Desperate times call for desperate measures. I’ve been doing all my personal business online for years anyway, so now I’m burning all my mail, just in case it’s contaminated. It’s not really a big deal, except for the catalogs (good thing Sears stopped sending their whopper out in 1993), then it starts getting a little smokey.

And now, for the first time in thirty years, I cracked open some eggs today. They were just as I remembered them, but not at all like they are when someone at the diner brings them to my table, fully executed. And I did it in one try. (In anticipation of this day, I’ve been working out – especially wrist exercises.) Tomorrow, I’m going to do it again and, if all goes well, move to step two, scrambling them. The next day I might get adventuresome and add cheese, if I’m feeling particularly empowered. Then at some point, I’ll actually eat them. But I haven’t investigated that part online yet and I don’t want to get it wrong.

After that, the next logical step, given the increasingly frightening thought of going to the grocery, will be to start a chicken farm on my balcony (as soon as I get the nerve to go out on it) – two hens should be enough. Research tells me that I can get 5-7 years of laying from each, which should get me well past the end of any further extensions of the shelter-in-place order (I hope).

“In Space, No One Can Hear You Scream” (tagline for the movie Alien, which, despite my having very little to do, I couldn’t watch all of the other day because it’s still too scary). Did anyone hear me scream this morning? I woke up without an Internet connection. You can survive weeks without food (and days without water), and, if you’re Sigourney Weaver, the most disgusting creatures imaginable over the course of several adventures (why did Ripley keep going back for more?), but in the coronavirus era, one day without the Internet may be enough to kill you.

Nevertheless, I remained relatively calm, taking deep breaths that served not only to help in that regard, but also now as part of a routine, daily health check. I unplugged everything I could find that might even remotely affect my connection – my router, my modem, my electric toothbrush (you never know) – and then, after counting to several hundred decimal places of pi (which I memorized a few days ago after running out of episodes of Picard to binge watch on CBS All Access), I rebooted everything but my galoshes.

All those years of clean living were not in naught as my tablet and laptop sprung to life, causing me to put away the bottle of pills I was going to swallow if virtually left home alone (by the way the bottle was empty and made of plastic, so I probably would have survived, especially with a little BBQ sauce on it).

I read the news today, oh boy. So let’s talk about something else.

I’ve attended a class via Zoom and scheduled a piano lesson via FaceTime, and am now considering using one of those platforms for a much-needed haircut.

As sheltering-in-place lingers on, I find that I no longer have the need for clothes, so am considering turning my walk-in closet into a gym, complete with a sauna fueled by my humidifiers and space heaters.

I’ve memorized up to page 70 out of 2264 in Webster’s New Universal Unabridged Dictionary (2003), but hundreds of new words and definitions are being added each year, so I may never complete my task.

With inspiration from Iron Chef and the old Shell Wonderful World of Golf, I’ve constructed a miniature golf course out of pasta shells in my living room, but have no one to play with.

As demonstrated above, I have decided to start ending sentences with prepositions, with the hope that it will, like the more dangerous task of shaving with my non-dominant hand, help form new synapses between neurons in my brain (synaptogenes), with the ultimate goal of finishing the dictionary by increasing my brain function, somewhere short of the expansion, however, achieved by Scarlett Johansson in the movie Lucy.

And finally, each day, as boredom inevitably sets in, I consider cleaning my oven, which I’ve never used and defrosting my freezer, which has no frost.

Seeing two guys playing frisbee in the park reminded me of the under-appreciated 1994 Coen brothers movie, The Hudsucker Proxy, and made me wonder where all the people with their hula hoops are.

MLB is now considering playing quadruple-headers in an effort to play a full 162-game season. Knowing that such an intense schedule could give rise to an increased likelihood of injury, the league has retracted its ban on performance-enhancing drugs. In order to speed up play to squeeze four games into every day, it has eliminated manager challenges and trips to the mound; instituted a new rule whereby hitting a foul ball with two strikes results in a strikeout; eliminated commercials, except for products that can be bought online, given that all stores are closed anyway; and, in a move that also will alleviate the concerns over electronic sign-stealing, it has banned the giving of signs. The Houston Astros have announced their intention to appeal that decision, but since appeals are no longer allowed, they are expected to fail.

With the news that local jails are releasing hundreds of prisoners (and thus thousands nationwide) in an effort to protect other inmates and staff from the coronavirus, I’m waiting to see a conspiracy theorist declare that the virus was created in order to engineer a massive, elaborate jail break. If we really were living in a DC Comics world, it wouldn’t be hard to imagine the Joker masterminding such a scheme.

Now that Las Vegas has instituted drive-through peep shows and nude hand sanitizer wrestling, what’s next? Send your suggestions to Washington, where they’re trying to figure out ways to reinvigorate the economy.

I’m trying to limit my trips to the grocery store, so I’m stretching out my food supplies, but is my yogurt supposed to be turning green?

If baseball hadn’t announced a delay to the start of the season, would anybody have noticed?

