The antidote to smashing shit, is to create shit. Whatever your current mood, you will come upon an idle moment when you could use a full-on 'Tour de Smash'.  You could order a new computer keyboard, and when it arrives, you can then re-read 'that one email', text, or post, which totally pissed you off, then take the old keyboard out-back for a thrashing.
...Or Not.
Time modulates our reactive urge -- the nervous response to being out of control.  You really should have gone out back and thrown a bottle against the fence, but alas you hit send.  Sending a bottle through the air, and 'clicking send' are really the same action.  Neither genie can simply be stuffed back in the bottle, and while initially gratifying..., within moments you will come to reconsider. We all do it -- Humans that is..., but not surprisingly almost no other animals in this peaceable kingdom seem to re-direct so much of their own frustration upon others, and harmless objects. To remain unbroken, we need to build.

"Engage in some occupation so that the devil will always find you busy" -St. Jerome

When visiting the zoo, you may have cherished a charming moment when a chimp did the same -- Throwing something absurd at the glass... but this act holds a dark mirror to our own soul.  When we reflect upon what we are thinking..., "Hey, that silly monkey just did something like I do sometimes."  we hear Homer Simpson as narrator. Time is the factor, and even the ape, could broker time as a suppressant -- Soon to forget about whatever made them upset, and then setting about to masturbate.
While time, like a sedative may hold back a base urge for a while, the true antidote to the lonesome act of retaliation is to make something.  We could build a long list, from baking a cake, to boat building, but your own knack will hone your short list.  The key to making something is that when you really consider the new set of instructions, and materials list that which is just outside of your "ability" is the thing you really need to build.

The old adage, 'idle hands are the devil's workshop' is one which may seem quite relevant today.  I'm not sure I have been sitting at idle long enough to summons my 'smash-twitch'.  But my hands are almost always dirty, and this I trust as a gauge of productivity, more than a vector. Just the same, and because I cannot think of anything which could better underscore the fine art of making stuff; I'll just defer to our friends at: Craftsmanship Dot Net    A breathtaking resource for inspiration.    

Why not Drop in for ideas? When you finish making something, even a sandwich -- If you still feel the urge,  you thereby have your permission to smash it to bits.

You probably already know this, but for the few who didn't grow up beech-side, here it goes. We lived inland from the water's edge, and this being so, summers were hot. Our windows could never open wide enough to gulp cool breezes. Fans sat on every sill thrumming on high, imbalanced metal blades ticking behind broken plastic slats. Myself, my siblings & stray cats lay still on our backs, with a cool damp wash-cloth on our forehead, chest, or neck to sooth steamy squalor. Humid red leaves shook outside, flicking behind amber street-lights glowing through our chattering box-fans. Wee children restlessly succumbed to sweaty sleep. During the daylight of Mid-July, the heat was nearly as unbearable as several sleepless children. By Eleven, My mother would cave under pressure to the mid-day sun, and we'd load spent ice-cream pails, buckets, and other crap into a cracked plastic laundry basket, PB&J packed, all takers would herd into a rusty suburban, en-route to the Beach.

Visiting the Beech
By late afternoon, scalding toes upon hot sand, we'd retreat from the beach as bright as blushing grapefruit. Starving, we'd transport an island of sand, deep set within our hair, ears, and socks back home, (if we could find our hideous socks at all). Arriving home, to the hose ritual, we'd stand beneath the shade of a massive Beech tree, before being allowed inside. The rinse cycle, like a prison delousing, liberated most of our sand... while it seemed to activate our sunburn. The Trunk of the beech tree beside the house swelled from our careless hose-play, and through a wet spring, it's roots swelled to heave the pavement squares upward, like an earthquake, so the steps became a hazard. Loosely rinsed beneath the purple canopy of the massive 'Silver Beach', we'd towel off; Only then were we permitted to enter the house buying my mother scant time to prepare dinner. By high school, it became clear that without these shady giants surrounding our home, we'd have all died like flies, or killed each-other. Our shade beneath one massive elephant-silver Beech tree was a critical sanctuary. Like a Hospital ship in wartime, other broke kids came to sit under it's cooler environs. As a child, three kids could not lock hands reaching around it's trunk. As it swelled from snow & spring rain, new eyes creased it's smooth grey bark, symbolizing my brother's birthday in a wink. In rainy years the mighty Beech roots wandered through and drank from every single drain and storm-sewer on our block. You could record the rainy years by the frequency of Rotor-rooter visits to our home and to our neighbors. Wrinkles formed and split the rhinoceros hide of it's huge trunk slowly. We thought it's bark was deliberately slippery, to remain the only of eight trees around the house which we could never climb. A massive grey and purple Beech Tree, protected our family from devolving into overheated chaos throughout summer. While growing up we knew it as "The Beach Tree". A singular phenomena, A super-hero which we never saw protecting another family in our town. Our "Beach" was our sanctuary.

So It happens that any tree is not so simple to understand. Carrying stories, histories, and secrets -- Trees are humanized in fiction, film, and perhaps in reality. They shed, and mate, multiply, fertilize, drop food for their children, and protect their young and neighbors much like the best of us. Arborists, speak of trees for what they can provide to humans, while "Tree Huggers" tend to obsess, and that reverence is well deserved, but of course it is inadequate. Each and every year of everyone's life is in fact etched somewhere deep within their tree.
L.G.Beech.T.Q.
As it turns out Beeches are transgender (so to speak) monoecious, bearing both male and female flowers on the same plant. The small buds are unisexual, the female flowers are born in pairs, While male flowers are wind-pollinating catkins. Shortly after new leaves appear in early spring, The beech bears tiny fruit, known as 'beechnuts'. (This was also a Coffee brand when I was growing up, next to Folgers, and Maxwell House... All of them sucked) The 'beach' keeps it's secret burrs until autumn, when it's nuts fall to earth. These beech nuts are edible -- awkward triangle nuts, are as bitter as hops, although sometimes mild and nutty, like pine nuts. They have a high enough oily fat that they can be pressed -- But I never recall our Tree dropping any nuts. Our tree was too busy protecting my family from devolving into chaos, and death.

So what is to be said of a Beech Tree. Some arborists, (not Tree-huggers) say the Beech is good kindling. Some say it's Crappy for building stuff. I understand that there are many tree brands which build better, wear better, and seem to make the Man. But consider this:
​This Humble Beech tree...

​Standing on a Beech
Aging we may see a humble Beech tree, at roughly 132 feet tall and nearly 12 foot three inches in girth, its bole straight and branchless for 80 feet straight up. To comprehend a tall smooth tree, we need perspective, just like a castle needs an approach to give it context too the landscape. In a forest, most trees blend away  any special reverence. Taken alone, a tall tree gives us the context to comprehend what a fascinating being it is. You may be 6 foot tall if you're well fed.  Now divide 5 into 132, if you imagine standing on another's shoulders... (we subtract your head) Now stack 26 more people. Giant trees are mostly anomalies today, in cities, as they struggle for space, and food... but not unusual through history, mostly owing to abundant food resources, the endless deep earth, friendly neighbors, and the general advocacy of those who plant them.   Trees like these grow, in lock-step with people, except that the trees get to stand while we disappear. Not surprisingly we will feed a tree like this, while they silently watch over our passing.  A beautiful Beech tree like other deciduous kin seem to struggle with our clumsy tactics at living. 

Beeches and the Jacobite consolidation
In Scotland, as the Jacobite revolution brought a peace under Prince Charles Edward, and later a United Kingdom consolidated under King George V; The union of English and Scottish Legislatures yielded a new peace and security within the Northern Kingdom unseen since the death of Alexander III in 1286. But for those who opposed the Scots' merger, Beech trees planted along the fast flow of the Arkaig river of Achnacarry hold a more sorrowful significance.  It was the Land of Highland chiefs like the Lord (Laird) Donald Cameron of Lochiel, who was already advanced in age, when Prince Charlie landed at Borrowdale in July.  The Prince who changed Scotland forever summoned the highland chiefs to Charlie's retreat. Laird Cameron's brother John begged him not to attend, saying, "I know you far better than you know yourself, and if the Prince once sets eyes upon you, he will make you do as he pleases".  But... As it happened Laird Cameron's younger brother John was right predicting precisely how things would shake out.  Initially resisting risks to his clan, Later Laird Donald Cameron leaving comfortable seclusion yielded to the Persuasive Prince Edward.  He returned home and marshaled fourteen hundred highlanders to take part in Charlie's absurd campaign, until Laird Cameron was carried off the battle field of Culloden gravely wounded in 1746.

