My Corona Diary (Take XLII): Who Was That Masked Man? (It's Not The Lone Ranger...)

<Self-Portrait In Mirror W/Mask: 3:00 AM/The Reckoner>

<i.>

Just over 10 days from now, the national COVID-19 health emergency will officially expire, and allow the Biden administration to formally close the books on it. Then again, I didn't need the President to draw a rhetorical exclamation point with his index finger whenever he takes the podium again, because the signs have been in the air, so to speak, for awhile. My community's no exception.

The major sign, from my standpoint, is that most people have largely given up wearing face masks. Those who still do, besides Your Humble Narrator, are mainly older people. As in, the advanced elderly, and those closer to my demographic (fifty and sixtysomethings). 

These days, masking is now optional for most public spaces, though if you're still feeling uneasy, the authorities suggest keeping yours on, and ask those around you for tolerance. But if it's optional, why should anybody have to worry? Doesn't that seem a little contradictory?

As you might imagine, this leads to odd situations. Our visiting doctor recently popped in to see the Squawker and I, so we dropped the question: "Do you think it's time to ditch the masks altogether, in light of the current situation? Have things eased up enough to allow that?"

She immediately fired back with a question of her own: "What, do you go around wearing your mask indoors?"

"Er, no," I suggested. "Not exactly. No need to do that, if it's just us."

"I have a lot of immuno-issues," Squawker responded. "So that's why we're still wearing ours."

Then again, getting a simple subject-verb-object sentence out of any medical professional is rather difficult. Whether it's fear of lawsuits, or a natural skittishness to give out too many compromising details, I've no idea, but doctors are often like Treasury Secretaries.

No sooner do they tout a pin drop in the interest rate, before they say: "But I can't promise you, that they won't go back up." You get the idea.

<"Me & My KN-95"/The Reckoner>

<ii.>

It makes sense, then, that I heard a totally different take on the issue, during an early evening run to Matthew's, for a few last minute food items. Right off the bat, the cashier asked me, pointing at my black mask: "Why are you wearing one? Are you still afraid of getting sick?"

"Er, something like that," I ventured. "It's not a John Wayne thing for me -- it just makes sense, doesn't it? Maybe there's another variant in the air, waiting for its chance to slip under the radar.'

I wasn't prepared for her response. "Well, good for you!" the cashier said.  Her voice rose a notch or two. "The shots don't work, anyway."

"Well, I can't say that I'm perfect," I said. "I haven't gotten around to it. Mainly, because I work at home, and it's not that I'm around people constantly, so..."

The bagger paused momentarily, from his work. "Are you afraid of needles? Does that something to do with it?"

"Well, yeah, there is that." I slid my debit card out of the holder. "I mean, it's not the whole reason, but you're talking to a guy who winces and squirms whenever they do blood draws. My forearm doesn't like those, either."

"I get what you mean," the bagger said. "Whenever I do anything like that, I have to think about something else."

I thank the crew, scoop up my bananas, two liters and assorted items -- a nine-grain bread loaf here, a package of Oscar Meyer lunchmeat there -- and head back to my virtual cave, the living room that's functioned as the nerve center of my existence for years and years, long before the COVID-19 bomb dropped, and rattled our bones like no virus had no ever done before.

One thought crosses my mind, as I head home. Drawing red lines and exclamation marks under anything isn't always so simple. Yes, May 11 may well be the day du jour, but events don't always bend to official declarations.

Maybe in a few more months, I can let go of the protocols -- stay six feet apart, wash your hands a little bit more often, wear those masks when you're out and about -- that have defined so much of my last three years.

But something tells me to keep my powder dry, for now, for just a little bit longer. "Who was that masked man," you say? Well, it's me. For now, at least. --The Reckoner

My Corona Diary (Take XXXIX): Pandemic, Endemic, Or What? A Few Housekeeping Notes

 <"Waiting For 

That Other Shoe To Drop..."
The Reckoner>

Alert readers of this blog will have noticed that I haven't posted a "Corona Diary" entry since May 1, or a good five months ago. There are several reasons, starting with the mundane. The demands of a public service job force me to juggle other priorities, including my creative side, more judiciously than before.

I have roughly the same amount of time for creative ventures as before, but I have to measure out more energy for them, depending on how long my day runs, or how many tasks pile up in a typical week. So that's one thing.

I also don't want to wear out a particular idea, or series of them. The Squawker and I don't believe in creating at an industrial pace, just to outrun an algorithm (even if I'm carrying most of the art and writing load lately). When we have something to say, we'll say it. if not, then not. Simple as that.

We're not worried about making money, or keeping up with the virtual Joneses. and we also don't want to repeat ourselves. The essential themes of the pandemic -- the crippling isolation, extreme inequities, and social upheavals -- are long established, so there's no point in rehashing them constantly.

Even so, I'm keeping the "Corona Diary" concept and title. Maybe I'll change it, once Entry #50 rolls around ("Post-Corona Diary," anyone?), but I'm not rushing any decision. I'm sure that whatever happens outside my remote work bubble will influence what's written next, which is how "My Corona Diary" emerged.

Having something to write about also helps. It's been awhile -- maybe a year, in fact -- since I've written anything COVID-19 related, looked at any of those color-coded maps, to keep track of the spread, nor spot-checked what other media outlets were saying about any of it.

