We indeed live in strange times. At 8:00pm every night a disjointed crowd of quarantined dwellers, usually under the age of thirty and with a 5-day stubble, starts woohooing across town from their balconies as if they had just received free money, which they did in a sense, but not at 8pm and not every night. But one must sound off their woohoo, so it seems, and in the absence of sport events or non-edgy music performances people got so used to in the past fifteen years, they would earnestly schedule a daily time to pretend (even if for a moment and even if for a moment too long) that a touchdown was made and Ed Sheeran walked on stage at the same time.
At 8:02, a man, usually wearing a wife beater, would yell aimlessly “I had enough of that”. “Gee”, I think, he must have rooted for the opposite team, or, actually, had been sure he went to see an all female Led Zeppelin tribute concert fronted by a redhead knockout, but then found himself in front of a redhead nincompoop.
I myself miss my soccer team. The excitement of getting up in the early AM’s on the weekend to catch the live broadcast from Europe of yet another crushing defeat filled with dire frustration that lasts a week is there no more. But the perpetuating void that I am currently experiencing is, nonetheless, not obtained by the hopes for a win (I try to convince myself in utter denial). It is the innate yearn to identify with a cause that explains the devotedness and stupidity, a person like me, and probably many others, submerge themselves in. It does help if this yearn is associated with a team that actually wins (note to self for next life).
At 8:05, Jimmy Hendrix, brings his guitar and amp out on the balcony and starts playing the American anthem. Then, by the end of the first note, I am reminded that it is not Jimmy Hendrix that is playing but rather a student at MI (Musicians Institute - a Hollywood humdrum conservatory for dweebs), sharing his unfulfilled attempt at greatness with the rest of the block. The perquisite comes at 8:09 when the eager student tries to set his guitar on fire but inevitably torches his ruffled mane which smolders for a hot minute until he notices, causing him to sprint indoors and dunk his head in the toilet.
At 8:11 my dog quits. Wouldn’t you know, I am taking my dog for a walk in the midst of all this?! When my dog “quits” it means that she would pick a random spot along the way to stop everything and just park herself by sitting and columnizing her front legs, and in no shape or form would she let me persuade her to continue. This is when I start pulling her leash but in return receive a withering glare from her protrusive Husky eyes and a stern resistance from her burly neck. After a series of pleads in a variety of languages (none of them she speaks), at 8:13 I finally manage to convince her to continue by promising to watch an episode of Tiger King when we get back home - the one where Exotic Joe serenades at one of his young husbands’ memorial service.
Did I mention strange times? Well, that was just a 13-minute span.