Author's Note-
As you should already know, this site is for entertainment/satire purposes. Sometimes it is peppered with real life pop culture, movie, music, crappy local festival reviews, and even then, those are often with unreliable narration. It stinks that I have to include this disclaimer, but the following is just one person's (mine) perspective and experience with finally catching Covid. It is in no way an endorsement of any methods or a mockery of anyone whose life was seriously or tragically affected by the Bug (Covid, not Marcie, but that can go both ways). Do whatever makes you the safest, happiest, and as "level" as you wish. This is just one person's (Mine) take. To make things even more complicated, the following still follows the "Half truth/Half fiction" model. You figure it out. And now, here is a story that might bore you...
Prologue
It is last month and I am with Elizabeth First, the tambourine player, who is about to go parachuting, and today my role is that of the "Responsible Driver". I was originally supposed to participate (the selling point: "We're both borderline suicidal, so why not?"), but that wasn't going to happen.
"I am not jumping out of a fully functioning airplane," I tell her as she fumbles through her purse, a "Metro For Sheriff" flyer falling to the floor.
"C'mon now, I'm standing in the middle of my life with my pants behind me," she rationalizes. I don't correct her.
"I'm going home. I'm tired as hell. I'm not the cat I used to be."
"We're getting old. I got a kid. I'm 34."
"Isn't it 33... baby" I correct.
"How are the book sales going?" she asks, ignoring the correction.
"Surprisingly well, considering that I have no local support or publicity machine behind me and am covering most of the costs myself, but I have sold enough to say that I am a published author and made a little money off it."
"One second, I love this song," she interrupts while turning the radio up as Led Zeppelin's "Trampled Underfoot" starts playing, also a personal favorite.
"I CAN'T STOP TALKIN' ABOUT LOVE," she yells before the singing even begins.
"I find this song unique in that I have no idea what any of the lyrics are aside from the 'talkin about love part'," I offer.
"Let's try."
Okay.
"Breeshing me down, Gulag a trip. I could lay you on the road, mama angels smear."
"Talkin' about love! Talking about love! My turn."
"Trouble-free transmission, thought you'd overexplode; mama let me pop your gash, mama letmetobethrow."
"Talkin' about love! Talking about love." We conclude with a high five.
"That was different," she continues as the song keeps playing, "What about the sheriff campaign?"
That same month, a few friends suggested I run for sheriff of Wayne County so I had my bootlegging Wizard Kentucky Pete cook me up a flyer.
"Well, I need to kick it into high gear. I have all these flyers made. I just need to start meeting the people, get the message out."
"What is the message?"
"There is no message. I think this gives me the advantage. If I don't take a stand for anything I think that would appeal to everyone," I reply as I take a pull from the light beer I have in my lap and merge off the freeway onto the back road to the skydiving joint.
"Really? So no message is the message..."
"Yeah, exactly. Well, one of my platforms is to find out exactly where the 20% of the Hamtramck Music Fest's 'community donations' are going to. I think, as sheriff, people should know."
"We are killing it. Still," she says.
"Naturally," I reply, a high five, as I spill the rest of my beer on her.
"Oh shit, I'm sorry. I'm actually thinking about going into rehab if that helps," my form of an apology.
"Don't worry about it. I have a change of clothes."
"Hey, me too!" another high five.
"Rehab can be fun," she continues as a chill washes over me, "the last time I was in rehab I kept trying to escape so they actually offered me a job there just so I would stay."
"That's crazy," I laugh as I open another beer and hang a sharp left avoiding an overturned mailbox.
"I still got out of it," she continues, "I couldn't stand the junkies that were there. What insurance do you have?"
"I have ___________," I reply, regretting it.
"Hey, me too! I'll look something up. Do you want me to book you into a hotel so you can dry out?"
"I think that could be an absolute disaster. Don't threaten me with a good time."
We are about 15 minutes from the drop zone and things are quiet. Then...
"Hey! I have new bruises!" First says, showing me some new bruises.
"Jesus Christ, was that me?" I am frantic.
"No, Crazy. Just being rough and tumble."
"It fucking looks like Jerry Garcia."
"Oh shit! It does! Should I get it tattooed?"
"No."
"Okay."
"I think things are starting to unravel," one of us says, you tell me.
"How's money?" E First asks.
"Horrible. The shoplifting gimmick has gotten out of control. Every day."
"Wicked," she is wide eyed, "Tell me more. You are making my hands shake."
"I am keeping a chart," I say, starting to cry.
"Keeping a chart is... smart."
"My new gimmick is that I dress like, and portray, a violent homosexual. That's what the change of clothes is for. Who is going to stop this raging loon looking to lift a steak and a six pack all while dressed like George Michael?"