Most folk that I see, on those occasions when Squawker and I venture out to the store, or some medical appointment or other, aren't wearing their masks anymore. Most stores still require them, though, while a sign at the County Courthouse states, "Face coverings optional. We respect your choice." Such is the Alice in Wonderland world that COVID-19 has brought us.

The pundits call it "pandemic fatigue," which makes sense, on some levels. Two years of ever-changing information and recommendations will wear out the hardiest of souls, despite President Biden's recent attempts at FDR-style fireside reassurance ("We still have a problem with COVID. We're still doing a lot of work on it. But the pandemic is over").

Then why are we hearing about the prospect of powerful new variants, like BA.5, looming over this winter? And why is my sister telling me about sharp spikes at her agency in so-called "long COVID" claims, of people so debilitated by the disease, they can't work anymore, let alone function? 

What's more, people are still dying from COVID, though not at the fearsome rates we witnessed 2020, and much of last year, as well. But the 300-400 COVID deaths per day that we're currently logging still strikes me as a big deal. That's almost 3,000 people per week. Any way you slice it, that's an eye-popping number.

Maybe that's why the Squawker and I are still wearing our masks, and limiting our current outings and social contacts to the "strictly necessary" variety. Last night, for instance, the local art center hosted the screening of a dozen or so silent movies outside -- on the side of the building, with an appropriate soundtrack.

Children had opportunities to paint jack-o'-lanterns, and of course, the center promised plenty of refreshments. It sounded like a fun event, a way to break our isolation, if only for 90 minutes, or so. I duly pitched the idea to Squawker, who lobbed back a question: "Sure, it might be outside. But will we really able to see it all from the car?"

"Well, we could drive by and check it out," I offered. "We could park across the street, or the center's parking lot. If not, we can always go back home. It's not a big deal."

"Hmm, yeah, maybe..." I could see Squawker's reserve start to melt. "But chances are, they'll have everybody sitting on the lawn. Which means, we'll still be exposed to all their germs."

"Sure, I guess. We don't know where they've been, or who they've done it with. But still, I wouldn't mind..."

The discussion continued, for another 10 minutes or so, till we figured out that we weren't showing up. At one point, I cracked, "You know, we could probably look up those movies online, and watch them right here."

"That's just it," Squawker agreed. "I can't really sit that long, anyway. Not the way my body works, these days. I'd rather see a movie at home."

"That's a fair point, all right. Can't argue with that."

And there, we let the matter drop. That's our current dilemma, isn't it? As much as fun as that whole event sounded, something held us back. You can call it anxiety, or continued paranoia, or standard issue Midwestern reserve, or simply, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

But if decades of journalistic experience have taught me nothing me else, it's this. When you hear that other shoe, as it's whistling past your head, it means, you'd better pay attention. Or ignore it, at your peril. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (No All Clear Sign,

So No Hurries This Time):

CNBC: Dr. Fauci Says A New,

More Dangerous COIVD Variant Could Emerge...:

https://www.cnbc.com/2022/10/07/dr-fauci-new-more-dangerous-covid-variant-could-emerge-this-winter.html

Fortune: Autumn COVID Variants

Look Shockingly Similar And Powerful...:
https://fortune.com/well/2022/10/08/autumn-covid-variants-similar-omicron-convergent-evolution-recombination-deltacron-frankenvirus-fall-winter-wave-coronavirus-pandemic-epidemic/

NPR: Joe Biden Says 

The COVID-19 Pandemic Is Over...:

https://www.npr.org/2022/09/19/1123767437/joe-biden-covid-19-pandemic-over

My Corona Diary (Take XXVI): Waiting For The Sky To Fall (So How's Your Mental Health?)

 

<"My Head Just Exploded..."/Take I: The Reckoner>

<i.>

The unthinkable and the unimaginable roll on, as we gird ourselves for another dreary, bleary-eyed year of COVID-19. The global death toll, as I write, now stands at 2.06 million, in nearly 96 million cases, and 54.05 million recoveries. The US numbers stand at 414,229 deaths, out of 24.5 million cases. (I didn't find any figures for recoveries.) 

Come tomorrow, or the next day, we'll see a different set of numbers, as the new Biden administration struggles to roll out the long-promised vaccines. Arguments continue to flare on Capitol Hill about whether a third round of stimulus cash, which Joe Biden ran on, is needed. It's grotesque when you consider that one of the loudest objectors is Senator Joe Manchin (D-WV), whose estimated net worth is $10 million, so Google tells me. 

Manchin's not the only offender to whom you can draw a red thread between his apparent lack of urgency, and the robustness of his personal bottom line. (To be fair, Manchin has since qualified his objections, apparently prodded by a brutal radio ad -- see link below). Fear and weariness fog the air. I'm hearing (or reading) a lot of people say, "I can't take this much longer," or, "I'm going to crack up, if I can't get out soon," or even, "Maybe I will get the damned vaccine, just so I can get out."

I'm seeing similar distress signals ricocheting across the social media landscape, especially for those who supported the attack against our nation's Capitol. Life seems especially brutal and unfair for those who actually expected Trump to pull a rabbit out of his hat, and somehow stay in power, just like the dictators he so admired. 

