Love in the Time of Corona: Update Three

The author, getting dressed for the quarantine

Starting to lose track of the days now, as this "vacation" goes on and on....

Today I woke up with the desire to look "cute" in the face of this scary, oppressive presence called Covid 19.  (Author's Note:  At age 56.3, I'm not naive:  My notion of the word "cute" is super-specific at this point in my life.)  I'm tired of lazing around in pajamas or sweats -- my sons are unabashedly running around in just their underwear all day, like some high-tech, indoor version of "Lord of the Flies."

I had that Johnny Deppian urge to accessorize -- to break out the Rasta pooka shell necklace and multi-colored rubber bracelets, and to actually wear pants that require a BELT.  (Gasp!)  I'm tempted to re-perforate my earlobe and put in an earring, even though I know my lovely bride will object as she does every time I get this impulse.

Is this what Cabin Fever looks like?  A game of dress-up?  How many more days till I'm trying to jam my feet into my wife's size-7 pumps?

God help us all if this gets to that point.

God help us all....

Love in the Time of Corona: Update Two

Our government is currently arguing over three proposals that will put checks in the mail to help Americans through this health crisis, which has quickly become a major economic crisis, as well.  While every little bit will be appreciated, I can't help but picture Mitch McConnell or Chuck Schumer or whoever, trying to decide between a thimble or a shot glass full of water to throw at this raging house fire called Covid 19.  (If I were a political cartoonist, this is what I'd draw.)

Probably the most shocking new "development" I learned about yesterday (and I'm hesitant to use that word, because things are changing so quickly) came when I learned of thousands of Spring Breakers who are crowding some of the beaches in Florida.

There are a variety of ways to feel about this.  My initial, gut-level reaction was something along the lines of "What the fuck is wrong with you people?"  (A reaction I'm sure is NOT in short supply.)  Later, a friend on Facebook railed at the parents for allowing their children to go, despite the warnings we're hearing all day, every day, from world health officials.  I have yet to hear an interview with one of these parents, defending that decision, though I'm certain these are the same "very stable geniuses" decrying the call for social distancing as an attack on their civil liberties, using in the "disguise of caring about our safety."  (I read those words on Facebook.)  I was never a Spring Breaker myself, so I'm not quite sure how it works.  I'd assume that in most cases the weeklong debauchery is at least partially bankrolled by Mommy and Daddy.  And when it's not -- when Junior has saved enough for the most elfin' awesome of awesomest weeks ever -- isn't it the parents' job to help that young person to understand their duty during this, the strangest of times?

(I certainly would...)

If anyone reading this made the decision to allow your offspring to partake this year, I'd be interested to hear your thinking.

A Load of Hooey by Bob Odenkirk
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

In choosing this (audio)book, I purposely looked for something light, as my last two books were "The Underground Railroad" by Colson Whitehead and "Night" by Elie Wiesel, a novel about American Slavery and a memoir about the Holocaust, respectively.

So I needed something light and airy, and this was perfect. Makes a really good audiobook, too, with the voices of Odenkirk, David Cross, Paul F. Tompkins, and others. It reminded me of an early book by Woody Allen that was on my parents' shelves in my childhood home, "Without Feathers." Lots of funny ideas, played out to absurdist dimensions. My favorite was one called "Obit for the Creator of Mad Libs."

Enjoy!

“OBIT FOR THE CREATOR OF MAD LIBS On Tuesday, in Canton, Connecticut, a town famous for the stickiness of its boogers, a stinky old man died of a good disease at his home at 345 Rotten Lane. Mr. Preston Wirtz, whose parents, Ida and Goober, ran a small jelly farm, died in his yellowish toilet. Mr. Wirtz was hated in Uzbekistan for the series of wordplay books he created for slippery children, books known far and wide as “Mad Libs,” beloved by hairy grumps and farty grampas alike. These books were never appreciated by tall elves, selling over two per year for one decade. When asked to describe Mr. Wirtz, his jealous wife, wearing nothing but an egg carton and flip-flops, called him “in a nutshell, the most sour-smelling, bacon-licking, pimple-footed crab-apple I have ever known. I will never always miss him and his broken underwear.” Then she cried herself to sleep in her fart-house.”


― Bob Odenkirk, A Load of Hooey


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Love in the Time of Corona: Update 1

Dear Friends and Family:

An update on the Reyes-Fuchs household.  Dateline:  Austin, Texas...

We're currently on Day Four of what we once referred to as our Spring Break, a week-long, much-needed respite from school and work, that has now been extended through the end of the month of March.  I'm skeptical as to whether or not we'll return at all, as the governor has waived state requirements for standardized testing for the remainder of the school year.  As administrators, we'll need to decide how school will happen in the absence of the actual "schoolhouse."

(This will illuminate the haves and have-nots of our population, as there are, believe it or not, still those among us who do not, or cannot, access the internet.)

On a more personal note, our family is in good spirits, as we feel the "social distance" growing between ourselves and the rest of the world.  My 14 year old, Jackson, maintains his social connections through his Playstation 4, where friends and cousins chatter into his gaming headphones deep into our Central Texas nights.  They create basketball-star avatar versions of themselves on NBA 2K, talking trash, and, I imagine, spreading misinformation on the coronavirus, faster than the virus itself.

