Okay, maybe it's time to check our priorities.
There is currently a laundry list of catastrophes awaiting our review.
Let's begin with the global pandemic. It's a global thing, so it seems like maybe it could be the top of the charts. Still, it's primarily a human thing and if there wasn't climate change on the menu then there might be a way to bring all our focus to bear on that. The sad irony of these two items is that they are connected. Since the outbreak of COVID-19, there has been a reduction in global CO2 emissions. With everybody stuck inside, fewer trips to Burger King and Disneyland, the damage we were doing daily to our planet slowed down. It never stopped, but it was slowed. Humans were dying by the thousands, but the world breathed a sigh of relief.
Metaphorically anyway.
A couple of months into the shutdown created by COVID-19, George Floyd was murdered by a police officer. It is possible that if we all hadn't been locked away with our twenty-four hour news cycle which fed us the horrifying video and the tensions that boiled over, we might have simply stuck it on a list of racist tragedies that we would get to later. But once again, the virus gave us an opening. We could organize. We could assemble our thoughts. We could hold ourselves and others accountable. With just a little time to reflect, it became apparent that there really was no viable counterargument to Black Lives Matter. We even had a chance to consider other items like defunding the police. Election Reform. Restorative Justice.
Okay, not everyone spent their time focusing on some of these big picture bits. Some of us looked inward. Not necessarily in reflection, but more of a chance to imagine how all of this could be our fault. It couldn't possibly be our fault.
Could it?
Because that would be a much bigger problem. Personal responsibility for what happens to our world is starting to sound like a really big problem. Turns out learning to be human is going to take a lot more work. So, let's start by wearing masks. Treating everyone with respect. Limiting our CO2 emissions. Opening Disneyland.
Okay. Maybe it's time to start over again.
From the top.
Tuesday, July 07, 2020
Monday, July 06, 2020
A Bigger Boat
I watched Jaws with my son on Father's Day. Perhaps not the most peculiar choice, especially when you consider the fact that poor parenting decisions allowed him to miss seeing the godfather of all summer blockbusters. I aimed to make this better for him.
And if, for some obscure reason all your own, you have managed to avoid seeing this quintessential Steven Spielberg feature, it could be that some of what I am about to relate might sail right past you. Like a shark on its way to bigger prey. Or perhaps now would be an excellent time to click on over to the streaming service of your choice and spend the necessary two hours and four minutes it takes to digest this bit of Americana.
Maybe you'll just want to take my word for this: Mayor Vaughn of Amity, played by Murray Hamilton, is the anticipation of what would become our current "president." A stuffed shirt with a predilection for ugly blazers decorated with naval anchors, this is a chief executive who shines primarily as a beacon on his community's economy. He is made aware that there is a killer shark prowling the shores of his town but he insists that the beaches stay open. The Fourth of July is coming, and no "boating accident" is going to shut down all that business coming from the mainland. After a few citizens are consumed as a matter of course, an ichthyologist arrives on the scene and lets the local authorities that what they have on their hands is a Great White. A twenty foot eating machine. On the Fourth of July, even with a whole bunch of deputies and lifeguards on hand, the shark makes a meal out of a young boy and his rubber raft in front of all those now less-than-enthusiastic tourists. And a guy in a rowboat. And probably Pippin the dog. It's a pretty gory mess. Not the type of thing that makes for a promotion for seaside fun. At the hospital, as the police chief's son is being cared for after witnessing the slaughter up close and personal, the mother of the raft sandwich shows up and slaps the chief. That's when he decides to do whatever it takes to get rid of the beast that has been plaguing their coast.
In this model, the shark is the virus. The ichthyologist is Doctor Fauci or any one of a number of experts who have tried to reason with the capitalists who are willing to put their neighbors on the buffet table to save their T-shirt shops. I'm going to cast the chief of police as California's governor, Gavin Newsom, because I think he's got a Roy Scheider kind of vibe. The mayor? That one's easy. The guy who continues to insist that the virus will "just go away." The guy who keeps pointing to the stock market and jobs report while thousands of Americans continue to die every single day. Who is going to be the shark hunter for hire? It would be nice to have some sort of happy ending, but since we all know that they made three sequels, things don't look so great. And what's perhaps most telling: Mayor Vaughn is still the mayor in Jaws 2.