The reactions I've seen, during a brief spot check of my social media feeds, range from continued disbelief at Trump's defeat ("Biden lost by at least 12 million votes! He didn't campaign in a meaningful way"), apocalyptic I-told-you-sos ("the warnings were aplenty, but the propaganda too strong for the spiritually blind to understand"), to enraged disgust ("Trump could have called martial law and had the traitors arrested, this is fact"), and reassertion of fundamentalist Christianity as America's default religion ("Trump stood up for God's people at every turn. For that, we loved him"). 

Judging by the various statements and memes I'm seeing, the villains of this particular worldview haven't changed a whit, either. The Chinese are still vying with Black Lives Matter and reprogrammed voting machines for dominance of that particular sphere. It reminds me, in a strange way, of one of my favorite Jack T. Chick tracts, The Mad Machine (1975), which stands out for its darkly satiric overview of modern life, and all the stresses that bedevil it.

One of my favorite punchlines features an apparently prosperous, yet harried-looking couple debating their need for mental health care. "I've had it!" yells the husband. "Everything is caving in on me...I'm going to see my shrink!" 

"You can't," the wife responds, still cradling the phone. He's seeing his shrink today!" 

But seriously, folks...I just flew in from this virus, and boy, are my arms tired. Ba-boomp!

<"My Head Just Exploded..."/Take II: The Reckoner>

<ii.>

The Squawker and I have spent lots of time lately discussing how COVID-19 has affected our mental health, and the inner well-being of those around us. One measure of how long the pandemic has dragged on is the number of day trips that Squawker wants to take, when the nemesis of COVID-19 finally winds down. 

Ann Arbor...Kalamazoo...South Bend...South Haven are some of the latest names that Squawker has dropped. "Not a problem, dear Squawker," I respond. "We'll do these things in due time. But they have to happen the right way."

"I'm so tired of living like this, though," Squawker retorts. "I'm tired of not getting out. I'm sick of not seeing anybody. Not to mention all those mask-less assholes you keep running into, whenever I try to take a walk outside, or go to a park."

My response, at this point in this conversation, is to nod grimly, and voice my sympathy. What else can I do right now? COVID-19 continues to impact  our lives in random, arbitrary ways. 

Case in point: our local library, which had remained part of our routine, because we could still enter the building. That meant we could talk to people, print out whatever materials we needed, and check out books. It gave us something to enjoy, and look forward to doing...until a patron tested positive for COVID, around Thanksgiving.

Bam! Everything changed overnight. You can still pick up whatever books you want at the curb, but otherwise, the building's closed (except to staff). Anything else, like one on one conversation, is out of the question, for now. (We never bothered to keep a printer, but we're actually talking about getting one. Who knows when we'll get back in the building?)

The same reservations keep us from getting out of our car when we drive by the beach, or one of our local parks. Too many others have the same idea, especially if you're experiencing a milder than normal winter, as we have been in our town. I'm even seeing people parked there at nine or 10 o'clock at night! With so many activities off limits, you take your outlets where you can find them.

Another side effect is being pressed into a counseling role, but not for the reasons you'd expect. I got a taste of this feeling after the January 6th coup attempt against our government, as I found myself trying to talk down people who just wanted to pack their bags, and punch the nearest ticket to some far away place -- Australia, or Asia? Europe or England? Mexico or South America? 

Anywhere, it seemed, felt better than the madness unfolding on the Capitol steps, on live TV. I found myself walking people through the practicalities: "Okay, how many people live in the US? Don't know?" Pause. "Not really, no." "Well, it's 330 million, give or take. Now let's try and figure out, how many millions of militia men would it take, to make everybody do what they want?"

It's an odd role to find yourself occupying, isn't it? But strange times create strange responses, as I'm learning lately. One measure of the widespread misery that we're feeling comes in a University of Michigan Health Lab study of patients who survived hospitalization for COVID-19 (see link below). 

Nearly half said they'd been affected emotionally by their experience, while 10 percent had used up most (or all) of their savings, and an additional seven percent "were rationing food, heat, housing or medications because of cost," the researchers said. "The sheer number of people struggling after COVID brings new urgency to developing programs to better promote and support recovery after acute illness," said Dr. Hallie Prescott, senior researcher. 

The researchers -- and, for that matter, the nation -- might start with such basic niceties as making mental health part of any healthcare reform initiative. I see little point in declaring healthcare a human right if we focus solely on the physical side, at the expense of the mental. Only then could we eliminate the absurdities of a system that incentivizes counselors to reject health insurance, even when people have it, in favor of collecting their full fee upfront.

With so many millions' lives, psyches and spirits hanging by a thread, business as usual is no longer acceptable. Nor is shrugging it off by saying, "Well, that's the best we can do." 

