I Call Bullshit on the Past Three Months.
If the murder of George Floyd and resulting legitimate calls for social justice — sadly rendered impotent by grossly illegitimate rampaging, criminality, looting and more murder during our ongoing American Nightmare — revealed anything, it’s this:
Coronavirus was a lie.
Not that Coronavirus didn’t happen. Not that people weren’t sickened, people haven’t been killed, and one hundred percent of the population hasn’t been impacted by our new, for the moment, unpreventable contagion.
This is without dispute. Something happened.
But (so far) the “inevitable” hasn’t happened: From ‘inevitable’ health care system collapse to…
The Worst Coronavirus “Ideas” on Medium
Ahh, springtime in New York City! Just above freezing, snow (?!) in the forecast, and/or ceaselessly pissing rain.
Skipping spring season, as we so often do in our metropolitan petri dish, and looking ahead toward welcome heat and sunshine in the summer month (maybe?) — that fleeting few weeks between mid-July and mid-August — it’s important to reflect on the legitimate horror of rampant contagion with unknown consequences. The trepidation, if not outright fear, that even writing that sentence engenders in me, is not without basis or justification.
I get it.
That said, though…
or, STFU with the Doom Porn Already.
Every time my wife receives a message or phone call - and that’s pretty much always… She’s keeping busy and connected to the outside world more than I am.
I’ve gone through the motions and the platitudes with work colleagues:
“Hope you’re well!”
“What a world, huh?”
“We’ll get through this!”
“It WILL be over!”
After the umpteenth round of this, what is there really left to talk about? It’s like an eternal chorus of Frère Jacques, empty words building upon themselves with no room for anything else in the song…
by Jeff Glovsky
I failed my father in every way.
In his last days, slumped in his chair/bed, then toilet, neglected by his grandson, my nephew, who lived upstairs, locked away in his own foul-smelling mess, which he rarely ventured out of but to drive himself to work or nuke frozen pizza…
I killed my father!
Not knowing how bad things actually were; not wanting to see, be made fully aware…
Unable to be there and help my poor father, to meet his imploring human needs - for companionship… communication… then dressing, or finding his watch, or teeth.
A response to a writing challenge on HITRECORD, ostensibly in collaboration with Medium… though I’m not (yet) seeing any back-and-forth, synergies, any evidence, really, of this alleged cross-platform juggernaut…
I nonetheless give you, too, dear Medium Reader,
some thoughts “On Mornings”
When my dad turned 5–0, he extinguished the candles on his birthday cake… by stomping on them. My mom, rest her soul, in her bright-eyed and gentle way — dutifully hiding the pens and sharp objects as my dad stomped and flailed away that day — remarked, “This is going to be an interesting rest of the year.”
As it happened, the remainder of 1982 was uneventful. My brother and I continued to share our small upstairs bedroom, and seemingly brain-dead neighbors hurled apples at our modest house whenever they could…
Other than Dallas being interrupted by ripe fruit pelting…
When the knocks came and the lock started turning, then the buzzer, loud, sounded and shattered the day (with me, luckily, inside - I could’ve been locked out!)… I was thrown.
Outside, on the street in an hour.
I didn’t have time to fold my shirts! Unceremoniously rude awakened…
I realized, as they stormed the apartment, I’d be allowed to keep my shirts… but this would be the final straw. I’d lose for good now, my lovely, estranged long(ish)-suffering wife.
Had we still lived together, I’d still have Berilyn to have my back. They wouldn’t have stormed our apartment then…
Warm holiday wishes to all of you hard-working, trained and licensed professionals ousted from livelihoods by selfish and smugly uncaring new “sharing economists” (May Karma be a bitch to them).
You all deserve better. May the New Year bring a return to form… and rejection of the mess of masses scrambling to be part of something needlessly “disruptive”.
I, for one, am tired of cleaning up your messes: Your masses showing up to be told your “hosts” have cancelled reservations*;
your sucking in of payment information, yet rejection of it being allowed to be used;
I sit in the Russian bar post midnight. Gruff-voiced troubadour rasps rousing anthems, seems to take requests. “Popeye the Sailor Man!” someone shouts. Another calls out a Russian tune.
Troubadour rasps lustily, obliging; feet start pounding on the wooden floor, dance being had.
Tatiana asks me what I’m writing. I don’t want to talk right now.
Persistent thing, she asks again… Again.
“I’m writing a short story.”
“Yes…?” she mewls. “On what?” (she mewls).
“I’m workin’ it out,” I try and stay polite. But brusque, and business-like.
She doesn’t get the hint, continues: “Wait! I’m trying to understand.” She has…
Private Tweets and Public Feats (Photos and Writing By) Jeff Glovsky