While Lord Cameron was away in battle, his order of young beech trees arrived at his home at Achnacarry, awaiting direction. The Beautiful beeches were heeled in a tight row beside the river where they drank, and gossiped, but the Chieftain never returned to Lochaber to plant them. Rather he lingered a few years in exile, his estates forfeited to the English throne, and Lord Cameron died in 1748, and with him Scottish  Independence.

The Beech trees were never "planted" rather they remained closely moored in the trench beside the Arkaig river, drinking and growing. These royal Beeches were raised in a trench so closely set that a person could not squeeze between their silver trunks. It's said that the "Winds of winter wail a Coronach among the bare boughs" "No more pathetic memorial could be designed for a lost cause, and for him whom men spoke of as the 'Gentle Lochiel'".

Beeches and Budweiser
I'm an optimist in-spite of apparent reasons to the contrary. Let' s assume that it's OK to just expire while  giants watch over us.  This will in the very least allow us to cling to a dream --  To fade under the shade of a beautiful tree.
Beech trees like the one here are not, nor were they ever regarded fondly for making things.  Beech burns hot, makes a beautiful fire..., but it does not stay straight, supportive, nor resist rot or pests, when cut; to that extent it is not necessarily cherished as a building material.
Beech trees burn hotter than nearly anything else, and Beech has a lovely flavor.  So desirable is it's fragrant vein, the Beech is renown for creating the Budweiser Brand in America.  Beech wood was lain upon the tempering vats of Budweiser for Twenty-one days as it's "secret recipe".  Many other brands have touted "Beechwood Aging" as a way to temper the perfect pale lager; but you need to cut a shit-ton of beautiful trees when your public gets thirsty.

So what else lies in the sordid history of such a noble guardian, as it considers being cut-down for waste to make your average beer?  Here is another blue-blooded reason that Budweiser may be deserving of gorgeous Clydesdales, and I assure you it is not the taste, nor the quality  contained in your can of Budweiser.

Beeches Building Landmarks
There are several other more regal reasons to consider the humble beech tree as your best tree pal, namely it's blue-blood lineage. Take for example the word itself and the seemingly week utility of the wimpy Beech tree. Beech is Perishable, Hard, and brittle under most uses, and as such it is often burned, because that is what is best at. The Beech however was selected to support the footings of Winchester in the wet peat bogs which undermine support of such a massive landmark.  It is Beech logs which were lain well below the building of Cathedrals under London, and rural palaces which may not still stand,  were not for the magical capability of Beech to stay strong sweating under damp duress. 
It may not seem real that the penultimate shade tree remain so durable when wet,  but for upwards of seven-hundred years these beech trees set in the ground, faithfully supported their function beneath the Lady Chapel of Westminster, erected by Bishop Godfrey de Lucy only a few years before he died in 1204, Today the beech timber are still perfectly hard and sound. This is the humble beech which most forestry experts revere as great  for S'mores. The Humble beech may support more than your perfect campfire.

The tree which prevented the decay of my Family whilst growing up, was just shade, for sure, but it's epic lineage was evident right upon it's surface... It's texture, and space-alien gray trunk looks like nothing else.  The Beech is more than an eight-hundred plus year old foundation of the worlds most iconic architecture... The Beech Tree may  also be progenitor for a royal name. 

Beeches Royals & their Books
Miraculous by Nature and for fancier reasons the humble beech is better than you may have thought: So bring your skepticism to this story. ​"Trees, A Woodland Journal" By James Macklehose c. 1915
"In Northern England through the middle ages the Beech was coveted as drain-tile soles in wet-land Britain. The timber was put to far-higher purpose in Buckinghamshire, where  extensive beech forests around High Wycombe and Newport Pagnell provided timber for creative wood-craft in England. These trees were regularly grown and felled responsibly to supply the chairmaking industry.  Useful 'clean timber' commanded, higher prices as it was consumed. Historians recite the very name Buckingham to have been derived from the Anglo-Saxon boc, a beech; but it appears in the "Winchester Chronicle" as Buccingaham, which indicates its origin in the family named Buccing, descended from an ancestor or chief called Bucca, the Buck. Howbeit, we are incessantly, though unconsciously, using the Anglo-Saxon boc, for it was smooth tablets or panels of beech that formed the primitive "book." In like manner crept in the term "leaves" of a book, because the foliage of papyrus preceded paper, which is the same word. The Boc, or Beech is said to be the first root of the Family name becoming that of Buckingham.  Naming a family,  a region, a castle, a dynasty, and even a fountain in Chicago.  The noble Boc, or Beech is not quite so noble,  but it is fascinating.
And so the Humble Beech which we love to burn, became the Book, and it's leaves the pages and if beech it burns hotter than 451 degrees f.

By virtue of its' usefulness, the noble beech is notorious for its' productive leaf fall, creating abundant mulch, humus—and rich soil so essential for vigorous tree growth. In fact the Beech drops more helpful leaf fodder, more efficiently, and with more benefit than any other tree. 
The Beech Tree bears shade better than any other broad-leaved tree anywhere. (Hornbeam and Silver fir, far behind). Because of it's primary two qualities, the humble beech is best of all trees for under-planting forests. Young beech trees nourish older trees through leaf-fall and keep soil evaporation in check. Beech trees seem to know that they are preparing for a successional crop, come the time when their older siblings are ripe for firewood.

The tree which protected my family as a child from certain apocalypse is perhaps a knight of sorts, a slap-dash royal order of mediocre trees which provide far more than they appear to.

The Beech like most trees fall prey to blight, bugs, and building trades; but most Beech live for only two centuries, and when it gets to that age, it seems to die in the night, suddenly expiring, while in apparent full vigor.

Surely then is there no man merrier than he is in his spirit..., For it shall cause him to be holy, and to heal his body, for it shall cause him to be whole." It's impossible to imagine such a thoroughly giddy incantation  devoted to the basic pleasure of fishing. It seems ever more foreign to imagine an ode to fishing and well within it to find the first written nod to the beauty of Bread and Butter. The year was 1496, merely 4 years after a young Portuguese King set conditions upon Columbus to have a go at finding a new way to India.  I suppose you could say that he failed, that trip, caught no fish along the way, and Bread and Butter rotted within each of three cramped galleons.    Bread and Butter indeed, duly immortalized by Dame Juliana Berners well prior to anyone knowing about a New World.

It's not at all odd that a great woman poignantly brought science to angling within an elegant outdoorsman manuscript, Showing readers how to fight a fish without breaking the line, How to make ones own hooks, bait, and how to tie flys… But what is miraculous, is to so plainly underscore the preparedness of a person who wanders off to catch fish. It is as if Joan Cleaver were telling the Beaver to remember his bagged lunch as he leaves for school. But it's not that simple is it?  In one very  elegant treatise on how to be an angler, Dame Berners bothers to mention that Bread and Butter may raise the zen of angling many fold. Or at least in itself, it's important to consider your hunger, and the likelihood you may not catch any fish, and so don't forget your bagged lunch.

So what is there in either which makes them magic? 

First there is Angling... Catching a fish is really never boring. Losing time, is a funny thing today, as we used to relish wasting time, caught up in headphones, or a good film, and today things tend to  blur.  While truthfully -- Casting, and sitting, and losing a lure or many snells is about as fun as sitting upon a cold stool in a frozen shanty on an icy lake in mid-winter.  There is nothing more frustrating than setting out to Fish, or doing anything and returning in absolute failure.  Fishing may be frustrating and even demoralizing, at times... but as one soon learns, empty handed fishing trips are still better than a productive day at work.

And then there is the miracle combination of Bread and Butter. Bread and Butter, like a candy-bar midway through a bike race, or Champagne upon a celebration become some of our memorable incentives to carry on. But bread and butter are a bit more than that.  This dynamic duo, is nearly un-rivaled in a century or evolution. If you don't have some, then forget about your resolutions, and your fake aversion to Gluten, and get, buy, bake or steal some, and then find the best full butter-fat you can procure, Plugra & Kerry Gold being common -- And then do nothing more than lay it on thick to remind yourself of what it means to be truly completely content with two simple things.

The Beauty of Gutenberg.org where this angling book is published, is that you can discover a many thousand books for free without restriction to consider quote or copy. Free! 

