Maybe it's time...

...to watch Sullivan's Travels* again, Nick reminded me when I said I felt narcissistic and disrespectful writing about silly stuff these days. He's right -- (not that I presume to compare myself to Preston Sturges). But I get his point. Or Andy Zaltzman's** point, "The heavier the shit going down, the further I need to get away from it." Just for a minute. Just a minute.

That said, I'm starting writing again (or maybe just having a flash in the pan again) from a point of narcissistic depression. The result of trying to take a healthy walk yesterday and today to get myself out of narcissistic depression.

So, walking on the two most beautiful days of the year has been terrible. As previously noted, because bike paths are now tainted, I am limited to the cemeteries*** or sidewalks. So my walks are straight lines punctuated with right angles. They lack shade and birds. I come back more depressed--probably in part because my blood oxygen level decreases with every pull of air through damp cloth.

Also, now, RI is in phase 2 of reopening, which according to the government means, "Let's see if this results in more cases, and we'll pull back if we start stretching capacity" but to the populace -- No. I don't want to wrong anyone. They're still taking this seriously and behaving responsibly. And they're better informed. And you can be, too. Just follow these phase 2 guidelines…

You can't catch coronavirus and don't need to wear a mask any more if:

• You are in your yard (a week ago).

• You are outside (now).

• You have wheels: Cars, motorcycles, bicycles, roller blades, skateboards. And I say "have" advisedly. If you're walking your bike or leaning against a car, that counts. Carrying a wheel will also protect you.

• You are surrounded by other people not wearing masks, especially surrounded by children not wearing masks--the more, the better your chances of being immune.

• Your mask is dangling from your ear or wrapped around your neck.

And especially you can't catch coronavirus and don't need to wear a mask any more if the other person is wearing a mask. Or even if only one person in your visual field is wearing a mask. If you are the one not wearing a mask, this also gives you the right (part of phase 2 guidelines) to look at the mask-wearing person as though they were an idiot. That other person would be me. (Walking into town to deposit a check (i.e., virtuous walking), I was wearing a hat and sunglasses and very conscious that I looked like a crazy lady. So perhaps the weird looks were merited. But that would be diluting the story.)  Also that person would be a friend of ours with her children who were harassed yesterday.

The part about not catching coronavirus if the other person is wearing a mask is somewhat true, in that a non-medical grade mask protects other people from some of your spit. It does not protect you from theirs, so I regard others' refusal to wear theirs as an act of war. Nick (who used to do a lot of airbrush work and knows about particle masks), feeling much the same--both damp and hostile--has just ordered us some lightweight neoprene masks that have replaceable carbon filters and little silicone vents that open up when you exhale. In other words, the air you breathe is filtered and dry and the air you exhale is unfiltered spit. Fuck you, RI.****

A different, but related, mask-y concern is the aesthetics of...mask tan. Bet you didn't think about that. One might justifiably risk one's (i.e., others') life to avoid this. I understand. And yet...with a little natural color in the right places, I've got cheekbones like cut glass and look about 20 years younger. I am definitely ready for my close-up.

* It's a screwball comedy about, eventually, a chain gang. I won't be giving a synopsis. Just watch it if you can. Sturges is a genius.

** The very funny man behind The Bugle podcast. Often offensively juvenile/lame. But but when it’s good, it’s very, very good. And I depend on it.

*** More on those again soon, if I get my writing shit together--they are not without their points of interest. Nothing is without its points of interest.

**** I can't really be that irresponsible, can I? You can cover this neoprene mask with a fine mesh of some sort that will allow you to breathe easily and will still keep you from spitting on people. I would like to think that I would do this. But I won’t. Fuck you anyway, RI.

A Red Hawk Iris

The last bloom left on the last iris of the season. Not much of a gardener (and learned the hard way) but I need to have irises. I love most of all the slender speary Japanese ones. And the Red Hawks. This one already a bit faded after two days out, but a flare of quinacridone gold nonetheless--my favorite color. (Not least because it is many many colors, each more beautiful than the last--see swatch).

Write or die. That's the sword I'm holding over my head tonight. It's small, but enough to save my life.

Toilet Paper Chronicles

When all this started happening, I was bemused (vide March 15, "What IS it with the toilet paper?"). People were crazy. And we had plenty, I thought, having done the (perfectly innocent, non-hoarding) shopping before lockdown--after all, how long was it all going to last? I amused myself with the empty shelves, imagining the country swept by a new East Berlin chic. Yet last week RISD announced that it would not be holding classes next year. So  I began to feel vaguely nervous. Even if, realistically, no big (it's not the most essential item in the world, given running water), the idea of having enough for the bunker began to make sense.

Today was lovely, and thus a walk. I thought I would go to the pharmacy, as it's an OK distance and walking along the edge of route 136, you're not likely to meet anyone who will make you go wild with social distancing rage (as in, not likely to meet anyone. Who walks for errands around here?). Also we needed band-aids (parrot training is not without its hazards) as well as a prescription.

But prescriptions can be mailed, the pharmacy is really not where one wants to go even in health, AND you have to pass Job Lot. Which has band-aids. I am not a hero. Reader, I went to Job Lot.

Nice and empty--I walked right in. Did a little shopping, checked out. At the counter, the woman said to me, "Did you see? We've got toilet paper in. Right when you come in."

Of course I zombied over, having desultorily joined the ranks of the crazy. Sure enough, a pallet stacked with TP, right by the entrance. I picked up two packs (I thought I was being modest. But it turned out to be the limit, putting me firmly in hoarder-land).