The reality of our situation hit our older son, Diego, 16, yesterday when he and I pulled up in front of the Jungle Movement Academy, where he's been doing an internship to eventually become a fitness coach, and saw the handprinted sign on the door:  "CLOSED due to Coronavirus."  (They later called  to reassure him the closure was mandatory, and not due to any cases directly connected to the gym.)  So now Diego, who has become quite dependent on physical movement (which I love, by the way) is watching a lot of anime, drawing in his sketchbook, and stopping from time to time to do some stretching or push-ups.

Jeanette monitors the news on her phone, sharing reports with me as they come in.  Her yoga studio in Austin closed its doors days ago, and I know this affects her, as she has confided in me how much her yoga practice has come to mean to her.  I can feel her doing her best to put on a happy face -- she jokes with the boys, making them smile and laugh with her silly persona.  She also keeps us happy by cooking amazing food, like the chili con carne she prepared last night, along with some home-baked cupcakes.

As for me, I'm doing my best to be strong and to stay positive, amidst my fears, which I keep to myself, regarding the potential collapse of the grid.  I wonder about what would happen if this crisis resulted in the lights going out.  I wonder, too, if maybe I shouldn't have watched so much "Walking Dead"...

Last night I convened an online meeting of the writing group I've been a part of for the past five years, thanks to Google Hangouts.  Our usual meeting space, the Brentwood Social House on William Koenig and Arroyo Seco, notified us via email that they were shutting their doors a few days ago.  Being able to meet with my writer buddies felt important in the face of this.

And of course I check my Facebook account almost obsessively, in order to see how the rest of the world is faring.

The one thing I notice the four of us here in Casa Reyes-Fuchs all share is an obvious dependence on technology.  As long as we've got that, we'll maintain our sanity.

As long as the grid holds up....

Night by Elie Wiesel
My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I'm not sure how one "critiques" or even "reviews" this work. Words I normally try to avoid as a writer come screaming to the fore: "devastating," "heart-wrenching," and the like. I think it defies being written about because, in its brevity, it says all that needs to be said. The only "review" I can give is to read it yourself. Read the truth, and know that it can happen again, because it HAS happened again -- in Cambodia, in Rwanda, and elsewhere.

My personal connection to Wiesel is obvious. My father was born the same year, in 1928. Had his life been only slightly different, he could have been there at Auschwitz and Buchenwald, alongside Wiesel. I can't read this without picturing that.

I thank Wiesel for telling the story that needs to continue to be told, and I'll try to heed his words: "There may be times when we are powerless to prevent injustice, but there must never be a time when we fail to protest."


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Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner

Leaving the Atocha Station by Ben Lerner
My rating: 3 of 5 stars

Mine was a very personal reaction to Lerner's book, as one of the "white Americans" he references who could easily work illegally in Madrid teaching English. I had my time there long before he did (I'm assuming this is an autobiographical novel); like Adam, Lerner's protagonist, I was an aspiring young writer who, deep down, doubted himself and had a good deal of difficulty living in the moment.

I applaud Lerner for how much he captures in Leaving the Atocha Station -- the particular sights, smells, and sounds that make up the capital. Although I lived there in the late 1980's, not too far removed from the days of Franco, I returned with my wife and two young sons for a brief visit in 2010, six years after the story of the novel takes place, and I can't say that the city has changed all that much in the ensuing years.

Learner's Adam is not the most likable hero. He's self-absorbed and just plain selfish through much of the book. In the end, however, I understood him. Probably because I saw so much of myself as a young man in him.


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Remembering My "Moongotcha" Uncle Geoffrey Fuchs

With Rheita and Geoffrey Fuchs in Ontario, Canada, summer of 1991

I received word from my dear cousin, Laura Lubin, that her father, my uncle Geoffrey "Jeff" Fuchs, had died on Friday evening, February 21, at the age of 94.  "It was peaceful and fast.  No struggling," she shared. 

This post is my remembrance of him.

My uncle, Geoffrey "Jeff" Fuchs and I have always had a special connection.  It's not like we spent much time together; my father, his kid brother Hanno, was a "homebody," so the rest of us in his nuclear family were, too.  

But when we did see each other, mostly on holidays or special occasions, (we were in New York, and Jeff's family made their home in Massachusetts) he and I always made a point to catch up with each other, usually by way of our special inside joke.  When I was a boy, he would take me over to a window, lean down or crouch behind me and say, "Hey Danny, look up there.  Do you see that?"

"See what?" I'd ask, playing along, beginning to giggle and brace myself.

"Right up there.  The moon."

Then he'd poke at my ribs and grab hold of me, yelling "Gotcha!" much to my delight.

Thus he became my "Moongotcha Uncle Jeff."  That's how he would sign off on cards, letters, and, later, emails.  Or he'd use it as a nickname for me, as in, "Hey there, Moongotcha!  How's it going?"

Corny? I guess.  Silly? For sure.  But it belonged to my uncle and me -- the two elder sons in our respective families -- and was, therefore, sacred.  I cherish that nonsense word to this day, and will do so for the rest of them.  

Rest in Peace

Geoffrey W. Fuchs

May 3, 1926 - February 21, 2020