Stumbled onto a domestic zoo (cont.): Blog in the time of Corona

                            

        

Last week I spent a good thousand words on three cats that have been serving as my housemates at my brother’s house. Beautiful, loving cats that I am unfortunately allergic to. These cats have been very entertaining, especially during Zoom meetings; I am starting to think these cats are interested in starting an academic career and are literally networking with my supervisors. But the cats are mere extras to this beautiful animal tale. There is only one leading lady. One hairy, lazy, silly leading lady. Leyla.

Leyla. She is a superstar. The cats are cute and all, but no one can take their eyes off Leyla. She is gorgeous and pairs this beauty with the best personality you could ask for in a dog. She is sweet to a fault. My three year old nephew would annoy her, his mother would tell him off and Leyla would bark at the mother for telling off her assaulter. She is sweet, not necessarily smart. Playing hard to get is certainly not her strong suit. She loves everyone she has ever met, she will lie on the floor and demand to be petted within seconds of meeting them. She once cornered a cat-lover friend of mine by the door and blocked any exit, leaving her no choice but to pet her endlessly. Not that that is a bad thing; I would pet Leyla for the rest of my life and die a happy woman.

If you have read about Leyla in another post, you would remember that she is very popular with pedestrians and car drivers alike. Cars stop to ask what breed she is. Cars behind those cars pop their head out to get a closer look. It seems no one is in a hurry lately. A woman jumped out of a café to take a picture. And I get it, Leyla looks like a bear, it’s a win-win situation; you get an exotic picture and don’t die. She looks so much like a lovely teddy bear that a little girl once followed us for a block shouting ‘Bear! Bear!’. She and Leyla spent a good five minutes lovingly petting one another. Leyla was taller than the girl. When I finally pulled Leyla away because it was starting to rain, the little girl burst into tears. I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t leave Leyla with her. I would then burst into tears. And I am harder to console. The other day I was stopped by an elderly lady who again wished to pet Leyla. She asked what her breed she was and then her name. I promptly replied and she said ‘Oh I know of Leyla, my grandson has told me about her’. It seems that Leyla is nothing short of a canine celebrity in my area, complete with paparazzi (café lady), groupies (four year old girl), a reputation (grandmother) and, thanks to my blog, tabloids dedicated to her life.

She is fantastic and sweet, as most dogs are. Seeing as dogs are also thought to be vigilant guards of the household, we have frequently wondered, what would Leyla do in case of danger? What if someone were to rob the house? Chances are she would once again roll over and ask the rubber gloved intruder to pet her. This would luckily be a good diversion; petting her is so rewarding, I don’t think there would be any time or desire left for a proper robbery. Breaking and entering and petting would be the crime. My brother suggests that Leyla would sense the danger, react and protect. I have, again, good reason to doubt this. In one of our night walks I got a nice little preview of Leyla’s vigilante’s side. There isn’t one. We were walking down the street when a tiny dog emerged and starting barking and scratching Leyla’s face. Its bark was embarrassing, Leyla could simply fart in his general direction (Monty Python-wise) and the dog would most likely fly to the opposite pavement. But Leyla just stood there, no paw, no bark, no fart for God’s sake! Just stood there being barked at and scratched by this figurine of a dog. I was embarrassed. I was pulling on her lease (the other dog walker was certainly enjoying the throw down) secretly hoping Leyla would come to her senses and dominate the encounter. It never happened. I have resorted to a different route to protect this oversized sheep from that stupid, furry gremlin. A few minutes later, a car backfired. Or fireworks went off. Or someone shot a tin can, we will never know. Leyla started running as fast as she could. Never looked back. I swear, if she could tear off her leash and leave me behind, she would have.

And with this post I pledge to cut down on rants about my mundane everyday life. But admittedly, it is mundane, but lovely. Days go by and I don’t even realise because they are full of these furry creatures that do not care about face masks, social distancing, second waves and antiseptics. Not that these aren’t fun conversation pieces, but cuddles are just so much better. This will also mark the last of my ‘Blog in the time of corona’ for the time being. It will return in the unlucky event of a  second wave, or hopefully, never.

