The vast majority of us woke up this morning to lives regulated by the government.
A local city or county department approved the location and size of our homes. The Ohio Construction Industry Licensing Board approved the professionals who installed the pipes and wiring, which are in turn regulated by industry standards at the national level.
The Environmental Protection Agency and the Public Utilities Commission of Ohio regulate the water that flows from our taps and the sewer lines that flow beneath our homes. The latter is what keeps us from throwing our night slops out the window each morning, where they would run into the street and eventually foul our water source, as often happened in medieval times.
This morning, we dressed in clothes with labels dictated by the Federal Trade Commission and made of fabrics and blends regulated by the Consumer Product Safety Commission in factories where working conditions were dictated by the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, part of the U.S. Department of Labor (if the factories were American).
Even wearing clothes, beyond being a largely self-enforced norm, is required by various ordinances and is the policy of most businesses. No shirt, no shoes, no service.
When we opened our refrigerators or pantries to scrounge for breakfast, the food there conformed to government standards. The USDA regulated the safety of the meat, poultry and eggs. The FDA regulated everything most everything else.
That two-day-old slice of pepperoni pizza we eventually decided upon — dry and pasty now but just waiting for revitalization in a microwave oven whose manufacture and wattage is also regulated by the FDA — was the result of oversight by a network of governmental bodies who weigh in on the growing, harvesting, processing, packaging, transportation, preparation and selling of individual ingredients.
On our way to the microwave we stopped to pet the dog, who wears a license issued by the county auditor’s office and paid for with a fee set by the county commissioners. Fido’s rabies vaccinations are mandated by the state.
After dressing and eating, we climbed into our cars, manufactured according to mandates set by the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, which among other things conducts stringent crash testing to help protect the health and wellbeing of drivers and passengers.
As drivers, we are licensed by the state. We listen to radio stations on our car radios that are regulated by the Federal Communications Commission. We wear safety belts, another government mandate, drive on the right side of the road, obey traffic signals and stay at or below certain speeds, all regulated by the government.
If we break any of these laws, we are subjected to punishment by the government, up to and including temporary or permanent revocation of our driving privileges.
We dropped off our kids at a school where teachers are licensed by the state, where curriculum is approved by a locally elected board, where state-required tests are given, and where attendance is compelled by law.
Then, we headed to the barber or beautician for a haircut — at least those of us who are fortunate enough to have hair — and trusted our coiffures to a professional licensed by the state.
Next we went to a doctor’s appointment, where we put our health into the hands of people regulated by state medical and nursing boards, who prescribe medication approved by the federal government.
Finally, it was off to a lunch at a restaurant which follows food preparation and hygienic norms from state and local health departments.
All this regulation, an invisible web of interlocking safety standards that people seldom stop to ponder, and it’s only noon.
Why, then, are so many people angry about health officials restricting certain businesses and activities, advocating for six feet of social separation and advising that we wear masks in public? These are extra layers of caution — and temporary ones, at that — to protect everybody during a public-health crisis.
Given all the ways the nanny state safeguards our lives already, these additional elements are minimal.
It’s enough to make one wonder if it’s not really about the mask at all, but more about contrarianism for the sake of being contrary, a head-scratching and unconscionable way of saying, “I care more about me than I do everybody else.”
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Sunday, May 17, 2020
A letter to the Class of 2020
Dear High School Seniors,
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
You were supposed to have those special moments. The last day of classes. Prom. Graduation practice. Graduation. Graduation parties.
As a teacher, I view my final day with seniors through a lens of joy and dread.
Joy because it is a well-deserved milestone, the last time a particular group of young adults moves in unison at the prompting of a bell, the last time they will complete a routine they are ready to shed.
Dread because it means they are leaving, and that when I see them again, the dynamic and the circumstances will have altered — a polite exchange in a store, maybe an email or two, or a heart emoji on Twitter and Facebook.
On that last day, there are always more than a few moist eyes from even the most stoic of students — and educators.
Graduation brings plenty of tears, too, but they are different. The ceremony is more formal, the roles more clearly delineated — Pomp and Circumstance, a litany of speeches, hats tossed in the air, cookies, fruit punch, exit.
