This afternoon I donned a pair of black Semperforce examination gloves from the box and headed out into the open to run errands. I bought the box years ago as part of my gear for cooking with the Big Green Egg because it’s a wonderful, messy process that involves building a fire from big pieces of charcoal. Sigh. Those were the salad days! Long before the world got its trial run at the Zombie Apocalypse. If this was something like a new strain of airborne Ebola—dear Lord in Heaven. And we’re failing by-the-way. At least here in Washington. Our governor is hoping that Gen Pop will do the right things and practice Safe Pandemic—keeping a distance, wearing gloves, not wearing face masks, and staying at home unless you really need to get out. Nope. I just braved the wilds of a Target, and it looked like any other time I’d been to a Target—Too much florescent lighting. Khaki, and metric tons of planet-killing, clutter-inducing shit that no one needs (pssst…no one wants) at discount prices. Not one pair of gloves in sight. I must have looked the closet things to a bubble child the young ones have ever seen. Oh, but I saw masks. Good luck with that, morons! Go ahead and walk around forced to inhale your own chronic halitosis while the Coronavirus collects on the ten digits you’re using to touch every, every, ev-er-y-thing. I don’t have to be an elected public official to know that people are stupid. We are way beyond a shared understanding of civic duty. We can’t rely on our neighbors to take anything seriously because they don’t have skin in the game. We can’t expect them too because they have everything and yet nothing to lose. I bet there’s a parable from the Greeks or Romans about this. A lesson from Classic Literature, but I went to a rural high school in the middle of Alaska, so the closest I got was Call of the Wild. And the only thing I can remember about that book is the dog dying at the end and how much I cried. So, maybe I got a classical education after all.
Last week, I was called to duty to help co-write a book. A guide, really. Counting all of my notes and edits, I got out ten thousand words. I’ve never written so much so quickly. Now it feels like I need to be writing all of the time. And so I’m sitting here fist pounding the keyboard into the only form of freestyle I know. From my mind straight to yours—raw! I was shooting at virtual competitors, controlled no doubt by an array of nine-to-fourteen-year-olds. In the past, that’s helped bring some balance; brought my mind some peace. But after cranking out enough words to fill an entire palette, there was something that said, “you need to shut this crap down and get back up on the keyboard.”
I got an email from Amazon asking me if I still wanted the thing I ordered even though it was on backorder until June. What am I, Amish? This is America. I don’t have time to wait another six weeks. So, I went to Target because the computer said they have many in stock. Guess what? The computer lied. I don’t know why I trust that source of information because it’s always wrong. Always! As soon as I got home, I placed another order but bought the more expensive option because that one is in stock.
In other news, one week from now, my Zoom video is going to look broadcast quality. Totally worth it.
The table-to-table meeting between Airbag and Forestry representatives has been postponed for obvious reasons. That said, I can already feel the need to migrate this site to Kirby. Especially after seeing Cameron launch his site earlier this week. And thanks to Corona, there’s never been a better time. Which reminds me, Cameron, I’ll go learn this new CMS while you should bring back Wicked Worn.
Last thing, and then I shall return to shooting children, Cameron is writing about mental health. And given these interesting times, I can see this being a beneficial resource sooner than later.