Stumbled onto a domestic zoo: Blog in the time of Corona

There is something that is not said enough on the news, but there has been a significant decrease of pop culture. Where are the new MCU releases? Where are new movie releases in general? Where are the new panel shows? And, I never thought I would say this, but what are the Kardashians up to (this was written a month ago, the Kardashians are currently running for office)? These might seem insignificant and pop culture might seem like a luxury unbefitting to our times, but some of us are actually resorting to exercise due to lack of pop culture. This cannot go on. Anyway, this is my way of saying that this post is once again more about everyday life and less about my recent demise into a Lin-Manuel Miranda wormhole. I blame a friend for that. She knows who she is.

Everyday life is now synonymous with animals. I am staying at my brother’s house and cohabiting with three huge cats and one huge dog. I have already mentioned Leyla on this blog, she is a loveable new foundland that weighs 40 kilos and looks like she weighs 60. Sounds like a crowded household? Add two kids under three years old to the mix. I will not be talking about the kids because at some point they will grow up, learn how to read and chase me down for having written this post. The animals, on the other hand, are a safer bet. I doubt Leyla will master reading any time soon.

Let me begin with our three friendly felines as they need proper introductions. The cats I have mentioned less on this blog, because I have been trying to avoid them, allergies and all. I have a mild allergy to cats, and I say mild because I would otherwise already be dead. Life would be easier if said cats had gotten the memo that they are indeed cats and not dogs. You know how cats are said to be dismissive and indifferent? Not these cats! These cats want love 24/7 and they are not afraid to ask for it. The one named ‘Little One’, who is anything but little, will meow and purr and climb on any limb of yours until he is sufficiently petted. We are still not sure what ‘sufficiently’ is, as we have certainly not reached that level yet. He is the kind of cat you nudge away, kick, and ghost but just doesn’t get the hint. Not to mention he considers the baby’s stroller his personal means of transportation. Little one is so clingy, we recently realised his own cat brothers are avoiding him. It is actually the only way to keep the rest of them away; stay close to Little one.

The second cat carries the original and imaginative name of ‘Little Grey One’. Mind you, these do sound better in Greek. At least this one is still grey.  Little grey one loves cuddles and jumping on your lap, but nothing tops his ultimate desire; the duvet. The forbidden duvet. As I mentioned, I am allergic to cats and until recently tried very hard to resist those little balls of fur, and in my attempt to keep on breathing, I have vouched to keep them away from my bedroom. A much failed attempt. I took measures straight away and starting locking the door when I was away. I realised soon enough that shutting the door won’t cut it, because, surprise, they can turn a handle just fine. But mistakes happen, doors are sometimes left unlocked. Little grey one has been frequently found in my bed swirling around, making sure to leave as many of his cat hair as possible on my duvet and pillow. However, I did once enter my unlocked room, finding the bed untouched, feeling sweet, sweet relief. Short lived relief. Little grey one meowed from within my suitcase, proud head popping up from a stack of socks and sundresses. Again, making sure he got his little grey hair all over my clothes. He left so much hair, vegans on the street would stop to ask if I was wearing cat fur and throw red paint on me. So I took further measures, I hung my clothes in the closet. All was well until one morning, in deep sleep, I felt something brush up against my foot. The ninja cat had silently opened the door as I was sleeping and climbed onto bed with me. I don’t know who jumped more abruptly, me or the cat. And yes, you have understood correctly, I am an adult woman terrorised by a cat.

The last cat is ginger, I am sure you are able to put the name together this time round, ‘Little Ginger One’. Little ginger one is very independent and a proper loner. He was the first one to brave the staircase, the first one to approach Leyla, whom he likes much better than his own brothers. I can’t say much for Little red one because he is so independent, I hardly know him. I have succumbed to petting him a couple of times, leaving me with disgusting red spots on my hands, but a warm feeling in my tummy. Stupid, adorable cat.

I was going to then talk about Leyla, the love of my life, but this blabbering of mine has gone on for too long and will continue next week. There are three main questions that arise from this post:

•         Should I be worried that I dedicated a whole blog post to three cats at the age of 25?