So, I guess what I'm saying here is vote. Like your life depended on it.
And if, for some obscure reason all your own, you have managed to avoid seeing this quintessential Steven Spielberg feature, it could be that some of what I am about to relate might sail right past you. Like a shark on its way to bigger prey. Or perhaps now would be an excellent time to click on over to the streaming service of your choice and spend the necessary two hours and four minutes it takes to digest this bit of Americana.
Maybe you'll just want to take my word for this: Mayor Vaughn of Amity, played by Murray Hamilton, is the anticipation of what would become our current "president." A stuffed shirt with a predilection for ugly blazers decorated with naval anchors, this is a chief executive who shines primarily as a beacon on his community's economy. He is made aware that there is a killer shark prowling the shores of his town but he insists that the beaches stay open. The Fourth of July is coming, and no "boating accident" is going to shut down all that business coming from the mainland. After a few citizens are consumed as a matter of course, an ichthyologist arrives on the scene and lets the local authorities that what they have on their hands is a Great White. A twenty foot eating machine. On the Fourth of July, even with a whole bunch of deputies and lifeguards on hand, the shark makes a meal out of a young boy and his rubber raft in front of all those now less-than-enthusiastic tourists. And a guy in a rowboat. And probably Pippin the dog. It's a pretty gory mess. Not the type of thing that makes for a promotion for seaside fun. At the hospital, as the police chief's son is being cared for after witnessing the slaughter up close and personal, the mother of the raft sandwich shows up and slaps the chief. That's when he decides to do whatever it takes to get rid of the beast that has been plaguing their coast.
In this model, the shark is the virus. The ichthyologist is Doctor Fauci or any one of a number of experts who have tried to reason with the capitalists who are willing to put their neighbors on the buffet table to save their T-shirt shops. I'm going to cast the chief of police as California's governor, Gavin Newsom, because I think he's got a Roy Scheider kind of vibe. The mayor? That one's easy. The guy who continues to insist that the virus will "just go away." The guy who keeps pointing to the stock market and jobs report while thousands of Americans continue to die every single day. Who is going to be the shark hunter for hire? It would be nice to have some sort of happy ending, but since we all know that they made three sequels, things don't look so great. And what's perhaps most telling: Mayor Vaughn is still the mayor in Jaws 2.
So, I guess what I'm saying here is vote. Like your life depended on it.
Sunday, July 05, 2020
In Your Ear
For my birthday, my family gave me new headphones. These were a practical gift from the standpoint of current usage. I am running most every day now, and I take my music with me. It is during this hour or so each day that my tastes and volume are my own. I don't have to program with anyone else but me in mind. It is also my preferred way of listening to music, since all the sounds pour directly into my ear holes and wash over the hearing part of my brain.
I had a great big pair of headphones handed down to me by my older brother when I was twelve. That's how I heard all those pre-teen angst manifestos. I still remember the way my ears would sweat after an hour or two being vacuum sealed under those great big sound mufflers. Many years later I arrived at my parents' house for Christmas eve, and my big present was one of those newfangled compact disc players. And the Pink Floyd album Wish You Were Here in this glorious new format. And a new pair of headphones. Lightweight, but with the capacity to bring all those noises directly from their digital source. I spent the night on the foldout bed in my parents' basement, listening to that one disc on repeat. It was the same kind of revelation that I experienced years before when I heard Sergeant Pepper on those clunky cans of my teens.
Then there was a period during which my music was played in a one bedroom apartment where I only worried a little about scaring my neighbors. No headphones were necessary during those years, but I confess that the details that I missed were quantum. I missed that intimate connection to the words and notes that spilled out all over the room and missed my ears entirely.
Once I began running as a real and true avocation, I went through as many sets of headphones as I did cassette players. Each one promised me better and real and true sound. Each one brought me more disappointment. When my son became immersed in stereophonics, he felt compelled to hook me up with earbuds that could more adequately recreate the way I had once listened. These tiny things with extra bass. Because that may have been what I was missing. Each time I plugged them into my head, I waited for that chance to hear a song that had somehow escaped me previously. Hearing voices and harmonies and instruments for the first time because I could actually differentiate them was a joy.
