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This morning I posted a screenshot of a "tweet" (that word makes me cringe; hence, the quotation marks) showing an image of the 2 train at 6 p.m., depicting a packed car that anyone living here is familiar with. The screenshot included a response from some repugnant little punk who said something like how NYC being a "dump" isn't going to affect anyone else. The responses to that idiocy were just as idiotic ("It's like they want to die") but many told this cretin they're probably essential workers who need to get to work so they can feed their families.
I'm pleased as punch that I delighted some of you with my Facebook Live video yesterday. The quality was low because the light was low, but my charming vibrancy provided sufficient illumination so you weren't met with a black screen, wondering if Lola was blocking the camera, as she enjoys doing with my computer when I'm working.
Alas, I won't be clapping outside anymore. I've made another Executive Decision to not be outside at all, not even on the patio, for the duration of this horror. I'll clap indoors, because even if nobody hears it, I'll feel good doing it.
Starting tomorrow, for the daily clapping for essential workers, I will go out on my patio in fabulous vintage loungewear and coordinating footwear, climb up onto a chair I will bring from outside (the patio set isn't completely stable), and commence clapping and waving. I am the only one with a patio, and any neighbors who see me from their windows in the courtyard will be looking down at me "onstage" as if they were in the mezzanine and balcony seats in a theater. Curtain is at 7 p.m. sharp. The performance will run for 2 minutes with no intermission.
Question that I think may be serious: Can Oprah make some of her Favorite Things masks and other PPE for the medical professionals out there tending to one of their favorite things, which is saving lives?
Yes, the virulent sac of pus and bile molded into the shape of a quasi-humanoid so-called President should be working his repulsive ass off to ensure the safety of those on the frontlines, sidelines, and everywhere in between, but since we know he's a petulant, petty, vindictive, useless waste of flesh and breath, maybe someone with an actual heart and useful power can assist?
Here's a thought, fun people of the world. Congregate. All of you. Every one of you selfish motherfuckers who thinks the directives don't apply to you. Get together, have a big-ass potluck. Lick your fingers while making the food. Eat with your hands, y'know, like, Ethiopian style. Do it in a big auditorium somewhere, shake hands, lick each other's plates clean. And then stay there, doors locked, infected en masse, until you get what you had coming to you. But literally leave the rest of us out of it. I have even less compassion for you than I have patience.
After yesterday's Fairway frenzy, I decided I'd go back at an odd hour "just to see". I was out of bed by 4:30 anyway, out the door by 4:58, which is made even more remarkable by the fact that I hadn't had coffee even though I'd already made it. Just before I entered the store, a young-ish guy passed with two bags. He said something generic about things being crazy; I agreed. He'd just finished shopping, and we chatted a bit. I was a skosh antsy, not wanting my plan thwarted in any way. (Is there toilet paper or not?!?!?)
He said a woman he knows started stockpiling toilet paper seven weeks ago, has been selling it for $10 a package, and has made around $100,000. Two minutes later, the figure was up to $300,000, so I don't know if he was lying or if in the time we'd been talking she'd actually tripled her sales. I said that if I don't really need something, I leave it for someone who might, but he was clearly impressed by this woman's foresight and her being what I think he called a "situational entrepreneur". I was more impressed by his predawn polysyllablism.
I'd reached my predawn limit of available words. He departed. I entered Fairway, thrilled to see no shoppers. I wanted to assess the flour situation, because nothing's more important than baking cookies, who are friends I can hold close (in my mouth) in these times of social distancing.
The dry goods aisles were a chaos of boxes and shipping plastic. As I reached for a bag of flour (yes!), a worker apologized for being in my way. I said, "YOU don't have to apologize to me!" and he laughed. I was impressed with his predawn laughter.
(P.S. Toilet paper! Yes!)
Florent Finkelbaum waits for the bus like everyone else, and hums to herself as she thinks people who take the bus do even though no one else is doing it. She thinks wrong, however, and is oblivious to the continuum of disapproval expressed by other prospective passengers ranging from fluttering eye blinks, to side glances, to outright glares bordering on "evil eye". Once she boards, she'll take a seat next to someone else even though there are many others more isolated, and noisily unwrap an entire sleeve of Saltines, offering one to her hapless neighbor, thinking she's really fitting in.
I just talked to my mom on the phone. More like we co-screamed to the point of near-hoarseness about what fucking asshole morons people are. "JUST FUCKING DO IT!!! STAY INSIDE!!!!" she yelled. "HOW FUCKING HARD IS IT???" She described her outfit, comprised of extra-large leopard print "hangout pants", an enormous sweatshirt, and slipper socks "with holes so I'm wearing socks too".
Unlike most days, we didn't focus on the so-called President. But I'll never forget the day after the election, the first words she uttered during our call was, "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT???"
ALL CAPS, yes, warranted.