"Very smart. Work the current climate, although I assume you aren't wearing a 'Pro Life' shirt. If anyone even questions you they'd probably lose their job. Though if they do nab you the sheriff thing could be in trouble."
"I know. I need to get the sheriff thing moving. I'm just worried about hitting the pavement, stomping the Terra, and possibly getting sick talking to all these losers," I say, opening another light beer.
"It will be a thrill," she says, and I take 30 seconds to think which topic out of all of these would be a thrill.
"You are sick," I reply.
"No, you are," her reply.
"Naturally," I reply.
"Well, you're going to get sick," her reply.
"Isn't that the plan?" I reply.
"Everybody's sick in the end," her reply.
I don't reply, so she continues.
"You are supposed to give my eulogy."
"Everybody's sick in the end. Is that the plan? Is this close to the end?"
"I don't think that is true."
"I just want to keep the game going!" I yell.
"Then that's the plan. Yabba..."
"Dabba..."
"Doo..."
Blackjack and Sickness
And then I got sick.
It is now a Sunday, Foamy Sunday, and I wake up around 2pm, per usual. I had been crying in my sleep again. I had promised my therapist, Dr. Ivy, that I would try to incorporate more "fun things" to do without drinking to an excessive degree which some would say would be "killing myself" and others, "This is 40". I looked through my social media timelines and after blocking all the themed local music festivals that all seemed to include the same bands (Dude, The Hourlies, Greg Aubry on sound/pontification), all I could see that was going on that would not involve me killing myself was this local church festival at St. Zero's (patron saint of the bored). I saw that they had a craft beer tent and a Vegas room which basically sealed the deal. I could hear the trustworthy, constantly beleaguered, assistant Sebastian Owl on the other side of the JCMsTown Compound muttering to the cats, "You are making my hands shake," so I grab the JCM Intercom 2000 which is basically two cups tied to a string and I radio Owl that we are going to this festival.
"Sounds good," Owl replies and I can hear possibly a sob and definitely a sigh after. I start to go through my writing notes and I hear a dish or possibly a glass break, possibly thrown, and then I start to go through my notes again from The Night Before. One of my writing techniques is that before I lay down I always jot down stream of consciousness ideas that I might be able to use for future posts. Sometimes they can be events that happened that day such as the friendly neighbor warning me about the new black family down the street, the rude jerk at the supermarket treating people like crap while I'm just trying to walk right out with my paper towel, the mysterious new brewery that opened up down the road that always seems to be packed but I have never been to. Sometimes the notes are simple pieces of dialogue that are said to me throughout the day such as "I really hope you've been video taping everything," "You're either welcome or not. My life is chaos," "I just want to disappear," (that one from my mother). The only note I had from last night was "The Noose". There was no context and I don't know what it supposed to mean so I discard it and check my messages.
Wang: "I hate the Rams".
-jr: "Fuck you. Lawsuit is in the mail".
E First: "Don't forget to include a link to the book in your next post".
I start to find a suitable wardrobe for a local church festival and make sure to attach a link to the book to my next post.
Link to the book: The Invisible People: The Book
Hours later, Sebastian Owl and I are on our way to this cheapjack festival where we both will finally get sick. Owl seems to already be worried and stressed despite St. Zero's only being 5 minutes away. Owl changes the radio station without asking (The song had been "New Kid in Town" by the Eagles), and "Boys of Summer" by Don Henley starts to play and Sebastian hisses at the radio and turns it off completely.
"You seem tense," I tell Sebastian as I find an okay parking spot on the grass.
"I'm standing in the middle of my life with my plans behind me," Owl replies.
"Well at least you have a smile for everyone you meet," I reply, not sure if it was earnest or sarcastic.
"Look at this place. Fat guys driving around in Jeeps, big diamond rings."
"Oh, come on now," I reply.
"When you own a big chunk of the bloody Third World the babies just come with the scenery," Owl says, on a roll.
"Jesus, you are sounding like Nancy Negative right now," I say tabling the conversation for now.
We get out and take a casual walk around the grounds. I am already sweating, looking for the advertised craft beer tent, or Vegas room, either or both would be absolutely fantastic right now. I am sweating. My mood is already dampened when I realize that after only 15 minutes there are no hardbodies here. I did happen to see a random sighting of a random Nutso ex and she was rambling about something called micro dosing and I got bored so I kept walking.
I find the craft beer tent and try to sneak a high powered beer to make up for all this lost time, but this is already ruined by a crude graffiti marked on the table. "Lil Boy"... The name was familiar with me. While working together at Walmarget Kentucky Pete would constantly draw a sketch of a very small penis with the tag "Lil Boy". It was proto-Banksy. Eventually it got out of control as things tend to do and he ended up spray painting "Lil Boy" on the actual stockroom floor. Security was baffled, but that was because we had already disabled every fucking camera in the stockroom. But that's here nor there. That might be the next book. This "Lil Boy" in 2022 chilled me. Was he here? Who?