•         Should I get a life?

•       Should I get more cats?  

Stumbled onto a ‘Staged’ fifteen minute comedy series

I am going to continue to pretend I have regular readers. I mean I do; it is my housemate and a couple of friends, maybe an aunt if the photo is intriguing. So my regular readers will know that I consider the pairing of Tennant and Sheen for ‘Good Omens’ to be one of the best in recent TV history. Is it their individual flair and sexiness? Is it their chemistry and further combined sexiness? I cannot stress the word sexiness enough! Any project with these two names attached is a project I would binge in a single night. As I did.

Staged was a good opportunity; everyone is in lockdown and slowly losing their mind. The show practically wrote itself. The premise of the show is that the actors were meant to do a play together, which is put on hold because of the pandemic. The director suggests continuing rehearsals via Zoom to get a leg up on everyone else in West End. A good idea, almost devious, with poor execution. Tennant and Sheen, playing themselves, reluctantly agree, but there are numerous obstacles to their rehearsal, ranging from well-kept casting secrets to recycling mishaps. Their loving encounters turn to childish feuds and all of it is paired up with fun, witty (s)wordplay. They both end up insulting each others’ hair; a disgrace, considering they both have beautiful hair.

It is a simple and quick mockumentary; six episodes of 15 minutes each. Fifteen relatable minutes, as Zoom has taken over our lives and significantly limited our patience. The main differences with my Zoom meetings were the video and sound quality; this was not your standard Zoom recording, courtesy of the BBC, and the writers behind the episodes. I assume my Zoom meetings would also be much more enjoyable if they were scripted, regardless of image resolution. A suggestion for my next supervision, maybe. The fifteen minute episodes were wonderful. I assume it is best to watch one every night to end your day with joyous banter from two members of the Royal Shakespeare Company, but I for one watched the whole thing 12-4am. The running gags are hilarious and I have featured one in this post, which may go unnoticed but it will surely make me happy when I proof read. I do proof read even though it may not seem like it.

What I re-realised with ‘Staged’ is how refreshing it is that British comedies are adapting to our current ‘less is more’ attention span. I have mentioned it before that I do get worried when I can’t get through a two minute YouTube clip without checking the run time and almost force myself to stick through longer, boring clips. And I grew up thinking a 20 minute run time was as short as it could get; I can’t imagine how the vine generation feels. It makes sense that series would adjust, in fact, it was long overdue. ‘State of the Union’ also did this brilliantly, showing us a couple meeting up roughly ten minutes before their marriage counselling to have a drink and gossip. I guess it helps that they’ve got lovable comedy leads, like Chris O’Dowd, available. There is even a new platform on the rise, having paid attention to, well our lack of attention. Quibi is taking this idea further and will make a platform strictly for 10 minute series and it is widely thought that this will bring down Netflix. I can definitely see how it would work for comedy and how many talented writers currently working on sketch shows could get involved. Drama might be a bit more tricky, but if I got depressed withing ten minutes of Pixars’ ‘Up’, I am sure I can feel all sorts of things duing a Quibi drama. Again, on the one hand I do worry that we will all end up with ADHD, but on the other hand, why not embrace this fast-paced entertainment we yearn for? And in turn, why not bring down Netflix?

It was very fun and a good reminder that I was in love with David Tennant for most of high school. Only to watch ‘Good Omens’ and also fall in love with Michael Sheen. It seems that middle-aged Britons who have played Hamlet are my type. I am going to die alone. I am thankful for this limited series, because it gave me a great amount of giggles and was there for me when Frasier wasn’t. I grossly underestimated how many seasons of Seattle’s finest I should have taken with me on holiday and Staged came to the rescue. Sheen and Tennant do meta in a lovely, British, self-deprecating manner. Best kind.

