Normally my week is front-loaded, and gets less nutty as it goes on. Last week was…all-week loaded, I guess, topped off by two bad-sleep nights, and that’s why I couldn’t rouse the energy for three blogs last week. In other words, Excuse No. 23, i.e., I Dunno, I Was Tired.
Certainly there was no shortage of news last week, particularly in Michigan. The midweek display of wingnuttery at the capital certainly got its share of attention; nothing like a bunch of jerks standing in the gallery of a state legislature displaying assault weapons, perfectly fucking legally, to bring the wonderment of the outside world. I don’t know what to tell you about that other than: If you live in a state of any size, you might notice it is vastly different from one end to the other. When I was a journalism fellow, our BBC guy was amazed – amazed and appalled, actually – that there was no national driver’s license. All I could tell him was, hey, it’s a big country. There are parts of this state that are pure Tim McVeigh country, and others that aren’t.
(It wasn’t until just yesterday that it occurred to me these people may well think Covid is a black person’s disease, and hey, if it kills them, no biggie.)
Meanwhile, coronavirus is making its way north, inexorably, and it won’t be long until they get acquainted with it themselves. Not that this makes me happy, I should add. And knowing them, they’ll just say Gramma passed from the grippe or something.
So then, sweet weekend, let me fall into your embrace. The weather was perfect, and by perfect I mean: Per-fect-o. Temps in the 70s both days. Ran several errands on my bike, which made them seem like not-errands. Saturday job day, Sunday funday. Did a double circuit of Belle Isle after the chores were done. Picked up a bottle of Aperol, so we could make alcoholic Capri Suns. And I found my lost pen, my Mont Blanc, which Alan gave me when we were dating. I knew it was in the house somewhere, and lo it was under a piece of furniture that obviously doesn’t get vacuumed under enough.
Things are starting to open up, as they say. I won’t be there for a good long while. Every time I think it’s worth swimming in this deep water, I read something like this, about a 27-year-old emergency doctor who nearly died from this. And then I reconsider.
I haven’t seen a swimming pool since March, and I’m only hoping I’ll see one after Memorial Day. Sigh. It’s going to be a long two years.
In the meantime, I recommend you read this. It’s a wonderful story about how a young man literally 8,000 miles from Detroit found inspiration in one of the city’s more notorious natives. It’s really good, and deserves the love.