by Tim Kelly

Day 1.

I am bored.  Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else … Lordy, why am I quoting “David Copperfield,” let alone keeping a diary? At this point, why not? What the hell else is there to do? 

Laundry? Yeah, sure.

Buck up, Buddy. This home confinement business is new to everybody, but I’ve high hopes this virus thing will end soon. After all, the President said he wants the economy restarted by Easter. 

Day … What day is it anyway? Lost track. Wednesday, Thursday, Friday? Not that it matters, since the only difference is the Post Office is closed on Sunday. 

Note to self: Remember to go to the Post Office. What about today? It’s been … Oh, it’s Sunday. Damn. Another note to self; Remember … oh, what the hell difference does it make?

Easter Sunday. 

Well, that didn’t work out, did it? The country’s still closed as tight as a crab’s behind, which is water-tight. Couldn’t even convince The Missis to let me go out and buy one of those hollow chocolate Easter Bunnies, or even a freakin Cadbury Egg. What’s this world coming to?

Day … Hey, you stopped counting, remember?  

On the millionth day at hooo-ooome, my true love said to me, “Please shower so you noooo longer reek.” A shower would be essential if I could get my hair cut, which I can’t, since that’s not considered an “essential” service.” Actually, may never cut my hair again. 

Yes! One last act of defiance against the social norms of post-WWII America when Former GI’s sons had less hair than a shorn Shropshire sheep. The Missus has been suspiciously silent on the matter. Well, except for when I first awake and shuffle into the living room.

“Nice ‘do’ you got goin’ there. What’s it called again? Right, ‘The Medusa.’”

Listen, Sweetness, you’re not exactly primed for “The Mrs. America Pageant” yourself, you know.

Did I actually say that? No, I’d like to live to see the end of this house arrest jazz.


Hey, here’s an idea. If every American billionaire put 20 percent of their incredible wealth into an account, the working-class stiffs wouldn’t have to worry about losing their homes, health insurance — you know, the basic stuff to keep food on the table and shoes on their kids’ feet. 

No, not holding me breath. Nor have I become a Marxist, thankyouverymuch. Still, the ginormous stimulus packages passed by Congress and signed by The Donald gotta be one of, if not the greatest act of socialism in this country’s history. Good lord! The federal government has become the economy. 

Ronald Reagan must be spinning in his grave. I can almost hear him. “What the hell? We won the Cold War, hastened the collapse of both the USSR and the Berlin Wall and now this? Hey, somebody go find Nancy. What do you mean ‘she’s not here?’ Really? Hoo boy.”

Come to think of it, where’s my cotton-pickin stimulus check?


Thinking about these stimulus packages. Sure, the feds had to step in and do something. Thing is, they’ll have to borrow the do-re-me. I read some economists say not to worry. Yeah, Ok. But trillions? Ah, why should I fret? I’ll be long gone before the bill comes due, said everyone on Capitol Hill every day since the end of the Great Depression. Or is that now, “The First Depression.”

Day … right, keep forgetting. Rainy Day, let’s go with that.

It says here the price of oil is in a negative. How the hell …?  Yeah, whatever. That would suggest that each time I get a fill-up the attendant should slip me some cash, right? This says no. I don’t get it. All I know is gas is cheap, for all the good that does since nobody’s driving anywhere.

As someone far more clever than me said, “My car gets three weeks to the gallon.”

A Sunny Day.

Can’t believe how much I dropped on groceries this morning. It’s not outside the realm of possibility to make one box of spaghetti last for five dinners, right?

I’ve got TP

I’ve got canned beans

I’ve got Pop Tarts — I mean, my girl

Who could ask for anything more?

First Dickens, Now Gene Kelly in “An American in Paris?” I gotta get out the house more often.

Morning, whatever… 

Holy crap! It’s snowing! This deep into April? The world really is …  Oh, it’s just wind-tossed pear blossoms. I’m goin’ back to bed.

Another #$%& Morning.

Got a can’t-lose idea. With all the cabin fever-suffering folks strolling past the house, after dark one night, should slip out the door and put up a sign reading:

U-Pick Dandelions

10 Cents a Quart

3 For a Quarter

Find a product, create a demand. Simple. Hell, if people willingly shell out over five bucks for a freakin cup of coffee…

Gotta work better than my High School brainstorm of:

Breast Exams

$7 each, or two for $10

What would have happened if I actually said that in the presence of plaid-skirted classmates, and one of ‘em replied, “You’re on, ‘Doc?’” Me running the 100-yard dash in 4.30 seconds, that’s what.

Some Non-enchanted Evening.

Feel sorry for sports reporters, who have no sports to report on. How do the broadcast guys fill air time? Let’s see what’s on ESPN.

“Baseball Night New York, Living Room Edition.”

Question, “What’s been your most memorable child meltdown you’ve had to witness while working from home?”

For one guy, who has kids 3 and 5, when someone knocked over the bubble liquid.

Dear God.

Morning Becomes Electra

Got a great idea for a drinking game. Every time some talking head on TV news throws out the term “The New Normal,” take a shot of Tequila. Good, right? 

Reminder: Edit new shopping list. Cross out “healthy snacks,” add “Tequila!”

Morning Has Bro-ken

Not going to the P.O. The bills can wait. No going shopping. Got enough food to pack a bomb shelter. 

There’s a bunch of jigsaw puzzles in the ga-rage. Don’t have the patience. Oh, look. An “NCIS” repeat. Click. “Pawn Stars?” Why the hell would somebody bring a Civil War sword into a Las Vegas pawn shop? Of, course for the money. But who goes to Vegas with a Civil War sword?


Oh, look, dandelions as far as the eye can see.

And where the hell’s my @#$% stimulus check?

Going back to bed. Wake me when it’s over.

Tim Kelly is a former congressional press secretary and award-winning reporter, editor, columnist and photographer. He has lived on the North Fork for 30 years. For his mid-life crisis, he became a bagpiper.

East End Beacon
The East End Beacon is your guide to social and environmental issues, arts & culture on the East End of Long Island.

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