Month: May 2020

FLUSH: cower in place 28

– in which Dorn dabbles with commodities futures.

I had talked (here) about my strategy for scoring some toilet paper before our stockpile ran out. I had orders to sellers with uncertain supplies, made six weeks ago, four weeks ago, and two orders made one week ago. I also had a couple of unsolicited volunteer offers. By some alchemy of time and commerce, many of these gambits were coming to fruition—if they were going to be successful at all—last weekend.

The six-week t.p. order from Amazon arrived, as did one of the one-week orders from the local grocery store, and one of the volunteer offers. All the packages of toilet paper were quite large, so I think we’ll be set maybe until the supply chain restabilizes. So our strategy for solving the Cottonelle conundrum has got to be called a success.

*   *   *

We haven’t had as much luck with our handling of some other commodities. Kathleen ignited a Facebook firestorm when she bemoaned our continued inability to order spaghetti online or from local stores. All we can find is the dreaded American Angel Hair pasta.

Among the many re­sponses she got were: commis­eration from those with similar stories, gloat­ing from those whose local stores seemed well stocked, some sugges­tions for online ordering of over­priced pasta from gourmet sources (which haven’t worked for us, yet), and several remi­niscences, recipes, and remon­strations about making pasta from scratch. Mark Zuckerberg helpfully offered an unsolicited news article about why spaghetti is so scarce.

We tried making some pasta at home. It came out pretty good, although Kathleen thought it tasted suspiciously close to Angel Hair.

A little research proved her taste buds were right, as usual. Spaghetti is typically about 2 mm in diameter, while angel hair pasta is about 1 mm. By A = (π/4)d2, a typical spaghettus has a circular cross-sectional area of about 3.1 mm2, while an Angel Hair pastum has a cross section of about 0.8 mm2.

From my pasta roller settings, my spaghetti was rectangular in cross section, 2 mm wide by 0.6 mm thick. (The pasta purists among you will rightfully argue that the very lack of circular cross section makes it not spaghetti at all, but rather a “modified fettucini”.) Whatever you call it, my pasta’s cross-sectional area of about 1.2 mm2 made it much closer to Angel Hair than to the desired product. Next time, I’ll roll the stuff out thicker to get a spaghettier flavor, I’m sure. Still don’t know what to do about the rectangular aftertaste, though.

*   *   *

We were too successful buying red meat futures. We heard the news that the corona­virus was making its way through the meat packing facilities, resulting in meat shortages. So I broadcast orders for red meat among multiple meat-ordering pathways, hoping that at least one of them might still have a supply. 

Unfortunately (for us) the word that beef was scarce had not yet reached the meat delivery pipeline, and every one of my orders was successful, resulting in a full stone (look it up) of beef showing up at our house in the space of two days. 

This might not seem like much, but it was something of a calamity for us when you consider (a) I had sworn off cow meat last fall (here), and although the duration of the beef-fast (or cow-lent, if you will) was now long over, it had its intended effect of reducing my craving for red meat; (b) Kathleen has never been that much of a carnivore; and (c) our refrigerator and freezer were already completely full from all the other hoard-buying we were doing. 

But we managed to squeeze what we didn’t barter away into our freezer by sacrificing the sacred space reserved for ice cream (if we could just figure out how to get that mail-order) and kicking all the vodka out. Desperate times call for desperate measures, y’all.

Thanks,
Dorn
5/21/2020

Interview with the Immunati – cower in place 27

– in which Dorn talks with one of the Fraternity of the Recovered.

A

s time goes on and the pandemic continues its inexorable spread, the number of people who have recovered from the virus mercifully continues to rise. What must it feel like, I wonder, to go through greater or lesser amounts of misery and uncertainty, and emerge on the other side? How heady is the realization, “I survived it, and I’m now immune and uncontagious!”?

Soon everyone will know someone with a story of a successful fight against the disease, but for those of us who aren’t there yet, here’s my promised interview with an actual covid recovered. 

