WORMDATE: L2-2.5: 621-85,567: 6-1,544
Aside from the pandemic, we’re getting some unseasonably cold weather here mixed with some really high winds. In spite of this, I braved the outdoors yesterday to pick up some nicotine, a popcorn air-popper, and a new suit and shirt. Not saying I’m a hero or some sort of super-brave uberman but, well, I did go outside. No luck with the air-popper though.
This was, I think, my second –maybe third time– at emart since the pandemic started. The last time I went, if I remember correctly, I had to get some school supplies. Emart is basically a large, three-story, Zellers sort of store. You’ve got your supermarket on the basement level, your clothes and electronics on the first floor, your kitchenware, toys, beddings and school supplies upstairs. The sort of place that has that daily life sort of stuff. No air-poppers for popcorn though. I did, however, buy a large cooking pot, which will do, a small Snoopy pillow (not sure what that was about), and some new undershirts.
I wasn’t thrilled about going to a big place like emart. 하지만 요즘에 아내함게 미국인 우주 드라마 The Expanse 보어요 그내서 우리 팝콘 필요한요. It probably says something about my observance of the guidelines that this trip was the first time I’ve had my temperature checked. Twice. I was happy to have it done. Considering asymptomatic spread, these measures might be a bit theatrical but they’re also a bit reassuring.
I’ve heard things like this referred to as “hygiene theatre.” There might be a point there but there’s not always such a clear division between theatre and reality. Having worked in restaurants, one understands that the majority of the job is theatre. That’s mainly what customer service is. But theatre makes things go smoother.
Now, of course, you don’t want theatre without substance but that’s kinda rare. In my experience, someone who can do and does do the theatrical part is often also pretty good at the real part. A person who ostentatiously scrubs the already clean counters is a bit less likely to drop broken glass in the food.
I like some theatre. At least, I have no objection to it based on it being theatre. No one wants to live in the cold light of reality — least of all those who say they do. That’s just a luxurious delusion developed by living too long in a comfortable theatre. To those people, reality is just another theatre. A worse one. Stickier floors, at least. More gum under the seats.
Also, there’s a certain important steadiness to the response. Like, if what you’re doing is failing, yeah, change it, but if it’s working, the small advantage gained in altering course is probably offset by the loss in trust too many changes can cause. I mean, I don’t know but that’s my hunch. And we know how important stopped even a single spread is so . . .
So yeah, no idea what the latest batch of papers says about spread and surfaces but keep cleaning those fucking things because it’s not hurting.
On that note — for Valentine’s Day, my wife got me a bottle of government issued bleach water. I cannot begin to tell you how much I love bleach, government issued, and water. This is the perfect gift for me. I just look at it and smile. God, I love the smell of bleach.
On my way home from emart, I dropped by my tailor to pick up a suit and a shirt that I was having made. I sometimes wish I still had the interest and energy to discuss dandyism, tailoring and clothes. I’m still interested in the subject and still buying bespoke but I just can’t stand the discourse around bespoke suits. Fact is, the fucking nerds have wrecked it.
I mean, it used to be a pretty individual, somehow queer, and fun pursuit. But the sluicegates opened and all these boring macho pedants poured through. Condo salesmen cosplaying Madmen or period dramas, fussy dorks insisting on rules they picked up third-hand from some unreliable source and treating these rules as dogma, and an assortment of smooth brained toe-headed, plutocratic know-it-alls. Their rules and regulations have not created some abundance of style based on personal aesthetics, let alone embraced the philosophical components of dandyism. Instead, they’ve made a wasteland of retroheteronormie boredom or, maybe worse, a mustachioed, unicycle riding quirkiness, and called it style. I can put up with a lot of shit. Weird, strange, and sinister? Sign me the fuck up. But I fucking hate fussy and quirky? Quirky can go die in a fire. Flay quirky and burn it. Then throw the ashes into a sewer. Any meat that’s left, feed it to the rats.
It’s not even worth arguing with them because, well, have you ever argued with these sorts of people? Might as well bang your head into a wall. It’s not even a discourse that I want any part of – I would prefer to be totally unaware of it. Just pursue my shit in quiet.
But, having said all that, I’m pretty happy with my new suit.
Blue corduroy with a houndstooth shirt.
To be honest, I only meant to buy the shirt. But my tailor offered me a deal and, well, a trip out to buy some mushrooms and a shirt suddenly got a bit more expensive. Shit happens.
Sometimes, you’re even happy when it does. I’m very happy with this suit. I hope it stays cold a while longer.