UNDER COVID, PT. 11: DAYS OF DAZE

The ventriloquist act Democrats are praying for.

If you're wondering how a pandemic can help the fortunes of one man, consider this. In 
September 2018, I wrote a piece that predicted that if Joe Biden won the presidential nomination, he might very well pick Gov. Andrew Cuomo as his running mate. 

When I made the same prediction in the comments sections of various sites, readers said I was mistaken. Cuomo added nothing to the ticket, they assured me, seeing that both were from the Northeast. 

Well, brother, it's time to book me on Anderson Cooper 360. There's now a movement underway to get America's favorite daytime TV star on the ticket. And why not? While Biden gives the occasional gaffe-ridden streaming appearance from his bunker basement, Cuomo's daily briefings present a calm, measured, confident leader giving the facts straight and strong. The times meet the man!

Unfortunately, Biden has already promised to name a woman, any woman, as his running mate, so Andrew has to wait another four or eight years. By then, he'll be 70. Mayor Pete will be, what, 39? Sorry, Joe, you've aged out of the job!

At this point, it makes no difference.

Speculating about future presidents is about all I can do these days to keep the mind distracted from reality. Living under semi-quarantine messes with my perception of time, too. When Wednesday comes around, I'm either a day ahead or behind in my head. Mornings speed by, to the point where I'm always stunned when it's lunch time. Mid-afternoon drags, until I look at the clock and realize it's time to start dinner. 

At night, sleep is more like an escape. It's been less fitful lately, but often with vivid dreams that involve being trapped in a room or trying to find my way to an exit or a vehicle to get me somewhere. Shee-it, I even dream in cliches. 

Power to the people of the Upper East Side!

I face the windows to see a beautiful spring day ahead, just right for a long bike ride. But since this is the beginning of what the Surgeon General has essentially declared National Hell Week, Sue and I will have to settle for a swift stroll at lunchtime before returning to the safety of home.

We timed it right, then, by going to the park on Saturday dressed in our finest semi-protective makeshift face coverings like a couple of senior leftist activists. You've heard of ANTIFA? Well, meet ANTIQUA!

I've been walking up and down our co-op stairs several times at a shot, too, as well as doing arm exercises with a couple of dumbbells. But enough about the hosts of Fox and Friends. (As you can see, my wit is undiminished.) 

As they say in Latin, Mortem sine herba fullonum.

And if washing my hands were an Olympic sport, I'd win the gold medal. I'm at the point I start scrubbing away if I even consider going outside. I always keep a careful eye on the bathroom clock ticking off the required 20 seconds. 

I picture it as a black and white movie, cutting back and forth from clock to hands dramatically, with a Bernard Herrmann score creating a feeling of dread. That always makes me feel better.

Now you tell me!

The wi-fi kiosks that dot the city have gotten into the prevention game, too. COVID-19 advice appears in between bus schedules, bits of local trivia, and quotes from famous writers regarding the greatness of New York City (pre-1950, mainly). Considering that these kiosks have a rather sketchy history, it's ironic that you can catch more than a coronavirus from these things if you get too close to them. 

To me, it looks like the rules of health
mean drinking yourself into oblivion
in the middle of the day.

The Works Progress Administration under Pres. Roosevelt did a way better job of putting out the word regarding health and safety by giving professional artists free reign to design eye-catching posters. That was when artists didn't mind being on the government payroll (which, you have to admit, looks pretty good now).

My advice to New York artists looking to make a name for themselves: Google "WPA Posters" for inspiration, and start plastering the city with art-deco masterpieces like the one on the left. You'll be doing your fellow New Yorkers a solid. And better yet, you can sell the originals for six figures at your next showing in the Village -- which is really what art is all about.

Or we can continue to let talking drones make us feel  like we're living in a science-fiction movie, as New Yorkers learned over the weekend:

Cue the Bernard Herrmann score!

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