Here is an excerpt by M.G. Watkins preface which explains why this consummate manual on angling was so thoroughly plagiarized and revered as the ultimate canon of fishing craft: "Many pure and noble intellects have kindled into lasting devotion to angling on reading her eloquent com­men­da­tion of it. Such men as Donne, Wotton, and Herbert, Paley, Bell, and Davy, together with many another excellent and simple dis­po­sition, have caught en­thus­iasm from her lofty sen­ti­ments, and found that not their bodily health only, but also their morals, were improved by angling. It became a school of virtues, a quiet pas­time in which, while looking into their own hearts, they learnt les­sons of the highest wisdom, reverence, resignation, and love—love of their fellow-men, of the lower creatures, and of their Creator." 

It may seem a surprise that someone writing a guide to fishing in the fifteenth century could kindle such philosophic ideals amidst learned men.  But its not surprising that they all took the best from this treatise, without giving credit to it's author.
But this Treatise on Angling, is not merely a manual to teach the craft of fishing, rather  more a moral guide, and perhaps the first book of rules on naturalism, environmentalism, and maintaining good character.  Again I quote the Preface:

"The last two pages of the book give us a portrait of her con­cep­tion of the perfect angler, and it is no pre­sump­tion to say that a nobler and truer picture has never been lined. Sim­plic­i­ty of dis­po­si­tion, for­bear­ance to our neigh­bours’ rights, and con­si­der­a­tion for the poor, are strongly in­cul­cated. All cov­e­tous­ness in fishing or employment of its gentle art to increase worldly gain and fill the larder is equally condemned. She holds the highest view of angling; that it is to serve a man for solace, and to cause the health of his body, but especially of his soul. So she would have him pursue his craft alone for the most part, when his mind can rise to high and holy things, and he may serve God devoutly by saying from his heart his customary prayer. Nor should a man ever carry his amusement to excess, and catch too much at one time; this is to destroy his future pleasure and to interfere with that of his neighbours. A good sportsman too, she adds, will busy himself in nourishing the game and destroying all vermin".

May I remind you once more, that this was penned around 1494 or 5, and published as part of a larger volume of sportsman's guides in 1496.  So there it is a primer to being a better person through fishing.  Not the sportsman angling on a TV program with sonar, radar, and the chatter of motors... But the sublime contemplation of worldly things, whilst casting a line.
​
"So we jumped right in 
and the driver grinned
and he dropped us up the road
and we looked at the swim
and we jumped right in
not to mention fishing poles
...and it stoned me to my soul"

-Van Morrison 

"Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way". -Pink Floyd

Cue the Moog Synthesizer compositions of Wendy Carlos.
​In 1971 Kubrick released a masterpiece Social Commentary on a Crumbling Britain, and a social/psychological experiment adapted from the Anthony Burgess Novel A Clockwork Orange, ("the American edit"). As the adaptation progressed, Burgess and Kubrick got on swimmingly with similar tastes, philosophies, and literary interests. While Burgess only made $500. from the Film, one thing they had in common was their fascination with Napoleon Bonaparte.
The Seminal Dystopian novel chronicles a near-future lawless British teen through his crime sprees, and then a B.F. Skinner'esque psycho-social modification, called the Ludavico Treatment. The 'Ludovico Treatment' promised to cure 'Little Alex' of his penchant for lawless "Ultra-Violence", in no time. And so it was either the treatment or prison.
The American and future distributions of the Book would leave out the final chapter/s proving his redemption. Not surprisingly the Book, and the Film polarized audiences, but mostly because it seemed tangibly real -- Possible.
And so we know that the novel and film were good, because they forced followers to the bleeding edge of their comfort zone.
As we drift toward future Dystopian Britain, with their charismatic leader, I wonder how his behavior mods went whilst, 'in Hospital'.
I think that A Clockwork Orange was an amazing book, and I have read & seen it many times. You could say I'm a fan..., But, I never knew watching why the eye-dropper scenes of "ultra-violence", weren't in the book. It turns out that Malcom McDowell scratched his cornea on set, became blind for a spell, and the shots with the eye-dropper were an actual physician treating him. Fun Fact! This doctor visit was a clever directorial turn in production, which intensified, the peak. The audience shuddered to see their anti-hero endure ‘treatment’.
But for me the “Boris Moment” came earlier, when Alex is visited by his Probate Officer. You see, I keep seeing Boris Johnson as probation officer P.R. Deltoid, sitting beside truant lil' Alex mid-day on his bed. In this fateful scene he's being told by Mr. Deltoid that his days are numbered. There is this slivered implication that our Hero's destiny could maybe be adjusted before his fate is sealed... But for recklessness on both sides, the outcome is certain, and the writing was on the wall. Regardless — At that decisive moment, when Alex is un-phased by the ovations of Mr. Deltoid (AKA Boris) — His maniacal Napoleonic chaperone now shouting, presses Alex to the mattress and grabs his crotch.
(Exhale now as this is perhaps the end of a stretch to tie Boris to the script, however the image persists).

Now I know that The P.M. is not Mr. Deltoid, but one can wonder how far from this character he is. Of course analogs exist to anything if you stretch the facts and blur the lines. Mr. Deltoid doesn't know the outcome, so he comes with an ultimatum of sorts, and Alex believes his destiny is otherwise. I suppose the lesson here is one of Hindsight. When history is written, it is always by the winner. Outcomes are never assured, and the social experiment of the Ludovico treatment, as with a lobotomy, much like Brexit, wont necessarily put you (as they say) on the right side of history. Ludavico was an experimental aversion therapy to rehabilitate criminals into useful lawful citizens in under two weeks. (and when it sounds too good to be true...) It should come as no surprise that the real actor Aubrey Morris, who played Mr. Deltoid, also played Napoleon. This is not to implicate Boris is "acting" as P.M. nor as Napoleon.

One truth remains, that when Boris got the plague, and the fever came, and his O2 levels tanked, he saw perhaps for the first time the back-side of his own black mirror. When the shot resolved, he got to contemplating, but for a minute, "What If"?

The thing about the psychopathically self-assured is that they almost never have the opportunity to put on another pair of lenses. And the trouble with a lobotomy, is that it does work for some things, but history doesn't smile upon the treatment any longer. When we elect a single person to represent "us" in more than one thing... Can we be assured that they are capable of multitasking, or even competent at two things?
Here, we have Brexited --That's the one thing. And here is this hushed moment, like the crotch grab -- We hold our breath, then... the "hut--hut--hike"!, and then the snap, the kick, and alas the ball is high in the air floating back down to the earth, and where it lands will decide the fate of the game. But it's not a game.
As we all seek a treatment, it's perhaps prudent to remember that maybe we were all wrong. That our collective Ludavico treatment will later be recalled as a lobotomy, we wont know today, and so we punt.

So we are back home in Boris' cozy bedroom, after a nice day's romp with some masked friends far afield, and we return as fast as we left to our agendas. The question is; Did being hospitalized serve as a negative operant, in this classic Behavior Mod. drama?

There is one way to look at our reactions to the dystopia, and it is always political. How does this affect electability? When there are no adults in the room, do the kids step up and make things work, or do they run amuck? It is the case that some want to try a strategy to stave political fall-out and prevent casualties, which sounds like a reasonable way to remain in power. The other is to let a wildfire burn the brush back, hoping the forest stands, and fills back in more lush than before. Neither is ever really wrong in the moment, per se', but judged harshly for certain through hindsight when they fail.

Through the lens of A Clockwork fiction, where Britain is de-stabilized, gangs patrol the night, criminals clash with curfews, and quarantines seem to keep the sanguine safe, while rogues profit by any means necessary, is there really a reason to keep up the façade? Wasn't it always this way? Didn't we always click agree to the terms when we began the game? A few people wield the power, and the rest work for them. Elites scatter scraps, and pittance to keep the masses in check? It is as Feudal as always. sSame as it ever was. Wealthy people like Madonna recite solidarity with commoners from a 300 square meter bath covered in fresh rose petals, while waiters move in with parents & friends and ration ramen & soap. Shall we admire what a great job they are doing?

We now have two camps.
1. Governors, States, Provinces, recognize that the emperor has no clothes. Kids decide that because there are no adults in the room, we should pick up the pieces, and put things back together, this way.
or
2. People aligned with the misanthrope wait for a rally, handouts, and some loose sense of direction, if not a soup-line. And then we all just go back to doing things the same way all over again, so we can forget.