"One of those IPA's please," I say as I make sure Owl is still browsing the vendor tables. Success, a small victory.
"No can do sir. The basic beer stand is over there," a familiar voice says, E First.
"What are you doing here?" I ask, almost shouting but not really, worried I may have taken that last, no second to last, hit of acid I had saved up.
"I work at all the craft beer tables; every venue, every site. Right now I am in disguise," the person speaking to me is saying. The person speaking to me is a 200lb biker, "The basic beer stand is over there. 3% or less for you. And don't forget about the link for the book, Crazy."
"Thanks for nothing," I mutter.
"Oh come on now," the possessed biker replies and we high five, a confirmation revealed.
I grab a Bud Light draft that my guts will regret later and reconnect with Owl and we make our way to the raffle tent which has around 30 tables set up with donated baskets with the deal being you buy tickets and put them in the package you want to win. I immediately spotted some baskets that caused concern...
"Why are you looking at the top of the tent? You seem strung out. Who were you talking to at the beer tent?" Owl, the prick, asks and just might be the most observant person I know, the prick. I obviously ignore Owl's question, like I never heard it, and then reply, "Look at that. There is a PlayStation 5 in that basket. The ticket bucket is filled, overflowing."
"Do you want to try to win it? You barely play video games anymore."
"I play games. You just don't see me. Anyway, I don't want to play the raffle. I say I just take it. Walk right out with it. Zoom."
"You are crazy. You're getting out of control!" Owl is frantic, "You have to stop this."
"I have been looking since we parked. There are no cameras here, especially in this make-shift tent. Listen, I have a change of clothes in the car..."
"For what!!!!"
"Don't sweat it, it's a pink Powerhouse Gym belly shirt, some cut off shorts, I even have the full size American Flag. I need you to fake a seizure. When the staff...haha...volunteers come to calm you down, I will grab the PS5, wrap it in the fucking flag, and jog to the car. Even if they have exterior cameras the console would be covered leaving the tent, and thus, no proof it even left the tent. After taking it home, and listing it on Ebay on the burner account, I can come back to scoop you up or you can just Uber back."
"I will not participate in this!"
"Fuck it. Let's find the Vegas tent."
The Vegas tent was not actually a tent but was in a building and this was where I think we got sick. I cash in a bunch of chips, how much?, you tell me, and we find a table, and I order another beer, "the lightest you have," I say in case E First in disguise or Owl were listening (they were), and I go on a decent run. My plan was to not win college funds but to drag out my investment as long as possible as a fun distraction. At one point, Sebastian was reprimanded by the "staff" that they cannot be handing me chips while not playing at the table. My first thought was to mace him with the Chemical Billy, but I was already distracted by two hideous tramps who sat down next to me, possibly ringers because the table's luck died once they sat down.
"Ignore that clown and that talk about giving me the chips. He'll be mowing the grass tomorrow. Count on it," I reassure Jean, I mean Sebastian.
In the end I left with two $1 chips that I didn't even bother to cash in, kept one for me and one for Owl, a small victory. I almost said for Owl to give theirs to the cheapjack giving us the big hassle, but after we ended up sick 3 days later his tip may have already been delivered. The lasting memory from this Vegas tent deal is me turning to Owl, a crazed look in my eyes, and saying "I am having fun!" with Owl replying, "I know." This is a significant moment.
We leave the Vegas tent and the raffle is already over and the PS5 is predictably gone which ruins my backup plan of tossing the American Flag (which I was now wearing) over Sebastian Owl's head and just leaving with the PS5 anyway, especially after how those bitches ruined the luck at the blackjack table. I felt I was owed this. I needed to do this, and now the opportunity was gone, so we go back to the Silver Hornet and its okay parking spot.
"Well, that was something," I say.
"Just get on the road," Owl says, and I don't bother to correct.
The Covid Experience
Jump, flash, cut to three days later, a Tuesday night, Wednesday morning, and I am a little sluggish. After taking my temperature (100.8, which I mistakenly tell Owl 108 prompting a justifiable meltdown), I realize I have to take "The Test". Yep, came back positive. After an hour, I take another test. Yep, the same, and now my nose is gushing blood which prompts Owl to scour the entire compound for a hiding E First. The trustworthy, beleaguered, assistant is concerned because of my possible compromised immune system from having 20% of my liver zapped out in 2020 (no Gofundme, went home that day, overrated). Real quick, here are my stats. I'm making it quick because this is boring: Day 1- Mucho fatigue, headache, fever, body aches. Sleep. Day 2- Same but 50% less. Day 3- Ready to rock and roll. On the record, I am 2 shot vaxxed, no booster, 80% liver, lower right heart valve defect (1990's). That's it. Boring, although I couldn't stop laughing that my experience with Covid was the exact same experience I have after hanging out with Elizabeth First: Day 1- Mucho fatigue, headache, fever, body aches, Sleep. And on and on. In fact I almost called this post "Covid is Elizabeth First". Two and a half days recovery time, and I was back ready to go grocery shopping again. Anyway, there are still some funny stories during those three days. Let's roll.
