I’m not saying that I’m desperate for entertainment, but today I watched a GoPro video of the inside of a dishwasher while in use. Admit it, you’re curious too. Next, refrigerator lights.

The problem with wearing mittens in cold weather is that when some bleeping, not beeping, driver guns it, cutting you off and almost killing you as you cross the street, he can’t tell when you then give him the finger.

All the headlines about Omicron rising made me think of Jupiter Ascending, another science fiction tale that was bad news, though it only cost about 200 million and disappeared faster than the latest variant.

In accordance with the latest, ever-changing, safety guidelines, as I understand them, I am now requiring proof of vaccination on all my Zoom calls and asking that participants sit at least six feet away from their screens.

I tried to search online for a videotape on proper masking procedures but wound up with a video on how to use masking tape, which in case you are wondering, really hurts when you rip it off your face after going to the store.

I just noticed that it’s been two years since anybody new has subscribed to my blog. Given that, according to WordPress, over 409 million people view blog pages every month, I seem to be falling short.

I wonder why that is. Perhaps, in part, it’s because I haven’t had any contact with the outside world in that time.

That’s not true of course. I have looked out the window on occasion. Actually, at least twice a day, to make sure there’s still something there. (So far so good, in case you were wondering.)

And I’ve learned some valuable new skills. I’m now a wiz at self-checkout at the grocery. No prima donna here. Or should I say primo uomo? I guess not, according to the dictionary, which doesn’t attach the same unflattering, secondary meaning to the principal male singer in an opera that it does to the female lead.

I also have improved my ability to bend the last knuckle of my pinky on my right hand, though there’s still room for improvement, not to mention attention to the left. Pinky, by the way, comes from the Dutch for little finger, but, according to a site on Dutch genealogy I found, one finger, shockingly, wouldn’t be enough to hold back the water. I wonder how many subscribers that page has.

Thank you to everyone who inquired as to my condition. I’m fine. I didn’t slip and fall on the ice. I’m a little upset by the fact that no one seemed to care whether or not the pets of the cast of The Play That Goes Wrong had become infected and a little surprised that no one believed that I’d gone to the theater on the wrong night, given my history in that regard.

The correct answer to the quiz in the last blog was Other. When I got to the theater I couldn’t find my CDC proof of vaccination, so, instead, I offered, and, after hours of negotiation, had rejected, a letter of exemption provided by Novak Djokovic’s doctor, whereupon I was put in a taxi and asked to leave the neighborhood.

I’m kidding.  There was no taxi.

Today, on the first work day of 2022, I cleaned the apartment. So now I don’t have to worry about doing that again until 2023, or 2024, whichever comes first.

I’m not sure if my inability to make that determination is evidence of a specific erosion of arithmetic skills, a general cognitive decline, or a rift in the space-time continuum (which seems to take the blame for almost everything else), but, in any case, it’s a clear demonstration of cerebral atrophy in the age of Covid, confirming the adage, use it or . . . , something.

What I am sure about is that I’m a valued Amazon customer. Why else would they, having seen all the bamboo products I’ve been buying (towels, sheets, serving trays, waste baskets, scaffolding) send me a complimentary, complementary, red panda (giant pandas being out of stock, again)?

Okay, I haven’t yet purchased bamboo scaffolding, though it is available in the world and might come in handy as a sort of jungle gym for Ralph (the panda).

It also occurred to me that I could teach Ralph to type (after someone first teaches me), so that someday, perhaps, he could relieve me of the arduous task of transcribing these blogs from the audio cues I leave on my recorder while talking in my sleep.

Following the lead of the NFL and NBA, I have decided to upgrade my health and safety protocols. Fortunately, I was able to do this unilaterally because I represented both sides of the negotiation, which was not a conflict, though perhaps a potential psychiatric case study.

First, I initiated periodic self-testing. Every half hour I ask myself how I feel.

Next, I cancelled all international travel. Well, not all (though I might if I could), just my own.

And, though it wasn’t part of my original plan, I beta-tested the even stricter precaution of not leaving my home at all, the inspiration for this being brought about, not by any CDC guidelines, but by the fact that I couldn’t find my keys.

A couple hours later, having crawled through six rooms on my hands and knees, with flashlight in hand, and suffered through a humiliating investigation of my garbage, which fortunately, or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it, had been piling up since well before the keys disappeared, I was about to abandon all hope, as if I were entering the gates of an even worse hell, when, in a moment of sheer desperation, I peeked underneath the pillow on my bed, the last place I would have, and had, thought to look, much like when the police searched the rocker panels used to hide the drugs in The French Connection, and practically fainted from disbelief upon discovering that that was, in fact, were the elusive objects had chosen to hide from me, causing me to consider the possibility that I had put them there, while asleep, in an unconscious effort to restrict my movements in the Age of Omicron (not to be confused with that other supervillain sequel, Age of Ultron).

With too many people still refusing to get vaccinated, I may keep isolating, doing my own thing, and thereby obtaining the benefit of nerd immunity.

I just found out, after 15 months of continuous use, that Zoom has a “hide self view” feature, whereby others can see you, but you can’t see yourself, you know, like real life.

The birth year cutoff line for generation Alpha is 2024. Then, apparently, we move on to generation Beta, which seems like an unfair moniker that might cause millions of children to think that they are subservient and weak or merely part of a testing phase previously reserved for firstborns.

The Department of Defense’s Space Surveillance Network is currently tracking about 27,000 officially catalogued objects (space junk), as small as 2 inches in diameter, in orbit around the earth. And the number of discovered near-Earth objects (asteroids or comets that can pass within 30 million miles of earth’s orbit around the sun) is more than 20,000. But sure, there must be hundreds of flying saucers, with little green men inside, eluding us on their nightly spins around the neighborhood.

Before COVID, as my faithful readers (both of you) know, it was not uncommon for me to participate in several, disparate, cultural events in a single day, and find a way to tie them together in a logic-defying exposition.

Then, during the height of the pandemic (before my LEGO epiphany), my routine daily achievements included getting out of bed, eating, and streaming (not necessarily in that order), but not blogging, which led some followers (okay one), concerned about the communication blackout, to worry about my well-being.

I alleviated that disquietude through a chance in-person contact during today’s first big step toward normalcy, as I started this morning by helping to clean the park across the street, for which several passersby thanked me. The adulation was transformative, but not anticipated.

Not knowing in advance how successful my efforts might be, or the boatloads of praise from imperfect strangers that might be forthcoming, and concerned that my return to society be as triumphant as possible, I came out late last night and surreptitiously scattered some of my own garbage in places where only I would look for it.

Not satisfied with that one victory, today’s second adventure involved a visit to a friend’s yard sale, where, after establishing that the yard itself was not for sale, I practiced the essential skill of saying “no” that will become increasingly important as human interactions increase. The parachuting clown was tempting, but I remained strong, and left with all the cash and bitcoin that I brought with me.