Fuzzy is not another dwarf. It’s just how I feel today, since I got up before 10am for once in my life. Let’s get right into it. God knows, my skating trip is off for today and there’s fuckall else to do.
Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer, particularly if they’re running a fever and can operate as hot water bottles!
I’m calling it anyway: regular Wednesday 11:30am Covid briefings until we’re out of this whole “setting record highs in hospital admissions and new cases” mess, which could be March, if then. And of course during this pandemic when is the ONLY standing appointment I have each week? Wednesday, at 11am.
I feel seen.
Nonetheless, I have changed the appointment, because I WILL NOT BE THWARTED GODDAMMIT! I’m too bored. You wouldn’t like me when I’m bored. Hell, most people don’t even like me when I’m fully entertained.
So, come along with me as I attempt to wrest from a federal covid briefing all the entertainment value that may be latent therein, and quite a bit more if my English prof’s notes (“you have over-read this haiku, and I don’t have time to read fourteen pages”) are anything to go by. By which to go. Whatever.
Let’s start with some freshly-made outrage, shall we?
That’s right: NO MASKS! Shock! Horror! Also, we can’t see the Famous Tattoo from this angle! Call the DailyFail and the NatPoPo! Are we all outraged? Flushed with adrenaline and grasping for our phones? Good, good. My work here is done. Counts as aerobic exercise, people! Probably the most that some of us will get all year.
You see, I then looked at the date and it was 2018. *sad trombone* Doesn’t that seem like ancient history now? It was the Pre-Covidian Age, an era without masks. Masks are to 2022 what fedoras were to 1936. Just don’t tip them; tip your delivery worker!
Also, tips are a way for capitalists to push the burden of fair payment for workers off itself and onto its customers. The only wage should be a living wage.
But where was I before I scrambled to the top of my soapbox (don’t blame me, it’s the only way I can see from the cheap seats!). Right, about to start with the Covid briefing which is, for once, suspiciously almost on time.
Here’s our video:
Ten thousand views, by the Seven Hours Later point. Impressive, and possibly a record. People are much more engaged with this one than they were with earlier briefings, perhaps because the gravity of the situation, and the degree to which it was preventable all along, is beginning to sink in. Yeah, that’s what passes for optimism in my house at least these days.
Well Possums, here we are again. What will we do for the two year anniversary of the Covid Briefing Bingo in May? I don’t know about you, but I’m already picking out a dress for the party.
Let’s all sing the Covid Song!
In any case, by now you know how these work. Here’s our video from Cpac with 184 watching because NOBODY thinks Justin Trudeau will be on time, even if it’s just a videocast from his own house.
The intimacy of those home-based briefings is kind of ironic; it’s like being in a Zoom meeting with your boss’s boss’s boss’s boss, with him making jokey references to his youngest kid and trying to really connect, you know?
Nonetheless, that IS a substantial part of the man’s job, as others have pointed out.
Today we’re back at the office. No shirtsleeves here, folks! Here are our bingo cards. Do you think we should make new ones? We’re at ten now!
Hello, Possums, and welcome back to another episode of the Justin Trudeau Hour, coming to you live today from Rideau Cottage on the grounds of Rideau Hall, yet again. Just like old times, really. Will we have new porchscaping, Possums? An appearance from the family dog? Will we get the Sophie square? One is on tenterfuckinghooks, one is!
Today’s briefing is named after Napoleon, in accordance with our overarching nomenclature theme. Still no correct guesses in the comments section as to what that might be. But some plenty great visuals!
We shall see if either of my computers can make it through today’s #BriefingBingo alive. One can’t get on the internet, the other refuses to boot.
We’re running a bit behind, so today’s intro will be abbreviated in the interests of expeditiousness which, unusually for a Canadian political interest, has no money or votes at all to trade for influence, but where were we? Oh right, getting to the point.
Here’s the video:
Well, that was a right Royal or at least Imperial clusterfuck, wasn’t it?
So let’s for once use the CBC video and you’ll want to skip to 13:30 to avoid all the talking heads CBC has on salary and has to give airtime to. Well, for all I know they’re very good, but they’re just the warm-up for the actual bingo, right Possums?
Let us begin in the accepted narrative fashion, with a flashback. For lo, I am nothing if not acceptably narrative and fashionable.
The year, it was many ago. The Place, it was Carleton, or rather a side road several miles outside of town. The occasion was an afternoon ride that my friend and I had taken, she on her rather awful hackney cross Colonel Blake (nicknamed Flakey), and me on a borrowed Quarter Horse hunter called Abby. She, my friend, turned off the road and popped over a jump, encouraging me to follow. I did, despite never having taken a jump that size. Abby had no trouble with it, having gone over that jump probably a dozen times with her owners that summer. I, also, got over the fence; the problem was that the horse and I parted company at some point, landing separately, her on four graceful hooves and me squarely on my butt, sitting straight up with perfect posture for once in my life.
My friends, this is not a good thing to do when falling from a horse.
It took me north of twenty minutes to get back on the horse, which did not surprise anyone later when I was X-rayed and discovered to have broken my back. But back on the horse I did get, because we were three miles from home and this was before cellphones, so we rode all the way back, me crumpled and resting my upper body’s full weight on the horse’s neck, much to her annoyance, but she was a Quarter horse so she just took it rather than dumping me, and we got home and me to the hospital and, after a few weeks of rest I was mostly healed up, but with some lingering nerve damage on my right leg which remains to this day from where the nerve connected with the spinal cord and got partially disconnected, and so it remains to this day. Weakness in the sensory nerves, but the muscle controlling nerves are just fine.
There’s a QAnon army metaphor to be made here, but I’m taking the high road today.
Flash forward to the 90’s, when I, like virtually everyone else in Vancouver, worked for Starbucks. An eight hour shift there will give you a great education in how to work hard (seriously, Starbucks gave me whatever work ethic I possess to this day, never had one before then), an appreciation for finely-prepared beverages, and almost certainly a collection of painful varicose veins if you stay long enough, and I stayed for seven years. The first hour after getting home from work was usually spent with my legs resting against the wall while the rest of my body formed the foot of the “L” configuration, draining my overtaxed blood vessels and trying to make the infernal pinching feeling go away. It took a good five years after leaving retail before my veins stopped bothering me on the reg.
Flash forward to four and a half years ago, when I took a tumble down a flight of stairs, landing on my head. Yet another experience I do not recommend to most people. A few, though. A few of them, they have it coming.
Once I was sufficiently recovered to hold short conversations and notice symptoms I noticed a creeping numbness in my right calf. It felt like a cross between my leg falling asleep, but only from the calf muscle on down to the ankle, and wearing an 80’s legwarmer slouched way down. Now, this was problematic enough, but over the next several weeks and months it crept upward, eventually affecting all of my right leg from the hip on down.
Saw a doctor. Doctor’s advice, as far as I can recall, was “Well, keep an eye on it and try not to fall down.” Sooper. So I kept an eye on it, tried not to fall down, and did my own research. Ended up more or less treating myself by cutting wayyyyyy back on alcohol, taking B vitamins, making sure to get enough Omega 3’s from my diet, and walking miles for exercise. The phenomenon, known in medical circles as “peripheral neuropathy,” began to recede, very slowly. First I got pins and needles in my thigh, then the feeling came back and pins and needles shifted south to my knee, then my knee was fine, and the pins and needles moved on to the calf, then the calf was fine and the ankle was tingling, and then everything seemed back to normal.
The de-tingling, de-neuropathizing, re-normalizing process took in excess of two years, by the way. It ain’t easy to normalize ol’ raincoaster. Ask anyone who’s tried it.