No matter how hard I try to stay positive, the world keeps finding ways to dampen my spirits. The other day, I realized I was driving myself crazier by reading too much and too often about the state of things.
So I picked up what I thought was a covid-free alternative: the spring issue of Oxford American, the scrappy, literate “Magazine of the South.” Then, in the midst of an interesting article, I ran into this.
The sheer ordinariness of it is what hurts so much. When the magazine went to press — believe it or not, just a few months ago — it was natural to plan music festivals for the spring, and definitely to book John Prine. Needless to say, Merlefest, one of the best roots / traditional festivals around, got scrubbed.
I was lucky enough to see John twice in Atlanta in the last decade. And yes, I know we’ll have music again, hopefully including Merlefest 2021. I just wish like hell I could’ve gone to this one. Take care and be safe.
It’s confounding how the most ordinary things have become complicated. A misplaced box of screws for a home improvement project means a trip to the store and that means masks, worries about surfaces, and general stress. On top of all that, the elastic on the mask tugs on my hearing aids and I have to rig them just right or they’ll fall out. Nothing that happens beyond the front door is casual.
But I’m not complaining, because just having a home to improve is a blessed condition right now. There’s food in the fridge and those pesky aids allow me to hear clearly, which was a struggle for several months. My wife and I can sit on our porch as the evenings grow longer, watching the moon come up behind the trees. We’re lucky and we know it. That’s more than I can say for plenty of people, and they’re going to hear about it (and RIP Jerry Stiller).
I’m not talking about anybody who’s been sick; who has lost or agonized over a partner, relative, or friend; or whose job, business, or way of life is gone. I mean the privileged cretins who think the Bill of Rights covers shopping at Crate & Barrel. In the midst of a worldwide catastrophe, they act like it’s all a personal affront to their entitled, curated lifestyle.
Bob Seger, who’s never gotten his due as a songwriter, skewered these types back in 1974 in “U.M.C. (Upper Middle Class).” I want a paid vacation / Don’t want to have to ration / A thing with anyone but me / And if there’s war or famine / Promise I’ll examine / The details if they’re on TV. Yes, eating out again is fantastic unless your best friend or your waitress catches the virus at your table. And I know the pandemic has upset your big plans. There’s another word for that problem: Life.
My mother had finished three years of college when the Great Depression brought hardship to the family. Instead of her senior year and a degree, she got a job in a laundry, working six days and 48 hours a week for $7.00 per week. That’s not a typo. “We had to have it,” was all she said.
I made it through the University of Michigan but a week before graduation, the class of ’76 was greeted by this. The gist of it was that we’d been wasting our time and tuition, preparing for careers that wouldn’t exist.
I majored in broadcast journalism, a fiercely competitive field, and I scuffled around for awhile. This wasn’t the world I’d expected but I kept pushing until I landed my first job, then another and then a few more, each better than the last. I didn’t waste anything. I sure didn’t expect the universe to grovel at my feet.
Living isn’t stasis. Even when this is over, you’ll still wake up some morning and find that everything you know is wrong. We adapt or we end up like the dodo. Don’t take it personally.
You say there’s some mistake You didn’t get your break You don’t see the magic in the moonglow You’re on a one way street Your life is incomplete Well, tell me something that I don’t know
Saturday I attended an online meeting of the Atlanta Writers Club, an organization that predates the last pandemic and is rolling with the punches during this one. Sadly, another much-loved Atlanta event has gone dark: a monthly jam session for singers, including my wife. A bandstand plus a roomful of vocalists and fans is beyond social distancing, and Zoom can’t fill the void. My wife misses working with fine local musicians; I miss hearing her sing the jazz standards we both love. No one else ever dedicated “My Funny Valentine” to me.
Even without the jam, we had a perfect spring day, the kind that’s becoming rare as climate change pushes winter closer to summer. The mercury topped out at around 80 degrees with no humidity and scarcely a cloud in sight. The breeze filled the living room with the sweet, lush fragrance of honeysuckles, which Fats Waller immortalized in “Honeysuckle Rose,” and are like nothing else, anywhere.
It was a day to sit back, savor what we still have, and rest our souls for tomorrow. I’m not the spiritual type but I gotta tell ya, boychik, Ram Dass was onto something when he said, “Be here now.” Where else can I go? Take care, be here, and be safe.
Not much new to report. I’m still healthy, indoors, grateful, and paranoid. I’m not spending quite as much time lying awake, worrying about exactly what I touched and when I washed my hands. However, an approaching human without a mask gets my pulse and my dander up something fierce.
I deeply miss non-virtual contact, concerts, theaters, salad bars, dive bars, parks, haircuts, handshakes, barbecue, beach sunsets, and much more. I realize this doesn’t mean a damned thing when millions of us are missing food on the table and an untold number are missing the loved ones they’ve lost. The problems of a person like me don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy world.