Whichever way you lean, you might as well go for broke. Kubrick wanted a shot of Alex jumping out a window, to commit suicide -- So he dropped a Newman Sinclair Camera in a box out of the third storey window of the Corus Hotel, to grab the effect of falling from Alex's point of view. The camera survived 6 takes, until the shot was perfect.

Like any Dickensian tale, redemption only happens when one sees that there is something to recover from. Boris returns from the ICU, and isn't scared shitless?
Britain will either recover from a massive hangover by dumb luck, staggering home from the pub, and having a long nappy on the global economic stage, or they will not. But I'm not so sure Boris gets that.

In a Clockwork Orange the Book's ending closes the loop on redemption, while the Film version and American abridged printings leave a bit more up in the air. As with all great film and fiction, you are either the type who wants the Hollywood ending, or the Fellini finish.
Kubrick asked Malcom McDowell to try the jock-strap on the outside of his Cricket whites, and that made all the difference.

OK so last time we tapped Orwell, and now we must float the class 4 cortisol river into the simean brain-stem, to discover  how we become & and how to kill a Zombie.  Let's say that you don't have a pet unicorn, and rainbows never appear to land at your threshold. That means you are normal (more or less), and you have no natural immunity to becoming a Zombie. Let's assume you check Fakebook regularly, and something someone says on that blog from hell, really gets your goat.  You ride it out, or you react, but normally it just passes.  Soon others choose sides, and you are faced with a choice; Turn off, and tune out the background noise, or jump in the pool with the rest.  It was a shitty day at work, or wherever, so you choose the red pill, pop it like candy, and jump into the argument.

Whoops!

"...I understand too little too late, I realize there are things you say and do that you can never take back..."**

Shall we begin with a more clinical view?
Experts say that about 10 percent of women and 4 percent of men will develop PTSD.  They said this for decades, but since the Plague came to call, we should expect to see a moderate spike in this affliction.

The Amygdala is a small almond-shaped structure located deep within the temporal lobe; It is designed to:

• Detect threats in the environment and activate the “fight or flight” response
• Activate the sympathetic nervous system to help you deal with the threat
• Help you store new emotional or threat-related memories

The last bullet point here is key, because it's this 'storage thing' which makes PTSD really stick.  If you've been beaten-up by a sibling, or anyone for that matter, you'll create an uncanny spidey-sense capable of seeing the next punch coming before it lands. This reactive wince, or fore-arm block becomes innate.  You are now better equipped to cope, when a playground-bully approaches. People pay for this defense training, and yet you learned it the hard way... When writing this code into your registry settings, you are committing to muscle memory a hard-coded defensive root-script, that will remain with you forever.  You may have your brother to thank for that... But sadly some have a spouse, or other abuser to credit.  This deep motor memory is basically where your PTSD sets up camp., and it's near impossible to turn off your new "Skill".  This is also why it's so difficult to kill the zombie.

So back to jumping on the bandwagon -- We have found that the new bully-pulpit of anti-social media spares us from boredom, but the rub hits when we use our super-powers for evil.  Temptation to tread into uncharted waters, leaves us at best awash in a torrent of new emotions, and at worst holding a pitch-fork, when we really need a paddle.  The other chemical present in turmoil is our old friend adrenaline.  This quick-setting glue can patch a hole, or sink us quickly depending upon how it's applied.  Zombies have this in spades, but remember, "Guns don't kill people -- Zombies jacked on Cortisol, Adrenaline, and bad agendas kill people".   'FIGHT or FLIGHT' is the first "Bullet-point", and that's the one which will do you in. It's when "FIGHT" is chosen, that those ill-equipped for fighting, come out swinging, ...but they are not landing any punches, are they?  
As they flail, with their arms out-stretched, they are learning some new dance-steps called "The Zombie". And so it was in reaction to rational "stay at home" directives that the Zombies gathered to mindlessly storm capitols to thwart the order.

As part of the body’s fight-or-flight response, cortisol & adrenaline are released during stressful times to give your body the energy-boost required to react. This boost can fuel your muscles to respond to a threatening situation. But when cortisol levels are constantly high, due to chronic stress, some collateral issues become: insulin resistance and type 2 diabetes.
(By the way these make it more likely that the Zombie Virus kills you).

So there we have it, the makings for a rowdy (unhealthy) bunch who want to get back to their so-called normal lives; So they gather in groups with torches and pitch-forks, mashing teeth, popping pills, and passing tiny globules of spittle through the air. Soon their groans infect everyone within ear-shot.  
The good news is that Zombies are easy to spot:
1. Because they look stupid.
2. Because they wear a uniform underscoring their solidarity with a "red-pill addiction".
3. Did I mention they look stupid? 

(For help spotting a Zombie near you reference above image Courtesy of the Columbus Dispatch) 
www.dispatch.com/news/20200413/gop-lawmakers-protesters-call-on-dewine-to-begin-re-opening-ohio

Zombies are not fictional film fodder, they are (were) the person you tried to "set straight" on social media last month.  You know the ones who keep sending you incendiary material? The thing with fires though, is that they always go out when the fuel is spent.  If you don't stoke it, it smolders. But, tip a little petrol can, and well, ...You get what you give.     Maybe don't fan the flames. Stay home, pop a blue chill pill, sit on your hands, and watch "Zombieland Double Tap".

​And that's how you kill a Zombie.

"...But what would you be if you didn't even try?, You have to try. So after a lot of thought, I'd like to reconsider, Please if it's not too late, Make it a Cheeseburger."

-Lyle Lovett Lyrics from "Here I Am" 1989.**

We are going to keep this short. One song, Great low budget film, and no Laugh track. c. 1984. I Promise.
In My unremarkable youth we were in a recession and many teens had it far worse than me, but it was clear that even Hollywood was tapped into the main vein of our major U.S. recession. As always happens the counterculture seems to be first to fire shots across the bow of our squalor. But this movie hit home. Everyone at the base of our food pyramid bought “Generics”, which for the uninitiated is not a Pharmacy term, but one forged in the crucible of hard-times. Advertised Brands were basically too expensive, so major retail Grocers stocked their shelves with un-marketed, blank labelled, canned, dried, and packaged goods which contained in some cases the seconds, from the same factories who made Brand-Name foods. And so generics were invented. Grocery shopping became an embarrassment when one was caught with a cart-load of "generics" beside someone you knew, who could yet afford the real name brand foods, like Dole, DelMonte, or Folgers... Generics were not the same as the name brands, but people needed to eat, and stores hadn't yet invented their own "store-brands" so bare black-n-white labels bore the stigma and the shame of inflation era super-market surplus. We ate casseroles made from Generics, Powdered milk, and No-name bread. We relished in Re-runs, Kung Fu, Bones Brigade, Sit-coms, with crappy laugh tracks, Archie Bunker, Gilligan's Island, & The Gong Show. When edgier films geared toward people a bit below bar, made their way to VHS or Beta... We rented. One such film bracketed [outcast youth] in a recession almost perfectly -- It was "Repo Man". Here is the Preview Reel at IMDB.

https://www.imdb.com/video/vi475571737?playlistId=nm0724784&ref_=nm_ov_vi

As with art & budget epics, imitation is in fact the sincerest form of flattery, and The real "Repo Man" (1984) didn't imitate as much as it set a new bar. This dystopian reality fiction would later be emulated in a sort-of remake, while phrases and conventions forged in Repo Man were integrated in many subsequent main-stream films. In fact the brief-case from Pulp Fiction was basically a nod to the "Trunk" in Repo Man, if not as toxic.
It's no stretch that Sy Richardson's character in "Repo Man" and in "Straight to Hell" (another film from the same director) forged future outrageous film styles and characters like Samuel L. Jackson, in Pulp Fiction, (as he plays in just about every film). You can find out more about mystery brief-cases, outlandish characters, and alien trunk contents, when you re-watch "Repo Man" and "Pulp Fiction". ...Then you can watch "Straight to Hell" & "Syd and Nancy" when you are bored, and unemployed.
But do watch the original Repo Man, directed by Alex Cox, to review a typical 80's dystopian youth.