The enormity of it doesn’t hit me in the same way as that last day with 12th-graders in the hallways and the classroom.
But, you, Class of 2020, aren’t getting that.
I wish we had known, back in March, that our couple weeks of “extended spring break” would last until the end of May, that this last day of school was really the Last Day of School. Maybe we could have had something that resembled closure.
But we couldn’t know, so we didn’t appreciate what was about to happen.
Don’t get me wrong. Administrators, teachers, parents and communities around the nation are doing everything they can to honor you and your accomplishments.
Signs are being displayed, awards ceremonies are being broadcast on YouTube, virtual class photos are being shared, social-distance parades are stepping off. One principal in Dallas delivered a candy bar and a note to each senior in his high school — more than 600 of them.
Graduations, too, are moving online. Big-name speakers like Barack Obama are offering words of encouragement in televised ceremonies. Students are being filmed individually in their caps and gowns, receiving diplomas in nearly empty auditoriums to a smattering of applause from family members, the event recorded and stitched together with footage of their peers doing the same.
Some districts keep pushing graduation back into late June, July, August, and even dates in the fall, when students are home from college for a weekend, hoping to find a time when it is safe for everybody to be together.
It’s not that we aren’t trying to honor your accomplishments. We are.
But it’s not the same. We all recognize that.
Some words of encouragement from your elders aren’t all that encouraging, either.
I’ve heard and read comments saying to suck it up, that some 18-year-olds in the past have marched off the graduation stage and into World War II or Vietnam. That people are dying while you’re mourning the cancellation of prom or an overnight trip. That this will give you something to laugh about in 10 or 20 years.
These sentiments come from people who mean well, mostly. Reminders that the institution from which everybody graduates is the School of Hard Knocks.
But the truth is that it’s always easy to find somebody who has it worse.
Of course, people are dying. You know that. Some of you are dealing with that loss, too.
Yes, young adults in the past have been handed some raw deals. Some weren’t able to go to school at all, or were sent off to work in the mines, or were denied basic human rights. If raw deals were placed on a continuum, who knows where social distancing during one’s senior year would fall.
None of that means that you can’t be sad or angry for what you’re losing right now, today.
So go ahead. Kick a can. Cry. Write it all out on a piece of paper and then crumple it up or tear it to shreds.
Or just shrug your shoulders and move on.
There isn’t an instruction manual about how to handle this situation, a prepared series of boxes to check. It’s unprecedented.
You know what else is unprecedented? The strength of the Class of 2020. You will push through this adversity. You will conquer it. You will move on. Because you are strong and resilient, something you have proven by switching from face-to-face to remote instruction, socializing with friends via FaceTime and Zoom, stepping up to become breadwinners in families in which employment has been disrupted by shutdowns.
And while your teachers weren’t able to say goodbye to you properly on that last day of school in March, I think I can speak for all of them when I say how proud of you we are, how much we respect everything you have accomplished so far, and how much we anticipate all the good you will do.
You rock. I only wish I could tell you in person.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
It wasn’t supposed to end this way.
You were supposed to have those special moments. The last day of classes. Prom. Graduation practice. Graduation. Graduation parties.
As a teacher, I view my final day with seniors through a lens of joy and dread.
Joy because it is a well-deserved milestone, the last time a particular group of young adults moves in unison at the prompting of a bell, the last time they will complete a routine they are ready to shed.
Dread because it means they are leaving, and that when I see them again, the dynamic and the circumstances will have altered — a polite exchange in a store, maybe an email or two, or a heart emoji on Twitter and Facebook.
On that last day, there are always more than a few moist eyes from even the most stoic of students — and educators.
Graduation brings plenty of tears, too, but they are different. The ceremony is more formal, the roles more clearly delineated — Pomp and Circumstance, a litany of speeches, hats tossed in the air, cookies, fruit punch, exit.
The enormity of it doesn’t hit me in the same way as that last day with 12th-graders in the hallways and the classroom.
But, you, Class of 2020, aren’t getting that.
I wish we had known, back in March, that our couple weeks of “extended spring break” would last until the end of May, that this last day of school was really the Last Day of School. Maybe we could have had something that resembled closure.