Really, I didn't have to do this. If you think it through, you might conclude that if they have toilet paper again, and there's no stampede here, that means I don't actually have to buy any. Because they have toilet paper. If you get my meaning.

Back at the counter, the woman went on, "Yeah, it just came in. These too [waving her hand at a rack of pint bottles of hand sanitizer. I added one to my basket. Of course]. I don't think they've posted it on Facebook yet."

When I left, however, it was clear that the post had been put up while I was idly tossing TP into my cart. I was wrong about the stampede. I didn't notice, but the store must have filled while my back was turned at the checkout. Because there were at least 30 people in line outside.

I hunched over my shopping cart, back toward the line, and stuffed my serendipitous booty into a shopping bag. A bit nervous walking past the line toward home. Not just because I had the goods, but because I hadn't worked or worried for them. Let them eat cake.

Yet more on masks

Somewhere down the rabbit hole that is MhZ TV, I came across a little comedy called Crime Scene Cleaner—which in each episode uses a bit of blood on the carpet and a casual reference to the nature of the crime as the pretext for what can be best described as considerations of philosophy and ethics. (It’s German).

I don’t know why I felt compelled to admit that I’ve watched this. The important thing is that the guy is in one of his rare moments of cleaning, and my only thought is—”That’s an n95.”

New development. Plenty of people here who still don’t wear masks. But it’s OK—they just look at the ground while you’re going by.

Trigger alert. Spider.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rLw-9dpHtcU

I think it’s sooooort-of apropos. I hope so. But I’ll use any excuse to see this again. And make you see it again.

MhZ--A confession

I have been spending far too much time pickling my brains in television/detective series. I believe I started another post with just this observation (Perry Mason, October 27 post, and way before any pandemics legitimized this shameful waste of little grey cells cells).

But I have moved far beyond Perry Mason and Columbo now. And even beyond Britbox and Amazon Prime. I have discovered MhZ. Television series from all over Europe. In European (a language I am trying to learn. For now, subtitles help).

I will not bore you (i.e., embarrass myself) by owning up to some of the stuff I have watched. But it’s pretty fascinating—I’ve seen a lot of places. OK, so I have to mention a French series, Murder in…, which is profoundly silly and definitely merits being embarrassed about. The plotting is more than usually ridiculous—murders based on obscure rituals and the like. (As if. You have to be able to suspend disbelief in order to enjoy the mystery/detective genre, but there are limits.) The episodes stand alone, with different detectives in each. What ties the whole together is the title which is really "Murder in… [your region here]." Many many regions. This show was clearly sponsored by the French Tourist Board, and the landscapes are worth watching. Even if people are rolled down the hill in barrels after death for no apparent reason or shot with crossbows in medieval parades as a message.

I’m learning about Rostock, Regensburg, Sandhamn, Venice, Sicily, Pont-Aven, Hannover.

Better yet, I have developed a raft of cultural stereotypes. True to my own stereotype, I find the German stuff easiest to watch. Including the Inspector Brunetti series, which takes place in Venice, but is produced by Germans and has a German script. (I have read these novels in German as well. They were written by an American expat, but picked up and beloved in Germany well before they became bestsellers here. But having read them, I must say the TV series suffers under the heavy German hand—humor is applied, and that is not a strong suit. Stereotype in this case applies.)

And I’m learning the sound, if not the absolute sense, of languages. This I find actually worthwhile. I find myself correcting subtitles as I listen. I sometimes understand Swedish. There is even a Swiss crime drama (and it is as uninteresting as it sounds) so I can learn Schwyzertüütsch. I’m not progressing well with the Scandinavian tongues; although there are plenty of shows, they’re too brutal for me to watch. I'm also giving up my chance for an Austrian accent and scenes of Vienna, because the series I found is too stupid. Also, I’m sorry to say, fewer opportunities for hearing Italian than I would have like (vide Vienna). Even I have my standards (but wait until you see the next post…)

There are a number of series in which presentable, well-dressed women are paired with hugely overweight, mostly unshaven (and yet strangely—I do mean strangely, though it’s written into the script, so it must be true—attractive) partners. This disturbs me. But there’s plenty of that going around in non-Euro shows. This disturbs me.

Another nature walk--Vernon street take 2

Before it ends at Ocean State Job Lot, Vernon Street, in its less than 1/2 mile, takes you past 4 almost contiguous cemeteries, which is pretty impressive, real estate-wise. Nick having declared the bike path off limits, we decided to walk to the farthest, then head back by looping around the perimeter of each, which would give us at least some exercise.

Before we took this walk, I thought that there were only three, but it turns out that the road I thought cut off a narrow strip  of St. Jean Baptiste Cemetery is actually a public street, and it divides spacious St. Jean Baptiste from  cramped St. Alexander. This is important, because a quick read of the names reveals that St. Alexander's is Polish, and it turns out you absolutely won't find them mixing with the French Canadians of St. Jean Baptiste across the asphalt, thank you very much. Except for a couple, like Rumplik and Pysz, who probably never wanted to speak to their Catholic school tormentors again, even in death.

On to St Mary of the Bay, which is pretty much a mix of the rest of the Easy Bay--Portuguese, Italian, Irish. A little more...catholic Catholic. And a little flat, after the clear warfare of the former two.

Until you get to South Burial Ground. Notice anything? Like no "St." anything? Yea, verily, because this is where the white Protestants rest. "White" as in not Catholic, as in we-were-here-before-you not Catholic. Pearce, Foster, Martin, Crowninshield, Luther, Dunn, Brown, Jenckes, Blount, Brelsford. Etc. A few van der Somethings. Take that, St. Mary of the Bay and all you other foreigners.

My favorite tombstone (St. Jean Baptiste, of course):