Frozen Laptop, Frozen Pizza: Assessing the Early Days of the Coronavirus Lockdown

The weather forecasts are wonk.  Something to do with a sharp decrease in the number of airplanes in the air.  It wasn’t forecast to rain today.  But it has rained, and not just a few drops.  My wife and I console each other with talk of silver linings.  The air quality is improving, just ask the stars.  

Here in St. Louis, as March slogs on, the rain has been a cloying companion during days of isolation.  I can’t recall going on a walk when I didn’t have to watch out for puddles and dreck as the dog Hugo and I walked in our desultory fashion, neither one of us leading the way.  This month hasn’t been atypical in its raininess but I suspect the total rainfall is at the upper end of its historical range.

If only weather were the wackiest aspect of March 2020.... 

The essay continues...

John Randall

There’s people I haven’t met called John Randall.
There’s a guy who’s sick and shoeless in bed called John Randall.
There’s a man with tattoos and a tie on, singing a song called “John Randall.”

There’s a fifty year-old governor who just drove his precocious
aide to the top of a hill named John Randall.
There he is in bed again, still with his shoes off, John Randall.

They’ve got their arms around each other, asking someone to take a photograph.

With a pillow over his head, John Randall.
They don’t realize it’s a tabloid reporter, byline John Randall.

He’s in the back of a portrait of a bunch of people in an apartment drinking Bud Light.  He is drinking a beer called John Randall.
He’s holding it there — not someone else, John Randall.

In the seventies his hair was way long and wavy, John Randall.
He has drinking buddies in college and there is lots of promiscuous sex, John Randall.

Out to pizza with his family, look at that cute dog there, oh, that little squirt, look at him he’s so cute.  Now the dog is barking, the barking is driving him nuts, actually making him physically sick, causing him to think, God, if a dog is this bad, how the hell am I gonna have a kid named John Randall, Jr?

More of this ridiculous poem...