It's the same sentiment running through the Foo Fighters' latest track, "Waiting On A War," as Dave Grohl explained recently: "Is there more to this than that? Is there more to this than just waiting on a war? Because I need more. We all do." I couldn't have said it better. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Hurry, Hurry, 

Before Your Counselor Needs Counseling)

Foo Fighters: 

Waiting On A War (Lyric Video):
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=z2kswhvKIHM

The Intercept

Joe Manchin Was Hit With Tough Ad 

Back Home After Going Wobbly On $2,000 Checks:

https://theintercept.com/2021/01/21/joe-manchin-stimulus-checks/

U of M Health Lab

Life After COVID-19 Hospitalization:

Major Lasting Effects On Health, Work And More:

https://labblog.uofmhealth.org/rounds/life-after-covid-19-hospitalization-major-lasting-effects-on-health-work-and-more

My Corona Diary (Take XXV): The Trump Cult, Unmasked, At The Checkout Line

 

"Trump's First Detention,"

Take I/The Reckoner

I love it when the so-called "adults in the room," i.e., the mainstream media outlets, pundits and various talking heads, wrack their brows and wax in angst over the Trump Phenomenon. Examples include a recent headline that I saw in The Atlantic Monthly: "How Long This Can Go On?" Even such formerly Trump-friendly outlets, like the New York Post -- a/k/a, the Voice of the Cranky Old Man, who finds his world changing too fast for his liking -- seem to have finally grasped the whiff of hemlock wafting underneath this particular real life reality show ("How Long Can Trump Keep Contesting 2020 Election Results?").

Well, gentlemen -- because, let's not forget, it is mostly aging white gentlemen who always seem to stride atop these particular pyramids, and preside over the slaves toiling for them at the base -- furrow your brows no longer, and wax in angst no more, for I have your answer. 

Simply put, "it" -- whether you're referring to the Trump cult, the hypnotic spell that it exerts over its starry-eyed legions, or the long term threat it poses to democracy, such as it exists, or however we define it, in the United States -- will go on, as long as nearly half the country prefers to live in an alternative universe, in which COVID is a hoax, masks are the enslavement tools of the effete liberals who crafted them in their secret underground laboratories, and their cult leader, Donald Trump, continues to assert an electoral victory that exists only in the darkest recesses of their hindbrains (and his).

I got a taste of this myself at Matthew's the other night, when the wife dispatched me to pick up a few food items, plus the usual household supplies, like paper towels, and dish soap, that sort of thing.

I was getting ready to check out when I noticed the cashier had two Velcro bands wrapped around her upper forearms. I asked what they were doing there, and she responded, "Oh, that's because I have tennis elbow in the left arm, and every time I'm on the other machine..." She gestured at the lane behind her. "I'm in a lot of pain."

She explained that working the cash register behind us was more painful, because that particular model of machine requires more rapid arm and wrist movements. The newer ones, apparently, aren't as demanding, being more advanced models that don't require as much motion to operate. "Couldn't you just work the machine that you're on now?" I asked.

The cashier responded that no, she couldn't, because whenever the lines backed up, somebody had to work that particular lane, and that particular machine. Even though Matthew's has just installed six self-checkout machines, there aren't enough people to work the conventional registers that still exist. 

Got that? It's like saying, "You're a millionaire, but you'll still have to borrow to get through the holidays," or, "You can have artistic control, but you'll have change the name of the band." Are you confused yet? I don't blame you. So am I.

"They've been threatening to cut hours, for the part-timers," the cashier continued, as she rung up the last of my items. "They just put out our new schedules, but I haven't seen them yet. I'm not sure I want to."

"Why, how many hours are you working now?" I asked.

"Twenty to 25 a week," she answered.

I got ready to write the check. "Well, not to worry," I cracked. "We've finally got a stimulus check coming, so maybe we can cut some of our losses at the box office with that one."

"I feel bad for him," the cashier said, almost to herself.

"Who, Trump? Why, exactly?" I asked.

"Because he should be there in January. He proved that he got three million more votes."

"Really? How do you figure that?"

"Because they were Democratic judges, and they won't hear his cases," the cashier responded.

"Weren't there some Bush and Trump appointees in the mix, though?" I retorted. "At least, the last time I checked." 

Like the three Supreme Court Justices he got to appoint, I told myself. But I guess they too were part of the grand conspiracy against the Dear Leader.

This time, the cashier didn't answer me. Whether she was preoccupied with the check reader, or writing me off as part of the conspiracy, too, I don't know, but since we'd wrapped up our business, I didn't push the point, this time around.

As far as all the adults are concerned, though, I'll circle back where we started. How long, you ask, can this go on?

For defenders of democratic values, the answer is simple. For now, longer than we can imagine, as there is much work to be done. 

The sooner we see this, and stop clinging to some hypothetical notion of normalcy, or some temporarily interrupted social order, that we can restore, by just clicking our fingers, or flicking on a switch...the sooner we can start that work, and do what has to be done. I have seen the challenge with my own eyes. And the road ahead looks long, with no lack of hairpin turns to snare the unwary. --The Reckoner

My Corona Diary (Take XXIV): From Weird, To Just Plain Bad: Van The Man's Crotchety Anti-Lockdown Rock

<Irish News, 11/30/17:
See link below for a flavor 
of the interview -- he's a bit difficult,

as you'll find out...>

<i.>

It's fair to say, isn't it, that the gray viral dawn of COVID has pushed all of our adaptive capabilities to the outer limit. That's why "tired," I'm sure, is the word I most often hear, these days, from my friends and loved ones. Still, some of us are seizing the moment better than others, which is why I have some serious issues with Van Morrison's anti-lockdown musical crusade. 