The first thing I did was inform my inner circle that I was sick...
Mom: "Oh god, what did you do now?"
-jr: "Had it three times. Deal with it, pussy."
Owl: "No no no. This is not true."
Wang: "I fucking hate the Rams."
Sister: "Tough it out. No biggie."
Kentucky Pete: "Shit man. Sorry. Stock up on nudes and stout."
E First: "Well..." And we continue...
E First messages me, concerned, mildly, but maybe not.
"I am going to send you a care package. What do you want? Obviously beer, because you can't be having a fever induced seizure while sick."
"Yeah, beer would be cool. Just burn it out of my system. Anything below 3% per the rules," I reply.
"Okay, I'm DoorDashing you some Natural Ice Light along with some snacks. I know you won't eat them but I had to add the snacks to offset the surcharges and fees, okay?" she explains, and I wonder why she didn't just add more beer.
"Sounds good," I lie/reply and she clicks off to finalize the order, and then I realize that there is no such thing as Natural Ice Light.
Fifty-five minutes later, there is a knock on the door. It is a 60 year old black guy.
"What is this?" Sebastian Owl shouts, distracted from the spreadsheets and TMZ.
"Care package. A quesadilla," I reply, recycling an old joke, and open the door. The senior citizen is furious.
"What took you so long?" I ask, oblivious, through my mask (which one, you tell me).
"Mister, it took me 35 minutes to get here. I'm comin' from 7 mile and Greenfield for Chissakes."
"Oh Jesus," I think, but not say out loud, as I realize that E First just might have botched the location. It probably cost more gas to get to the JCMsTown Compound than the actual purchase. I start giggling, knowing full well how life tends to screw you over. My laughing fit is soon interrupted.
"Why couldn't you have picked a closer location?" he asks, possibly crying, "I passed six 7-11's on the way here."
"I'm sorry man, but don't blame me. It was the tambourine player. Take it up with her," I say knowing full well that First was on the opposite side of the state, having rented an entire house for reasons not pertaining to this post.
"He came from 7 mile and Greenfield!!" Sebastian Owl shouts from the kitchen, clicking off from a Zoom work chat about current events.
"I'm sorry," I repeat again to the poor bastard, but frame it as a question, and then I go to get some extra cash (haha) for an extra tip. E First, and Owl, always tip well, to a fault, but I think this one was a little out of hand. Unfortunately, he is already back at his car, shaking his head. And then he is gone. He left the care package on the front porch, and I am alternating being disgusted and cracking up at the entire situation. In the end I mutter, "Get a real job, Fucker," and head back to the National Affairs Room, forgetting to even grab the package.
I remember to grab the care package which Owl has already rummaged through while muttering, "Natty Ice. Not exactly in your range." The snacks that were included consisted of a sole 1.80 oz. pack of Combos Cheddar Cheese bites that were never opened, will never be opened, and will probably go with me to the grave. I don't eat cheese.
I immediately contact the Wizard, Kentucky Pete, regarding the beer situation.
"Just cut it," he says.
"I can't cut it out. Without proper treatment I will die!"
"No, not that man, I mean cut it with water."
"Wait! You are saying cut the Natty Ice with actual water?"
"Yeah... Cut it."
"This isn't coke. It's beer. I'm not measuring water to cut beer. What?"
"Maybe you're right. Not sure," he offers.
"Wouldn't it be the same thing if I just drank water with the beer? Instead of actually mixing the water with beer?"
"That's probably true. You're probably right. Fuck it. Look at it like a vacation. Rock and roll, as you say."
"Okay, no cutting it. Rock and roll," we click off.
Flash, jump, cut- Two days later, Sebastian Owl is sick. By this time I have recovered. After a week Owl is back in the New York Groove, feeling okay (different demographics, same finish), going to comedy shows, and I am doing whatever it is I do. Life goes on. It's only bad if you let it turn bad.
A few days later I get a message from E First.
"My entire family is sick."
"Good lord," I offer, "It never ends."
"I know. Just so you know, I think I am going to take it easy this week."
And the wheel in the sky keeps on turning.
From the Iceman Commeth,
The Boy Next Door,
Dr. Bryan Metro
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