You know what? As much as I've discovered that I like running outdoor because the scenery changes (who knew???), and I don't listen to music because the sounds of the world enthrall me, as much as I was thrilled to realize, YES, this is an option for me, I'll continue even after this thing is in the rearview mirror, I've decided to STAY THE FUCK INSIDE except for procuring food, to use my free weights and jump rope that's on its way. This, from someone who "has to" go to the gym daily. You know what sucks more, though? DYING.
If upon hearing that elderly people are at the highest risk of being affected or devastated by the COVID-19 beast, you're actually "relieved" because you're not old (yet), at least pretend for the duration of washing your filthy hands in hot water for 20 seconds while singing "happy birthday" twice (provided you're even doing that), or hoarding all the hand sanitizer and toilet paper you can get your figuratively filthy hands on, to have enough heart and soul to return every fucking five-dollar bill your adorable grandmother or grandfather ever tucked into a Hallmark birthday card you apparently never deserved.
I went to Fairway on my way home from the gym to "pick up a few things" as is my routine. The main floor was somewhat busier than it usually is at 7 a.m. but it wasn't until I saw the lines that I realized, holy mother of fuck, people who've never gotten out of bed before 10 a.m. were in line already, hoarding food. I went upstairs to the "organic" floor, grabbed several things, and used the app on my phone to check out.
Not-so-gentle reminder, hoarders: You're not the only people in the world. Get a fucking grip.
Gee. Shocking. Beyond egregious. Selfish, selfish, selfish fucking miscreants, menaces to society, willfully imperiling the health of anyone around them, and I make you a bet they still think they're hilarious and adorable. They'll probably take selfies of themselves next to someone truly suffering in the hospital with a fucking Snapchat filter that includes cat ears. Someone, quick, get to crackin' on making these assholes cute little T-shirts saying, "I went to Spring Break and All I Got Was Covid-19 That Didn't Wind Up Killing Me in the End But in the Meantime I Infected Other People Whoops LOL."
Since I'm not flouncing about for the duration of this *thing*, my outfits are on hiatus. I've told them, aloud, that the time will come again when they're paraded around town. The more recent acquisitions, hanging on the outside of one of my closets, are looking particularly crestfallen. In the meantime, I kindly invite you to peruse the Internet, find items for my virtual wardrobe, and post your findings here. Think of me as an old-school paper dolls, and the outfits with little tabs on their sides to secure to the doll, to be carefully cut out with safety scissors.
Stop calling adverse situations "the new normal". All things must pass, as George Harrison sang, including the current clamor, horror, and upheaval of our lives. When the mealy-mouthed mieskeit masquerading as a President took office and instantly started wielding his flailing, bloated newfound power with all the glee of a toddler learning how to use a juice-box straw, people immediately started saying, "This is the new normal."
It wasn't and it isn't. It already seems like a fucking lifetime since we could make out with each other to our heart's joyous content, and that time will come again. It will.
You are not a maverick or badass, you're not punk rock or in any way remotely brave if you're purposely being a fucking scofflaw and defying all instructions, directives, demand, and requirements to STAY THE FUCK HOME. If you need to be a self-absorbed cretin hellbent on destruction, by all means, do so in the comfort of your own home. Use the quarantine to master the lost art of self-trepanation or simply punch yourself in the throat repeatedly. You are not the only person in the world. Get your head out of your ass and keep your fucking ass home.
Hey, kidz. Just a not-so-gentle reminder that you're not the only person in the world. I know you want to be, and you're proving it by stockpiling food, the ever-elusive toilet paper, and other goods that other people (They exist! Promise!) need too, because you don't give a fuck or fig if other people don't survive as long as you do, and those not even born in 1999 are partying in Florida like it's 1999 instead of 20fucking20, and your "no one tells me what to do" attitude is what makes you an "American", but you're not the only person ...
... in the world. Yet. "Survival of the fittest" shouldn't be a "thing" here. Help those less fortunate than you. And if you don't think being "young" and relatively healthy and strong is being fortunate, you're an even sorrier sack of sewage than I thought and I need you locked in a crawlspace with endless reruns of any episode of The Brady Bunch that contains Cousin Oliver posthaste, immediately, or pronto, whichever comes first.
And yeah, this reminder isn't gentle. Now's not the time for coddling your bubble-wrapped ass, Kayleigh and Brandon. It's not. Spread the word, not the virus.
Look at a guy, who's, I dunno, about 6 feet tall. Imagine him lying on the ground doing, like, snow angels or some shit. Imagine yourself thinking, "Gosh, that reminds me of Love Story. I should watch it again! I need a good cry 'cause there's not enough to cry about in real life!" When you're done punching yourself in the throat, realize that that 6 feet is how far away you NEED to stay away from others. Otherwise, someone could wind up in a prone position like the imaginary guy, 6 feet the fuck under. How difficult is that?
The stress isn't bad enough. The distress isn't bad enough. The mess isn't bad enough. People are out of work, distanced not only from colleagues but friends, family, and gym members who always rankled them but whose faces they'd still like to see now, and our email inboxes are deluged with messages from businesses we may have only patronized *once* telling us what they're doing vis-à-vis the virus. But no, we're told to make this time superfuckingduper productive. Shakespeare didn't lie on the sofa cramming loaves of bread into his face when isolated! He wrote a play 'n' stuff!
