Let Mr. COVID Answer Man help you cope during the pandemic

  

   Because there are only so many earnest, well-reasoned columns a body can write...


Dear Mr. COVID Answer Man: I’ve realized there are certain friends I haven’t talked to since March. Is it too late now to reach out? — Lonely

                                                                                         

Dear Lonely: Yes. The truth is, if you haven’t spoken to someone in more than six months of the most intense crisis to grip our country in living memory, you never need to speak again. This is sad, of course. Think of them like a neighbor you really like who moves away. You hug and swear you’ll stay in touch. Then you don’t, because you aren’t living next door to each other anymore. That’s how life goes.

Dear Mr. COVID Answer Man: I work in a small store, where I’m required to wear a mask. But it gets claustrophobic, so I slip it below my nose. Occasionally a customer will say, “Would you mind putting your mask on properly?” This makes me very angry. Am I wrong to feel this way? — Miffed

Dear Miffed: Of course not. Tell yourself, you are WEARING a mask, technically, just not in the precise fashion that pleases every germaphobe fussbudget who walks in the door and starts issuing orders like they own the place, just because they don’t want to die a horrible death. The good news is that most customers are too inhibited to actually complain. Try saying, “Oh sorry, it slipped,” in a sarcastic tone, the way you would say, “Mind your own business loser,” and without moving the mask. That will convey your point in a witty fashion.

Dear Mr. COVID Answer Man: Before the pandemic struck, I used to scream at my children for staring at screens too much. Now that they’re remote learning, I scream at them for not watching screens enough. They fight and misbehave and I find myself hating them, sometimes, wondering why I didn’t move to Thailand and open a grass shack bar on the beach when I was young and might have. What should I do? — Regretful

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Why won't the lying liar lie?

 

     So here's the mystery.
     Given that Donald Trump is a liar—a continual, habitual, reflexive, pathological liar. And given the ease with which he mouths whatever untruth will reflect the greatest unearned glory upon him at any given moment or grease his way out of some self-imposed jam, secure in the knowledge, or maybe completely unaware, that he can always reverse himself should circumstances dictate, how do we explain this:
     Why didn't Trump just condemn white supremacy when called upon to do so, rather pathetically, by Fox News' Chris Wallace at the presidential debate in Cleveland Tuesday night?
     Could it be he believes so strongly in the superiority of the white race that he cannot publicly denounce it? That doing so would be like some Christian martyr forced to renounce his faith by some pagan tyrant? He would rather die.

     That's hard to imagine. Trump doesn't believe in anything except his own superlative greatness. He turned his back on New York, the city that created him. He drop kicks longtime aides at the first sign of trouble. It can't be loyalty to white supremacy. Not from the man whose entire mechanism is greased by disloyalty, hypocrisy and betrayal.
     So what it is then? It isn't as if such a condemnation would matter in the slightest.  As Hazlitt reminds us, "The repentance of a hypocrite is itself hypocrisy."
     Maybe because Chris Wallace, a member of the despised media, albeit the weak tea Fox version, was urging him to do it. Trump can't denounce white supremacy for the same reason he couldn't wear a mask for the first four months of the pandemic, even when doing so would be painless, help him politically and, oh yeah, save lives: because he was supposed to do it. And part of the oxygen that keep Trump and his base alive is their image of themselves as Harley-straddling rebels, Robinson Crusoe noncomformists, AR-15 in one hand while the other flips off any and all, on general principles. What is denouncing hate versus the the visceral pleasure of emitting a long, loud, deeply felt, "Fuuuuuuck yooooooouuuuuuu!!!" in the general direction of everybody who isn't on their knees, adoring the godhead?
     Ridiculing their enemies is an essential part of Trumpism. Mexicans are rapists, Muslims terrorists. Think of all the effort conjuring up pants-wetting liberals, casting them as traitors and cowards and idiots, then imaging their eye-goggling shock at whatever dull repetitive inanity Trump et al are babbling. The fact that most liberals are already bored and disgusted and at this point have to force themselves to notice, think about and if possible care, doesn't register. In their minds, they shoot, they scoooore!
     Haters define themselves by the people they hate. They sit in cathectic contemplation of what in theory so disrupts their lives but, in fact, give them the meaning they otherwise lack. This is counterintuitive, and can be very hard for non-haters to understand. They give the objects of their hate power over their own mental states, then resent and fight that power. Think about your marriage. Now try to imagine feeling that the marriages of gay people you never met somehow affect yours, never mind undermine it. Hard to do, right?