He's just dropped the fourth single in that dubious series, "Stand And Deliver," complete with Eric Clapton on guitar and vocals: "Do you want to be a free man, or do you want to be a slave?" Spartacus should be so proud, I guess, with lyrics like these: "Do you wanna be a free man, or do you wanna be a slave?/Do you wanna wear these chains/Until you're lying in the grave?"

All proceeds will go to the Lockdown Financial Hardship Fund, an entity that Morrison has set up to help musicians who've fallen on hard times, now that COVID's taken touring totally off the table. It all sounds pretty conscientious and admirable, except...

<except...

except...

except...>

"Stand And Deliver" is dropping at a time of near-total panic, due to a new COVID strain that's reportedly 70% more transmittable than its predecessor. In response, Boris Johnson's government has shut down all nonessential businesses (bowling alleys, cinemas, gyms, hairdressers, and shops) for two weeks, with people restricted to meeting just one other person from another household in any public space. Considering that Johnson hasn't always taken the virus seriously himself, this news alone should give Van the Man pause.

You've got to be awfully tone deaf to drop an anti-lockdown ode on the eve of what will surely go down as Britain's most harried Christmas ever. Yet "Stand & Deliver" is  the fourth entry in this exercise, which includes "As I Walked Out," "Born To Be Free," and "No More Lockdown."

Sadder still, as Yahoo News has noted, both legends seem to be buying lock, stock and riff into the conspiracy theories and crackpot rebellions that have dogged the whole COVID tragedy since its beginnings, as if it's something they could somehow snap their fingers and slap aside, the moment that their (mostly, presumably) graying fanbase mobilizes to gatecrash the barricades: "Stand and deliver/You let them put the fear on you/Stand and deliver/But not a word you heard was true."

Clapton has explained his participation in Van's latest tirade against public health by characterizing it as a rally around the rock 'n' roll flag, as it were: "There are many of us who support Van and his endeavors to save live music: he is an inspiration. We must stand up and be counted because we need to find a way out of this mess. The alternative is not worth thinking about. Live music might never recover."

Eric, old man...If your worst case scenario is not strapping on a guitar for your paying customers, then you're even more out of touch than I could ever imagined. How about dying horribly, all by yourself in a hospital bed -- assuming they have one for you -- without anyone to see you off? That scenario sounds a lot more unthinkable than just not being able to crank up the music. We don't say, "See you on the other side," we say, "See you later." There's a slight difference, verbally speaking. But I digress.

<"Introducing...The Lone Unmasker"
The Reckoner>

<ii.>

Longtime Van Morrison watchers will remind you that this latest twist in his career is hardly a new one. That's not to denigrate his vocal abilities, which remain considerable, and remarkable. Where many of his '60s- and '70s-era cohorts often sound weaker and wispier, he's never seemed stronger, and the creative peaks of albums like Astral Weeks (1968), Moondance (1970) and Veedon Fleece (1974), to name three, are always worth revisiting. He's done some equally noteworthy collaborations with Georgie Fame and the Chieftains.

My personal favorites are Into The Music (1979) and Common One (1980), widely regarded as some of the most joyful and challenging of his lengthy discography, and I heartily encourage you all to check them out, plus the purple patch of creativity he experienced during the mid- to late '80s, with Beautiful Vision (1982), Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart (1983)*, A Sense Of Wonder (1985), and Poetic Champions Compose (1987). No dispute there from me.

Since the mid-'80s, however, Van has increasingly begun trafficking in a style I'd jokingly call Grump Rock, Grouse Music, or Grievance Pop, a tendency that began creeping out on songs like "Thanks For The Information" (No Guru, No Method, No Teacher, 1986), where he sternly takes popular culture to task: "It's living off dummy tech or MTV/And with her everything light becomes heavy/And everything heavy becomes light." Wonder who the lucky date was that night? Hopefully, it wasn't Debbie Downer From Derry, but presumably, that's what it takes to cope with the Bleary-Eyed Bard From Belfast, I suppose. 

As time has gone on, though, Van has elevated his Grump Rock brand to a distinct sub-genre of his style. It's one built around lightweight riffs, vaguely defined grievances and numbingly banal lyrics, whether he's scolding society at large ("You can't believe what you read in the papers/Or half the news that's on TV": "What's Wrong With This Picture," 2003), the media ("They've brainwashed the suckers again and perpetrated the myth," "School Of Hard Knocks," 2008), or one of his favorite targets, the music industry ("They sold me out for a few shekels," "They Sold Me Out," 2005).

At least "They Sold Me Out" boasts an insidiously catchy melody and vocal hook, a quality that seems far less evident on the former efforts, or his latest anti-lockdown broadsides. As Rolling Stone points out, it's downright weird to hear him crooning bitter couplets like "Don't need the government cramping my style/Give them an inch/They take a mile," over an upbeat country-soul backing track. It's as if the Carpenters had recorded an album of screaming, headbanging rock 'n' roll, or Metallica had taken the Bert Bacharach route over a double album.

