Me vs. the Tough Guys

Today's entry follows a simple idea; but, since it's so wordy, I fear that readers might not grasp what I'm trying to do; so here I'll tell you, up top, in plain speech, exactly what to expect:

The premise is that some tough guys start complaining about their new life under quarantine. They have three main grievances:

1. lack of food
2. lack of sleep
3. lack of love

—so my own part of the entry consists in answering these three concerns with very wise advice. That's all, folks!

Obligatory image

(While sifting thru today’s junk mail, I noticed two ads that were exactly the same size; so I cut out the sale prices & brand name from one of the ads & let the other ad show thru underneath.)

Thus saith Bryan:

Jesus, dear diary! how many things have I confessed to you, so far? Why have you sent no representative from Diary Land to respond to anything that I’ve blab’d about?

Unless it’s the case that all those instant-chat messages and emails that I keep receiving from my readership on the Internet are actually sent to my inbox by you, O dearest, and every one of them is signed by your name (I’m now stealing a trope from “Song of Myself” §48) — hmm... in that case, I leave them where they are, and do not bother to respond to them: for I know that wheresoever I go, others will punctually come for ever and ever. Therefore, in the end, it is I who neglect you, and not the other way around.

Seriously tho, dear diary, what would you like me to talk about, now that I’ve disquieted you & summoned you up from your peaceful slumber? I have nothing on my mind; but jotting thots does me good — for, without sermonizing, the times are difficult to navigate: the angst comes back; and I’m not yet convinced that this is the best of all possible worlds.

When I say “times are hard” I’m talking about the current pandemic-lockdown. It’s not at all difficult for me, but I’ve noticed a lot of fierce warriors complaining about discomfort, and their complaints affect me so acutely that I almost begin to feel discomfort on their behalf. Again, from “Song of Myself” (this time from near the end of §33), I quote:

Agonies are one of my changes of garments,
I do not ask the wounded person how he feels, I myself become the wounded person.

Now, I know that a few days ago I reported that some of my quarantined friends who aforetime appeared to be “on the brink of psychological collapse” are now “accepting their doom cheerfully”; but I also have friends who were among the toughest creatures from outer space (Earth is a planet in outer space, thus earthlings have as much of a claim to this designation as any other alien), and these tough guys seem to be having more trouble re-tailoring their mind-fleece to fit this new desolation than weasels like I. It’s as tho Darwin’s fittest, who survived best hereunto, can’t gill this new poison. Like if bulky, menacing U.S. football players were faced with an ultimatum from Mother Nature herself: “Learn ballet or perish.”

So, to contrast my own unusual case with those whose chiseled physique & handsome exterior always made me feel jealous in the old world, I Bryan Ray, who am writing this epistle to you in such large letters with my very own hand, wish to tell you how easy I have it...

“Ye see how big a letter I typed unto you in Georgia font.”
—St. Paul the Apostle (Galatians 6:11)

“I Tertius, who wrote this essay, salute you in the Lord.”
—St. Paul the Apostle (Romans 16:22)

Round 1

So the Darwinners (Darwinian Winners) and all the Rugged Individuals, wholly self-sufficient, who dominated the pre-pandemic universe, now come weeping to me, complaining that they don’t have enough calories to bulk up with — that is, they’re short on food:

Well I Bryan eat three square meals every day. I have roast duck for breakfast. I snack on Swedish meatballs with gravy. I enjoy pasta with green sauce. I keep a stash of marmalade in the pantry. I bake a potato, add a pat of butter, and sprinkle it with sea salt. I hand-milk my goat. (Her name is Cheri, from the French word meaning “darling”; as in “mon chérie, my darling!”) I also eat eggs — but only from chickens who love what they do for a living, and who roam on a farm whose pasture has a nationalized healthcare service plus some level of guaranteed basic income, which is robust enough to support even those who choose to remain “unemployed” (since composing experimental blagues is not considered “work” among chickenkind).

But I invite all the sniffling, whining tough guys to join me in my feasts; therefore we break bread together remotely, online, during my daily webinars (which is the slang term for “seminars conducted on the Dark Satanic Web”).