For reference, this key track is linked @ Youtube, in the image above. Listen in a new tab, and let it roll. This track is a slow burn version of the faster Punk Original by the Circle Jerks called, "When the Shit Hits the Fan". It's really worth a listen -- But the whole bright soundtrack to this film rubbed rainbow crayons into the monochrome coloring book of an 80's youth. Shared adolescent blahs from Brixton to Benton Harbor, fueled a creative rebound. Weened on black and white re-runs, and generic canned goods, a colorful denim & flannel generation was pushed out into a stagnate job market. Every kid had the blues, from The UK, to Scotland, from Denmark, to Jamaica... and nobody really knew it, simply because if you were a teen in 1983 you were forged in this numb glop, and you didn't know otherwise. Whether your walkman played Ska, Punk, Pop, Rap, or Reggae -- the disaffected crafted one hell of a mix-tape which backstopped an awkward time to grow up.

As history repeats itself, it's no real shocker that kids then, as now, have no real (Blues) appropriate soundtracks to sweat this one out... That was, until the Repo Man Soundtrack dropped. We can talk about Hip-hop and Teen-angst bands another time, but what summarizes the early eighties scratching crawl from the muck-and-mire of a giant recession, was the tempest of styles, raw emotion, bad production , and piss-poor acting -- This made a macabre feature film a perfect analog to what's coming your way today.

We never owned a new pair of anything in 1984, and in fact it was our frequent Thrift shopping which led to corporate chains (Urban Outfitters), selling "Thrift-like" clothes, and new clothes that looked "Thrift". We were fully immersed in this, but not ironically, as today. We simply couldn't buy cheap asian clothes, and so we bought used, and wore thread-bare hand-me-downs. We patched knees, and elbows, and shit -- when they wore thin, we tore them on-purpose. Seems odd that just last week we bought our jeans pre-torn from China.
Grunge revisited this thrifty chasm a decade later dipping their toe in the pool of anti-fashion flannel. Then again two decades later (basically last year), ironic nerdy "Hipsters" absconded the same 'fashion-backward' posture buying up golden-rod wool sweater vests -- Pirouetting from their plank head-first into the poverty-pool -- They quenched their whole being in hideous Carol Burnett, and Telly Savalas kitsch smelling of moth-balls.

So that's really all I have today is a nod to an Orwellian 1984 drama. Bookmarked by Bowie's Awesome Song of the same name, and this ironic lounge track "When the Shit Hits the Fan" by the Circle Jerks, slowed down for the B-Film of that Iconic Year Produced by Michael Nesmith of The Monkey's, which just basically sums up our new normal.
A solid recession Film Recommendation shot near Los Alamos Lab to help you self-medicate and reflect upon where we are headed. Forewarned is forearmed, right? and well... we blew that, ...so Watch this movie, enjoy it's soundtrack, with some generic corn flakes, and think about how your hand-me-downs can help a neighbor, nephew or the next decade's fashionista in our re-run economy.

A solid Interview with director Alex Cox of Repo Man, Sid and Nancy, and other Punk percolations is linked here:
​https://thequietus.com/articles/08085-repo-man-alex-cox-interview

Bad Math always leaves we dumb-shits yearning for clarity.
Stop me if you've heard this one... But I read an article in Bicycling Mag., quoting someone from Specialized Bicycle Company, the Big "S", who said and I'm quoting... "You can ask riders What's wrong with your bike?, and almost no one knows the answer"; "So we have to answer questions that no one's asking..." this pompous oratory continues but nothing in it clarifies the above whacky statement.  The same day I read Greg LeMond (a heroic champion cyclist) and raw carbon supplier, describe riding one of his first steel productions bikes while visiting with his father back home. The Bike made by Rolland Della Santa had far longer chain-stays, making it steady, if a bit slack, but overall comfortable.  Here is the issue...  
Dramatic pause... And here again is where you have the moment to re-read that Specialized Quote: "You can ask riders What's wrong with your bike?, and almost no one knows the answer..." 
The quote is attributed to Chris D'Alusio, "Creative Specialist" at Specialized in Morgan Hill CA.  

I'm not normally looking for someone to tarry with, (well perhaps a little bit) but this is just plain dumb-shit.

Here are a few thing that may be wrong with my bike: My chain gets dirty, My blinkie Light dies, My ass sometimes hurts, along with my shoulders, I get flats sometimes... But there are some real things which we all may want to improve that a giant brand could react to.
"The 'S' Word" can certainly see from their silver castle that people want bikes which fit well, allowing them to be both biomechanically efficient, and free to roam, but loose, comfortable and fluid.  I'm rather certain that if you ask anyone the same question they will say something similarly nostalgic like:
1. "I want my next bike to feel like the one I had as a Kid... Free, Flying, and Beautiful. I want it to feel alive and effortless".
2. "I want my bike to be beautiful, perhaps the coolest and most elegant cherished thing I own".
3. "I want my next bike to liberate me from the difficulties of the day to day, while making me feel connected to the earth, my friends, and victorious relative to everyone I can pass.
4. "I want my bike to inspire me to ride it, and to be beautiful".
5. "I want my bike to be light enough to not notice it through my own exertion".
Newton or someone smart once said, "If my big helmeted head is the largest impediment to being aero, and I wear a flowy wind-breaker this April, you can't really expect me to imagine that 3k extra for an aero bike will save me, "X" watts over "Y" Klicks, without also considering that what would really make my life perfect would be a comfortable and light bike that has lovely timeless styling. In the end We all need to look good  and survive to brag about it right?
​
I don't mean to call out someone with such a fancy title as "Creative Specialist", but I will clear my throat, and pronounce a few things a bit more loudly, as if speaking to elderly parents...
Dear Chris,
What we want is beautiful, Lithe, and efficient.  What we want is to buy a bike and then 6 months later reminisce, that "My Bike is the best, and I don't need nor want a new one". What we want is to buy something which inspires us to ride. What we want is to enjoy every ride And give no thought and less envy to others with newer, fancy rigs. 
In a word... we want a Classic.

We want Classic rides, with perfect steering, balance, and handling.  We want light, efficient, and lovely... Timeless.

We want great, we expect great, and if you are a big company with huge marketing resources, and people with titles such as "Creative Specialist" then you will certainly understand that. Kill the Fade Paint schemes, Kill the B.S. Aero advantage of a 20lb bike, and Kill the monologue in general and let's have a focus group.

But you may miss this one point, because it's not made in a vacuum or a wind tunnel. 

Here is Greg LeMond again, in the same article:
"Weight is also a consideration. Most aero frames are up to 500 grams heavier and have odd-shaped tubes that play a role in the harshness of the ride. Since 98 percent of a race is spent riding inside the peloton, an aero bike gives the rider almost no benefit"
"...an aero bike gives the rider almost no benefit" echoed over and over again in his head...  

Specialized does make some of the most slippery, and lovely bikes in the biz, and admittedly is not shy to take chances with colors, styles, and inventive ideas.  In short they don't always act like a giant mean international monster corporation. They are "rider focused", or at least they used to be. But admittedly their obsession with slippery wind defying kam-tail aero bikes clouds their vision. Or, maybe it was just a dumb quote we should forgive.  Maybe.

Here is LeMond again speaking the truth:
"The only time an aero road frame makes a real difference is in a solo breakaway or in a small group breakaway... And on most stages (as with most rides) weight is a bigger factor than aerodynamics."

Lustful, yearn-worthy bikes which shake your pocket change loose, and leave a kid asking the salesperson, "Hey... Do you have a lay-away program?". This is the sure sign that you are on the right path to a 'Classic'.
Our Bicycling article continues to discuss Light and Aero... the rarified lexicon for modern bike design.  This is totally bull shit.  While sitting up on your glossy cloud, with your pants down, Smaller leaner companies like Salsa Made Fat Bikes, Adventure Bikes, Cargo Bikes, and Gravel Bikes, and you played catch-up to these smaller brands, with "me-too rides".  While later you re-tooled. Others made faster, lighter, more lust-worthy rigs, cheaply... until you descended back to earth, to hire a "Creative Specialist". 
What does it take to make something people want?, and what does it take to ask them what they want?

Dialog.
 
Marketing as we know, is legend for being a one way street. A Vacuum.  Hmm... "We have something to sell, and so we have to develop a clever story-board to convince people to buy it".  So it goes with Cigarettes, Whisky, Light Beer, and Gasoline, as it also appears with Bicycles.  Here is the typical one sided snake oil monologue which occurs when a manufacturer sets upon their agenda to pour money into "one-sided" development. Ask the staff, "Who here likes to ride these bike things".  "So Tell me what you want to see this year". ...And you viola, get a Walmart Bike Brand.
Ask a rider, what they want and the answers you'll get will vary sure..., but the resounding consensus will be as espoused above. I want a magic thing that I upgrade rarely because I'm so smitten with it, that it will be a reckoning to ween me away. e.g., my U.P.P.E.R., and M.B. Zip, or a Waterford.
Lovely, light, fun, functional, and comfortable.  Nobody ever says Aero vs. Stiff, vs Light.  Just the marketing team.

