We’re in a La Quinta Inn near a place called the Wichita Sports Forum, a sports complex, the parking lot of which is full, patrons coming and going, collapsable chairs in hand. The clientele here at the hotel seems to be made up largely of Sports Forum patrons.
My wife went out to pick up pizza. I’ve done several trips to and from the car. Otherwise, we’re going to hunker down in our room. B said she walked into the lobby wearing her mask and attracted all sorts of weird looks; no one else had a mask on. The clerk behind the desk wasn’t wearing one. We had a reservation. He said the place is totally booked.
I watched the Belmont Stakes. There’s a golf tourney on from Hilton Head, in which I have a very mild interest. I’ve also had the news channels on, curious to see footage from Tulsa, where the President is holding a rally, set to begin in less than two hours.
What we see here leaves us with the impression that perhaps this state, this city, was never under any level of coronavirus restriction. I’d wager there are a couple hundred people in that Sports Forum. Climbing, basketball, gymnastics, volleyball, maybe some soccer. The Dave and Buster’s is open. The pizzeria was doing good business. It’s all sorts of people coming and going from this hotel. Young and old. Black and white.
It’s June 2020. In a place the virus has yet to touch, my wife and I reach the same instinctive conclusion: it’s only a matter of time. It would not be a surprise to hear that Wichita, KS, was the next new hotspot for a virus very alive, very capable, and, like us, on the move...
Nightmare ham, dateline America. Tonight's top story: the inimitable error: the journalists all died at the truth. I'm stuck reading about this left-behind sense of beds made poorly — pissed in then slept in then folded like cardboard. Next time will be a different screw-up. The great, big puke-off was only a rejection of any kind of appetizer fresh from the ocean & served with marinara.
JBR.com 