But we couldn’t know, so we didn’t appreciate what was about to happen.
Don’t get me wrong. Administrators, teachers, parents and communities around the nation are doing everything they can to honor you and your accomplishments.
Signs are being displayed, awards ceremonies are being broadcast on YouTube, virtual class photos are being shared, social-distance parades are stepping off. One principal in Dallas delivered a candy bar and a note to each senior in his high school — more than 600 of them.
Graduations, too, are moving online. Big-name speakers like Barack Obama are offering words of encouragement in televised ceremonies. Students are being filmed individually in their caps and gowns, receiving diplomas in nearly empty auditoriums to a smattering of applause from family members, the event recorded and stitched together with footage of their peers doing the same.
Some districts keep pushing graduation back into late June, July, August, and even dates in the fall, when students are home from college for a weekend, hoping to find a time when it is safe for everybody to be together.
It’s not that we aren’t trying to honor your accomplishments. We are.
But it’s not the same. We all recognize that.
Some words of encouragement from your elders aren’t all that encouraging, either.
I’ve heard and read comments saying to suck it up, that some 18-year-olds in the past have marched off the graduation stage and into World War II or Vietnam. That people are dying while you’re mourning the cancellation of prom or an overnight trip. That this will give you something to laugh about in 10 or 20 years.
These sentiments come from people who mean well, mostly. Reminders that the institution from which everybody graduates is the School of Hard Knocks.
But the truth is that it’s always easy to find somebody who has it worse.
Of course, people are dying. You know that. Some of you are dealing with that loss, too.
Yes, young adults in the past have been handed some raw deals. Some weren’t able to go to school at all, or were sent off to work in the mines, or were denied basic human rights. If raw deals were placed on a continuum, who knows where social distancing during one’s senior year would fall.
None of that means that you can’t be sad or angry for what you’re losing right now, today.
So go ahead. Kick a can. Cry. Write it all out on a piece of paper and then crumple it up or tear it to shreds.
Or just shrug your shoulders and move on.
There isn’t an instruction manual about how to handle this situation, a prepared series of boxes to check. It’s unprecedented.
You know what else is unprecedented? The strength of the Class of 2020. You will push through this adversity. You will conquer it. You will move on. Because you are strong and resilient, something you have proven by switching from face-to-face to remote instruction, socializing with friends via FaceTime and Zoom, stepping up to become breadwinners in families in which employment has been disrupted by shutdowns.
And while your teachers weren’t able to say goodbye to you properly on that last day of school in March, I think I can speak for all of them when I say how proud of you we are, how much we respect everything you have accomplished so far, and how much we anticipate all the good you will do.
You rock. I only wish I could tell you in person.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Tuesday, May 5, 2020
DeWine's about-face on masks is unfortunate
Gov. Mike DeWine has received well-deserved praise both inside and outside Ohio for his handling of the coronavirus crisis.
He has consistently made tough calls earlier than most other state leaders, and certainly ahead of an uneven response at the federal level. (A less charitable description of the federal response is “criminally negligent,” but I digress.)
DeWine’s willingness to take the hard road earned him some wiggle room with me when he announced that some parts of the state economy would reopen in May, accompanied by stringent regulations.
I’m no epidemiologist — I don’t even play one on TV — but from experts I’ve heard interviewed, a rush to reopen the economy could do more harm than good, especially if the coronavirus resurges and the wheels of commerce must grind to a halt again.
Nevertheless, DeWine had a plan, which he presented, characteristically, in a methodical, careful fashion. I was especially heartened when I learned the state would require all shoppers to wear masks. That, at least, would help to slow the spread of the virus and would serve as a visible reminder that caution must rule our public interactions until a vaccine, or at least an effective treatment, is found.
But then the governor backpedaled.
He said he had received extensive public feedback about the mandatory-mask policy, that some people found it “offensive.”
DeWine did note that he still strongly urged Ohioans to wear masks when shopping, and that individual businesses could still require shoppers to wear them.
I hope all businesses will, but I doubt it. Store owners and managers are not in the habit of turning away dollars, and with this about-face from state leaders, few will feel emboldened to enforce a policy when the government is unwilling.
