Where’re my shoes at? Today is my 80th day, I think, of not wearing actual Dad-style shoes. Slippers, yes, flip-flops, mostly. Shoot, I don’t even think I’ve worn pants for the last 80 days. Don’t be alarmed, though; to maintain some dignity and decorum, I’ve worn sweats and shorts.
For 80 days I’ve shaved maybe once a week and left the house on some exotic excursions to the liquor store or pharmacy a couple of times.
Eighty-one days ago, when Gov. Newsom, the best governor this state has had since Jerry Brown, urged people over 65 to stay home during the pandemic. I jokingly told Melissa, the stalwart yet somehow willowy managing editor of the Post and Business Journal, “Looks like I’ll be writing the ‘Quarantine Chronicles’ now. Ha, ha…. Ha.”
But she thought it was a good idea, so off to the desert I went for 80 days and 80 nights—twice as long as the old record.
I am, some of you will be happy to hear, a new man. For the last quarter of my quarantine, my colleagues and friends at the Post and Business Journal have been coming up with new and exciting projects to get me through the long lonely days.
I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but I think “polymath” is the one you’re searching for. Or, perhaps you prefer “renaissance man.” I don’t know, I can’t read your mind.
I’ve missed showing up at the plant every morning, but I’m a little shaky. I might’ve forgotten how to do journalism.
I’ve written 80 columns in 80 days, and they’ve turned out to be, yes, a chronicle of life trapped in a house for that duration, wrapped up in a cozy cocoon of the internet, social media, Instacart, GrubHub, Postmates, Amazon, Netflix, Kindle books, 2 dogs and 1 daughter.
I feel like a blogger and going back to work after this unprecedented hiatus makes me feel like a new kid that the management team hired, telling me, “Hey, we liked your little diary thing. How would you like a job doing real big-boy-pants journalism?”
What, now? With cities burning, the coronavirus still rampant though strangely set aside, Trump threatening to use his military against American cities, economic disaster and impending collapse? What am I going to write about, how to make a box-stitch lanyard?
“Don’t worry, it’s like riding a bike,” a friend told me, employing the threadbare simile for things you never forget how to do. I was riding a bike once along Palo Verde Avenue when a car went through a stop sign and hit me (I could see the driver was going to go through the stop and I hit my handbrake and the cable chose that very moment to snap) and I went flying, gloriously, through the air. That part was easy, the landing was hard. So, don’t tell me anything is like riding a bike.
And there’s so much more left for me to do here at home: Tie-dye a shirt, check out some yo-yo tricks, learn to play a Jew’s harp, crochet a tea cozy, sit out front in a lawn chair and watch my co-workers parade past, honking, in their cars (yeah, the fact that that never happened stings a bit—they had 80 days!), listen to the 73-CD set of all 22 Europe ‘72 concerts by the Grateful Dead, figure out how to make corn liquor, bathtub gin or raisin jack prison hooch. All the skills destined now to go unmastered.
Because it’s back to the old new normal, which means rifling through my closet looking for the style of shoe that you have to tie, a pair of matching socks, some pants with an inseam greater than 10 inches and maybe a tie. No, wait, shoot, I don’t have room for a tie.
And my laptop that I write on when I’m at work. I’d better charge that and maybe hose it down to get rid of the spider webs.
I look forward to seeing (and hearing, Steve Lowery) all the folks at the Post and Biz Journal. Each and every one a gem.
I will miss hanging out with my daughter all day, though I’m sure she’s anxious to take over the house and play that noise you kids call music these days, which is fine, as long as she doesn’t SIT IN MY CHAIR.
And farewell for a while to my 2 ferocious dogs Annie and Jasper, the latter of which is yipping in his sleep right now, dreaming about which sort of $1,000 calamity he can bring upon himself next. He’s already cost me more than a Cadillac in vet’s fees and he’s due to go back on Thursday or Friday.
I hesitate to ask after taking a relaxing 80-day holiday, but is it OK if I take off a little early to drive him to the vet?
Tim Grobaty is a columnist and the Opinions Editor for the Long Beach Post. You can reach him at 562-714-2116, email [email protected], @grobaty on Twitter and Grobaty on Facebook.
More by Tim Grobaty
Quarantine Chronicles Day 80: The end is here!