Stumbled onto J. K. Rowling’s cancellation

This is less of a fun post, but more about pop culture. Soon I will be back to my normal rhythm of large posts on why the Emmys should have nominated Good Omens in more categories. In fact, a love letter to David Tennant and Michael Sheen is on its way. However, this has been a particular time, featuring a pandemic and a worldwide unrest about racial injustice and police brutality. I couldn’t exactly post my Ramy season 2 review. However, Harry Potter and, frankly, everything this woman has written has been incredibly formative for me. If it weren’t for her books, I would probably be illiterate. Well, not illiterate but certainly less appreciative of literacy. It has therefore been a turbulent time lately; how do you deal with your favourite author’s transphobic comments?

The situation is as follows. Rowling had liked a tweet from a transphobic user, Maya Forstater, whose contract wasn’t renewed or ‘was fired’ because of her transphobic tweets. Rowling later followed another user that strongly believes in the importance of biological sex. This was all topped by her own tweet this month, mocking the use of ‘people who menstruate’ instead of the word ‘women’ on an article on menstruation. This caused her collaborators to come out against her and all round twitter attack on her profile, for excluding trans men with her sarcastic tweet. She then posted a long reply on her blog, explaining her position on gender, sex, feminism and ‘cancel culture’. This post can be found here and is worth the read.

I will get a few things out of the way, just so people can quit reading this post accordingly. First and foremost, J. K. Rowling has indeed expressed transphobic views. There is little difference between opposing entrance to trans women in female bathrooms on the basis of rapists taking advantage of the situation and Trump saying ‘Build the wall’. It is simply less familiar. Secondly, denying someone their notion of self in the name of free speech is deplorable. Rowling has indicated such support for Forstater, who went to court defending her case by saying that her so-called philosophical view that gender is biological should be respected. Free speech is a right and privilege and if someone wishes to exercise theirs in a painful manner, then they knowingly agree to the respective consequences. Thirdly, as someone who engages with academic research in their everyday life, there is nothing more annoying than using the word ‘research’, without applying it. What I mean to say is, it feels like Rowling’s ‘citations’ of academic research seem biased. It is good to back your opinion with research, but lest we forget that there is a study claiming that the measles vaccine causes autism, with a minuscule sample size and a number of misconducts, versus a whole array of studies finding no relationship; you could use either and say that you are basing your opinion on research. I am not saying Rowling has done this intentionally, but implicit bias is a real problem. She also failed to provide sources, which I still do not understand; especially since her whole argument is that she is well informed on the subject.

This is where I stand. And now the rest of this post will make a case for not cancelling Rowling, not so quickly anyway. I will acknowledge that I am not personally affected by her comments in the sense that I am lucky enough to identify with my sex assigned at birth. Therefore, my whole argument for retaining Rowling in our Twitter feed and her books on our bookcase is likely obsolete. I have spent hours debating this with friends, without sitting down and making sure my train of thought is carefully organised and await similar replies. I have made a fool of myself, simply because instead of opening said article on menstruation, I assumed the article was about the gender gap and equal pay. I should also acknowledge a bias myself, having discussed Rowling’s bias; I do love her work tremendously. But this post is more of an expressed worry regarding the cancel culture that has gained ground during quarantine.

My first objection in this cancellation regards the Daniel Radcliffes who jumped to the opportunity to write off Rowling publicly, making sure to stay at the right side of hashtag history, without taking the time to refine their statements according to the topic at hand. Rowling’s comment regarded the inclusion of trans men in the ‘people who menstruate’ category. Radcliffe didn’t bother with such details and wrote a short, generic, clean statement on how trans women are women. He is not wrong. I don’t think he is sincere either. Everyone from the Potterverse with a Twitter account followed, again with little more than a hashtag. I cannot condemn using Twitter, with its character limit, as a platform because I would then have to condemn almost everyone I admire. It is a sign of the times. But boarding the ‘cancel’ train, without practically adding to an important conversation, is taking advantage of a situation and it is a tad more unfortunate because they are taking advantage of the demise of a woman who gave such an important piece of literature the world and their careers. Like it or not, Harry Potter is a milestone in modern literature. I need to carefully point out that I in no way suggest that Rowling is beyond reach because of her contribution; there were wonderful, on-point, informative twitter replies that put her right in her place. I just felt that some people just saw an opportunity to toot their own horn.