Still, if I were only picking musical nits, I'd feel a lot less concerned about Van the Man's newly-minted curmudgeonly posture, one that he apparently feels comfortable enough airing more openly, as the years go by. My problem with it deepens when I read about him dismissing COVID-19 as some figment of some faceless bureaucrat's imagination, as he aired on a since-deleted post on his website, according to Rolling Stone: "Come forward, stand up, fight the pseudoscience and speak up."

The disconnect grows even more worrisome, when you consider Van Morrison's  status as a celebrity and certified legend with an estimated net worth of $90 million, which that means somebody out there listens to him, and takes some of his public pronouncements seriously. More than a few people here or there, as Northern Ireland's Health Minister, Robin Swann, told Rolling Stone, in critiquing Van's lumpen anti-lockdown rock outbursts: "I don't know where he gets his facts. I know where the emotions are on this, but I will say that sort of messaging is dangerous."

Context is everything, especially when you're dealing with a global pandemic that's claimed millions of lives. I do appreciate Van's willingness to raise money for fellow musicians who've slid through the COVID cracks, which someone in his position can do quite effectively. If he'd left it there as the bandwagon of choice for people to jump on, I'd have been happy.

But, instead, he chooses to undercut his own efforts by going about his current path of railing against COVID as some sort of conspiracy against him, saying that he doesn't want to play socially distanced shows, because they're not economically viable -- as if that disruption of his bank balance is somehow more important than  the social misery and suffering the virus has rained down on so many.

<"Spider Above Garage Door":
Take II/The Reckoner>

<iii.>

It's a story that I know all too well, having interviewed my share of COVID-19 survivors, like the woman who'd lost her husband of twenty-some years -- after suffering with him for three days. She didn't learn his fate immediately, because she recovered sufficiently to get discharged after her first day. When I asked how was doing, she said she wasn't crying all day anymore. But even with her faith, and her daughter helping out at home, the road back looked awfully dark, still. And long.

Or maybe Van could join Clapton and myself in talking with another woman who'd also logged time with her husband in the hospital. She had no idea how it happened, because they both committed to wearing masks, and following the other precautions, like social distancing. Even then, their recovery carried a tremendous cost. Both are experiencing side effects from battling their illness. Her husband lost his stepmother, who became their county's second victim of COVID. Both know other family members who are struggling to breath on ventilators, "fighting for their lives," Interviewee Two told me. "People are dying, left and right." The power of personal testimony doesn't come any starker than that.

Tone deaf as it is, Van's posturing becomes all the more offensive and self-aggrandizing when you see the likes of Rolling Stone giving it a platform. In researching this post, I took the trouble to listen all the songs I've mentioned, where -- guess what? -- you can get links to them, via the magazine. I suppose they're doing it in the name of journalistic rectitude, but why give them free exposure?

It's bad enough to see the mainstream media giving free rein to Trump's batshit crazy pronouncements, as they laboriously print them all in living color, syllable for sorry syllable, allowing him and his cult to soak up the resulting attention, and shove our democracy -- such as it is -- closer to the edge. It still amazes me that Twitter waited well into the twilight of Trump's presidency to slap factual warning levels on his Tweets. 

Maybe if they'd shown more of that initiative earlier, we might be in a less dangerous spot than we seem to stand now, but the horse has left the barn, as they say. Or, Van, presumably, if he's seeking another song title for his latest anti-lockdown blast (but I expect five percent, dear boy, if you use it). Whatever happened to the notion that crackpots aren't automatically entitled to attention?

I guess it depends how you define "crackpot," doesn't it, but let's put it this way. I'm old enough to remember when the Ku Klux Klan tried to give press conferences, and those stereotypically seen-it-all-done-it-all, crusty old news guys just laughed them out of the room, without bothering to write any of it down. Today, the KKK guys would probably get a police escort and an uncensored live appearance on CNN, or MSNBC. I could see the billing now: "No Holds Barred: The KKK's Plans For Caged Kids."

Sadly, I doubt that I'll get the chance to put on my Ghosts Of Christmas Past, Present and Future costume, so I can show Eric Clapton and Van Morrison what their flawed thinking has brought down on others. But if I could, I'd happily bring up one of my favorite song titles from Veedon Fleece, one that seems so apropos now: "You Don't Pull No Punches, But You Don't Push The River." Because, sometimes, the river has a way of pushing back. And slapping you right upside the head. Hard.--The Reckoner

<Footnote>

(*"Special Thanks" to Scientology founder L. Ron Hubbard in the credits aside, Inarticulate Speech Of The Heart is a good album. Van was reportedly a serious Scientology believer at that time; like many celebrities, he's done the whole stereotypical search through the spiritual shopping mall to find the meaning of life. Still, four of Inarticulate's tracks are instrumentals, so you need not fear any subliminal brainwashing there. :-)

<Update: 5/10/21>

Evidently, Van hasn't gotten all the grievances out of his system yet, judging by the response to his new album, Latest Record Project Vol. 1, a sprawling, 28-track affair that doesn't feature any of the aforementioned songs, but a slew of equally grouchy ones their place ("They Control The Media," "Where Have All The Rebels Gone," and "Why Are You On Facebook?"). 

