I have now passed the half-way mark on my least productive year in a decade. Even when I was practically homeless and actually starving a ways back, I was producing more work than I have this year. I know what the problem is.
A hundred years ago, if you didn’t have some source of heat in the winter, you died. That’s not allowed to happen now. If it does, the people responsible are generally punished. Despite what you might have been told, justice is served here about as well as it can be in a polity of over a quarter of a billion people.
Happy Thanksgiving, everybody! Come on in and grab a plate and a chair, there’s plenty of food and room at the table for all of you. Just chuck your mask in the bushes by the curb, with all the discarded latex gloves, empty sanitizer bottles and other accepted detritus of 2020. I care about coronavirus even less than my neighbors care about litter or landscape pollution.
A final performance, product, or accomplishment before someone or some-thing stops creating work or products, as due to death, retirement, closure etc. From the ancient belief that swans issue a beautiful song-like sound just before they die.
Before we begin; I hope for both our sakes that you’re wearing your protective mask while reading this. I can’t actually see you, so I have to implement the “honor system” and presume you’re a “good neighbor” who won’t somehow infect me with mystery germs through the endless tubes of the internet. I know you’re better than that; I can tell by the fancy mask you’re no doubt sporting inside the house you’ve been confined to for the past four months. Even though, as stated, I can’t actually see you.
Mark my words. As soon as it becomes feasible, the father will be erased from the family unit forever. The word and the concept will be abolished and nullified. You can bet your life savings on it happening in the next five years.
These are strange, uncertain times in which we find ourselves. I imagine you must be worried sick by now; about getting the virus, about whether there really is a virus, and about whether you’ll ever be permitted to leave your house again without dressing like part of a hazmat crew. Well buddy, I don’t mean to trivialize anyone’s neuroses, but let me tell ya, I need to fuck.