The most important reason I suggest not cancelling Rowling is that I feel hers is an ill-informed, yet well intended letter. She should be corrected, she should be called out, but not cancelled. There are people with misunderstandings; society has only recently been more open to this subject. They are a big part of the population and there is tons of grey area. For example, I know that the scientific community is also cautious of exempting biological sex. This is because in a lot of statistical analyses, sex is frequently a significant factor. It is not a matter of making our lives more difficult, it is a matter of losing important information regarding how different drugs or different interventions work. This was a point Rowling made in her reply as well; that certain diseases are more prominent on one sex over the other. The same way blood type is important in a medical setting, it might be still premature to dissolve the notion of biological sex for medical purposes. If research shows that it indeed an insignificant contributor, then science will adjust. I believe in the adaptation of science as much as that. This belief in scientific adaptation is my main cause of disbelief in Rowling’s statements. I doubt that decisions on appropriate ages for transition and other such criteria are not founded on scientific research. It would be too much of a risk for any government and for the whole of the scientific community to move forward without backup from research.

Lastly, I think it somewhat hypocritical for people to go after Rowling for using Twitter or being ‘sarcastic’ because no one bats an eye when Gervais or Tiegen does so. It just so happens that we are in agreement. Tiegen, anyway; Gervais does get a bit of shit after a Golden Globes performance. It is not all black and white; her comments were transphobic, but her intention was not to cause pain with her sarcasm. Or it might be, but then so might Colbert’s comment on Trump looking like a squashed orange. I may have added the word ‘squashed’ there. Here I am, assuming we all have similar stances on human rights and politics and at the same time asking people not to make assumptions about intent. My main argument is that it is all just a bit simplified, a bit partisan. This is a general problem with the US, the pinnacle of mainstream culture, and I feel it is spreading to the rest of the Western world.

Looking into this, I stumbled onto a high number of celebrities that got ‘cancelled’ during this pandemic. Cancelled because of a tweet, a comment, a joke in poor taste. Ellen DeGeneres, Jimmy Fallon and others. Ellen was told off for comparing being locked up in her mansion to being in prison. Having rich people living comfortably complaining can be annoying; maybe she should have thought twice about the comment. But she is a comedian. Their whole career is based on turning the spotlight on little things we all have in common and point out the hilarity or absurdness. But then, they become rich and successful and there is a whole new balance to achieve. This was no more than a poor attempt to relate to her crowd, but certainly not reason to have her cancelled. I am not a big fan of Jimmy Fallon, but I do not understand how he was almost cancelled for imitating Chris Rock, granted in blackface, as part of an SNL sketch 20 years ago. But then, what about SNL? What about NBC? What about the audience that were laughing? What about Chris Rock? Considering there is video of him encouraging white male comedians using the N-word, is it possible he is approving of this sketch? Cancelling Jimmy Fallon is such an oversimplification, such an avoidance of the underlining issue. What, Fallon was cancelled and years of insensitive comedy have been dealt with? The culture is not changed and people pick up on this oversimplification and get defensive. Cancellation sort of implies there is no room for change; you either got it right or you never will. They should cancel Jimmy Fallon, yes, but only because he is mind-numbingly unfunny.

I think ‘cancel culture’ makes us feel important, we sort of get the power to change the status quo. But instead of changing societal structures, we resort to making sure we are following the right people, until they no longer are, that is. There is an escalation of course, from DeGeneres’ joke, to Fallon’s sketch, to Rowling’s comments and the response varies accordingly. I am aware of the irony. I am asking the world to not cancel my favourite author, when I cannot begin to imagine what it might feel like to have someone else’s favourite author dismiss them as a man or a woman respectively. But it is the case that she holds these beliefs based on singular research, if any, and a fear stemming from personal experience with violence and lack of exposure. I applaud those that wrote elaborate responses and open letters explaining to Rowling, but also those that want to understand more about this reality that others are experiencing. I might be in denial, thinking Rowling is capable of change, well intended and opening up a conversation. But I am. And I think it is a more fruitful approach to alienation. Suggesting people who are fighting for their rights and identities to spend time to explain things to a middle-aged millionaire instead of expressing their well-deserved rage, is possibly proof that I have a limited understanding of this situation. I am just taking her at her word when she says she would fight alongside trans people for their rights, even if she does not, as of now, understand them very well.