Frankly, though, I wish the cheermongers — the influencer types who keep babbling “Stay strong! Think positive!” — would shut the hell up. I don’t need to be told how to feel by some clown who’s probably half my age. I know what I need to do to be safe and responsible, starting by covering myself. Anyone who truly believes this tramples on their rights isn’t worth the air they consume. I’ll try to be less grumpy next time. Y’all be safe too.
Long before the pandemic, those of us who live with chronic conditions knew that normalcy is precious. It’s easy to take for granted, yet fragile – and once lost, it can be very, very hard to get back. I’ve had to learn that lesson all over again, but also rediscovered another truth: There’s always hope.
My problems are hearing loss and tinnitus: ringing and other sounds in the ears. This means I have to be careful around loud noise, like the racing movie “Ford v Ferrari,” which I was eager to see last fall. In the theater, I turned my hearing aids down as far as possible, counting on their built-in limiters to protect my ears.
The movie sounded fine, if muffled. But for no apparent reason, the TV seemed harsh and distorted later that afternoon. My worry turned to panic when I turned on my favorite jazz station. Bird’s horn, Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, Pat Metheny’s guitar, all the music I treasure, had suddenly become so shrill that I couldn’t bear to listen.
My audiologist told me the limiters would’ve worked for most people. But since I already had nerve damage, the roar of engines blasting through the sound system aggravated my tinnitus and triggered this new effect. It was like living inside a blown speaker. It changed almost every sound in my universe: my wife’s voice, her piano, the air-conditioner, water running in the sink, even the birds. Huey Lewis is going through something similar, which has gotten so bad that he can’t sing any more.
I was depressed because I’d brought this on myself and terrified it would last forever. Of course, the stress compounded the problem, which caused more stress, followed by more distortion. I knew it would happen. I just had a hard time keeping my fears in check, especially when the pandemic touched off its own anxiety.
All I could do was keep living my life and have faith that I’d get better, as I did the last time my tinnitus flared up, and eventually did this time. As I write, I’m listening to WWOZ in New Orleans, one of the best radio stations on Earth, and am savoring every note. I wear earplugs around power tools and machinery and generally avoid loud noise like the coronavirus (i.e., like the plague). I’ll definitely be wearing my plugs when we have concerts again. (I’ll probably have to sit in the back too, but I’m a little old for the mosh pit anyway.)
If you have hearing issues, please be smarter than I was. Whoever you are, take care and be safe. Normal is just fine. Be cool. Dig it.
Another grocery pickup today. We found toilet paper with no trouble but didn’t get all the meat we ordered, which is ominous in light of all the recent warnings about shortages. We at least came away with two big fresh whole chickens. Even they might be in short supply in Georgia soon.
Our sanitation protocol goes like this: Gloves on to go through the bags and verify the order. Gloves off before I touch the wheel and the dash. Gloves back on to carry everything to the porch. Gloves off and wash the hands CDC-thoroughly to put the goods away after they’ve been wiped down. Wash hands again. Repeat as necessary and sometimes when it isn’t. This routine drives me nuts, or as Damon Runyon might have said, more than somewhat cuckoo, but of course the alternative is much worse.
There seem to be a few more people wearing masks at the store. Traffic on the roads has clearly surged since the governor started reopening the state against the advice of damned near everybody, even Trump. Sometimes when both sides are on your case, it means you’re doing something right. Not now. All the scientists say there’ll be a second round of infections, and unless we keep our distance it’ll be faster and deadlier.
Think of the plague like a hurricane. One of the eyewalls has just passed over and we’re sitting in the eye where the winds are calm, but the other eyewall is just waiting to blow in. Hurricane Michael (below) devastated the Florida Panhandle and came frighteningly close to my beach house. I’m staying in my shelter.
Have I got plans for THIS weekend! Friday I’m finally going to get that Hell’s Angels tattoo I’ve always wanted — and afterward, once my shoulder stops hurting, I’ll hit the bowling alley. Saturday it’s time for a long-overdue haircut, followed by a massage to work the stress of the last several weeks out of my frame.
Sunday, to keep myself limber and relaxed, I’ll join a gym. Monday I’ll start the week with a bang by eating out for the first time in ages! I’ll probably overindulge, so Tuesday it’s back to the gym to work off the eggs, sausage, grits, and hashbrowns from the Waffle House. (Sorry if I just made y’all hungry.)
All this will be possible because the governor of Georgia has decided to reopen the state, though a lot of mayors warned him not to and he didn’t listen. The businesses I’ve mentioned can soon operate again under “guidelines:” masks, screening workers, and social distancing.
Of course, as quite a few people have pointed out, it’s tough to keep six feet apart in a nail salon. Also, Georgia is near the bottom of the barrel in testing, which all the experts say is critical to avoiding another outburst of illness and death.
I’ll spare you my thoughts about the right-wing goons who are pushing to reopen, their rich backers, and the gutless imbeciles who are pandering to them. Personally, I’m not going anywhere except the grocery store for a good long time. I’m not about to risk my life for a movie, a haircut, or even a double order of Scattered, Smothered, Covered, Chunked, Topped & Diced hashbrowns. Take care and be safe.