Other tracks, like "The Long Con," continue Van's other long-running preoccupation of some faceless, nameless "they" out to do him harm ("I'm a targeted individual," he carps), apparently lending some weight to the anxiety voiced by reviewers like InsideHook: "We were right to be worried. Latest Record Project, Vol. 1 is a total shame of a record, so bad that it actively taints the legacy of one of the 20th century’s finest musicians and makes the case that it’s time for him to hang it up."

Ouch! I've seen faceless opening acts get better reviews, though it's fair to say that Van the Man's current output seems fated to especially turn off those who have cut him some slack in the past. Apparently, InsideHook won't be among them ("Sonically, it feels totally phoned-in; it’s by-the-numbers Morrison fare that he could have recorded in his sleep.") But I'll let you be the judge. Just click the link, which joins the others below.

Links To Go (Or...Hey, Eric?
Hey, Van? Enough Already):

Daily Beast
Britain's Supercharged Mutant Virus
Expected To Go Global:
https://www.yahoo.com/news/britain-supercharged-mutant-coronavirus-expected-130447381.html

InsideHook:
Van Morrison's New Album Is An Utter Embarrassment:
https://www.yahoo.com/lifestyle/van-morrisons-album-utter-embarrassment-040500848.html

Irish News: Van Morrison: 
"I've Got Nothing To Say
About Politics And I'm Not Going To Start Now":
https://www.irishnews.com/arts/2017/12/01/news/van-morrison-i-ve-got-nothing-to-say-about-politics-and-i-m-not-going-to-start-now-1199647/

Los Angeles Times
Eric Clapton's Anti-Lockdown Song
By Van Morrison Is Totally Worth Protesting:
https://www.yahoo.com/news/eric-claptons-anti-lockdown-protest-192907816.html

People
UK Prime Minister Cites
"New Variant" Of Coronavirus
As He Imposes Stricter Lockdown:
https://people.com/health/u-k-prime-minister-tightens-lockdown-mutated-coronavirus-strain/

Rolling Stone: Van Morrison Has Been
Complaining In Song For Decades.
This Time It Could Be Harmful:
https://www.yahoo.com/entertainment/van-morrison-complaining-song-decades-141156849.html

Variety: Eric Clapton and Van Morrison
Release Anti-Lockdown Song "Stand And Deliver":
https://variety.com/2020/music/news/eric-clapton-van-morrison-anti-lockdown-stand-and-deliver-1234867073/

My Corona Diary (Take XII): Live & Unmasked, At The Corona Corral (UPDATED, 9/13)

 <"Introducing...The Lone Unmasker"

The Reckoner>

We'd prepared our escape well. A week of brutally hot weather, with temperatures soaring into the upper 80s and even mid-90s had left The Squawker and I feeling cooped up and stir crazy, so we were more than ready to slip out this past weekend, and see if we could find a private space to do some walking, and move around.

Squawker and I had taken turns monitoring the forecast, waiting for the first day that barometric fever would finally break. We ended up waiting longer than we'd planned, but when we saw last Sunday's forecast (high of 80, real feel, 70s or below), we figured, time to take the plunge. 

We live right across the street from a small bar, one of many whose business has cratered due to COVID-19. However, its owner assured me that they were doing okay, when I got a takeout there a month or so ago. "The support has been there, and it's really great to see," he'd said.

I pulled out of our parking lot to turn left, past the bar, and head downtown. "Hey, what's that noise? Where's it coming from?" Squawker asked.

"Hmm, I'm not sure, because we just passed it." I said. "Let's go back and see what's going on there. Then we can get on with our business."

"Sounds good."

So I cut down a side street, looped back around, and cruised behind the bar -- the side facing away from our complex -- but nothing prepared us for the sight.

The sounds were coming from some rock 'n' roll cover band or other. About 30 to 40 people were watching, we figured, though only a few dared to dance. The crowd, such as it was, sat inside an area enclosed by metal poles, with plastic netting hung onto them. I'd seen it slowly taking shape all last week.

Nobody seemed to be wearing a mask, though. And nobody was following any social distancing rules. Well, wait, I take that back. The tables were spread apart, though not anywhere near six feet, from the looks of it. But the attendees sat, elbow to elbow, sipping their beers, or starting vacantly at the band.

"Are they crazy?" Squawker wondered out loud. "They must be kidding."

"Crazy, yeah, but desperate, too," I said, as we pulled away back. "They wouldn't be doing this if they could live without it."

Anyway, we drove around downtown, where the tourists have started trickling in, against all odds, and hung out for a little bit at the beach.

However, we stayed in our van. We saw so many people running around without masks, we figured...what's that hackneyed phrase? Discretion is the better part of valor, right? Something like that.

Tired of playing dodgeball with our fellow man, we wound our way back home. But I couldn't stop thinking of all those unmasked people on the way back. 

There's still plenty of foolishness making the rounds, though, judging by the media backlash that Great White weathered recently for playing a mask-free show in North Dakota, with no social distancing of any kind.

Ironies abounded, as always. Some initial reports didn't clarify which Great White showed up. North Dakota got the lineup led by original guitarist Mark Kendall, while former lead singer Jack Russell soldiers on as Jack Russell's Great White. Both men were onstage for the infamous Station nightclub fire of 2003, in Rhode Island, where a series of pyrotechnics set off by their crew caused soundproofing foam material to burn.