Stumbled onto Schitt’s Creek: Blog in the Time of Corona

Schitt’s Creek has been around for a little while but I was not aware of it until 2020. I first found out about it on a hilarious episode of ‘Conan O’Brien Needs a Friend’ with Eugene Levy and Catherine O’Hara. First and foremost, the show was highly recommended by Conan; I tend to treat Conan’s recommendations as commands. But the two Canadian comedy legends were also incredibly funny and likeable, talking about their common start in comedy, achieving legendary status and, of course, Schitt’s Creek. As if I weren’t already convinced, O’Hara did an impression of Moira’s accent on the show and my first thought was that this was the silliness for the sake of silliness that was currently missing from my life.

This is the show I began and finished watching within the pandemic and honestly brightened my panic fuelled days. Despite this unfortunate connotation, I only remember this show as a tonic; an alternative to gin, wine, valerian root tea and any other natural remedies I had turned to when the Guardian first published an app where you could track affected people in your area. Assuming we all consider gin a natural remedy. I cannot recommend this show enough to anyone who wants to laugh, empathise and, occasionally, cry.

The premise is relatively straightforward. An obnoxious rich family loses everything but ownership of a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. They move there, struggle to fit in, reminisce about the old days and eventually change and get changed by the people they meet. It is a simple premise, but oh is it elevated by brilliant writing. When I say the family is obnoxious, I do not say that lightly. They are hateful, snobbish, entitled, lazy, show offs and a little bit Alexis. Sorry, I meant insane. I thought I would love these characters the way I love reality show contestants that make my stomach hurl. But little did I know that this silly comedy would have such beautiful character development. Seamless. By the end of the series the characters were who they were, but better. They were never caricatures, even though they were so over the top. Which is difficult to achieve in comedy. And the supporting characters were equally lovable, with the two long-term boyfriends of the show completing two of the best romantic couples I have ever seen on television. They’re simply the best.

I also have to bring this up. This is a family show. Not only because it features a family, but also because it is created by a family. The family of Levy’s. The family of 21^st century eyebrow goals. Dan Levy and his father Eugene created the show and play father and son respectively. Respectively? I mean Eugene is and plays the father and Dan is and plays the son. They didn’t have much of a choice, really, they couldn’t be in the show without acknowledging they look so alike. Especially in terms of eyebrows. Seriously, google those eyebrows. They also have their daughter/sister on the show, whose Levy-brows are a bit more inconspicuous and you don’t immediately realise the family ties, until she is in a scene with her dad. I think Catherine O’Hara probably also counts as family, I can see Eugene Levy’s children calling her Auntie Cathy. If they don’t, I would rather not know.

And now, let me present some unconsented endorsements. My housemate, who watches TV shows with a pace taken straight from the 90’s, would have me watching this until 1 or 2am. Seasons would go by in a single day. My brother who has two small kids, a huge dog, three cats and practically no time managed to watch it all in two or three weeks. My friends who have watched everything that’s ever been produced reference David and Alexis every couple of utterances. And me, I went from following Seth Rogen on Twitter to following half of Canada for even the slightest extra glimpse into the world of Schitt’s Creek.

I have incredible excitement for this show, which is the wrong sentiment considering it is over. It is six seasons long; long enough to get you properly invested and short enough that you don’t start comparing seasons. I will reserve most of my excitement for the inevitable rewatch, but try to convince my friends to watch the show and hopefully get inspired by Alexis’ wardrobe and David’s skincare for future birthday presents.

Stumbled onto … well, people: Blog in the time of corona

Originally written for the 18^th of April 2020. Yes, I am that slow.

