one year ago

 I kind of want to avoid politics because it is um, divisive, and time has come to a dead stop on our Einstein discussion, well not really a dead stop because of course time has no speed.  If it had speed then it could have negative speed and we could go back in time, which we all know that we cannot without some wormhole legerdemain.

But in the universe of The Institute we can go back in time and I went back to the middle of September way back in 2020.  Back then Illinois was past its first covid peak, and was just in the foothills of the great peak of that winter.  Right now we are in a slight decline, but winter is dead ahead, but most people are vaccinated, but we now have the delta, so it's unsure what the path will be.

I am wearing a mask inside everywhere.  I don it before I leave my condo, pull it down when I hit that refreshing outdoor air, and pull it back up when I enter Walgreens or Target.  The Ten Cat is open so there is that.  I wear the mask mostly out of courtesy, but also of course it is the law.  But I don't have much fear because I have the vaccine and no really bad condition.  Actually Chicago is doing pretty good, it is the southern tip where they have run out of hospitals, where the expansion is going on.

September a year ago we were talking about the police, Kyle Rittenhouse, and BLM.  The city of Chicago has just inked a contract with the police giving them what seems like a pretty fat slab of money, with reforms apparently going into arbitration.  Kyle Rittenhouse seems to be firmly in the embrace of some Proud Boys organization and his trial date appears to be in the mist.  BLM seems to also be in the mist also.  Well I was never crazy about the way they were organized, it was way too easy for some hothead to mouth off and everybody in the organization had to go along with it.

Right now we are a day away from another siege of Washington, which even red hot Trumpists are avoiding, and the vax mandate seems to be gaining steam, which is a good thing.  Trump looks to be fading just a bit, but if you look at it from another angle you can't be so sure.

And next week  Marina City will have its first ever open mic.  We have seven entertainers and I will be one and I will be reading the following humor piece:

You know I’m not complaining.  The world is the way it is and there’s nothing to be done about it. I’ve accepted that a long time ago and I don’t let trifles ruffle the clear composure of my state of mind, the smooth sailing of my ship of state. 

Simple pleasures really, that’s what it’s all about, like a nice bowl of hot soup on a cold winter afternoon.  Campbell’s Chunky Vegetable is a good enough soup, but it’s a little bland. However if you cut up some Brussels sprouts and stir them in, it perks it right up.  A bowl of perky soup followed by a short nap with the cat on my lap is just the thing for a grey winter’s day.  That doesn’t seem like too much to ask of the world.

But apparently it was too much to ask of the Jewel.  I entered with a smile, already anticipating the warm fullness in my belly, the cat in my lap, the long snooze, and maybe a little Judge Judy afterwards.  A dreamy afternoon which evaporated upon my discovery that within the entire produce section there was not a Brussels sprout to be found. 

My soup would now be noticeably perkless, the warm fullness in my belly incomplete.  I would not be able to really relax into my easy chair, the cat would feel my restlessness and abandon me for that warm spot in the corner next to the register, without the comfort of the cat, sleep would not come, without sleep I would be irritable, unable to snort along with Judy’s witticisms, wishing that she could send all the miscreants before her straight to the electric chair.

But so be it then.  This is, as we often tell ourselves, a free country.  If the store chose not to stock the sprout, as misguided as that decision might be, no doubt the decision of some hot shot corporate types, sneering in their thousand dollar suits, deeming the sprout not the sort of vegetable that they chose to occupy even one lousy little bin in their fancy shmancy gleaming neon produce department, well then is that not their right?

But perhaps we should consider the farmer, the humble man of the soil who tills the sprouts, who is out there rain or shine, dusk till dawn, who raises them from green shoots to galaxies of succulent orbs shining in the dark night with cabbage goodness.  His lined face, which has surely known many hardships, creases into a smile as he thinks of them resting, steaming hot, on the supper plates across the great land of America.

Well not all of America.  Not that part of America served by this particular store.  Seems kind of a shame doesn’t it, that a vegetable, raised with such dedication should be denied to those who appreciate it, not only for its sophisticated taste, but for the creases and  the dedication.  Oh sure among some circles it is considered fashionable to mock these concepts, to consider them old-hat and not relevant to today’s anything-goes society.

And maybe they’re right, but maybe what they need a good swift kick in the pants. 

