same very horrible persons could give a rats ass about you, me or our family, friends and neighbors. What I believe they want is total dissolution of our right to liberty and justice for all. This is not a theory ..undeniably there truly is a horrid conspiracy against the American people. This may be shocking to some.

That’s gotta change.

This shitstorm of massive proportions has me asking ..Where the hell is “Love thy Neighbor” and the Golden Rule? Must one’s neighbor be of the same skin color or religion or nationality or sexual preference, or for that matter political affiliation in order to give and receive love? Was this just something we were made to memorize for the hell of it? And speaking of hell who do these evil doers think they are to impose their darkness on those of us who choose harmony and light? Do they wish the majority of people to become immune to their nefarious deeds so they can continue to wreak their havoc upon the heart and soul of America? Yep, I think so.

For it is not only the alleged “leaders” with whom we have mistakenly given power but the ill-informed, the stupid, the greedy, the lackeys who choose to continue their support of them. It doesn’t take a Mensa to see how so many have been duped and have dug their moral hole so deep they cannot get out without ripping their sense of humanity to shreds. The astute designers of this abhorrent “con” have been quite upfront about it, So much so that those of us who watch in horror can only shake our heads, bewildered by such evil and yet pondering how to combat this effectively, quickly, and finally to obliterate it once and for all.

This same despicable, malignant scourge, as we who know humanity’s history, has been here, done that, before, more than once. And some of said “never again” and still…it is here, again or rather it has crawled out again. Out damn spot.

Not too many years ago I saw the movie Idiocracy. I was appalled and frightened by the stupidity of the characters. See it if you haven’t yet. I am now more than a little concerned we as a nation may be heading down a similar and but much less comedic path. I worry. Our children and grandchildren may be the “future”, but exactly what are we giving them? Can we possibly give them more than thoughts and prayers?

I am asking myself why am I, a child of the last century, so intent on making better the world when others care not? And while I consider myself damn smart I cannot answer, at least not yet.

I was so pleased to wake up and know that while I slept a tiny robot sucked up the unnecessary debris on the floor of my home. Perhaps tonight, while I dream a more powerful robot will come and vacuum up those who choose hate over love, greed over charity…for they are the unwelcome debris of humanity and those who follow us deserve better.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #40

Song in my head: Tossing n Turning

There’s always a reason stuff pops in my head when I first awaken. This time it’s obvious. I went to sleep itchin and a scratchin this annoying spot at my left wrist where some little hungry insect stuck their pointy fangs in me. Am I that tasty? Naw. Otherwise I’d be riddled with additional marks and that would’ve decreased my sleep even more.

I remember waking at three, determined to hunt down an effective remedy for my discomfort. With less than half my brain working, which half is debatable as the part I was working with was having a hell of a time focusing on the task at hand, I began noisily rummaging through the cabinet housing my various homeopathic vials of pellets, ointments and tinctures. Even in my sleepy itchy stupor I knew what I was looking for but either I wasn’t reading the bottles and jars correctly or I had neglected to open the right drawer, because it wasn’t until I methodically opened and inspected each of the twelve drawers twice in one smaller cabinet, did I finally discover the tincture “Ledum Palustre”.

“Aha!” I remarked loudly, half expecting daughter would run into my room asking if I were okay. Thankfully my “aha” was not loud enough to waken her yet now I was fully awake and ready to apply my discovered remedy to the point of my discomfort, the bug bite. Only now the squeezy thing for the bottle dropper was determined to stay attached to the bottle so that when I attempted to unscrew it, it wouldn’t fucking budge. “Grrr!” I proclaimed, enough to have Porter the lab raise his head off the bed, but not enough to get up to examine the source. It also didn’t move the the stopper.

I knew I had to calm myself or I would either wake up the entire household or break the damn bottle, neither would be the desired outcome of my wee hour foray for a cure to what ailed me.

Mumbling unintelligible sounds, even to me, I very slowly began to twist the tiny bottle top, eventually (and surprisingly not breaking it in the process), separating the upper top and rubber thingie from the lower bottle. “Eureka!” I whispered, this time, as I dabbled droplets of Ledum onto the little circle of red on my arm and waited for the pain and itching to miraculously subside, which it did, as I knew it would.