Round 2

Next, these tough guys complain that they can’t get no sleep:

Well I myself get boatloads of sleep every night. I go to bed at nine o’clock, and I wake up at five. That’s eight hours exactly. (Some people work from nine to five; but I’m a poet, so sleep IS my work.) And I always have good dreams. I never have nightmares (that’s reality’s job) — no, my visions are filled with friends and lovers and splendor. Our dreamworld is mostly populated by females, and they all start out clad; but disrobing is easy, and it happens very frequently. And the males who live here are all like Michaelangelo’s David — perfect friends who show compassion and make you feel welcome. And when I hang out with my best friends (all my friends end up being my very best friends, cuz my dreams are grandissimo), we always bring along several damsels, all of whom are smart and lovely, and we sail around the world and save dolphins and sea lions from giant squids and monsters who are attacking them; and then after the battle we always befriend every creature — those whom we rescued and those whom we bested — so they join our crew and follow in the wake of our ship while we coast forth in search of newfangled civilizations. And sometimes our ship has a motor, and sometimes there’s oars — it just depends what we feel like doing that afternoon. (Rowing a longship across the Atlantic is good for the heart.)

So I invite you tough guys who suffer from insomnia to follow my nightly regimen of sleeping soundly & having idyllic dreams.

Bonus Sparring
(to heighten suspense before the Last Round)

Also I forgot to mention that in addition to eating fine food, I drink the best beverages, constantly. — I happened to overhear some tough guys crying that it’s hard to stop smoking cigarettes during this quarantine, & yet they’re abstaining; also it’s difficult to cut down on alcohol, & yet they’re tapering. One tough guy even claimed to have stopped boozing entirely. When I asked what the idea is behind all the austerity, this Alpha Leader answered, saying:

“We MUST keep our immune system STRONG so that it can KILL the illness; so, since smoking & drinking WEAR DOWN the body and make it harder to FIGHT OFF disease, we all quit these habits COLD-TURKEY and replaced them with STRENGTH TRAINING.”

So I said, “Thanks for the explanation; I think I understand now. But do you want to know what actually ‘WEARS DOWN’ the body more than smoking & drinking?”

And the Alpha Chief said: “Wut?”

And I said: “Your attitude. I suggest instead that you all follow my example: eat, drink, and be merry. For I didn’t even smoke before this pandemic, I’d never even touched a cigarillo, so I didn’t have any nicotine addiction to tempt me; but I went the polar opposite direction of you: I decided to start smoking casually between meals, and now I feel terrific — I hope someday to progress to the level of chain-smoker. Also I drink first thing in the morning, when I awake: I walk straight to the wet bar and pour myself a liberal amount of vodka; then mix it with a dash of orange juice, squeezed freshly from my own Floridian grove. Then I gulp down a tall glass of pinot grigio — I don’t use a wine goblet: I reserve my wine goblets for 94-proof gin — and, when finished with this, I enjoy two European shots of white rum with tonic. And for the noontime and evening of my day, I follow the template of this morning routine, repeating or varying the servings and amounts as seems most moral.”

“Bah! Humbug!” sez Mr. Alpha, “you’re gonna DIE if you continue in this vein!”

And I answer: “I shall not surely die. All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses. By the way, why is immortality the only secret that you tough guys insist on keeping?”

Here my good Alpha Soldier breaks down in tears and I hug him and pat his back; and he converts to my religion — soon his muscles soften up, his stomach grows paunchy, and he achieves equanimity. Then his crew follows suit.

[TO RECAP: No one should suffer another Great Depression without also enjoying another Great Depression — its misfortunes should be proportionate to its beneficences.]

Round 3

Lastly, the few tough guys who remain out there in the cold world, who have managed to avoid joining my Black Mass Movement (named not after the “travesty of a Roman Catholic Mass in worship of Satan”; no—this color was chosen as an homage to the astrological phenomenon consisting of “a region of space having a gravitational field so intense that neither matter nor radiation can escape,” also known as a black hole, because my teachings attract not just human beings but photons of light and other purchasable items — even money itself disappears without a trace into the Fun Church of Bry) — I say, the musclebound holdouts who remain sulking sadly outside of my circle lift their grumblings in a joint murmur, which goes something like this:

Their final moan is that they’re deprived of “love” — by which they mean fornication. It turns out that, in the days before lock-down, the tough guys were able, at fine brothels everywhere, to purchase the blatantest thrills that touch has to offer. But NOW these lugworms are trapped inside their flats, without any dirt to creep in or fish to eat them. So here is my preaching:

Contact your local library, give them your card number, and request that they set out for curbside pickup a book that contains full-color reproductions of the artworks of Pierre-Auguste Renoir. Just look at those.