I don’t want to die with a shelf of unread books. I bought them to read and, I guess, there’s no excuse not to now, if there ever really was.
No one, in general, has had it as good as Americans have had it while under this quarantine; that’s one of the reasons why this recent push back has hen-pecked me so much. I know this has been too good a time because I am sick of junk food, the couch, and most of all, television. I am sick of Netflix. And I am sick of Tiger King.
While people tend to love the miniseries about the misadventures of Joe Exotic, I thought it was a mediocre true crime podcast come to roaring life in seven parts. But, then again, maybe I’m a bit biased: working here at the Lost Ogle, we continually kept Oklahoma up to date on Exotic—even I wrote a couple of pieces about him—so it absolutely mauls me that do we not get that slightest bit of credit.
But that’s life in Oklahoma, I guess.
I wonder if Tiger King would have been as pop-culturally renowned under normal circumstances; would we have all the Carole Baskin memes and other internet intrusions of everyday life if we, as a quarantined country, weren’t all forced to watch TV at all times during this pandemic? It was just a matter of being in the right place, in the right time.
These days, when I’m not writing down these thoughts, I just read books and listen to records. Recently, I’ve read a book about the history of Zydeco music in America. It was interesting to me; when this is all over, I might throw a crawfish boil—some of you are invited. Please bring corn.
Since this pandemic started, a large amount of feral cats and dogs have taken over my neighborhood.
While no one really seems to care about the cats, the local junkers and yokel junkies will often take the dogs and chain them up in their front yards, usually as some sort of living alarm system. Sometimes when I’m walking down a silent street, the angry yelps and yowls will be enough to shock me back to my own alien attrition.
My own dog died two years ago, just before my first stroke. Since then, I have desperately wanted another dog, but have worried about not only being hospitalized during this, but dying and leaving that dog all alone, waiting and wondering where I am.
But I miss having a good canine, especially in a lonely time like this.
I’ve met so many people out walking their dogs recently, and I honestly hope I don’t come off like the neighborhood kook, letting their pups smell my hand to know I’m friendly, bending down to give them the requisite allowance of hugs and kisses. Most are receptive enough, and that’s all I need for now.
Still, every time I walk by these chained animals, gnarling in trained anger, I wish I had the guts to release them. But they’ll probably just get caught again.