Now that’s I’m wide awake, because it’s morning and I’ve applied another few drops of tincture on the “spot”, I’ve had warm, brewed water processed decaf espresso and a freshly made sourdough bagel (thanks to the first fruit of my womb who is currently on a baking frenzy), I can say unequivocally that homeopathy works when one knows what they’re doing, even in semi-sleep, which I do.

Of course the debate about the efficacy of homeopathy continues elsewhere, because there are tons of people out there who are unaware of it, or have totally bought into the Big Pharma machine or are too skeptical for their own damn good. And I’m not here to explain homeopathy this time.

I, however, thankfully, learned over forty years ago, when facing the looming possibility of either radical or full mastectomy, because one of my breasts had grown into resembling a personal size watermelon while the other was not even a B cup, that it is a quite viable, effective and truly Hippocratic “do no harm” form of healing.

When three renowned breast specialists, one in Canada, and two in the USA and my frantic mother who worshipped regularly at “Our Lady of Kaiser Permanente”, told twenty-three year old me I’d need life changing surgery, I screamed “Stop!” After which my very helpful older sister drove me to the Herring Family Clinic in Berkeley California (it’s no longer there) for a two hour appointment with a classical homeopath. I had never heard of one before that, nor did I even know what homeopathy was.

I recall driving from San Francisco across the Bay bridge, filling out forms, sitting with a very nice youngish man who asked me even more questions than were on the forms, watching him look at me then writing some notes, after which he excused himself, and left the room for what seemed like at least an hour, or more. There I sat, with a ridiculously mismatched pair of boobs, scared, in a room filled with magazines I had absolutely no interest in reading, when he reappeared before me with a small bottle of teensy white pills. Handing me perhaps an eighth of a teaspoon full of the pellets he instructed me to open my mouth, insert the pills under my tongue, neither eat nor drink anything for 20 minutes, to avoid caffeine, camphor and mint and to report back in a week.

I left the office crying, bewildered, questionably thankful but determined to see this out. Within three days my watermelon was a grapefruit, within the week and at my next appointment it was a near match to its breast-mate. The knife-happy quacks were bewildered and in the land of denial when I reported the “miraculous” healing. I decided then and there I would henceforth make homeopathy my go-to health modality. And by the way, the watermelon never returned and I went on to nurse my two healthy children.

As I said, it’s obviously the reason that song popped into my brain this morn. My sleepless night was another reminder for me that homeopathy works. My itchy spot is now barely a memory. Homeopathy has saved my bacon more times than I can count.

Tune in.

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 #38

Stormy Weather

I’ve had that song dittying inside me for the past fifteen minutes.

Could it have been the storm of two nights ago or was it the recollection of my lost love? Nevertheless, today I am full of an unusual melancholy.

It’s crazy, this feeling, since the sky is blue with some cloudiness here and there and the sun is really all warm and the light is perfect, artistically inspiring – with the exception of threatening humidity and weather.com’s prediction of thunderstorms, in general I’m feeling pretty secure that the day, weatherwise, will continue to be okeedokee.

Which brings me to the other choice of my lost love. No, he didn’t go spelunking in a cave and couldn’t find his way out. He also didn’t (to my knowledge) get lost in the arms of another woman (nearly impossible). Nor did he head out around the world in a leaky canoe, or attempt to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro. Granted, those things would’ve been tough to handle and far more romantic than losing him in 2012 to fucking cancer. But the latter took him away from me and that is that.

And it’s been going on nearly eight years since the dear man went off to explore another plane of existence so I’m not even certain that the sadness I feel has anything to do with him, because this is a newish, weirdo sort of feeling. But what then?

Today I went to the Central Market to pick up what was on my “list” while daughter, grandson and Zappa the pup went off to explore the nearby pond. I donned my mask and approached the pre-sterilized shopping carts all lined up in neat rows as if they were readying themselves for adoption. I whispered to one “would you like to be my vehicle for mass consumption today?” Perhaps it was my imagination but I thought it said, “Yes! But, Do you really wanna take me for a ride?” I didn’t stop to answer because there were now a few people standing by, at the appropriate six feet, who were anxiously awaiting a cart of their very own. I also didn’t look around to note if they might’ve heard our interchange because that might’ve been slightly embarrassing.