I had one of those moments with my newest headset the other day. Listening to Warren Zevon pound out a live version of French Inhaler, I marveled at the strength and the dexterity with which he worked his piano, and the way his voice came along behind it. And I missed Warren for the first time in a few years. Which, as it turns out, was kind of a good thing.
What will I hear tomorrow? Tune in and find out.
I had a great big pair of headphones handed down to me by my older brother when I was twelve. That's how I heard all those pre-teen angst manifestos. I still remember the way my ears would sweat after an hour or two being vacuum sealed under those great big sound mufflers. Many years later I arrived at my parents' house for Christmas eve, and my big present was one of those newfangled compact disc players. And the Pink Floyd album Wish You Were Here in this glorious new format. And a new pair of headphones. Lightweight, but with the capacity to bring all those noises directly from their digital source. I spent the night on the foldout bed in my parents' basement, listening to that one disc on repeat. It was the same kind of revelation that I experienced years before when I heard Sergeant Pepper on those clunky cans of my teens.
Then there was a period during which my music was played in a one bedroom apartment where I only worried a little about scaring my neighbors. No headphones were necessary during those years, but I confess that the details that I missed were quantum. I missed that intimate connection to the words and notes that spilled out all over the room and missed my ears entirely.
Once I began running as a real and true avocation, I went through as many sets of headphones as I did cassette players. Each one promised me better and real and true sound. Each one brought me more disappointment. When my son became immersed in stereophonics, he felt compelled to hook me up with earbuds that could more adequately recreate the way I had once listened. These tiny things with extra bass. Because that may have been what I was missing. Each time I plugged them into my head, I waited for that chance to hear a song that had somehow escaped me previously. Hearing voices and harmonies and instruments for the first time because I could actually differentiate them was a joy.
I had one of those moments with my newest headset the other day. Listening to Warren Zevon pound out a live version of French Inhaler, I marveled at the strength and the dexterity with which he worked his piano, and the way his voice came along behind it. And I missed Warren for the first time in a few years. Which, as it turns out, was kind of a good thing.
What will I hear tomorrow? Tune in and find out.
Saturday, July 04, 2020
In Dependence
This defiance of authority thing is pretty troubling.
We, as a nation, actively encourage people rising up against tyranny. In Germany during World War II. In Vietnam during the late sixties and seventies. In Tienanmen Square in 1989. In Iraq in 2003. We have this lengthy list of freedom fighters for good reason: We started a country from those very roots. As noted historian and surfer Jeff Spicoli once noted, "So what Jefferson was saying was 'Hey! You know, we left this England place because it was bogus. So if we don't get some cool rules ourselves, pronto, we'll just be bogus too.' Yeah?" We fought a war about that. The colonists here in the English colonies didn't like the bogus rules put forth by the King of England who wanted to be the boss of us, so we said, "No way." And the King of England said, "Way." And that's pretty much how this whole thing got started.
About a forty years after that, England came sniffing around again, looking for trouble and we gave them what for and sent them packing, but not before they burned down the White House. Fifty years after that, some of our own southern states, many of whom had been part of that overthrow of bogusness back in 1776 decided they wanted to start their own revolution. Their plan was more like keeping things the same. "Let us keep our slaves or we won't be part of your country." So Abraham Lincoln was like, "Guys, it's my way or the highway," and the Confederacy picked the highway. Which historically turned out to be a pretty bad choice, but some people kind of resented giving up their owning slaves lifestyle.
And some seem to still.
There have been some wars since then. Most of them taking place in other countries on other continents where we could feel good about blowing things up in the name of freedom. Part of our reasoning stemmed from our deep-seated need to be the good guys, and the other part was a fear that bad guys like Nazis or Commies might come looking for a fight with us, sooner or later. So we took the fight to them. That worked out pretty well in Europe, but not so much in Southeast Asia.