      You want to laugh, but none of this is funny. The Department of Homeland Security called white supremacism will be "most persistent and lethal threat" facing the United States over the coming year when it comes to terrorism. Donald Trump can't even pretend to condemn it. He won't acknowledge the danger that white nationalism poses, never mind do something about it. Only we can.

Debate all crosstalk and confusion

     "Maybe 'debate' is not the word to use to describe tonight’s event," Princeton historian and CNN commentator Julian Zelizer tweeted a few hours before the brawl between President Donald Trump and former Vice President Joe Biden on Tuesday. 

     Prescient. Although you didn't have to be Nostradamus to see that coming.
     Though "debate" might be the word for it. The first definition of "debate" in my Oxford English Dictionary is "To fight, contend, strive, quarrel, wrangle." 

     Sounds about right. The news networks certainly kept their questionable policy of treating the event like a boxing match.
     "A pretty well-matched fight," said CNN's Abby Phillip, ahead of time, introducing what she called "a slugfest."
     Though I wrote a column Tuesday morning, the paper asked if we could hold that so I could react to the debate. I was happy to be in the mix, but in doing so I had to whip together the following almost immediately. So if you're interested in what a column looks like written in 15 minutes, this is your chance. 

     In doing so, I saw how the national media tends to layer a kind of unfair balance over such situations. It's the default mode. The truth was that Trump's lying, bullying manner upended the civility required for real debate, and made it the stressful, unpleasant embarrassment it was.  But that takes five minutes' reflection, at least for me. The pros in immediacy were better at instantly nailing it.

    "That was a shit show," said CNN's Dana Bash, live on TV, and to illustrate just how true that assessment is, nobody seems shocked to hear her say it on air. Yes, yes it was. 

     I didn't quite come out and say that—I was too busy trying to get the words down in some kind of coherent order. I hope it comes through. Yes, good that Joe Biden stood up for democracy and handled himself admirably. Yet the affair leaves any thoughtful person not glad, but sad, and deeply concerned for our country. With two more shitshows left.

      “This is not going to end well,” President Donald Trump said toward the end of Tuesday night’s debate — or should that be “debate,” since it was more of an exercise in crosstalk and confusion, the first of three.
     He was referring to the election he insists will be “a disaster” with “30, 40%” of the mail-in ballots lost.
     But after 90 minutes of his free-for-all with former Vice President Joe Biden, Trump might be talking about the American experiment itself. It’s hard to have watched the mud wrestle in Cleveland and not come away with a certain despair for our country, based on the low state of anything resembling discussion of the issues.
     I suppose I should point to parts as significant.
     Once again, Trump was pressed to condemn white supremacy. And again, he did the opposite, telling violent groups such as the Proud Boys to “stand back and stand by.”
     Stand by for what, he didn’t say. Dog-whistled orders, perhaps.

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"A wild roller coaster ride through a dark tunnel"

 

     When I wrote last week, in a follow-up to my Sept. 8 Cologuard column, that the danger of follow-ups is there can be no end to them, I wasn't kidding. I thought I was done. I wanted to be done. And then I received this email from Timothy Hufman of Willowbrook. Tell me, what would YOU do? I really have no choice here:

Dear Mr. Steinberg:

     I have been reading your articles on Cologuard. I appreciate your mixture of humor and helpful information. Yesterday, you pointed out the pros and cons of using Cologuard as compared to getting a colonoscopy. One of the risks you mentioned with a colonoscopy was that its effectiveness depended greatly on the doctor who did the procedure. You pointed out that “Some doctors look harder than others. Some spend three minutes snooping around your colon. Others spend up to 14. The harder they look, the more they find.”
     I have come up with a technique to insure that my doctor does a complete examination – I join him (or her) in the examination. In essence, I have had a colonoscopy without taking any anesthesia. This allowed me to remain awake and alert during the whole examination looking at the same monitor the doctor was watching as he traveled through my colon.
      The experience was not painful as the colon has no nerve endings. “Meaningful discomfort” may be a more accurate description of the event. Most problematic was the initial insertion of the scope. All of a sudden, I got that “full” feeling similar to what one experiences seven hours after a huge meal when you are desperately looking for a bathroom. Thereafter, I was happily able to watch the show on the monitor from the comfort of my gurney with only mild cramping as air was blown into my intestine to inflate it for easy passage of the scope.
     Significantly, the procedure does not include an examination of the colon while “going in.” Thus, the scope quickly moved up my intestine with a view on the monitor similar to a wild roller coaster ride through a dark tunnel with only one small headlight illuminating the way.
     It was fascinating watching the scope make the hair-pin turns following my large intestine as it wound through my bowel cavity. Along the way, we came to one real sharp bend which the scope had a hard time maneuvering . As the doctor continued to struggle with getting the scope around the curve, I looked down at my abdomen, where the scope was stuck, to see my skin go up and down as if there was a finger in my bowel trying to push out.
     Finally, the scope reached the ileocecal valve which separates the small from the large intestine. At that point, the doctor began the examination by slowly retracting the scope as the camera, with its miniature light, illuminated the portion of my intestine that we were just leaving. At one point in our journey, I saw a dark spot on the colon wall. I cried out, “Wait, wait, what was that we just passed?” The doctor sighed and dutifully retraced his steps up the intestine to the dark area of my concern. It turned out to be a bran flake or some other debris that had apparently clung to the intestine wall during the preparation period when I flushed out my system. Having satisfied my concern, the doctor continued the journey.
     “Slow down” I said, when he began going too fast for me to carefully see the area we were passing through. Again, there was that sigh as he slowed down the retraction of the scope. Thereafter, aside from a few other pieces of partially digested food that we passed by, the rest of the trip was uneventful.
     Finally, at the end of the inspection, just before removing the scope, the doctor bent the camera around so that I could look at my hemorrhoids as they appeared from the inside. I think the doctor took a little pleasure in seeing my look of horror at what I was observing.
     With that, my journey was over. Although I was still cramping a little from all of the air still inflating my intestine, I was relaxed knowing that the examination of my colon had been thorough.

Yours,

Timothy Hufman

Biden isn’t Bernie, but he’s good enough

 

     Friday I worked downtown, and ate lunch in Washington Square Park. It was a lovely day, and I lingered, just watching people walk by, glad to be in the city. Eventually I got up, and crossed Walton to spend the afternoon at the Newberry Library. Just as I crossed the street, this van drove up and parked, directly in front of the library.

     As I often say, it's better to be lucky than good.
     I snapped a photo, and almost turned to go. But I had to know: GOP stealth mockery based on ambivalence about Biden? Or sincere Democratic effort? I'd have bet on the former. The graphics were too slick for Democrats.
     "Sort of a Jews for Jesus thing?" I asked the driver, meaning, a wolf in sheep's clothing, trying to disguise itself as its prey. We talked at length. But even after I interviewed him, and then Sam Weinberg, the founder of "Settle for Biden," that qualm still lingered—this might be some elaborate scam, and I was falling for it. But I decided nobody is that good an actor, and you have to go with your gut.

     Sam Weinberg had to do something.
     He had returned last spring after 18 months abroad and found himself in the teeth of a pandemic. Instead of getting ready for his freshman year at college, the Chicago teen was watching disaster tighten its grip on our nation.
     Meanwhile, his friends looked at the upcoming presidential election and shrugged. What does it matter who wins?
     “I was seeing lots of people in my personal social circles and online saying things like, ‘Joe Biden and Donald Trump are two sides of the same coin,’” said Weinberg, 19. “That really incensed me on a personal level and on a policy level.”
     Rather than despair, Weinberg acted, using his generation’s irreverent view as a starting point, calling the group he started “Settle for Biden.”
     “The name is reflective about begrudging support,” Weinberg said. “Yeah, he’s not our first choice. But he’s our only choice, and we have to live with him. Joe Biden is not the progressive ideal. But he’s a step in the right direction.”
     Chris Madden also had to do something.
     The Minnesota teacher heard about Settle for Biden and took a dramatic step. He bought a 2020 Ford van and spent $5,000 to wrap it in a mural touting the organization. Then he began to drive across the country.
     He arrived in Chicago Friday.

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The world isn't really dying

Photos by Tony Galati

     "Got to the cabin yesterday," faithful reader Tony Galati writes. "The leaves started without me this year."
     Nature will do that. One of her sterner yet more valuable lessons is that the world chugs on whether we are there or not, whether we like it or not. Always has; always will.

     The vast majority of it anyway. We all have our little corners that we decorate or ruin, then mistake for the whole thing, a bit of unconscious synecdoche that no doubt is essential. We'd be overwhelmed if we pulled back too far too often and understand just what a dust mote we are traveling for a split in second in the vast twirling icy eternity of everything.
     Still, when things go south, as they do, and our minute slice of space and time curdles, as it has, that exercise can be curative. To divert our gaze away from our precious selves toward the beauty of the parts we aren't part of, the things we haven't screwed up yet. Pull back, look around, notice the forest from the trees, the leaves and not our footprints through them.
     Between the election and the pandemic and the economic calamity and the racial reckoning, I've heard the phrase "the world is coming to an end" more than once, and might have even used it once or twice myself. But the world is more certainly not coming to an end. Our little part of it, perhaps, though not yet and not without a fight. In the meantime, it's autumn.