The resulting fire and stampede to escape caused the deaths of 100 people, and injured 230 more (115 seriously, as in, badly burned, disfigured and maimed for life). Yet it's Russell who told an Austrian magazine, "It’s, like, ‘I took my mask off and I got COVID.’ Well, what a big surprise that is. If you don’t wanna help yourself, help everybody else."

In contrast, the Kendall-led Great White simply opted for an official apology, brimming with the usual defensive bluster from people who've gotten caught out ("North Dakota’s government recommends masks be worn, however, we are not in a position to enforce the laws"). It reminded me of the BP Oil parody from South Park ("We're sorry...We're really, really sorry"). You can read it for yourself below, but the best sentence is the last one: "We are far from perfect."

If there's any ghosts haunting the Station site, yeah, I suspect they might heartily agree with that one, not to mention all those horribly mentally and physically scarred survivors. (Just stay away from the cemetery, though...in case one of those specters feels like kicking ass, and taking names.)

Meanwhile, as the COVID-19 death toll rockets onward and upward, with no vaccine in the pipeline, and no end in sight, I wonder what anybody's learned. 

This weekend, Squawker and I heard the music kicking up across the street once more, so I decided to check it out.

Once more, I drove past the fenced-in rear area, on my way to the gas station. Guess what? The crowd seemed smaller than last time, about 20-25 people, I think. But there they sat, right next to each other again, with no masks in sight. And if anything, the tables seemed they were packed tighter together than last time.

While our government continues to plod on, ranting about the need to push kids back into the classroom, even as great numbers of their friends and loved ones leave the planet (142,000 dead, and counting), as countless others ignore the precautions, driven by some vague notion of "sticking it to the Man," though we're the ones ending up in their crosshairs -- leaving Jack Russell to serve as the voice of reason.

Surreal? You bet. But this is where we are right now.

All this madness reminds me of the critical scene in Werner Herzog's Aguirre, The Wrath Of God (1972), as its titular conquistador -- racked by starvation and fever, yet still driven relentlessly by his own God-fueled delusions of grandeur -- rants, screams and shrieks from his raft, somewhere in the South American jungle, with only the monkeys left to keep him company: 

"I, the Wrath of God, will marry my own daughter, and with her I will found the purest dynasty the world has ever seen. Together, we shall rule this entire continent. We shall endure. I am the Wrath of God... who else is with me?"

As far as the last question goes, well... We'll find out soon enough. 

<Update: 9/13/20>

Well, guess what? The bar has continued its outdoor music and gatherings, virus or no virus, and the audiences have grown. Last Friday looked like the biggest crowd yet, approaching roughly 60-80 people, with cars filling up the nearby blood bank lot, even spilling out across the street, in the massive parking lot where the bowling alley now sits dead silent. 

So I guess the gambit is working, even if I wound up with a killer headache, because, of course, I live right across the street -- which means I get to hear echoes of the music, like it or not. I suspect it's the low frequency rumblings of the bass that are most responsible. Saturday proved different, as a steady drumming of rain essentially washed the music out, leaving the Squawker and I to gird up for the next weekend.

At least, we don't have to worry about the music lasting as long. The bar actually had a license that allowed the music until midnight, but the city commission yanked it a couple weeks ago, leaving 10:00 p.m. as the cutoff point. Judging by my drive-throughs past the site, I'm not seeing anymore signs of masking or social distancing than I did before, so I guess whatever concerns people may have, they're keeping them close to their chest.

Other places are grappling with bigger problems, like Spain, whose police have kept busy with breaking up illegal gatherings, as you'll see from the new link below. Relevant examples include 73 people getting caught and fined for partying in an illegal basement sauna in Madrid, and 160 caught enjoying rave music in a warehouse, in Barcelona.

The country's highly interactive culture has something to do with these issues, of course ("Almost nothing can be celebrated in Spain unless it is in a large group," as a public health professor states in the story). Unfortunately, the populace's restive spirit seems to be spiking new cases (25 percent among people aged 15-29). 

If nothing else, the pandemic proves how much of a social animal we are, as the cliche goes, and how important that need becomes, no matter how annoying or aggravating we make each other. However, as Spain's example -- or, for that matter, the fallout from Great White's maskless gig -- demonstrates, it only takes one domino to send the whole stack tumbling down. So it goes, at any rate, until the long-promised vaccine arrives. --The Reckoner

Links To Go (Browse All You Wish...

Just Keep Your Social Distance, Eh?)

BBC: Coronavirus: 
Why Is There A US Backlash To Masks?:
https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-52540015

The Huffington Post

The Psychology Behind
Why Some People Refuse To Wear Face Masks:
https://www.huffpost.com/entry/psychology-why-people-refuse-wear-face-masks_l_5efb723cc5b6ca970915bc53

Variety: Packed, Maskless Great White Show
Reminds Social Media Of Band's Tragic Concert Past:
https://variety.com/2020/music/news/great-white-plays-packed-concert-no-social-distancing-1234704249/

Yahoo News: Spain Can't Stop Partying...
https://www.yahoo.com/news/spain-t-stop-partying-night-131157338.html

<"It's Raining Excuses

(COVID's Comet)"
The Reckoner>