My wife is working from home. She’s a garbage collector.
I also work from home and cook at home. During these strange Corona times, let’s just say we’ve been overloading on carbs. So, instead of staying six feet from away from a stranger, we’ve made a decision to stay six feet away from carbs. She tried to kiss me this morning, and I ran away. She yelled at me and called me a carb.
While going to the store today, I walked across a person wearing a Los Angeles Dodger cap. It wasn’t a mask. It was a baseball hat. Out of the blue, I said, “Go Dodgers!”
She said, “I wish….will baseball season ever start?”
It was a quick six foot walk by, but I wanted to stop her and tell her something about baseball. It hasn’t began, but it will never end.
Boris Johnson, Prime Minister of the United Kingdom, who looks like a muppet, (that’s mean) is in the intensive care unit with the Corona Virus. He ignored the virus before taking it seriously. I don’t know much about Boris, but a friend of mine said, “He is more intelligent than Trump.” My reply was, “Who isn’t?”
“Broken Furniture” sounds like a song I may or may not have heard as an infant. I did, however, grow up with a band of sisters and brothers whose only instruments were their fists and shouts. According to our friend, Vic, we lived in a madhouse. This is nonfictional.
Our friend, Vic, tells me stories about this madhouse when I was too young to remember the stories. Actually, I wasn’t even born before Vic began studying our family values. Those values included breaking furniture, bloodying noses and saying “Grace” before dinner. This was followed by more broken furniture, backyard wrestling and sleeping on the lawn if they didn’t settle down.
Vic once asked my father a logical question , wondering if we were poor, “Can’t you afford new furniture?”
Our father responded with equal logic. “We’ll buy new furniture when they are all gone. It would be a ridiculous waste of money if we paid for it now.”
Vic couldn’t help but understand and laugh.
My sister, Anne, said something very discerning to me yesterday. I didn’t want to believe it, but she was correct. Currently, every day is groundhog day. I’m referring to the movie with an unknown actor, Bill Murray. I remember the actor. I don’t remember the groundhog’s name. His or her name may be Corona. I don’t know.
We wake up every day, thankfully, feeding the dogs and the cats, try to workout if you have the time, and talk to Amazon Alexa,..that’s her full name.
I have a friend who not only works for Amazon, she actually knows Alexa. (she’s actually pretty sweet) We ask her about the weather, and then curse the jigsaw puzzle we can’t finish, and Alexa curses when she can’t help as well. She’s now staying with us. Alexa showed up, in person, not to say hello, how are you today? She wanted to look at the puzzle. She’s still working on the puzzle. “Alexa, when are you leaving?”
I wish to provide clarification for my friend, Mark, living in what he calls Cell Block Number Three. That’s the third floor where he lives in Los Angeles. He’s in lock down. I guess six feet away sometimes feels worse than being six feet under.
Regarding the Virus, I’ve written with regard to Mark’s attitude. I think he’s correct. Where do we stand? Where do we sit? Where do we eat? I feel the same, but don’t always have the guts to say it.
He does take it seriously, and he’s been nothing but thankful to his son, Trevor, for providing help which is not easy in L.A.. What is easy right now? Nothing. Even this jigsaw puzzle is driving us mad.
“You’re a bigger pain in the ass than the Coronavirus!”
That was the quote from my ninety something year old friend, Marshall, to his son, Trevor, wishing his father would take this Virus seriously.
Marshall, frustrated with how much his son was going out of his way to keep him alive, also mentioned how he hadn’t planned on licking the streets when on a walk in Los Angeles. Delightful banter.
Living through the Not so Great or Not so Wonderful Depression, I guess Marshall has been through a hell of a lot more than us, so as much as his son tries to help, he’d rather just enjoy the day without worrying about his demise. He’ll probably live longer than us. I guess, selfishly, that’s what we want.
Writing is never easy, unless you talk to my wife for less than seven seconds regarding the confused guy she, or even an intelligent child, should replace as the Potus. No disrespect to my wife. (she’s not a child)
My wife recently stated, “I want to cough all over that guy.” (She’s not even from Jersey)
She also wants to beat him up, kick him in the balls, and yada yada yada…….
Britt, my wife, who doesn’t allow me use her real name, is refined enough to only entertain me with this banter in the warmness of our home. I’m choosing to write this because, sadly, I think it’s a little funny, and I enjoy celebrating and sharing her gift of humor. I will also sacrifice my balls if she becomes the next US President. The V.P, of course, will be a mechanical monkey.
I’m so pleased to be on her good side.
Peanuts, hotdogs, baseball and beer. Oh, and friends appreciating the same, in fact, encouraging you to embrace the wonderful things in life.
Recently speaking to one of the terrific and closest friends in my life, (amongst others…I’m very blessed) and considering the Corona pandemic, I was worried about his health. He’s almost one hundred and thirteen years old. Rather than giving a Yankee dime about his age, or a virus, his focus was on baseball.
I wish everyone in this wild world could hear his passionate voice. “What the Hell about opening Day!?!” He didn’t have to remind me of it, Opening Day has been delayed over health concerns. He watches baseball, coached it, and allowed me to enter his home when we could either watch or listen to any game on TV or the radio. Those were magnificent days. We’d laugh at the announcers, make fun of foolish fans, speak of players’ salaries and then retreat to our home field: Indian Stadium in Spokane, Washington. One dollar hotdogs and beer. Best dogs ever. I guess you could wonder if we were the best dogs in the stadium. I’m tired of wondering. On those glorious evenings, amidst the lights in a balmy seventy degree city, we found joy. I still can’t thank him enough.
The games? It didn’t matter to me who was winning. Believe me, I HATE losing, and I LOVE winning. Anyone telling you differently is selling something. This fellow made me recognize how we can love something, and for three hours, forget about everything else.
Marshall St. John, my friend, encouraged me to enjoy the very, very difficult and wonderful sport of baseball. Opening day will be missed, but our games will not be forgotten.