To preserve her privacy, and to protect her from the ever-present threat of plasma-poachers, I will refer to her only by her initials ER in this interview. Without any further ado, please enjoy the Interview with the Immunati.     –Trentin Quarantino

*   *   *

TQ. Thank you for speaking with me today, ER. I know my readers must have many questions about what life is like post-covid.
ER. It’s a pleasure to be here, Trentin. Or it would be, if I were actually here, and not conducting this interview by videoconference. You know I’m not contagious, right? Probably?

TQ. It must be a very freeing feeling to not have to think twice about who you come within 6 feet of, or who might have touched the railing before you did. I know I still have trouble wrestling with the idea of reducing social distancing, even if I rationally believe I’m not at risk.
  Do you find that becoming immune to the coron­avirus has changed the way people treat you? Do they look at you with a mixture of awe and envy, perhaps tinged with a bit of horror?
ER. That’s right Trentin. I’m the new variable in the equation, a new curve in the modeling. I think some people are still wary of my ability (modesty prevents me from calling it a ‘superpower’) to walk among the living without worrying about who might be carrying the virus.
  Most, like you, continue to treat me the same way they would treat anyone else they interacted with—that is, with caution, or without, depending on if they believe in the corona­virus in the first place.

TQ. I see. Does peer pressure force you to continue to wear a facemask and engage in protective health measures, even though for you they have now become empty rituals?
ER. Yes, I usually find it easier when engaging with people who are still susceptible if I dispense with trying to explain that I’m not contagious, and instead just wear the mask and exhibit the other appropriate cues of social responsibility, even though medically these rituals don’t benefit them or me (probably).

TQ. That’s twice now you’ve said probably. Is there some doubt as to your immune status?
ER. There is, actually. The virus is so new that we don’t know for sure whether recovering from it even conveys immunity, and if so, for how long it lasts. Experience with other coronaviruses, and common sense, tell me that if my antibodies won the internal battle against covid-19 once, that critter will think long and hard before it tries messing with me again. But you never know.
  Plus there’s an additional complication. Every indicator says that I wrestled with the coronavirus for weeks, and have now recovered, except one key one: I test negative for covid antibodies. I’m a “stealth” Immunati. Probably.

TQ. (Unconsciously moves chair a few inches further away from the video­conference screen). Yes, well, um. Elizabeth, I mean ER, you mentioned that some of the people you meet don’t even believe in the coronavirus, or at least don’t believe in its unprecedented health dangers. Do you find more people with this belief in your home state of West Virginia?
ER. I’ve told you before Dorn, I mean Trentin, I don’t live in West Virginia, I live near West Virginia, in western Maryland. But yes, when I go to West Virginia I rarely see a face mask. It’s a relief to be able to take mine off and still fit in.

TQ. In addition to the emotional freedom it can provide, there must be a significant financial advantage to no longer needing face masks, gallons of hand soap, sanitizer and toilet paper. Has being freed from these expenses significantly boosted your standard of living? What do you spend all this money on instead?
ER. I still use soap and toilet paper, Trentin. I’m an Immunati, not a savage. With the money I save on face masks we’re remodeling our house.

TQ. Your husband Mr. Rohring spent several weeks coated in a film of your virus-infested cough droplets, without developing symptoms. Do you consider him also recovered and immune, asymptomatic, or just a ticking time bomb?
ER. Oh, Bill has always been a fire­cracker! Seriously, we’re just hoping for the best.

TQ. While you no longer face health risks from the coron­avirus, the threat of economic disruption is still equally present for Immunati and non-Immunati alike (what do Immunati call them anyway? “humans”? “mortals”?). Do you find yourself weighing the pros and cons of re-opening the country differently now?
ER. We Immunati call those uninfected and unrecovered from covid-19 “muggles” to their faces. Among ourselves, we call them “virgins”.
  And while it does lift some of the personal worry to believe oneself immune, the health risks for my friends and family are still very real, so I don’t think my views on that have changed much. The economic hardship being felt by many during the pandemic is also real, and there are no easy answers, no matter how hard some try to convince themselves that there are.