So what are YOU going to do to make this time productive? Trying to not cry into your cookie dough isn't productive, all right? What's wrong with you? Why haven't you home-schooled your kids so effectively that by the time they return to the classroom they'll be fit to directly enter medical school?
You don't have to learn Spanish. You don't have to write that novel. You don't have to clean out your 14 "junk drawers".
Do whatever makes you the "happiest" now. And if that's watching Golden Girls while cramming cookies into your face, I'm happy for you.
Fuck I'LL TRY. Just fucking DO. Do or die. Quite possibly literally now.
If you go outside when you're not supposed to, if you think the directives don't apply to you, if you're so precious that you think your "personal freedoms" are being violated because you've been told not to have dinner parties, then chew on this, kids: Eventually when this shit's in the rearview mirror, there will be empty seats at your goddamned table.
You're not special. No one is immune. Stay the fuck home. I won't try not to hate you for thinking you're special. I already do.
Would I be thrilled to the gills and beyond if I could fly to Indianapolis to have breakfast, lunch, dinner, AND snacks with these fellas (and the one not in frame, taking the photo), to be dressed in an ensemble and have costume changes throughout the day? Hell to the fuck to the yeah. But guess what? It ain't happenin' for a while. Because these are smart people who value their lives and are heeding directives now. They apparently paid attention in first grade when they learned to count to 6 and beyond and the difference between feet and inches.
I deleted the post because I had told myself I would make my page a "safe place", free from anything horrifying. Here on my page it's 1974 with some modifications, but I am, of course, typing this message on an electric typewriter attached to a huge computer with flashing lights and switches and punch cards flying from it like there's no tomorrow. But there is a tomorrow. We WILL get through this. Stay safe, friends. And come to my page for random ridiculousness, my specialty.
(continuation from 3/1, really written on 4/3. I often do these out of order! Ahoy!)
I'm so glad you're all going to not only teach yourselves Japanese but be fluent enough to converse with the master sushi chefs you'll be hobnobbing with when restaurants reopen and you need employment and are confident Nobu will hire you thanks to YouTube tutorials that taught you to roll your own using the mat you made from stuff you found when finally Marie Kondo'd your closets. But don't come crying to me after this horror is in the rearview mirror and say, "Gosh, I'd kill for some time off just to lie around and watch Netflix and eat cookies."
I updated my cover photo to an image of my mantel from February 2015. For some reason it appears in the feed dated today, which would have me down on West 23rd, hauling home a marble Buddha head. Fret not. I've been home since returning from my run on Sunday morning, 22 March. I will ONLY go outside if I ABSOLUTELY must, to Fairway, which is several sashays up the road, and only at 4 a.m. What kind of fucking hypocrite would I be if I'm imploring people to STAY THE FUCK HOME while running hither and yon? Not happenin'.
A friend posted this on his page, saying, "Privileged. Entitled. Willful. Dumb. Inconsiderate. Stupid. Dangerous." I'll add more than two cents.
How in the FUCK is this being in quarantine? I'll bet under the pixelation, each member of this quintet of cretins is grinning like it's just an ordinary fucking Saturday. I want to bludgeon each one until his face actually look likes this.
I've seen way too many other photos like this coming from the Midwest. Guess what, fellas? If your smaller city isn't hit like mine is yet, it will be. Also: Fuck you, you selfish fucking dicks.
All these immortal mavericks, these scofflaws, these champions of freedom and personal rights who think it's okay to congregate on porches, on patios, in the park, on Park Avenue, to be out and about having the times of their lives, hashtagging it with utter balderdash such as "LivingOurBestQuarantineLife", grinning on social media like they fucking invented teeth need to be invited to hightail it to a huge-ass CoronaStock2020 on a luxury cruise ship, and once at sea, realize they'll never be seen again, because, gosh, there's no WiFi. This will make the Titanic look like a deflated dinghy. Ahoy, motherfuckers.
I used to wish upon this hideous, bloated scourge a torturous, excruciating illness leading to demise, something that'd incapacitate motor function and ability to communicate but leave him with full mental capacity (which for him isn't much) so he'd be aware of what was happening and suffer in mute, unexpressed terror. Or I wanted him to suffer a massive seizure in public, leading to an enormously humiliating expiration where he "evacuates" from all orifices. Now, though, I'd settle for a simple "He slipped away peacefully in his sleep."
I can't wait to see the ratings for his eventual televised funeral.
Executive Decision: I'm not posting links to people being massholes anymore. I'm barely straying off my own page for the sake of my so-called mental health. For the duration, I'm inside with my cat, Hulu, Amazon Prime, Dick Van Dyke, Mary Tyler Moore, Bette Davis, Audrey Hepburn, and many other black-and-white notables who may slip in and out of color from time to time. The only help I can truly provide is to stay inside and keep myself and the rest of the city and the fucking planet safe. And perhaps amuse you fine people. But I'm here. Happy end-of-March.
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