A Cure For the Mad Swine Disease Blues
At the time of this posting three mighty events wrestle each other for my public radio news dial's attention. Obama has officially completed his first 100 days in office. Bea Arthur's dead. And Mad Swine Disease is coming to get you! It hasn't found its way to Colorado yet, but gleefully nervous reporters assure us that the disorder is in fact aware of the mountain state's existence and, if you believe everything you read, is right now making preparations to board its dogs at a kennel and searching for cheap plane tickets into DIA on Priceline.com.
But fear not, concerned citizens, for Hope has not yet quit its day job. It's still out there, plugging away at shit. So whether you're contemplating the political achievements that have transpired over the past 100 days or mourning the death of TV's Maude, you can at least take comfort in the fact that a cure has been found for these Mad Swine Disease blues. What's the answer, you ask?
Street games!
That's right. Fuck quarantines! Everything's more fun when you remove things like walls and ceilings and doorknobs out of the equation. This week’s street game slash/poetry assignment is this: write a poem about your thoughts on Obama's first 100 days, the physical demise of Bea Arthur, or the media-oric hysteria surrounding Mad Swine Disease. And then after you've done that wait for Saturday night at exactly 8:00 p.m. MST to come around. When it does, we'll all go out to our favorite street corner (you can do this alone, or in clumps of friends) and read our odes to the random pedestrians walking by and to all the lonely parking meters that are being replaced by digital credit card machines and to the starry or un-starry night!
Just imagine it! Literally millions or dozens of people all reading their poems about politics or Golden Girls or the horrors of pig flu--outdoors in front of everything-- all at the same time! That'll show the Swine Flu who's boss! And though it may not prove to be an exact inoculation against this weirdo disease, at least it'll get us all away from our radios and TV's and internet connections so we don't have to fucking hear about it for a little bit.
If you're afraid of catching Mad Swine Disease while participating in this little poetry/street game experiment, you can always wear a mask. Or encase your entire body in cellophane before leaving your apartment. Or down a bunch of whisky pre-show and smoke half a pack of cigarettes. Whatever gets you out the door.
Trust me, one way or the other, these things will work themselves out. For the best, or not so best.
Let us, in the immortal paraphrased words of John Adams, push towards the best.
until next time,
iloveyou,
Rob
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