Together we rolled up to the hand sanitizer for a couple squirts then into the produce section where I picked up a couple cukes, weighed them, printed the label, then repeated this action with peppers, celery, tomatoes, mangoes, etc., and continued throughout the store, stopping at the dairy, cheese, bakery, and deli sections, picking up probably more impulse items than I had intended, all whilst passing other masked shoppers and staff at a socially appropriate distance, eventually reaching the cashier stand where I loaded my mostly overpriced stash onto the moving belt. All the while I felt as if I were in a strange movie.

Normally, or what used to be a regular occurrence, lo those two or three months ago, I would visit Central Market on a Thursday morning to write postcards to politicians and various movers and shakers to voice either my approval/support/thanks or my words of indignation/anger/reproach, all while visiting with other progressive folk where we would schmooze and support one another during what I thought were the worst of times.

Then after my business of doing “my part” I’d hop downstairs to do some shopping for groceries, many of said delicacies are not found elsewhere in Austin. (Woe is me.) It was a purposeful day. To add to the regularity of it all I would stop at my post office box, occasionally being overjoyed to find a check from heaven knows who. Sigh.

Is my melancholy about the loss of “normal” Thursdays? Or is it something much deeper? I recently promised myself I would no longer write about things like the horrid state of the USA, or he who shall not be named, or our environment, etc. because everyone else is doing such a good, yet depressing job of it. I also made secondary promises that I wouldn’t gross people out with pictures of fluffy kittens or threaten to hold zoom meetings or do something inane like tell stupid jokes in a sort of comedic-relief sit-down on YouTube. So far, at least in several days I’ve held true to these inner vows, though the latter might actually be moderately amusing, for me anyway.

Perhaps these contracts I have made with little ole moi are what is causing my despondency. Time will tell.

Tune in.

Days of my Life #37

“How to cook a chicken.”

That’s the title of this piece except I have a feeling my inner muse is just messing with me because It is really not my intent to give you a recipe for cooking a recently thawed, currently sitting in my refrigerator, 3.5# chicken. Or is it?

I must have something better about which to write, don’t I?

Well, well, well, speaking of chicken reminds me of the restaurant in the countryside, just outside of Fribourg, Switzerland where I dined on the best fried chicken, frites and jug wine I’ve EVER tasted! Yup. The mere thought just got me salivating, big time. That plucked, rolled in flour and fresh herbs clucker was so darn good it nearly beat the pants off the sex I had been having with my, ten years younger than I, (call me cougar) German lover with whom I was dining…and that was fan-fucking-tastic lovemaking, which says heaps about the food. But enough of the foul mots or about the sex, lets get Back to the fowl and the amazing view.

It was late morning in the late spring of the late 1980’s, when we drove, talked non stop, laughed and fondled each others knees-(his car had a stick shift and I a free hand), from my “friend’s” fab apartment up in the hills above the town of Gruyere, past the laiterie with the truck-tire-sized wheels of …cheese, to Fribourg, then along a winding, picture postcard country road which eventually led us to Restaurant Grandfey.

There were so many cars, parked everywhere, even up to the entrance. I remarked, This is either the only place to eat for miles (which it was) or the best place to eat anywhere…it was that too.

There were tables outside and inside, you know, basic, no-frills round cafe style ones with center support and stackable chairs…as I recall, paper mats and napkins, but metal cutlery and as I recall there was little else to order other than poulet, frites et vin…perfectly fine for us since we had been working out steadily (use your imagination), thus were famished.

We sat outside drinking robust French jug wine, remarking about the perfect weather, bright blue skies and puffy white clouds. It was so much like a dream from which I prayed not to wake up. Soon giant plates teeming with aromatic, perfectly browned and crispy poulet and pommes frites were set before us. There were many other diners around us but few were speaking more than the occasional outburst of “oohs and aahs” in between munching bird and tater and sipping yet more red wine. We gazed affectionately at one another, holding hands over the table and caressing body parts under, in between bites. It was a time to cherish.

