Welcome To The Magical Friendship Squad!

Bad Guys

We are bad guys with bricks hunting for sharks.

Jones thinks he sees a dorsal fin in a shrubbery. Appropriately armed, we go over to investigate. Just as I am reaching in, we both notice that it is now snowing. Out of nowhere. One second sunlight, the next, snow. We look at one another, astonished. It is as if a veil has just dropped. Jones, literally jumping up and down, is ecstatic. His entire face, his entire body, radiating gratitude. Radiating love. He has never been happier.

It’s snowing!!
I love this kind of snow the best!
You can stick out your tongue and try to catch flakes!

But instead of doing that, he begins to swing a baseball bat at them. I look up at the sky and hear birds, more than before. And then, all at once, they just stop. Perhaps an enemy cat retreated indoors. Everything quiet, everything becalmed, now. The snow, like tiny fish schooling, swirling and gusting all around me. It felt like something brought into being only for our wonder. And Jones catches my eye, smiling as if to say, yes, magic, all of this, it is magic.

Sweet Prince

Good-night, Sweet Prince: Beloved Baseball Mascot Mr. Met Dies at 56.

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It is with great sadness that the New York Mets family must announce the sudden passing of Mr. Met. He will be forever remembered by millions of baseball fans for his inexhaustible optimism, sincere love of people, and of course, his great passion, The New York Mets. However, he transcended baseball. He belonged to all of America. People were inspired by the determination in which he faced certain defeat, day after day after day, with courage and hope.

Unfortunately, the pressure of always being in the public eye and cheering on a doomed franchise took its toll. What many people didn’t realize was that what appeared to be seams from a baseball on Mr. Met’s head and face, were in fact stitches from a baseball-head transplant he had as a child. This caused excruciating neck pain, as well as piercing migraines which plagued him his entire life, and for which he eventually began to self-medicate. A pattern of unfortunate incidents began to follow, including a diagnosis of PTSD after 9/11, ( he was never able to stop theorizing about what really happened to Building Number 7 ) , giving the finger to several fans during a game, a masturbation incident on the subway, a brief stint as a Mixed-Martial-Artist, and the release of a sex tape with his ex-wife, Mrs. Met.

Mr. Met lived an unusual and colourful life to the end. During the current lockdown for Covid-19, Mr. Met had been sheltering in place in his basement apartment with his collection of exotic animals. It is hypothesized that one of them, hungry or irritable, turned on Mr. Met and devoured him.

In life, as in death, he was a true Met.

We shall not see his like again.

Trick

A sunny morning in the backyard.

Jones emerges from the zombie cave. Groaning, he limps after me, branches in either hand. When he strikes the ground with one of them, the earth trembles. Terrible sword fights ensue and characters shift. Jones is a zombie shark, I am Thor, God of Dentistry. Jones is Captain Amerifart, I am skinny Hulk. And on it goes until Jones finds a pretty leaf which he must immediately take inside to show mommy. When he returns he finds three ferns and places them in a box on the ground. He looks up at me, “One is for mommy, one is for daddy, and one is for Jonsey.” He closes the lid on the box, his solemn ritual of beauty and protection now complete.

And then the voice of one of his friend’s shouting from behind the fence. They can’t see one another, but it doesn’t seem to matter. They just call to the idea of one another. This language they speak, so urgent, so honest. Their hearts are fire, their words glowing things. And then the sound of a distant train comes rolling over us, and when it passes there is silence for a moment. Within this pause Jones looks at me, “This is over now and we will play a new game called Who Will Win. It is a trick game.”

Howl

And when they howled in the night, did you not heed their call?

Plague Doctor

ASK THE PLAGUE DOCTOR!

If any of you have any questions concerning the current pandemic, please send them to me and I will make sure that The Plague Doctor responds:

Q: Dear Plague Doctor:

Joggers.

The other day I was walking down the street observing all the conceivable laws of social distancing, when without any warning two joggers came up from behind and swiftly passed on either side of me. I could feel the pulse of their humidity as they swept around me.

It was disgusting.

I wanted to kill them.

What is one to do about this?

A. In the before times, the urban war was fought between cars and bicycles. The car was evil and entitled and wanted to fuck you, while bicycles were noble steeds ridden by plucky, guerrilla rebels. In the now times, the jogger has taken over black hat status from the car. The runner has become a predator, an alpha proudly blaring their confidence and vitality like some sort of fucking car alarm.

The rest of us– mortal, vulnerable and fully attired in our panic suits as we walk rigidly down the street trying to pretend that everything is normal– are a form of prey for them. We’re the Stop Sign that they rev up for and then blow through.

Yes, who amongst us has not now had some younger, better version of ourselves brush past us at a run, mocking everything we fear? It is their life force they are signalling, to both themselves, and the world. They will execute nimble moves of avoidance, not so much to ease our anxiety, but because their bodies still permit them to do such things. They want us to know, that we, and this whole, bogus lockdown thing, is an inconvenience to them.

Their bodies represent strength, our’s vulnerability.
They are the future, the rest of us, the withering past.

And so yes, fill their bodies with arrows.
Cast dark spells upon them and burn them with fire.

It is the only way.

A new world is upon is, and it is pitiless.

The Plague Doctor

A Man

A man wearing a surgical mask is walking parallel to a woman wearing a surgical mask. They are on opposite sides of the street, heading in the same direction. The woman, who has taken care in her appearance, is a little bit ahead of the man. He keeps looking over at her. As if he wants to catch her eye. But she does not acknowledge him. She speeds up, perhaps, and he begins to fall further behind, the increasing space between them meaning so many different things all at once.

Standing Outside

Standing outside, the thin sunlight on my face.

The sound of birds coming and going.

Different now, somehow.

Upstairs, a neighbour works from home. I can hear his voice through the open window as he tries to solve a computer problem for a client. And over the fence and out of sight, a young woman’s voice rising as she finally introduces herself to the person who lives in the apartment above. And in the sky a lone, white feather drifting and spinning, waiting to catch the light.

Le Metro

A young couple walk up the street carrying bags of groceries from Le Metro. They’re almost home. Relaxed now, they slip the masks from their faces, letting them hang loosely from their necks. They look at one another and smile so warmly. The sun shining brightly, and all above nothing but a sky of blue.

Young

Young, beautiful and indifferent, she walks her dog down the empty street in the drizzle, a lit cigarette in her bare, red hand.

The life of the peasants is good after Land Reform!