Thursday, December 31, 2020

Among My Souvenirs

The year 2020 was like a drunken dinner guest who insults the other diners, spills red wine on the white carpet, breaks a glass or two, and lets no-one relax until he is frog-marched out the front door. Only then can everyone let go a great sigh.


The best on-line comment I read about 2020 was by a person who claimed he would not set his clock back to standard time in November because he didn’t want to give 2020 even an extra hour.


*


For me there were three moments of light amid the darkness of 2020:


Arsenal won the FA Cup;

The Rangers won the NHL draft lottery;

Joe Biden was elected president.


All the rest of the year seemed to be reports of death upon COVID death and the disastrous response by Trump and his dumpties.


I have retained one memento of the year. It exemplifies the deceit, the deception, the vainglorious chutzpah of Trump. It is a postal card that I (and, I am sure, you) received sometime last spring.


“SLOW THE SPREAD” is the plea on the address side of the card. And on the reverse side are pointers offered by the professionals at the CDC. For example:


“Listen and follow the directions of your STATE AND LOCAL AUTHORITIES”;

“AVOID SOCIAL GATHERINGS in groups of more than 10 people”;

“AVOID DISCRETIONARY TRAVEL ….”




Nothing remarkable here, you say? Correct. But what makes this mailing emblematic of 2020 is the large-type declaration on the address side:


PRESIDENT TRUMP’S

CORONAVIRUS

GUIDELINES FOR

AMERICA



The man who was screaming hoax in the spring was offering “guidelines”? This was in the same vein as his insistence that his name be on stimulus checks. Not his doing, but his vanity. 


But even worse than the name on the checks business was the fact that all throughout the COVID crisis Trump undermined the efforts of health professionals by scoffing at the very guidelines he supposedly came up with (and at those who proposed them). Listening to local and state authorities? How about rabble-rousing the yahoos to protest state mandates? No gatherings over 10 people? How many rallies did he hold with unmasked acolytes squashed together? How about that White House lawn congregation to introduce his Supreme Court selection? Must one suppose that all those trips to golf courses were necessary—not discretionary—travel?


338,000 (and counting) Americans dead from COVID-19—and the superspreader of bad examples and bad advice (Clorox, anybody?) still has not taken responsibility for the calamitous response to the pandemic.


*


Of all the COVID stories that appeared in the media there was one that stood out for me.


The headline:


Head of White House security office has his right foot amputated because of severe COVID-19 and is facing 'staggering medical bills,' his friends say*


The gist of the story:

Crede Bailey, who heads the White House security office, lost part of his lower right leg, including his foot, and a toe of his left foot during a months-long battle with COVID-19.

The article notes:

Dozens of top administration officials and people tied to the White House have contracted COVID-19, and President Donald Trump has consistently downplayed the threat the virus poses.

But here’s some ordinary Joe, not a politico, working for the government, put at risk by the flouting of the advice of professional health experts by the president and his obsequious minions, who created an unsafe working place. 


Nothing about that on a postal card! 


*


Go to hell, 2020!


***


* https://www.businessinsider.com/head-of-white-house-security-office-coronavirus-amputation-medical-bills-2020-12



Thursday, December 10, 2020

HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, the Prequel

Received a message in the email box today that Disney is planning a prequel of The Lion King. Now let me say first off that “prequel” is one of my most hated words; it ranks with another made-up word, “threepeat,” as a rank abomination. The word I most hate in the English language, though—because of what it sounds like—is “catsup” when used for the red stuff that you pour over your hamburger. It noses out “hashtag” for first place on the ugliness scale.

But anyway, back to “prequel.” It seems that every movie and TV producer is trying to keep their franchise alive by trying it out, no matter how silly it may be in the context of their original show. Example: Endeavour as a prequel to Inspector Morse. How could anyone believe anything other than that Morse was born full-grown as a gloomy middle-aged cuss?


Ruminating on this, I thought I might undertake a new endeavor of my own as a creator of prequels for classic texts. 


Thus we have:


HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK, the Prequel


SCENE 1:


[The Queen’s room at Elsinore.]


The King: My prayers have been answered. The Queen has been safely delivered of a son. I shall name him Hamlet, after me. [Turns to Captain Shute.] I will celebrate with my troops. Go, bid the soldiers, Shute.


The Queen [aside]: I would it had been a girl. I’d have named her Ingrid.


SCENE 2:


[A room in the castle. Five years later. Hamlet playing with his toy soldiers. The Jester enters.]


Hamlet: Why do you look so gloomy? You are supposed to cheer people up.


Jester: I lost all my money last night at a game of cards with some of the court musicians.


Hamlet: Alas, poor Yorick.


SCENE 3:


[Two years further on. A hallway in the school. Hamlet walking aimlessly. Enter the Principal.]


Principal: What are you doing here, you young scoundrel? Why aren’t you in your class? Is it 2B or not 2B?


SCENE 4:  


[Ten years later. Ophelia’s room. Ophelia reading a letter.]


Ophelia: Doubt that the ocean is wet.

               Doubt that we never met.

               Doubt that the heaven is high.

               But never doubt that my love will ever die.


[Enter her father, Polonius.]


Polonius: What are you reading, Ophelia?


Ophelia: Oh, just a recipe for Danish butter cookies.


Polonius: Well, as long as it isn’t any of that so-called poetry nonsense of Hamlet’s. In my day we knew how to write—tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Not that mushy June/moon stuff that passes for literature these days. . . . Oh, go into the kitchen and give cook that new cookie recipe. If it’s good, we might be able to put it in tins and sell it. It would be nice to get some new source of income.


SCENE 5:


[Four years later. A tavern in Wittenberg, frequented by university students.]


Students [drinking and singing]: 87 bottles of beer on the wall,

                                                     87 bottles of beer . . .


Hamlet: You know, there’s been one thing that has bothered me for the three years I’ve been here in Wittenberg: Which of you is Rosencrantz, and which of you is Guildenstern?


[Suddenly there enters a messenger, covered in mud from hard riding through the night.]


Messenger: Where is Prince Hamlet? I have come from the court in Elsinore.


Hamlet: I am Hamlet.


Messenger: Sire, I have some sad news for you—your father is dead.


Hamlet: Oh no! I can’t believe it. He was so alive when I last saw him.


Student 1: So sorry for you, Hamlet.


Student 2: He was a goodly man, in faith.


Student 3: He should have died hereafter.


Horatio: Wrong play, Scotty!


[The students all stand and raise their glasses high.]


All: The King is dead. Long live King Hamlet!


[Curtain.]