The day was perfect…both food and company were absolutely delicious. I prayed it would go on forever. Alas it would not. We were celebrating the end of our life changing romance with me flying in the morning back to LA and a husband who spent more time reading in the bathroom than working with me to resolve our differences. I held little hope for the continuation of either affair or marriage but I knew I had to try to make my marriage work, for the sake of my children.

That was nearly thirty years, and three husbands ago. In the summer of 2018 I attempted to contact my sweet younger man-friend to see if he and his wife would like to meet me for dinner when I was next in Switzerland, first by email (we had been in touch on and off over the years) and then through Facebook. His son contacted me to tell me his dad had died just months before of a heart attack.

When I am next able to travel I will head first to Fribourg for poulet y pommes frites, and drink a toast to those days. In the meantime, here’s my version of fried chicken ala Grandfey.

Whole chicken, washed, quartered and blotted dry

Mix together on plate big enough to hold 1/4 chicken

1 cup or more of all purpose flour

3 tablespoons herbes de provence

1.5 teas. Salt

In separate bowl

1 egg beaten with 1/2 cup milk

Sunflower oil to fry in

1. Dip each piece of chicken in egg milk mixture

2. Coat eggy chicken in flour mixture

3. Heat enough oil to cover chicken.

4. When oil is hot gently fry chicken pieces until golden brown

5. Place pieces on newspaper or towels to drain excess oil.

6. Eat.

Okay that’s what I’m going to make tonight, but without the frites or red wine.

Besides I currently have no one to play footsies with.

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 #35

The day was relatively quiet since most of it was spent with my head buried in yet another book. I fear I may have found my addiction…books, currently time traveling romance novels where a sexy, intelligent man is able to de-asshole himself right in the nick of time before the able, bright, not-yo-distressed-damsel either kicks his butt or leaves him. She don’t take shit from no one, she is also my hero(ine ) and one whose skills I aim to perfect.

Now you might ask why a seventy year old woman, whose mind, heart (and body, most days) of someone much younger would consciously flip pages of a (formerly known as dimestore) novel of questionable quality.

My reasons are quite simple. I think the time in which we are living requires us to look differently at our world, and I’m increasingly flummoxed as to which might be the best way, therefore I am crawling inside the pages of books to peek at heroines as they solve the many challenges they face…just in case there are ideas I can use. All this plus the books I’m reading have just the right amount of erotica to keep me from nodding off when the verbiage seems annoyingly tedious or the naivety makes me want to pull the character aside for a little tête-à-tête to put them on the right track.

I may have mentioned in one of my earlier word floods that I don’t particularly care for murder mysteries. Why? Because murder is stupid, heartless and a ridiculous solution to any problem, and it is most often messy, which means I’d not be great at a real crime scene. Look everyone dies, eventually, so why would a person want to carry around the burden of having offed someone? And if they don’t care about the repercussions…that’s just plain stupid and stupid people make mistakes and unless they want to get caught, which I suppose some murderers do, they will. Plus, like any form of violence, killing someone does not solve anything but instead creates bigger hassles like getting the blood out of a perfectly good pair of nikes or that silk ruffled blouse that cost an arm and a leg (hopefully not from one of the victims). Murder mysteries are just plain difficult to clean up. Call me the Marie Kondo of literature, I prefer sensual tales and donate Agatha Christie’s and the like to charity.

What about Historic nonfiction? Though exceedingly informative, it can only hold my attention for perhaps twenty minutes at a time. I long ago realized that history often repeats itself (shudder) but that history is most often written by the conquerors. It’s in the eye of the beholder. One can only wonder what historians will record about this period.

I spent a good many years delving into metaphysics and spirituality. A pile of books are in one corner of my living room beckoning me to dust them off for another perusal…but I’m not “there” yet. Who knows what my future holds…perhaps I’ll discover in one of those books.

Did I mention I’m writing my autoB? I’m doing it because most of my former friends and lovers have either moved onto another plain of existence, they don’t read, or I don’t care what they’d think…all this and my kids have asked I do this. I suppose people may consider some of my antics interesting, besides it’s probably good mental exercise.

With so much time on my hands and no place in particular to go, without a mask and hand sanitizer, reading books aren’t the worst I could when it comes to a serious habit and not one I need ever break.

Tune in.