Lake Superior

Texas Notes: Socked feet over shag rugs

 

     EGD Austin bureau chief Caren Jeskey weighs in with her weekly update.

     Eight-point-one miles into a recent walk I started to hear a voice in my head. 

      “What is the meaning of your life? Why are you here?” 

      I am not sure why my mind went there on this particular day. How many of us have asked ourselves that question? If we have not, perhaps we are on the right path and have always been. Perhaps our calling came at a young age and we had the good fortune and drive to follow it. There have been times in my life I have been sure about my direction and did not question it, but these days I am full of questions. I want to be sure I am living my best life based on my true gifts and desires, and not based on what I think I should be doing, or what I feel falsely limited by.
     As a child, I figured my purpose was to have lots of fun: ride bikes, climb trees, and explore the underground sewers with flashlights during construction projects. I knew I was supposed to pitch in at home and bask in the love and attention of my family, extended family, and friends. I was supposed to show up at school on time and participate in learning, then have lots of fun and get into mischief during recess, lunch and after school, (and sometimes during school in the form of copious note passing). I was told I was smart, but I was not a disciplined student unless I loved the teacher and the topic interested me. While in class I often dreamed of swinging from the weeping willow branches outside, or skating on the iced over field outside of school at Rogers Park— where, sadly, many trees have been uprooted by a recent tornado in Armageddon 2020.
     In my daydreams I wondered whose house we were going to go to for lunch, or how much money I’d dig out of my pockets for a visit to Eastern Style Pizza on Touhy, the buttery crust dripping with grease calling my name like the pied piper. I kind of paid attention too, and was granted a space in the coveted philosophy class in 5th grade where we sat in a circle and contemplated our usefulness in the world. 

     Perhaps this planted the seed for me to realize that there is a purpose for me, and this may have been around the same time I started making a conscious effort to include everyone as much as possible. (Mom, Dad, is this true?) I’d sit next to the shunned kids in class, knowing it was the right thing to do. My heart always went out to the disenfranchised among us, and I felt it was my duty to help them feel welcomed.
     I’ve always had a problem with cliques that exclude others. I have to admit I was in one or two over the years, I suppose when I let my guard down and aimed for my own inclusion above all else. Honestly, I was happier hanging out with the smart, quieter kids and had a lot more fun with them. Being with the popular girls was stressful. They were more competitive and less present. They could not spend hours dragging socked feet over shag rugs and shocking each other, falling to the floor in hysterics. They were more concerned about hair and makeup and boys. I’d try to fit in but often felt like an outsider when doing so. There were some good memories, but my core group of two other girls and me playing with Barbies until we were “too old,” and sleeping three to a twin bed was more than fine with me. I wish I’d lived in that state of innocence for a lot longer than I did…
     Today it seems my purpose is simple; keep getting my chops up as a therapist via hours of Zoom classes and FaceTimes with mentors each month, staying as balanced as I can in order to show up for work and cope with pandemic stress, and get more clear about who I am and what I want. A quote attributed to Helen Mirren has been circulating around social media lately— her only regret at the age of 70 is not having told more people to fuck off. I’ve been finding ways to do this without those harsh words, by simply speaking my truth and setting clear and firm boundaries when necessary. It’s fun.
     After some COVID slumps and periods of intense anxiety, I’ve been in a good mood lately. I attribute it to radical self-care, nightly meditation to clear my thoughts and re-set, long walks and bike rides. A surprisingly lovely pandemic birthday a few days back— albeit far away from family and lifelong friends— also helped. For the third time in this blog I now have to mention my new favorite icon (among my old stand-bys: Jane Addams, Frances “Sissy” Farhenthold, Emma Goldman, and Snezana Zabic): Elisabet Ney. Two friends and I were granted a very special guided tour of her castle museum house on my birthday. We learned that the marble cherub boys signify how the combination of knowledge and an open heart (or for the religious, a connection to their god) leads to personal elevation and a sense of moving upwards on the journey of life. This resonates with me. Life feels so short now and something is telling me to keep things simple and as light as possible. It’s impossible to tune out the noise and haste of the world, and the dire nature of our country right now. If I can keep my head to the sky perhaps I will survive and help others do the same.