So when you wear the title of "Creative Specialist"; wear that smock as though the company really truly needs your input -- Because the kids in the pit with actual grease on their apron could tell you, if you listened. If you merely polled techs, customers, and prospective clients, you will find that your job is maybe not so important.

Create beautiful, bikes, and make them fun, efficient, and enduring.  When you have made that bike, we will fall in love. ...And, unfortunately if you've done a great job, we wont need another favorite bike for a decade.
Dear Chris,
Here is what's wrong with my recent Specialized Bike Purchase... One thing is that you make a size scale which excludes me, because I'm somewhere in-between sizes, in spite of the fact that I am the most average Cyclist Build of modern homo-sapiens. Truth is it costs too much to make a real 57, so you make a Large and a Medium.  The Large is Basically too tall at the head-tube, and reach / stack, and the Medium too short overall top tube, drop....  So My large S-Works Diverge needs to lose the Hover Bar, Change the Stem, and lower the seat-post among other adjustments. But it's slack compared with my OPEN. "Touch-Points" as the Big "S" calls them.  Oddly,  when Specialized abandoned the women's specific "Dolce" designs, this year -- (Bikes made specifically for Women's physiques), they explained (marketed) it away as essential biodynamics. They said, 'Women were the same as Men, with different Touch Points." Women are equal for sure, but not generally the same. The latter part about touch-points, I don't disagree with. Women do have different "touch points" than men. The real truth is that making a size run in Women's specific designs costs (too much).  It's a loss to the Big "S" Corporation, because  Women are not worth it.
Here is the other thing.  We love some of your colors, but some are waaaaaaaaaay too trendy, like circa 1996 Fade-trendy... So make a Black, Matte Navy, or a Dark Green option and we will covet our bikes for a decade, without becoming weary of the trendy graphics, and timely decals. Look to the automotive industry, if you need leadership.

Another thing..., If you make a Future Shock, (front end suspension) and parade it around for two years with McLaren in your camp, as though it is THE well planned breakthrough, with Smart Partners like McLaren... then be certain that your next iteration can be updated... Don't leave behind those who dropped 9K on the cutting edge, and drank your Kool-Aid, telling them a mere 6 months later after a recall... that the new one is waaay better, but not upgradable. As SRAM does, with a wireless Hydro Disc Shifters; These are programmed to shift 11 Speeds, but cannot be soft updated to shift 12 cogs.  That's Bull-shit, and i think we all know it.
Make the best shit, you can, and consider buyers with no clue, and also those with 40 years of experience, and make shit timeless and sustaining. 

Be that brand, and we will tell all of our friends to buy that same Classic bike that we just bought from you.

The magic here is that you wont need to re-tool every 6 months to make something especially new. You will be legend for making  timeless things, with subtle ongoing incremental improvements, like the 911 or the Tarmac.

Tone down the bullshit, and rev up the classics.

​And Thanks.

Today I stole this wordpress unicorn from someone who stole it from someone else on the inner-webs.  Which shouldn't surprise anyone, as good books and good plagiarism are often a twisted thorny ring. Seems like a bit of cheer is what's required today.  Good Friday. While most Unicorns typically scare the shit out of me -- This docile cyclist seemed tame, and she/he has nothing whatsoever to do with "Good Friday". Except maybe that spikey thing, and they will help me celebrate Good Friday properly.
I'm sure that when I was young enough to care about unicorns, I would have loved "Good Friday", mostly because that meant that in a few short days I'd get bunny candy, and a stuffed animal from a fat hypertensive rabbit, and his lovely wife. (my perfect parents). Then we'd do the requisite tour of Church, restlessly petting fake animals, fidgeting, whining, touching everything, and generally making impossible the study of Mass for the rest. When we had thoroughly stolen all of the biblical gains proffered by the  priest from proximate parishioners, our mongrel group, that was my family, would load up the Van, and Homemade Bunny Cake,  and drive to ruin my grandparent's day as well.  They loved when we came, of course -- But just before early dinner was to occur, (a Krakus Ham with Pineapple Cloves & Maraschinos on top) and right after something got broken... they were really quite ready for us to leave. "Holidays" are spaced out throughout the calendar year to give hosts time to heal between visits.

Today, in spite of my well planned parochial upbringing, I had to re-check the web to recall what "Good Friday" should mean to me.  Here is what I've found. Gud, and God are near homophones and so it happens that like all Christian lore, we tend to get some words mixed up in oral recitation.
You know that it could be said that 'killing the Christ' was not necessarily good right?, ...and even bad. As such, the Germans typically refer to today, as Karfreitag, or Sorrowful Friday.  Which makes some sense.  Now, but for hindsight context of a Happy outcome, and a cheerful unicorn article, I will spare everyone the rest of the diatribe opining anything religiulous so as to remain up-beat and non-denominational -- And  so I will press on with why today is "Good".

Today is good because we bought our first family camper in mid April 1976. 
Today is good because This weekend marks the midway-point in my incarceration.
Today is good because I remember once at Easter, riding bikes in the warm sun, and not giving a shit about thorny crowns, or viruses.
Today is good because Unicorns will it to be so, as the one above seems to indicate.
Today is good because I'm not dead yet, and so don't need to be resuscitated, (yet).
Today is particularly good because I'm not serving canned ham.
Today is good because I slept late, even though it's a normal work day for me.

Today is good because I'm going for a bike ride with my unicorn, as soon as I can figure out how to get his hoofs in his clipless pedals. I'm open to advice as to how my unicorn balances their magical ass on the narrow seat, and whether they too shall wear lycra bib shorts, and the helmet thing...
Whatever your strategies become to say a few positive words this "Good" Friday, It will prove important to try your best to wax nostalgic about Rainbows, Unicorns, Hams and Bunny Cakes.  When we all roll away our proverbial stones, we will likely have been forced to dine on all fare of canned goods, and austere cookbook concoctions.
After you take your bike ride with your unicorn friend and share a coffee, shower, or a ham sandwich together, consolidate all that you can recall of your magical youth when you did not have a care in the world, and share that glob of rainbow energy with someone close, but roughly 6 feet away.

​Happy Karfreitag!

It's simple to imagine a world where people gather in Mega-Churches, Ball Parks, Stadiums, and Festivals.  For us that's easy.
Some will have a hard time explaining the good ol' days to friends and youth. The days before trash bag prophylactics. Stories will seem naïve, and too good to be true.  Likewise, others will have a tough time explaining that there was once negative interest rates, and average people got checks from the Government to sit on their hands.  Just ask Andrew Yang.  I'm not sure which one will seem stranger to the audience when I share those tales of yore, I'll leave that to the creative storytellers... I am sure that if the plague doesn't kill, you the Lysol will.

Now that we wash our hands in mid-masturbation, and screw without breathing, or lips pressing anything... let's create a safe-word for suffocation. I wonder how Tinder establishes new VR boundaries.   C+SWF seeking C+SWF for a romp in the sack, whereas the sack is actually an 80 gallon heavy duty plastic trash can liner.  The thing with Screwing Covid Style is that, well... You know.  That 4 mil HDPE bag is so thin you hardly know it's there.
Good Luck!
How far have we come in a month.  New strategies, like any desperate time, call for desperate measures.  Here is one -- Tequila. 

Someone said take Zinc Lozenges, Others said gargle with salt water... Me, I'm thinking tequila, which is damn near to IPA, and not that piney IPA you would want, but Iso-Propyl Alcohol. Given the choice between cleaning products and time tested brands like Patron, I'll likely take the Patron.  But for the fact that on the back side of this (which is the actual dark-side) we will all be addicted to something; IPA, Lysol, Anti-psychotics, and every fashion of simulants.  The smart money is for sure on IPA in the near term, along with PPE, NCS (Non-Contact Sex), and of course good old fashioned Yogurt.  Truth is that Billions of Cultures couldn't cure you from the Antibiotics you inhaled as a child for so much as a runny nose, and so now there is more Yogurt on the grocery shelves than Produce and Cleaning Products combined.