Not that a person like myself, steering across life’s great ocean with a steady hand on the keel would do anything so extreme, but as my cans of chunky soup were being rung up I thought perhaps a little comment would be in order. 

“I notice that there aren’t any Brussels sprouts,” I said, casually, offhandedly, as if I were saying it looked like rain.

All I got was a shrug, and not much of a one at that.  I tell you, it made me a little angry.

But I didn’t show it.  I just spoke a little louder, a little more directly.  “Big store like this, don’t you think it would carry Brussels sprouts?”

She gave me the smallest of smiles, the smallest of nods as if I had been commenting on the weather, and began ringing up the next customer.

Certainly a swift kick in the keister would have been justified at this point. Who would blame me?

But I kept my calm.  I strolled on over to Customer Service cool as a cucumber.

“Big store like this,” I said.  “You would think it would have Brussels sprouts.”

“Brussels sprouts?” she replied, screwing up her little face.

Oh I know Brussels sprouts are not what you would call a first tier vegetable.  They are not your broccoli or your green beans or your stupid cauliflower.  They are a little exotic, suitable for a refined palate such as mine, not for a spoiled little brat such as this girl with all those food-dye colors in her hair and rhinestones crusting her fingernails.  Dollars to doughnuts when her permissive parents set a plate of savory exotic vegetables in front of her she went into a little pout and they got upset and told her to run along and watch her MTV where the characters on Real Life were popping skittles.

“Yes, Brussels sprouts.  I would like to know why a great big shiny store like this, all the latest whatever, big produce center,  cannot find room in its vastness for Brussels sprouts” 

I can sense that she is looking at me the way she looks at her parents when they fumble with the DVD machine and she is wondering how long before she can put them in the home so that she will only have to visit them once a week. 

“Never mind,” I say and turn on my heel.  I don’t look back to see them rolling their eyes and pointing at me behind their palms.

So then I am back in the vegetable section.  I will go to the source, the hands-on guy, the guy who makes the vegetable decisions, and I will brook no nonsense.

It’s not this guy with the ring in his nose stacking corn, probably dates the little floozy in Customer Service, slides his arm over her shoulder as they watch some dumb teen comedy and yuk it up when the brats lip their elders, but he probably knows who The Big Cauliflower is.

Big Cauliflower, a good one.  That’s who I should ask for, show that under my white mane I am still a hip and with it guy.

“The big cauliflower?” the guy asks after I tap him on the shoulder.  “Oh you must mean Ed, we call him the jolly green giant.”  Damn why didn’t I think of that.  “Over there, buy the oranges.”

I stop to calm myself, and then I gather up a full head of steam and head for the oranges.  Damn, the big vegetable guy turns out to be a big guy, and cranky too, look at the way he slams around those oranges.  I lose a little bit of steam as he turns to scowl at me.

“Brussels sprouts,” I begin with an embarrassing squeak.

“Over there,” he jerks his head and resumes bruising the helpless oranges.

And there they are, right over by the Customer Service girl’s boyfriend.  But you know that’s not where they should be.  They should be with the broccoli and the stupid cauliflower, their cabbage kin.  I should say something, but probably not to Ed. Maybe to the young guy, and then I could add, “And by the way, your girlfriend is a slut.”

No, that’s no way to be.  That’s not the way a good citizen should act.  I will just shake my head sadly at the way the world is going to hell as I bag my sprouts.

And you know there’s another thing I notice as I tear off my plastic bag, which doesn’t tear neatly, they never do, but nevermind.  The little cup that should hold the ties is empty.  Well you know I understand that The Jolly Green Giant’s realm is a busy place, a lot of things to attend to and there will be times when the last tie is taken, and it may be awhile before they can be replaced.

But you know the cup over by the oranges is full.  And this is often the case, more often than if it were by mere coincidence.  Oh I suppose the fruit section attracts a trendier crowd, young kids for the ring-nosed and rhinestone-fingered employees to flirt with and discuss the latest on MTV with.  Busy busy people you know, and it’s a long way for them to walk, clear over to the vegetable section to get their ties, better for the less trendy, older, vegetable crowd like me who have worked hard all their lives rather than spent most of it lounging on their permissive parents’ couches popping skittles and lip-synching inane pop songs to make the trek.

Just the way the world is.  I’m not complaining.