Oh, and here's an interesting trend in the soldiers who fought those wars. Initially they were lily white, and the few "colored regiments" they let fight were kept to themselves. The Buffalo Soldiers fought with bravery and distinction in both World Wars. They fought alongside their white comrades in arms, but from a discrete distance. By the time the Vietnam war raged on and on, though the total number of African Americans serving was still a minority, there was a disproportionate number of blacks serving in combat units, and only a tiny percentage were ever made officers. Many of these soldiers were trained at places like Fort Bragg and Fort Benning, named for generals who fought on the losing side of the Civil War. They were, ostensibly, fighting for freedom.
The first person to die in the Boston Massacre of 1770 was Crispus Attucks. He was a black man. Black men and women have been fighting and dying for this country since before the Declaration of Independence was signed. And while battles are being waged in some corners of the country these days about being oppressed by a strip of cloth placed over the face to prevent the spread of disease, Black Lives are still being lost to the cause of freedom.
Respect that. Fight with them. We all deserve to be a little more free.
We, as a nation, actively encourage people rising up against tyranny. In Germany during World War II. In Vietnam during the late sixties and seventies. In Tienanmen Square in 1989. In Iraq in 2003. We have this lengthy list of freedom fighters for good reason: We started a country from those very roots. As noted historian and surfer Jeff Spicoli once noted, "So what Jefferson was saying was 'Hey! You know, we left this England place because it was bogus. So if we don't get some cool rules ourselves, pronto, we'll just be bogus too.' Yeah?" We fought a war about that. The colonists here in the English colonies didn't like the bogus rules put forth by the King of England who wanted to be the boss of us, so we said, "No way." And the King of England said, "Way." And that's pretty much how this whole thing got started.
About a forty years after that, England came sniffing around again, looking for trouble and we gave them what for and sent them packing, but not before they burned down the White House. Fifty years after that, some of our own southern states, many of whom had been part of that overthrow of bogusness back in 1776 decided they wanted to start their own revolution. Their plan was more like keeping things the same. "Let us keep our slaves or we won't be part of your country." So Abraham Lincoln was like, "Guys, it's my way or the highway," and the Confederacy picked the highway. Which historically turned out to be a pretty bad choice, but some people kind of resented giving up their owning slaves lifestyle.
And some seem to still.
There have been some wars since then. Most of them taking place in other countries on other continents where we could feel good about blowing things up in the name of freedom. Part of our reasoning stemmed from our deep-seated need to be the good guys, and the other part was a fear that bad guys like Nazis or Commies might come looking for a fight with us, sooner or later. So we took the fight to them. That worked out pretty well in Europe, but not so much in Southeast Asia.
Oh, and here's an interesting trend in the soldiers who fought those wars. Initially they were lily white, and the few "colored regiments" they let fight were kept to themselves. The Buffalo Soldiers fought with bravery and distinction in both World Wars. They fought alongside their white comrades in arms, but from a discrete distance. By the time the Vietnam war raged on and on, though the total number of African Americans serving was still a minority, there was a disproportionate number of blacks serving in combat units, and only a tiny percentage were ever made officers. Many of these soldiers were trained at places like Fort Bragg and Fort Benning, named for generals who fought on the losing side of the Civil War. They were, ostensibly, fighting for freedom.
The first person to die in the Boston Massacre of 1770 was Crispus Attucks. He was a black man. Black men and women have been fighting and dying for this country since before the Declaration of Independence was signed. And while battles are being waged in some corners of the country these days about being oppressed by a strip of cloth placed over the face to prevent the spread of disease, Black Lives are still being lost to the cause of freedom.
Respect that. Fight with them. We all deserve to be a little more free.
Friday, July 03, 2020
Comedy Is Hard
Okay: It's probably my fault that Carl Reiner is dead.
Just yesterday I was lamenting about how my blog has become more moribund and stuck in the weeds of all the tragedy currently facing our world. And I may have made some comment about how I was no longer doing those celebrity obituaries that had become such a staple of my routine here. Then along comes this one.
Carl was ninety-eight years old. Recently he had been tweeting "As I arose at 7:30 this morning, I was saddened to relive the day that led up to the election of a bankrupted and corrupt businessman who had no qualifications to be the leader of any country in the civilized world...At the same time, Hillary Clinton, who had all the needed qualifications to lead our beloved nation, had received 3 million more popular votes than our Russian-installed puppet president." I will miss that voice.