Let's be honest, We destroyed your mycobiome so effectively in your youth trying to kill off harmless virions that (B.C.) Before Covid we flew to Germany for a Fecal transplant to get our precious tummies back.  Ahh!... The Gut.  That wonderful cesspool of highly effective bacteria, which kept us alive through adolescence, now weakened by generic Amoxycillin, hates you!, and I have a letter from your doctor to prove it.

Let's face it, you suck now, as you cower in your padded cell, wearing your mask backwards, worried about the new Pangolin-Bat Bug, wondering whether NOW may be a good time to leave all of your CD's and LP's to a niece or nephew. Oh shit!..., you don't have any CD's or LP's, because you threw them out when your friends fat-shamed your HUGE collection -- telling you that Pandora and Spotify have left you behind the curve.  You have only a crappy car, and a sweet coffee maker to leave to your Nephew.  Your whole empire was built on shitty Chinese crap, and Un-pronounceable consecutive-consonant laden Ikea abominations.  What should you leave in your will then?  Don't ask me, because I really don't know.  What about that sweet bike, and those swim fins you used once in Cancun?  You should get your affairs in order, if you think the end is neigh.

I think that I've got a good chance of surviving this, and I do believe that we all get this thing, so don't listen to me.  What's left for us all when the party stops, and the plastic cups & paper plates are tied up in the same trash bag you now sleep in? The same shit that's always left at the end of the banquet.  Some whittled white-ish carrots, crusting Hummus, and  an assortment of cold withering Mini-wienies. No surprises.  

The days for optimism have just begun.

​if you're gonna do it, then... do it clean

Today, living in upside-down land, nuclear families spill onto sidewalks exploring "olden-days" outings -- playing catch, roller skating, bike riding, and generally making awkward public appearances, where they were formerly invisible phantoms. I have now seen more than 50 "new" neighbors, who never ever appeared in public previously.  Whereas for decades kids were shuttled to "safe" activities in giant SUV's, faces up-lit by glowing devices traveling to Soccer, Hockey, Lacrosse, etc... today, these mysterious elites pour onto their neighborhood sidewalks completely ill-equipped to be "Free-Range".  
My childhood was not special; in fact all kids had basically the same loosely disciplined lives.  We always roamed the streets without our parents, we always rode miles from home on Big-wheels, Bikes, and Skateboards.  Strangely  the exodus in upside-down land, forces hundreds of families to pour out onto the side-streets as frustrated families drive each-other nuts.  Being bound by four walls is unbearable, like an overcharged battery, we fire it up and hit the pavement.  Oddly what is now occurring is both beautiful, and frightening. In my strange new neighborhood, these invisible wealthier families bought up their neighbors homes, tore them down and extended side yards into sprawling sport courts, lawns, gardens etc...  These fenced cages were intent to keep the family safe when there was no need to, while ironically boasting an elitist means to self isolate.  Private families, with sheltered parochial life-styles are now the ones spilling onto our city streets.  Why? Their children are ill-equipped to manage their fledgling free-range habitats. I've seen them playing in the street, riding in the street, and even coloring in the street.  Car traffic is reduced this month, true... but it is a city.  Novice riders need to take care to remain clear of moving vehicles. Those who never stepped on city pavement are now out and about, playing in traffic. This can't end well, but at least it won't raise the Covid toll.

A typical B.C. (before covid) day in the life went like this:
Dad wakes & shaves and departs the attached garage at 5:15 in a Tesla or M6 to an elite Health-club, before hitting the office until 6 P.M., then to another private club for cocktails with other elites.
Mom wakes early and heads to Orange Theory before the kids are up, returns flushed to make kids breakfast, and they exit arguing in a Massive SUV to drop 2.5 kids at private schools. On the way back, a rendezvous with other Yoga Mommies for a Skinny oat-milk Latte before they hit a mani-pedi appointment. Chip-free nails dry & Mom heads to Pilates, and when properly stretched, she heads home to shower. Clean, and Blown-dry she gets the grocery delivery into the fridge, and noshes some pre-pack store sushi. 2 Hours on the internet to update Facebook, and leer at others, she orders several tops, and leggings online, before leaving to shuttle kids from school to sports.  Returning to pick-up dinner and drizzle dressing on a salad, Kids are dropped off for dinner and home-work.

(So it follows that "Social Distancing" should not be a new idea for many).

In upside-down land, the new routine goes like this:
Dad scratches his balls and makes a pot of coffee all by himself. (applause)  He hits the Peloton, and a Life-fitness rig which wasn't touched since the house was built.  In fact, the room in which all of these torture devices dwell, was just another untouched space in a massive custom home.  Dad balances his laptop, dripping sweat, and struggles to stay connected with a laptop, a bottle of G2, and phone, while changing his clothes, before closing the den door in isolation from his waking family.
Mom sips her plastic flavored Keurig, and lowers the seat of the peloton, then completes half a Roku-based Yoga session before a kid screams. Mom breaks up a quarrel, and gets two pajama'd kids to eat sugary cereal, before opening the back door to allow an estranged pure-bred dog into the melee when she scratches the door. Mom dresses the kids, and presses them to "turn off the TV ...and go play in the yard!"  With placid faces lit by cartoons, Mom hits her Facebook to lament "her struggle".  By the time the clock strikes 10 the kids become unbearably bored, and Mom puts jackets on them to take a bike-ride.  In the Garage she fumbles with cob-webbed kid's bikes, and a hand pump.  Mommy's iPhone11 Pro face-times a nephew, after failing to find a youtube video on how to air the tires.  The teen helps his aunt fill the tires, and she soon gets the kids, some chalk, and their bikes to the alley. After 20 minutes coloring with chalk, and several texts to their father, the whole family collects on the sidewalk to re-adjust the bike seats. Neighbors who have never seen this family nor their kids, walk widely way around the idyllic family at their stoop.  Mommy and Daddy now sport solo-cups, while they watch their kids roll down the block.

The polished family awkwardly greet estranged neighbors from afar, as hundreds of passing neighbors remark in chorus,
"Wow, that's who lives there!?, (half question-half statement), "I didn't know anyone lived in that giant house, as I've never seen them before."  

It used to be that one in 40 homes in early July would put a few kids on the front walk to pimp sugary lemonade, but now everyone is distantly discovering their neighbor's new fashion, milling about wearing masks. Odd new accessories to the daily Covid bike rides. I've not yet seen the Hermes, or Burberry mask, but it's coming.

New Catchwords include, We, Us, Our, Uncertain, Together, and Troubled (Times). Overnight 'our' lexicon changes. While the clinical term for Kids not catching Covid is "Naive" immune system...Really! This is a fact. Turns out that not having antibodies, helps when something comes about because your body doesn't strain it's resources to attack something new. Cats and kids are just carriers -- Great.

 What does this new way expand out to? Do we bar blocks, and set-up a neighborhood watch, to keep traffic down. Do we close neighborhoods, cities, and state borders? I don't know.
Probably not -- But weeks ago my friend and I were projecting how this exclusionism all goes down.  States sealing borders, people wearing visible ID Bracelets, races excluded... all becoming a dialog. When I was a kid and my teacher caught us loading the tips of paper-airplanes with pins, and tossing them to stick into the acoustic ceiling, I didn't really understand why I was being singled out for detention. Detention? Nobody likes detention, but it was always suspicious that kids who never ended up in the clink after school, always feared and observed those who did, as socially mal-adjusted, or even evil.  Truth was the fear of Detention was a fear of some unknown isolation, about which nobody ever spoke, And on the inside -- you weren't allowed to speak or sleep.  So what of Detention? There was no productive outlet, although sometimes an essay of confession, or writing sentences was the constructive forced labor.  When a kid got home and their parents found out that so-and-so at school got "Detention"..., Parents always forbid their kids from seeing "that kid" any longer. This was harsh.  No Jury, no due process, just excommunicated. Bam! This week we are discussing emptying jails and prisons.  That should inspire some people to stay home.

In this odd childhood process, called detention -- when one was voted off the island, things seldom improved. An untouchable kid may be ridiculed, or taunted, or become legend as other kids fostered a brooding fear of what they may be capable of... Spinning yarns of every manner of menacing backstory. Truth was, that Detention was shits-ville, only because other kids actively or passively seemed to gloat at what a nice day they had on "the outside" playing guns, or roof-jumping, or smashing shit, while Those in detention suffered with repetitive sentence structure.  Detention was a primer for prison.

What is it then, when we are all in Detention?  Truthfully, I don't fucking know.

