FEBRUARY 15, 2021



So anyway. This is the time of my sucky valentine. Live 105 had a weekend of dismal downs regarding the heart. In the time of COVID those that were single as of last March stayed that way with no chances. Those who had been hitched at the time soon drove each other crazy in their Quarantin-o-pods and seperated or else stayed married with hobbies until it was the kids staying home from school that drove them all crazy.

Dodd would have liked to have quarantined away from Mr. Howitzer, who continued to act like Mr. Howitzer, but only worse so. Dodd was ruled an Essential Worker -- by the Greatly Orotund People (GOP) faction of the Island -- and so had to perform manservant duties at the Superspreader events hosted by Mr. Howitzer in his mansion. Mr. Howitzer did not call his soirees and Unmasked Balls Superspreader events but that is what they became as one after another the hoity toity of the Island contracted the disease. Mrs. Blather lost thirty pounds she definitely could afford to lose, however the deflated skin hung down in flaps, making her look like a creature from a Star Wars movie planet.

Mr. Cribbage hacked and upchucked and cursed the government along with Mr. Burberry, Mr. and Mrs. Pescatore, Ms. Pandora Thighripple, and all the partners of Dewy, Cheathem, and Howe. They had always cursed the government, or the IRS when Conservatives were in power, but never so accompanied with denigrations of liberal conspiracies that involved cooking babies in big vats of boiling blood, and the near certain hope that the prophecies of Q would realize themselves in a grand coup and roundup of all those nasty Liberals cooking this myth about a virus and the need for wearing masks. Even as each and every one filled their toilets with stuff more nasty than Liberal agenda.

"Masie! My bucket behind!" shouted Mr. Blunt.

"Mind if i open the window, Mr. Blunt? It is rather fetid in here," Maisie said. "And it will clear out the viruses."

"There is no virus!" Mr. Blunt shouted as he rolfed and shat, alternatively. "It is a Liberal agenda to take away our rights!"

"Mr. Blunt the Oximeter says your O2 saturation is dropping below 89%. I am going to have to take you over to the hospital to be intubated." Maisie was an experienced RN.

"What in the name of Richard Nixon does that mean?"

"It means you are going to have tubes shoved up your nose and you will be heavily sedated and in addition, you shall not talk so much," Maisie said.

"I say! I say! Q was right! It is all a Liberal Conspiracy! Silence me? Not so much!"

In the meantime, Maisie called for transport of Mr. Blunt, who, although being an asshole, was nevertheless a life under her charge. "Mr. Blunt, you are going now. They are here to take you away."

So anyway some more. Denby imagined he was home free this year from the curse of My Sucky Valentine. All the movie theatres and bars were closed. The Quirkyalones were holding meetings via Zoom. Wierd online cam sites were holding virtual sex sessions between consenting adults -- for a fee, always for a fee -- and there was always the risky bet of San Pablo Avenue where the world's oldest trade continues unabated in the slightest despite this plague. If your life is that desperate and without rules, then your life shall continue so.

So what does Denby do but go out, secure in the assurance that nothing can happen. He gathers his fishing gear and goes out to Bon Tempe lake to fish for bass, having secured a supply of bloodworms. Unfortunately, this is still a time of drought and the lake is far receded with no flowing inlets. The shores are swampy and many areas choked with algae. Not much action was happening close to shore and all the intakes were near dry.

Denby waded out and his Wellies got stuck in what turned out to be quicksand. Quicksand is one of those problems that does not let go of you easily, and you do not come out of that situation bright and sparkling. After some hours Denby dragged himself on shore without his pants or his boots but he did manage to retain his fly rod. For a while he lay gasping on the mucky shore before getting up to stumble back to the parkinglot without his pants or shoes. Another Valentines Day demolished into smithereens.

Meanwhile, in other parts of the Bay Area folks were celebrating Valentine's Day with various degrees of frustration and contentment. On a park bench a disconsolate, naked, fat boy with drooping wings sat with his martial weapons as Melisandre, Marin's one and only live unicorn tried to console him with nuzzles. What was Eros supposed to DO with this quarantine lockdown business? All the Quirkyalones were jubilating in their solitude and their zoom chats. There remained only the large numbers of the Maskless and the Witless who were as deserving of Love as a collection of hyenas on the savannah chasing the ephemeral flag of Q-Anon outside the gates of Dante's Dis.

In the Hospital where Denby worked, there was a corridor with rooms and doorways off to the left. To the right the big meeting rooms yawned in their COVID abandonment. Out of the doorway of one room a blue light spilled, flickering and shimmering with an ultraviolet hum. As Denby passed he would look in to see nurse Maria sitting there with her dog and all the lights turned off, her face illuminated by the computer screen. A little further down a reddish light coated the hall with warmth. There sat Shavia with her dreadlocks and her brown eyes. Turn a corner and a white glow emerged from a room where Amanda sat in silence, no lamp causing this strange effect but simply the purity of the heart of a nurse.

This, thought the Editor as he drew the curtain, is the real fount of Love.

"Look mommy! That man has no pants!" said a child in the parkinglot of Bon Tempe Lake.

A park ranger collared Denby. "Nice hat," said the ranger. "Come along now." Love would have nothing to do with the likes of Denby on this day.