I will also miss the man who provided my older brother and I with an opportunity to do laps in a cineplex. We walked out of a preview screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure and straight into the theater next door showing Summer School, directed by Carl Reiner. Afterward we congratulated ourselves on being two for two when it came to giddy comedies.
To be clear: Summer School was not Mister Reiner's magnum opus. That honor may have to be spread across his delivery of Steve Martin to the big screen: The Jerk. Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. The Man With Two Brains.Or his long and winding collaborations with best friend Mel Brooks. All 2000 years of it.
But upon further reflection, I believe I will settle on his creation of The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was sitting in front of these reruns that I gained knowledge of the dangers of hassocks and how to pratfall over them. Originally, Carl had written a show that he thought he might star in, but instead became the seed for one of the most perfect sit-coms ever produced. Rob, Laura, Buddy, Sally, and even Mel shared their lives of suburban desperation and showbiz. And Carl found a place for himself as uber-star Alan Brady, master of toupee comedy. Mary Tyler Moore. Dick Van Dyke. Stars who shone bright on their own after their ever-relatable coupling way back then. The Petrie's next-door neighbor Jerry became not only a director of that series but went on to direct almost every episode of a little show called Happy Days.
Maybe we could just celebrate the gift of his son, Rob. It is no overstatement to suggest that American comedy would have been very different if not for the loving presence of Carl Reiner. For nearly a hundred years, he stomped on the Terra and made certain that we were all rolling around on it with laughter. To say that he will be missed is definitely an understatement. His was a voice to be reckoned with. And laughed along with.
Aloha, Carl. The world needs to make room in their hearts and minds for all the joy you brought to keep it safe forever.
Just yesterday I was lamenting about how my blog has become more moribund and stuck in the weeds of all the tragedy currently facing our world. And I may have made some comment about how I was no longer doing those celebrity obituaries that had become such a staple of my routine here. Then along comes this one.
Carl was ninety-eight years old. Recently he had been tweeting "As I arose at 7:30 this morning, I was saddened to relive the day that led up to the election of a bankrupted and corrupt businessman who had no qualifications to be the leader of any country in the civilized world...At the same time, Hillary Clinton, who had all the needed qualifications to lead our beloved nation, had received 3 million more popular votes than our Russian-installed puppet president." I will miss that voice.
I will also miss the man who provided my older brother and I with an opportunity to do laps in a cineplex. We walked out of a preview screening of Pee Wee's Big Adventure and straight into the theater next door showing Summer School, directed by Carl Reiner. Afterward we congratulated ourselves on being two for two when it came to giddy comedies.
To be clear: Summer School was not Mister Reiner's magnum opus. That honor may have to be spread across his delivery of Steve Martin to the big screen: The Jerk. Dead Men Don't Wear Plaid. The Man With Two Brains.Or his long and winding collaborations with best friend Mel Brooks. All 2000 years of it.
But upon further reflection, I believe I will settle on his creation of The Dick Van Dyke Show. It was sitting in front of these reruns that I gained knowledge of the dangers of hassocks and how to pratfall over them. Originally, Carl had written a show that he thought he might star in, but instead became the seed for one of the most perfect sit-coms ever produced. Rob, Laura, Buddy, Sally, and even Mel shared their lives of suburban desperation and showbiz. And Carl found a place for himself as uber-star Alan Brady, master of toupee comedy. Mary Tyler Moore. Dick Van Dyke. Stars who shone bright on their own after their ever-relatable coupling way back then. The Petrie's next-door neighbor Jerry became not only a director of that series but went on to direct almost every episode of a little show called Happy Days.
Maybe we could just celebrate the gift of his son, Rob. It is no overstatement to suggest that American comedy would have been very different if not for the loving presence of Carl Reiner. For nearly a hundred years, he stomped on the Terra and made certain that we were all rolling around on it with laughter. To say that he will be missed is definitely an understatement. His was a voice to be reckoned with. And laughed along with.
Aloha, Carl. The world needs to make room in their hearts and minds for all the joy you brought to keep it safe forever.