Where’re my shoes at? Today is my 80th day, I think, of not wearing actual Dad-style shoes. Slippers, yes, flip-flops, mostly. Shoot, I don’t even think I’ve worn pants for the last 80 days. Don’t be alarmed, though; to maintain some dignity and decorum, I’ve worn sweats and shorts.
For 80 days I’ve shaved maybe once a week and left the house on some exotic excursions to the liquor store or pharmacy a couple of times.
Eighty-one days ago, when Gov. Newsom, the best governor this state has had since Jerry Brown, urged people over 65 to stay home during the pandemic. I jokingly told Melissa, the stalwart yet somehow willowy managing editor of the Post and Business Journal, “Looks like I’ll be writing the ‘Quarantine Chronicles’ now. Ha, ha…. Ha.”
But she thought it was a good idea, so off to the desert I went for 80 days and 80 nights—twice as long as the old record.
I am, some of you will be happy to hear, a new man. For the last quarter of my quarantine, my colleagues and friends at the Post and Business Journal have been coming up with new and exciting projects to get me through the long lonely days.
So now, not only am I a world-class marine biologist, but I also dabble a bit in baking, yoga, Spanish, listening to records with a critical ear, duct-tape wallet-making, calligraphy, pet-tent repair, meditation, HTML coding, car-buying, marijuana edibles, painting-by-numbers, TikTok videos and tiki drinks.
I don’t want to put words in your mouth, but I think “polymath” is the one you’re searching for. Or, perhaps you prefer “renaissance man.” I don’t know, I can’t read your mind.
I’ve missed showing up at the plant every morning, but I’m a little shaky. I might’ve forgotten how to do journalism.
I’ve written 80 columns in 80 days, and they’ve turned out to be, yes, a chronicle of life trapped in a house for that duration, wrapped up in a cozy cocoon of the internet, social media, Instacart, GrubHub, Postmates, Amazon, Netflix, Kindle books, 2 dogs and 1 daughter.
I feel like a blogger and going back to work after this unprecedented hiatus makes me feel like a new kid that the management team hired, telling me, “Hey, we liked your little diary thing. How would you like a job doing real big-boy-pants journalism?”
What, now? With cities burning, the coronavirus still rampant though strangely set aside, Trump threatening to use his military against American cities, economic disaster and impending collapse? What am I going to write about, how to make a box-stitch lanyard?
“Don’t worry, it’s like riding a bike,” a friend told me, employing the threadbare simile for things you never forget how to do. I was riding a bike once along Palo Verde Avenue when a car went through a stop sign and hit me (I could see the driver was going to go through the stop and I hit my handbrake and the cable chose that very moment to snap) and I went flying, gloriously, through the air. That part was easy, the landing was hard. So, don’t tell me anything is like riding a bike.
And there’s so much more left for me to do here at home: Tie-dye a shirt, check out some yo-yo tricks, learn to play a Jew’s harp, crochet a tea cozy, sit out front in a lawn chair and watch my co-workers parade past, honking, in their cars (yeah, the fact that that never happened stings a bit—they had 80 days!), listen to the 73-CD set of all 22 Europe ‘72 concerts by the Grateful Dead, figure out how to make corn liquor, bathtub gin or raisin jack prison hooch. All the skills destined now to go unmastered.
Because it’s back to the old new normal, which means rifling through my closet looking for the style of shoe that you have to tie, a pair of matching socks, some pants with an inseam greater than 10 inches and maybe a tie. No, wait, shoot, I don’t have room for a tie.
And my laptop that I write on when I’m at work. I’d better charge that and maybe hose it down to get rid of the spider webs.
I look forward to seeing (and hearing, Steve Lowery) all the folks at the Post and Biz Journal. Each and every one a gem.
I will miss hanging out with my daughter all day, though I’m sure she’s anxious to take over the house and play that noise you kids call music these days, which is fine, as long as she doesn’t SIT IN MY CHAIR.
And farewell for a while to my 2 ferocious dogs Annie and Jasper, the latter of which is yipping in his sleep right now, dreaming about which sort of $1,000 calamity he can bring upon himself next. He’s already cost me more than a Cadillac in vet’s fees and he’s due to go back on Thursday or Friday.
I hesitate to ask after taking a relaxing 80-day holiday, but is it OK if I take off a little early to drive him to the vet?
Tim Grobaty
Tim Grobaty is a columnist and the Opinions Editor for the Long Beach Post. You can reach him at 562-714-2116, email [email protected], @grobaty on Twitter and Grobaty on Facebook. More by Tim Grobaty