Trying to find Purell is pure hell.

I’m thinking of buying an invisible-dog leash, so I can walk through the park without getting stopped by the police.

Then I’m going to get that invisible dog to teach me how better to sit and stare out the window all day.

Now that I’ve watched all eight Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies, what next? Why haven’t we had a movie teaming up the Avengers with James Bond?

I couldn’t get interested in the new television show Dispatches from Elsewhere, but I love its catchphrase – divine nonchalance. As Sally (Kristen Chenoweth) from You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown would say, that’s My New Philosophy.

a better night’s sleep. For the first time since the defecation hit the fan, I had trouble sleeping. But it wasn’t because I’m the Prisoner of Zenda, or because my IRA is so far in the red this year that it crept off the right side of the visible spectrum, or even because I consider myself to be an abject failure for not knowing the answer to 11 down in the last five consecutive New York Times crossword puzzles I worked on, but rather because I’ve been hit so hard emotionally by the four thousand ASPCA television commercials for neglected and abused animals that I’ve seen in the last ten days.

more room in my refrigerator, at least for a day. As I couldn’t sleep, I decided to grab my ID and head to Whole Foods for their senior hour, looking for some action. I’m proud to say I was the first one in the door and the first one out, maneuvering the aisles as if I were a stunt driver in Ford v Ferrari. I would have lingered, but they weren’t playing any oldies on the sound system and there were no two-for-one drink specials.

rid of my pet tapeworm, which will clean out the refrigerator too quickly. Think about the effect sheltering-in-place would have had on Audrey II in Little Shop of Horrors. (Even with all the theaters closed, I can still sneak in references.)

someone to help me with the little things, like the intern employed by Seinfeld’s Kramer, who, like me, was “a solitary man with a messy apartment that may or may not contain a chicken.”

putting up a nerf ball basket in my living room.

teaching myself how to juggle.

whether we’ll all wind up conditioning ourselves to wash our hands whenever we sing happy birthday, as opposed to the other way around.

whether there’s any reason to check my mail.

whether I should represent my neighborhood in the upcoming Hunger Games, senior edition.

calling people I don’t even like.

how many people will get infected carrying the Olympic Torch.

pretending it’s all only a movie, which reminds me that it’s time to look for the closest drive-in theater.

whether I should trust the guy selling coronavirus test kits out of the back of his van across the street.

using old socks as gloves.

starting to bet on the weather, the only action Las Vegas is still hosting.

rewriting the lyrics to South Park’s Blame Canada to Blame China.

throwing out everything I own, except what I need for juggling, so that I don’t have to worry about disinfecting it.

setting my alarm clock for June.

feels like he’s in an escape room game that he can’t figure out?

is leaving bread out to grow mold in the hope of discovering a treatment?

has heard enough news about Tom Brady?

would sink to watching a live curling tournament if it were available?

is keeping track of how many times in a row he doesn’t get an error message when extracting the flash drive from his laptop? (It’s the little things.)

wonders how long it will take for our first made-for-tv coronavirus movie? Production studios are shut down, but next year’s Oscars may have to add a category for home movies.

has hit the limit (mine was apparently 100) on phone numbers he can block?

wonders whether there is now a market for fake IDs for people in their 50s who want to pass for 60?

never liked shaking hands in the first place? “The history of the handshake dates back to the 5th century B.C. in Greece. It was a symbol of peace, showing that neither person was carrying a weapon.”  I guess concealed carry wasn’t allowed back then.

flosses before using Zoom video?

had to look up the word for fear of crowds (which we now all have)? – enochlophobia

has eliminated running with the bulls from his bucket list and replaced it with having a meal with friends?

If this were an episode of Star Trek Voyager, the crew would be put into stasis while the holographic doctor worked on, and of course found, a cure, in under an hour.

Does social distancing signal the end of car-pool lanes and the use of anatomically-correct inflatable dummies placed in the passenger seat to fool the car-pool police? And how about dummies as automatic pilots in airplanes?

If every city follows the lead of Hoboken and restricts restaurant business to take-out and delivery, that should free up a lot of indoor space to house inmates to help address the issue of social distancing in overcrowded prisons, where it’s known as solitary confinement.

While stepping outside for some fresh air, while we’re still allowed to do so, I noticed that everyone else was walking a dog, which led me to wonder whether dogs chase balls we throw only to make us feel better about picking up their poop. And are people hoarding those little plastic bags just like they’re hoarding toilet paper?

While walking, I noticed a sign on Dave & Buster’s saying that you must be 18 or over to enter the premises. I wonder whether establishments will start restricting entrance to those under the age of 60, which would result in the largest class action lawsuit in history if anyone 60 or older actually wanted to enter a Dave & Buster’s.

Most of us seem to have gotten past shaking hands, and good riddance, but other more practical-oriented habits, like touching door handles, pushing elevator buttons, and breathing when around people, may be tougher to break, especially the last one.