One of the difficult things that I’m dealing with during the coronavirus pandemic is the impossibility of being close to my fans. People love it when I travel the country and read my blog posts live, while they eat cheese and drink wine. And, yes, smoke pre-rolled marijuana cigarettes.
Then I come on stage and people start to giggle. They laugh and laugh as I try to find my chair. It’s like I’m Charlie Chaplin.
But it’s not a set up: no one left me a chair. What the heck? Where is my fucking chair? Everyone is howling because I can’t find my chair and because they are full of cannabinoids, but I’m genuinely ticked off because I can’t find anyone who is willing to acknowledge that the talent (me) needs a chair to read these highly influential blog posts. Plus, my contract demands that I be given a swivel barstool, a unidirectional microphone, a little high table, and some pumpernickel toast buttered to my exacting standards.
And a glass of local homebrew as well, you ask? Yep.
Someone is playing steamy jazz on a piano while I read a post about how much I’m looking forward to hugging you and the rest of the world when we all wake from this nightmare.
I have always considered myself essential in the sense that I’m game to stay open when people like you are shutting it down. In a sense, I’m essential because I believe I’m essential. And once a person believes he’s essential, that person has no choice but to stay open.
Meanwhile, you’re closed. The American public comes to you with their problems but finds an outstretched palm in their collective face. Not only is that not helpful when maybe the American public needs drapes during a major pandemic, but it’s also not particularly sanitary! Put your (maybe; who knows?) coronavirus-infused hand six feet back, pal.
My main concern: several businesses and rock people I frequent and/or watch onstage are guaranteed not to survive the Democrat(ic) Pandemic Plot. For example, what becomes of The Harvard Bookstore? How about The Modern Homebrew Emporium? Matt Murphy’s Pub? Busted Knuckle? Adi’s Bike World? Jack at Phil’s Barber Shop? George and his people at La Flamme? Eco Builders? Brookline Booksmith? China Fair? Rockler? Abodeon? Leavitt and Pearce? Grant Lee? Mike Doughty? Peter Parcek? Audio Lab? As you can imagine, I could easily go on.
I predict a wholesale slaughter. (But don’t quote me).
At least we know we’ll get a new president sometime in the next five years.
Whenever people on the street stop and ask me how long I think this novel coronavirus is going to last, I look them straight in the eye, squint a little, cough (into the crook of my elbow), let a wry smile slowly form on my lips, cock my head, look over the tops of my sunglasses, and shrug my shoulders. “Could be weeks, could be years.”
It could be like an epic novel.
This kind of straight talk is exactly what Americans want to hear. And like toilet paper, it’s in short supply these days. But there’s no limit to the amount of straight talk I can generate. Which is why I tell everyone I see that we all must get together and “fatten the curve.” But not too fat, thank you very much!
Excuse me while I check into why my publicist is hopping up and down and waving her arms.
OK, I’m back. Interesting news: it’s flatten the curve, not “fatten” the curve.
Ya think they coulda told us?!
In my many years of predicting the future, I have never been so wrong as I have about the period in which we currently live. I thought I had it nailed!
That we’re not flying personal blimps to and from work by now I find very odd. I had long thought personal blimps were the transportation of the future, but other (lesser) futurists have thrown cold water on my ideas by claiming that once a lot of people start flying personal blimps to work, well, you’d start to need blimp traffic signals. Which implied blimp accidents, and blimp rollovers, and blimp traffic jams. Which implied not much better than what we currently have. I was sure we were on the precipice of a great blimp movement, but people got so freaked out by this misinformation campaign that no one would get behind the blimp idea, and it petered out.
Alas! And now it turns out there isn’t even much road traffic. Do you realize that I drove from West Roxbury to Cambridge and never once touched my brakes? Slight exaggeration: there were some geese that wouldn’t get out of the way, but after that it was just give it gas and turn the wheel.
My personal opinion, It’s important to get into your car now, while gas prices are low and you are actually allowed to go to the ski slopes.
Wait a minute: can we still ski?