Albo P Fossa—June 12, 2020
Yesterday’s costly vehicle checkup missed a broken shock absorber. That left a big new thump over even small bumps. I feared it would be the new normal. We griped and returned the vehicle overnight—they didn’t have the part. Today: don’t call us, we’ll call you.
The latest issue of our old farts’ mag is all about “the new normal”. No more handshakes: maybe just Star Trek-like “Live Long and Prosper” gestures? Lots more working at home: some jobs may never return. Get used to masks. Consider reruns. Maybe someday, a vaccine. Wash your hands.
And yet, who ARE these seemingly superhuman folks in the background (and their managers, secretaries, and janitors…)? Those still going out into the world to produce car parts, soap, food, entertainment, services like utilities, for all the other folks? How can we be active and productive like them?
When will the new normal be, just, normal?
Will going without masks be risqué? Will saying “Shake!” to anyone but a dog be demeaning? Will folks grin at primitive grocery checkouts without six-foot stripes and plexiglass closings?
If the universe is expanding then how come the constellations don’t change? And where does the light go?
Each moment brings a new normal. 2019 seems so long ago. 2015—the last year before the Trumpster—even longer. Back unto birth, a screaming flash of light, blissfully forgotten.
We’re all in this together.