"By the way, Is there any way that Texas can secede and leave Austin Alone?, Sovereign? he asked... "No problem", he replied "Don't let the door hit your Ass on your way out". Can a State cleanly leave our Republic?
​What then, if a (United) State says, "You unclean, people can't come in, because we here, in Texas think you may get us sick", What protocols are applied? School-yard politics are never fair, and so it seems to me that like any squabble, the rules of engagement, (never clearly delineated) seem to force involved parties to make up some dumb shit rules, and then argue about them. I am convinced that public spraying of aerosols fogging streets, and soaking the "un-clean", is perhaps the most dystopian hail-mary reaction to being completely, politically, and socially bankrupt.  State's-rights are valid, right?, until they are so extreme that they violate what we all come to understand as acceptable.  You know it's true that nobody listens to zealots any more, and who the fuck cares what Richard Branson, and Evangeline Lily do or say in their secluded castles?  Who the fuck gives a shit about the stupid celebrity cavalcade of "social wisdom"? Nobody!

What is acceptable, is behavior which preserves people's rights for liberty, while doing the most good.  Where would this new idiocy scale out to, without anyone actually being in charge. Because the kids seem to be running the Detention Classroom, if we (the public) allow idiocy to pile upon itself like fake meat in a charcuterie tray, we are once more preparing something useless which will be scraped into the trash like crusty hummus when the party ends. Nobody wants to eat a shit sandwich; So States have begun to take back their sovereignty from the Fed.  States close their borders?, as they asphyxiate their public, and poison the populace to stave off illness. What are the rules of engagement, when Missouri decides that an out of work  barista riding their bike to stave off insanity, gets stopped in mid-sojourn at a "Border crossing"?  Fact is that if it weren't for some shitty Rotary or Kiwanis sign overgrown with weeds, and sunflowers, nobody would know as they entered the back door of a state, that they had actually crossed a street, let alone a border. Strange times.
Meanwhile Nobody knows, and that's where the madness sets in.
So this one kid at school has mono, and comes to school, what if they don't know it? Is there a test? Is the Test accurate? do they have an "All Clear" wristband?  Really, the times they are a changing... When I was a kid, we owned a thermometer, and when we knew our health was not right, we took the temp, and stayed home -- But only about 60% of the time, was diagnosis accurate... The rest of the time we soldiered on.  So what of  The nightmare scenario which expands as an exponent from a few ill people. From these simple, untested ideas comes a brutal outcome.  The anointed few, excluding the unclean... A caste system, with some unacknowledged "expert" who interns people in camps until "they" like their health prospects; whilst The rest remain restrainedly free.  Refugees imprisoned -- A populace free to choose their precautious behavior.
This cannot work, Can it? Detention!

Ask Not what you can do for your sanity, but what your sanity can do for you. Perhaps you can make a paper airplane, or a broach, or a tetradactyl.  People have discussed the complexity of being isolated and avoiding what makes them healthy and sane. A campground, a pond or stream for fishing, and a trailhead for biking or snowbound descents... But what of the wisdom to remain home?  Don't be glib, just discuss what bad comes from a bike ride, or a jog?  Why do some get shamed for a walk through the neighborhood, if they don't have a dog on the leash?  Is there nothing wrong with the caution to remain home?  Can we balance social isolation with outdoor time?  The argument we hear is the ER Nurse, or Epidemiology Intern called to serve, who chastises you to "just stay home"!.  The reasoning is that Blood supplies and resources are tapped thin, and YOU should not add to the problem.  But I know more than one healthy young person who's fallen down the staircase.  I know several people who have broken a limb, or hip in a bathroom or a threshold. 
We all know people who've hacked their palm slicing an avocado.  Today however we are to remain in our padded box.  How do we distill the wisdom from the mash-up?  It all reminds me vaguely of being  a kid in elementary school being narked on by another student for nothing more than having more fun than them.  We are all supposed to be sullen, somber, reflective right?  Wrong!
​What is the real issue? Envy?  If you have no knack, and lack the dexterity to take a walk, run, or ride as naturally as bathing, then by all means, stay out of the bath. For the capable public, the stats prove that getting in your car to drive to the store holds more risk than a stroll, and likely the same holds true for a bike ride, or a jog. The issue is not one of flippant disregard for another's reverence to the world ending.  The issue is not a caution to conserve resources, it is just people giving a social-media tongue-lashing to strangers.  Can we please try to understand each other this year?  Nobody spreads disease when they ride their bikes as a family.  Nobody spreads a disease while jogging alone, staying clear of others. Everyone needs to enjoy some outdoor time.  Or the insanity and suicide epidemic may outweigh and outlive the plague.

I suggest you ride your bike, Jog someplace, swim alone, if your beach is open, and enjoy what you can, because it's possible that the shit hasn't yet hit the fan.  When you are left without any civil rights, you will reflect on that last time you did "this thing" quite fondly.  Perhaps that will be the recollection which motivates you later. It's also possible you will die in a week, so live responsibly, meaningfully, and do try to enjoy yourself. Safe or Sane is a terrible conundrum.
​
Many bodies piling up will be illustrative to curb bad practices. Citizens will make mistakes, of course, but they will also help each other, and make mostly good choices, driven by fear.  Social scales look a bit like this... We have bodies on one plinth, and free-will on the other, and You can guess which one weighs more. By the time the public sees the damage, the damage will have been done.  Being a citizen during the Pandemic Era, means that your neighbors and friends can't understand why naïve people are incapable of projecting beyond their privileged circumstance.  Clarity is elusive in Detention.
Malaise makes us wholly incapable of clarity, so it's critical to maintain mindfulness.  So how do we balance deadly freedom with being in detention? Civil rights & Civic responsibility are challenging contemplation. Being subject to random stop and frisk; Whether by strangers, on anti-social media, or by local police is madness.  The madness does not stem from a nervous passion to promote public health, because it cannot.  It is simply a nervous incantation like spraying aerosols, that can't stop the wave of coughs.
When a Gig-Worker who delivers groceries, can't afford to stay home, and hands you tainted groceries -- How long can the bags sit outside your bubble before they rot, or until the virus wears off? 
​
Another Detention essay begins like this:
An interstate truck driver, whether it is Amazon, UPS,  JB Hunt, or a far smaller LTL, has one job, and they need the paycheck, because their partner was just liberated from the other half of their combined income.  Do we really believe that this desperate driver with a mortgage to pay, will stop driving when they develop a dry cough and a mild fever or night sweats?  Nope! IT WONT HAPPEN.  They will drive all over their trans-continental route until they succumb to being desperately ill, pulling extra shifts, or, they will recover without knowing why they felt ill.  This single vector is possibly far worse than an exec or an out of work teacher visiting their parents back home.  The driver will stop every few hours as required, and buy the occasional hot dog, steak, or slurpee and hither and yon, they will pee, and flush, and wipe, and pass cash for all fare of social engagement before and after pumping diesel.  They will become the anonymous outlaw vector.  But alas they are mission critical, so that your cat-food, and Bud-seltzer can arrive on-time. Whilst you observe your state's health protocols, sneaking in bike rides with your masked children, You should not feel ashamed.   But, thousands of locals may be affected by one outlier?, Yep., that's your delivery driver. 
When strange fictions become the new normal, it's sometimes actually valid to review the cannon of sci-fi to explore contextual scenarios, and potential outcomes.  I've seen and read some dystopian Sci-fi, and they can be telling.  After all, the Phone in your pocket came from them, as did the walkie-talkie, and the laser, but I can't shake the images of "A Clockwork Orange" as one outcome, or ...perhaps it's already happened.

Has nobody watched a single shit-ass sci-fi thriller?  For crap-sake, the idea that a selective quarantine will work is laughable.  But Medicare for all is sounding good to a lot of people right about now. We are all socialists now.

Now that we are all bike riding Socialists, (like it or not, it's happened) -- we are all floundering in a giant social welfare net.  We are naive children in a gigantic moon-bounce bumping, touching, and licking the same balls. We are all going to get this.  We are all going to have to pay for it, and most importantly We all have to remember this moment, so as to not let it ever happen again.  
Let's roll up our sleeves, and get to it. Let's calculate real projections, Create real solutions, and then make positive changes which don't exclude anyone or anyone's rights. Be ready for the secessionist back-chatter.
Be smart, be vigilant, create normalcy, or sit on your hands and wait for your fucking Prom.
​
The world needs bright torches right now, ...so stay lit.