Thursday, July 02, 2020
A Dark Place
I miss writing about celebrities and their ongoing travails. Problems with the paparazzi and so forth. Holding up the magnifying glass to those already over-sized personalities. All paths seem to wind back on coronavirus or social justice. The somewhat regular feature here in Entropical Pardise, the celebrity obituary, has faded away because of the sheer amount of death surrounding us on a daily basis. Half a million and counting.
And the list of victims of police brutality doesn't seem to be getting any shorter either. New day, new outrage. New day, new sorrow.
I used to make greeting cards. Not professionally, but for my family and friends. Occasions that needed some sort of outward recognition got a hand-drawn and lettered piece of art from yours truly. These days, I resort to whatever Trader Joe's has in stock, or if I get involved at all I stick to clip art or email. This was a time when I cared about each and ever interaction enough that I would sit down with a pen and paper and make sense of my feelings for whomever would be on the receiving end of my sentiments.
I don't think I could do that now. Like I gave up decorating cakes. That one was a little more short-lived, but there were a great many pieces of edible art suitable for celebration that came to life under my hands.
My creative process has become more focused, especially in the past few months. I know that it is desperation for something to shine. The stories of hope and inspiration that make it out of the darkness these days come as a welcome relief, but they are flashes. I know that eliminating new movies opening in theaters has put a cap on my enthusiasms. Like the vicarious thrills of watching the local sports franchise go through their paces, I have spent far too long looking for inspiration from outside sources.
Inspiration, it seems to me, ought to come from inside. The kid who made those cakes and cards had a ton of it. Maybe you were lucky enough to get one of them. I don't want them back so much as I want the brain space to imagine such things. I miss those things that used to serve as distractions from all the horrible things.
The word could use them too.
This would explain all those cat videos.
And the list of victims of police brutality doesn't seem to be getting any shorter either. New day, new outrage. New day, new sorrow.
I used to make greeting cards. Not professionally, but for my family and friends. Occasions that needed some sort of outward recognition got a hand-drawn and lettered piece of art from yours truly. These days, I resort to whatever Trader Joe's has in stock, or if I get involved at all I stick to clip art or email. This was a time when I cared about each and ever interaction enough that I would sit down with a pen and paper and make sense of my feelings for whomever would be on the receiving end of my sentiments.
I don't think I could do that now. Like I gave up decorating cakes. That one was a little more short-lived, but there were a great many pieces of edible art suitable for celebration that came to life under my hands.
My creative process has become more focused, especially in the past few months. I know that it is desperation for something to shine. The stories of hope and inspiration that make it out of the darkness these days come as a welcome relief, but they are flashes. I know that eliminating new movies opening in theaters has put a cap on my enthusiasms. Like the vicarious thrills of watching the local sports franchise go through their paces, I have spent far too long looking for inspiration from outside sources.
Inspiration, it seems to me, ought to come from inside. The kid who made those cakes and cards had a ton of it. Maybe you were lucky enough to get one of them. I don't want them back so much as I want the brain space to imagine such things. I miss those things that used to serve as distractions from all the horrible things.
The word could use them too.
This would explain all those cat videos.
Wednesday, July 01, 2020
Save One For Elijah
It would be so much easier to just chalk it up to the survival of the fittest and leave it at that, but last week the United States saw its biggest uptick in COVID-19 cases in months. Twenty-six states reported an increase in the number of new infections. If you were the sort who listens patiently to the "president," you might believe this is because we are so good at testing. That's not what scientists say, which comes as little or no surprise. The east coast is one of the few spots in the US that has managed to keep their caseloads down in May and June. Now might be a good time to remind everyone of how the "president" used to tell us that the warmer months would bring an end to this plague. It would just disappear. Some of us harbor this feeling about the "president."
Neither one seems to just go away. And as each day passes, the virus and the "president" seems to defy predictions by getting worse instead of better. I rely on our "president" for continuing to mine the lowest of all common denominators, but I had hoped that as a country we would get better at pandemic. Instead we seem bent on finding ways to bring ourselves back to normal. I paused there for a moment before I typed the end of the sentence to decide whether or not to put quotation marks around that last word: normal. It is the thing that continues to evade us. It is the reckoning with this obscure state that keeps folks champing at the bit, or mask, as the case may be.