TQ. Well, thanks so much for sharing, ER. As a token of my appreciation for you taking the time to be with me virtually, here’s a (virtual) T-shirt with a logo I designed myself, that might make it easier to say it loud! Immune and proud!
ER. Thank you, Trentin. My pleasure at talking with you is every bit as real as this T-shirt.

*   *   *

That’s it! Thanks,
Dorn
5/17/2020

Spoons: cower in place 26

– in which Dorn explores flatware iconography in the time of pandemic.

L

iving in pan­demic-induced iso­lation for two months now has had some strange effects on us. A few days ago we decided that we needed some grape­fruit spoons. Never mind that in the past we rarely ate grapefruit (the last time I remember craving them was when the doc had given me a course of pills with the in­struc­tion that I couldn’t eat grape­­fruit while I was on them, and suddenly I yearned for them). We got a couple of ruby-red grapefruit in one of our curbside-pickup orders and they were delicious, and now we’ve vowed to live on nothing but grape­fruit, and to eat it as it should be eaten, with a grape­fruit spoon, small side up, in a dedicated grape­fruit tureen.

The stores might only just now be re-opening, but Amazon and others have been there for us stir-crazy consumers all along, so lickety-split, before I had a chance to rationally weigh the pros and cons of the decision, I ordered us a matched pair. They’re arriving tomorrow.

I wonder if the relationship between being quarantined and pining for specialized spoons has ever been studied scientifically? It has certainly been lauded in song and story often enough (and by “often enough”, I mean at least once, which I think you’ll agree might be enough).

We saw a simulcast last year of the Metro­politan Opera production of The Extermin­ating Angel by Thomas Adès. It was one of those modern operas sung in atonalities, about guests who are trapped by their own tortured psyches at a dinner party, and can’t leave it. Like us, perhaps, they felt a foreboding of doom so strong that they couldn’t just open the front door and walk out.

Alert: spoilers about the opera follow.

Disclaimer: these spoilers won’t answer any questions about the plot or outcome of the opera. In fact, they won’t really help you understand the opera at all. I saw it, and even watching the whole thing didn’t really help me understand it (though I did really enjoy it).

In one of the opera’s most famous scenes, the counter-tenor sings a frantic ode to coffee spoons, and bemoans his tragic fate at being forced to drink coffee with a tea spoon. (The coffee spoons are back in the kitchen, see, and are therefore beyond their reach.)

Though they can’t get to the kitchen, luckily they can make it to the bath­room (although one couple uses the bath­room for a tryst, and as a conse­quence feels they must com­mit suicide). During the course of the story, the company breaks through the dining room walls to find the water pipes so they can drink. And for food, they slaughter one of the sheep from a flock that fortuitously wanders through the room (did I mention that I didn’t really understand this opera?).

Extermin­ating Angel is noteworthy for including the highest note ever sung in the history of opera: high A about high C. I couldn’t find a working link to this achievement, but here is a link to a number of sopranos singing the second highest note in opera, A-flat above high C. This pleasant little ditty is from Jacques Offenbach’s tuneful Tales of Hoffman. The singer is supposed to be a mechanical doll with whom the hero has fallen in love (don’t get me started on the whole history of sex-bots in opera!).

absinthe spoon
Absinthe spoon

We have a personal emotional link that ties spoons with being trapped, in a way. Back when Kathleen was first diagnosed with lupus, much less was known about it than is now, both by the medical community and the general public. The Lupus Society of America called it the most unknown common disease, and we’ve spent a good amount of time since then trying to learn more about what it is, how to cope with it, and how to talk to others about it.

One touching article that we found very useful in under­standing the disease was a blog post by a fellow lupus sufferer called “The Spoon Theory“. In it, Christine Miserandino asks the reader to imagine that each morning, you are handed a number of spoons. When you have lupus, every activity (and that’s every activity, including waking up, and getting out of bed) costs you a spoon. When you are out of spoons, your day is over, period. You can’t hoard spoons and use them the next day—in the morning you will get your allotment, whatever it is for the day, and the care you took yesterday with them won’t help you today.