It has been a little over a week since I left my quarantine and entered national lockdown. After this, I am expecting to be moved to social isolation and have my mom insist that these are all different things. I don’t want to complain that things are monotonous though, there are some differences between my time in quarantine and now. I no longer text the government to take out the trash, but the dog. I traded in my pyjama pants for sweatpants. I stopped watching Greek drama and began watching Cocomelon and Baby Shark. At this point, it might be useful for me to mention that I am cohabiting with a two-year-old; otherwise, my viewing choices sounded a bit too weird. But the biggest difference is that I go out of the house; I have even been to a mini-market and a supermarket. I see neighbours, I see humans!  From afar, but it still counts.

The things that will follow are not complaints, by the way. I am very happy that people are careful about not getting themselves or others sick. It certainly makes things less stressful for this anxiety driven blogger. But social norms are different. I went to buy newspapers for my dad and during any other time, had I shown up like that, the storeowner would have called the police. He would have thought I was wearing a face mask/sunglasses duo so I wouldn’t be recognised and latex gloves so I wouldn’t leave any fingerprints. Yet, he greeted me like the customer I was. I should have robbed him; the world is becoming too gullible. He then left the newspaper on a porch outside his store, to avoid contact. He pulled back when I approached to pay with my debit card and I know it was not because I stank. I mean I did, but that was not the reason. It was a new social norm that didn’t need to be analysed any further, yet here we are. Analysing.

Walks have been more tricky than purchases, mostly because I usually have Leyla on the leash. Leyla is a gorgeous New Foundland with a heart of gold. And an appetite for dog shit. So two things happen; one, everyone wants to pet her. Two, everyone used to pet her so she is expecting royal treatment on our walks. She is a jaw dropper. People stop their cars to get a better look and say something usually stupid, usually in a squeaky voice. I don’t blame them, that is 85% of my interaction with her too. But it has been very hard stopping people from actually petting her. She has plenty of people who know her around the area and when they cross paths there is jumping and howling. And Leyla gets excited too. I will never get over the first time a friendly gentleman coughed all over her face. The same face I would later pet. Turns out he is a heavy smoker, and that is either a cigarette cough, or coronavirus has actually been around for, like, a decade. Being who I am though, we showered her in antiseptic. She thought we were petting her so it was fine and her fur is as smooth as ever. Most of her local friends we have decided to categorise as necessary risks, but anyone else is out of order. I have become Indiana Jones, but with a leash. Worst part is, walking a dog is usually a good excuse to get out of the house for a bit, get a change of scenery. However, this particular dog is even less fit than I am and that is an accomplishment considering she doesn’t have a Netflix account. So our walks finish five meters away from our front door. And then we feed her ice cubes for rehabilitation.

Social norms are different. We were face masks, we tip delivery drivers in advance, we arch our back to avoid spit molecules and move from pavement to pavement like playing Mario Kart and encountering banana peels. We have been here before so I am confident we will leave this behind again. I just want to close this post by saying that me and my housemate were doing the elbow bump when either was sick long before the rona. We deserve royalties.

Stumbled onto Past Pass Times: Blog in the Time of Corona

Things are boring but in a good way. I don’t know if that makes sense to anyone but me, considering boring is a negative term, but I enjoy feeling bored sometimes. There is a sense of relief, of relaxation, of rest. I have obviously had too much of said feeling, or else I wouldn’t be writing this. But I choose to cherish it, because not being bored right now would most likely mean me or someone I love would be in trouble, Boris Johnson style. I believe I have mentioned that I am quarantined with three friends in my summer house and, as much as we appreciate our work for university which obviously never got the memo about a pandemic happening, we needed to find ways to pass the time. Rather than acquiring a new skill or learning a new language, we decided to return to the comfort of past pass times. That’s the kind of good boredom I was referring to.