Leaving the somewhat protective bubble of my neighborhood to travel four hours down the coast to visit our son brought a bit of a shock. California's governor had only recently made a statewide mandate for residents to wear a mask while in public or high-risk settings, including when shopping, taking public transit or seeking medical care. Perhaps because I'm a fan, or because I have decided to surrender my freedom to the state that wants to keep me alive, I have continued to cover my face when I leave the house. Not everyone seems to feel the way I do. Across California, at least a dozen municipal governments have asserted that Governor Newsom is not the boss of them. If the soft-sell of his "do your part, wear a mask" is wasted on those who prefer to imagine this as draconian oppression it would explain the number of noses, mouths and chins that I saw on my travels. Our son, the softhearted individual his mother and I raised continues to be skeptical of the loosened restrictions in his county. He steered us away from the temptations of sit-down restaurants. When we went out into the world, our smiles were hidden from one another. Even so, my wife and I worried that our social bubble might collide with someone else's.
In the background there was the hue and cry of those who felt that fascists were keeping them from breathing. I briefly considered the overlap between that group and those that insist there is no pattern of systemic racism in our country. Elijah McClain wore a mask. He was doing that a year ago this August when he was contacted by police in Aurora, Colorado. At that time, a young black man in a ski mask generated a 911 call. Officers were dispatched and when they encountered the twenty-three year old on his walk back from a nearby convenience store. When a frightened and confused McClain "resisted arrest," officers used a carotid hold to subdue him. Paramedics who responded to the scene injected Elijah with ketamine to "calm him down." Elijah, who was wearing the mask because he sometimes experienced cold as a result of his anemia, died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital.
So, I guess we can see just how dangerous wearing a mask can be. Meanwhile, save a prayer for the one hundred thirty thousand Americans who have died from COVID-19. And one for Elijah.
Neither one seems to just go away. And as each day passes, the virus and the "president" seems to defy predictions by getting worse instead of better. I rely on our "president" for continuing to mine the lowest of all common denominators, but I had hoped that as a country we would get better at pandemic. Instead we seem bent on finding ways to bring ourselves back to normal. I paused there for a moment before I typed the end of the sentence to decide whether or not to put quotation marks around that last word: normal. It is the thing that continues to evade us. It is the reckoning with this obscure state that keeps folks champing at the bit, or mask, as the case may be.
Leaving the somewhat protective bubble of my neighborhood to travel four hours down the coast to visit our son brought a bit of a shock. California's governor had only recently made a statewide mandate for residents to wear a mask while in public or high-risk settings, including when shopping, taking public transit or seeking medical care. Perhaps because I'm a fan, or because I have decided to surrender my freedom to the state that wants to keep me alive, I have continued to cover my face when I leave the house. Not everyone seems to feel the way I do. Across California, at least a dozen municipal governments have asserted that Governor Newsom is not the boss of them. If the soft-sell of his "do your part, wear a mask" is wasted on those who prefer to imagine this as draconian oppression it would explain the number of noses, mouths and chins that I saw on my travels. Our son, the softhearted individual his mother and I raised continues to be skeptical of the loosened restrictions in his county. He steered us away from the temptations of sit-down restaurants. When we went out into the world, our smiles were hidden from one another. Even so, my wife and I worried that our social bubble might collide with someone else's.
In the background there was the hue and cry of those who felt that fascists were keeping them from breathing. I briefly considered the overlap between that group and those that insist there is no pattern of systemic racism in our country. Elijah McClain wore a mask. He was doing that a year ago this August when he was contacted by police in Aurora, Colorado. At that time, a young black man in a ski mask generated a 911 call. Officers were dispatched and when they encountered the twenty-three year old on his walk back from a nearby convenience store. When a frightened and confused McClain "resisted arrest," officers used a carotid hold to subdue him. Paramedics who responded to the scene injected Elijah with ketamine to "calm him down." Elijah, who was wearing the mask because he sometimes experienced cold as a result of his anemia, died of a heart attack on the way to the hospital.
So, I guess we can see just how dangerous wearing a mask can be. Meanwhile, save a prayer for the one hundred thirty thousand Americans who have died from COVID-19. And one for Elijah.
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