There’s nothing magical about spoons being the item with which your daily activities are counted, of course. The point is that they are discrete, tangible objects, and there is never any flexibility to how many there are, no matter how badly you want there to be more. They represent the hard limit lupus imposes on how much you can do in a day, that you can’t tough, bluff, or finagle your way past. It was a hard lesson to learn, and we still find it hard to teach others.

And on top of its incapaci­tating charac­teristics, those with lupus are especially vulnerable to other diseases, like covid. So now, in addition to all the limitations lupus had already put on our lifes­tyle, we are trapped by the knowledge that if either of us were ever contract the coronavirus, Kathleen’s “under­­lying health issues” make her a prime candidate for not surviving it. So we take every precaution, and take it double, to try to prevent ever catching it. It’s a pretty frightening place to be.

Not to end on too stark a note, here is one more spoon association. This is a picture of a banged-up, misshapen spoon being sold at a premium price (I could buy 8 grapefruit spoons for the cost of one of these!) because it epitomizes wabi-sabi, the Japanese aesthetic of beauty that is “imperfect, impermanent, and incomplete”. I am a firm adherent of this aesthetic, especially when Kathleen, in the throes of cabin fever, suggests that it’s time to repaint the walls, or shine all the furniture, or re-sculpt all the topiaries. I can heartily recommend it!

May the eleventh be with you!,
Dorn
5/11/2020

Year of the pig: cower in place 25

The un­­pre­ce­­dent­ed nature of the corona­­­virus lock­­­down has resulted in new heights of bore­­­dom. I blush to ad­mit it, but lately I’ve even been bored at the ter­rible, aw­ful news we get each day. More deaths? A new category of disaster? Ho-hum. (Yes, I hate myself for the feeling, but it’s there if I’m honest.)

I had congratulated myself on all the library books I scored before the library closed, but I find I’ve become bored of the whole concept of reading a book. In an attempt to revive some literary enthusiasm, I’m trying to resume my study (if you can call it that) of hanzi, the Chinese written language, which I had originally taken up to dispel the almost-as-bad boredom of commuting two hours by bus to work. It was a good time-passer, even if little of what I “studied” actually stuck.

The commute to work took even longer before the bus route was established.

It was so fun because I didn’t use just any old Chinese lesson book: my study was from something I had downloaded from Google books called Progressive Lessons in the Chinese Written Language, written by Oxford Professor T. L. Bullock back in 1902.

This treatise teaches written Traditional Chinese (not that decadent Simplified Chinese introduced by the communists in 1949). At the time the book was written, China was still an empire, and I swear that a good 20% of the vocabulary must be different words for imperial decrees and punishments for disobedience. And it uses sayings of Confucius in its sentence lessons. It’s really quite arcane and neat, and sure to take a lo-o-o-ong time!

Here’s a sample:

I’ve still got that poorly-scanned PDF of Progressive Lessons that I downloaded all those years ago. My only problem is it’s 300 pages long, and I don’t seem to have any e-book reader that handles it very well, so it’s hard to read (even the English parts!). My biggest regret about retiring is that I didn’t print the whole book out at work when I had the chance. I’m sure not going to do that now when I’d have to pay for it.

You should try it. As incentive, here is a Norwegian pig joke that you will be able to enjoy only after you have mastered Chinese hanzi. (Or you could paste it into Google translate, but it won’t seem as funny if you don’t work for it.)

當員警把他拉過來時,拉爾斯和他的豬正開車在路上。
員警問他:「你不知道在卡車前面和豬一起騎車是違反法律的嗎?
拉爾斯說:”我不知道。員警說,
「如果你答應到城裡時帶豬去動物園,我這次就放你走。
幾天后,同一個員警又拉過拉爾斯,豬又在前面。
員警說:「我以為我告訴過你帶這頭豬去動物園。
拉爾斯回答說:”我做到了,我們玩得很開心,所以今天我帶他去特羅姆瑟。

Thanks for indulging me,
Dorn
4/30/2020