I, as a monad, did what I always do and started rewatching one of my favourite comedy series. This time round it was Frasier, because let’s face it, Scrubs would most likely give me medical nightmares. I have enough of those already. I must have watched 99.9% of Frasier about six times, I might even be downplaying the number. And I say 99.9% because I have only watched the very last episode once. Because the way this brain works, is that if it hasn’t been exposed to a finale it has no reason to believe the series is over. The way I have been watching Frasier is even more schizophrenic than referring to my brain as a separate entity. I am watching season one, two and three in parallel. Let me explain. I introduced a friend to Frasier, hence season one. I had some spare time to watch it myself, hence season two. Me and my friend started picking up the pace and I got worried we would catch up with myself and began season three for an extra layer of insurance. And then I liked this system.

We, as a group of four, started playing Tichu again. This is a game that is supposedly Chinese, but I haven’t met anyone Chinese that recognises it as their own. And everyone in Greece was playing Tichu for a couple of years there. It is the most racially colour-blind game ever. I won’t try to explain the rules but just know that you have a partner and two mortal enemies. And for some inexplicable reason, you tend to fight with your partner more than your rivals. Also, for some reason, it is a game best played between the hours 12-4am. That is my explanation for our messed up sleeping schedule anyway.  

There was one thing, however, that I thought I would never do again, something buried deep inside, almost forgotten. And yet, in the absence of the Internet we turned to it once more. We watched proper TV. And I mean proper. I mean commercial breaks and all. I mean waiting to see what else comes on after the program we were intentionally watching finished. I mean leaving our entertainment up to faith. I entered proper grandma mode, putting the commercials on silent, and rushing to the bathroom in order not to miss any of the action. And when I say action, I am referring to Greek period (melo)drama set in rural northern Greece, about three recently orphaned sisters with a dark secret. To perfect this analogy, my housemate kept asking that we turn up the volume because she couldn’t hear well.

On that note, we also watched a bunch of old Greek movies. Greek channels have decided that the best way to beat the covid blues is showing us the golden age of Greek cinema where the same 10 actors did all the movies. And you know what? They were right! Would these movies pass the Tomatometer today? No. God no. But, with their protective sleeve of nostalgia, they were a good distraction. The first three anyway, I think I began watching Frasier on the fourth old Greek movie. Old Greek movies inevitably lead to less old Greek movies, and these are awesome. First and foremost, because they are parodies of the aforementioned properly old Greek movies. After the four that I watched, I needed a fun take on all their faults and exaggerations. For my Greek readers (look at me, pretending my blog is widely read), I am referring to ‘Κλάμα βγήκε από τον Παράδεισο’, which is our funniest film to date. And this film was as heavily featured in our quarantine, with quotes, songs, but thankfully not fashion choices, every minute of every day. As a tribute to this unlikely inside joke, we even filmed a half-finished dance routine inspired from this movie, which will remain in deep archives; Assange wouldn’t get to them even if he tried.

This next one is a past pass time that, for some reason, I believe binds as all together. Disney films. Whoever claims they have not resorted to rewatching Aladdin, Hercules or Moana during these trying times, they are lying. And unjustifiably so. Never had the words of ‘How Far I’ll Go’ felt more personal than when we were in quarantine by the edge of the water feeling like the line where the sky meets the sea called us. I am flirting with plagiarism here. We decided to pair this trip down memory lane with the Spotify Disney playlist playing  on repeat. As I am writing this, I became painfully aware that there is probably some incriminating videos of me passionately dancing ‘Man Out of You’. I was happier not knowing.

For this last one, I did not partake. This was two of my temporary housemates. They started playing Club Penguin again. Club Penguin is what online games looked like in 2005. There is no real reason for the avatars being penguins; it is not like they have some penguin like abilities that are of use in the game. And while I am silently judging my friends for playing this I have to recognise that it is a game of 200 million accounts. But intended for children aged 6 to 14. We are 25. I think what makes this regression even worse is that they had trouble logging in. Again, intended for ages 6 to 14. And these people have degrees.

Now this is a proper blog. No point. No gain. Just a useless glimpse into our quarantine. We had a great time, we had the fortune of being detached from the rest of the world with plenty of food and wine. Now, forced to join the rest of the world in quarantine, I hope to have given some recreational ideas for people who are clearly bored, or at the very least, some opportunities to condescend and mock four people that had a great time for three worldwide hellish weeks.