But I have to ask, why would anybody find the idea of being forced to wear a mask in public “offensive”?
I know such people are out there. I see them posting on social media about how they refuse to cover their mouths and noses and will defy any such orders, that they aren’t criminals and won’t abide being treated like one.
They aren’t the lunatic fringe, by and large. They are people who love and care for their families, who bring food when their neighbors are sick and who support charities that help their communities.
Perhaps they see masks as a bridge too far, an encroachment on their inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Maybe they believe the people most vulnerable to dying from the coronavirus — the elderly, the immuno-compromised — should be the ones wearing masks and sheltering in place, instead of healthy people and their families.
What they don’t fully appreciate is how insidious this virus is. How some people can be carriers without symptoms, going about their daily affairs touching bags of mulch in the garden section of the hardware store and sneezing in aisle five of the grocery store, leaving little patches of COVID for other shoppers to pick up.
These other shoppers may be buying supplies for people who are too compromised to be in public. Now, these good Samaritans take the virus with them to a elderly parent or grandparent, to a child who will eventually go to summer camp and interact with dozens of other children, any of whom can — again, completely asymptomatically — infect somebody who will not just shrug off the infection, but who will instead die from it.
Masks are not foolproof, of course. But when I’m wearing one in an indoor public venue, it’s a reminder to be conscientious, to use hand sanitizer at the entrance and exit, to stay six feet away from others when possible.
The mask is also helping to make sure I don’t inadvertently infect somebody with a potentially deadly virus I may not even know I have.
I understand that COVID fatigue is setting in. I vacillate in any given hour from believing the virus has been overhyped by the media to believing that it hasn’t been emphasized enough, especially when I read of the carnage it’s causing in hot spots around the nation and the world.
I’m glad I don’t live in one of those hot spots, and one reason I don’t is because of the proactive choices made by Gov. DeWine and his advisors, including his May 1 decision to extend stay-at-home orders.
Yet I’m disappointed by the policy change about the masks, and the unintended message it sends to rush back to normal later this spring and summer.
That sense of misplaced urgency could mean that a lot more people won’t be with us in the fall.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
He has consistently made tough calls earlier than most other state leaders, and certainly ahead of an uneven response at the federal level. (A less charitable description of the federal response is “criminally negligent,” but I digress.)
DeWine’s willingness to take the hard road earned him some wiggle room with me when he announced that some parts of the state economy would reopen in May, accompanied by stringent regulations.
I’m no epidemiologist — I don’t even play one on TV — but from experts I’ve heard interviewed, a rush to reopen the economy could do more harm than good, especially if the coronavirus resurges and the wheels of commerce must grind to a halt again.
Nevertheless, DeWine had a plan, which he presented, characteristically, in a methodical, careful fashion. I was especially heartened when I learned the state would require all shoppers to wear masks. That, at least, would help to slow the spread of the virus and would serve as a visible reminder that caution must rule our public interactions until a vaccine, or at least an effective treatment, is found.
But then the governor backpedaled.
He said he had received extensive public feedback about the mandatory-mask policy, that some people found it “offensive.”
DeWine did note that he still strongly urged Ohioans to wear masks when shopping, and that individual businesses could still require shoppers to wear them.
I hope all businesses will, but I doubt it. Store owners and managers are not in the habit of turning away dollars, and with this about-face from state leaders, few will feel emboldened to enforce a policy when the government is unwilling.
But I have to ask, why would anybody find the idea of being forced to wear a mask in public “offensive”?
I know such people are out there. I see them posting on social media about how they refuse to cover their mouths and noses and will defy any such orders, that they aren’t criminals and won’t abide being treated like one.
They aren’t the lunatic fringe, by and large. They are people who love and care for their families, who bring food when their neighbors are sick and who support charities that help their communities.
Perhaps they see masks as a bridge too far, an encroachment on their inalienable rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.
Maybe they believe the people most vulnerable to dying from the coronavirus — the elderly, the immuno-compromised — should be the ones wearing masks and sheltering in place, instead of healthy people and their families.
What they don’t fully appreciate is how insidious this virus is. How some people can be carriers without symptoms, going about their daily affairs touching bags of mulch in the garden section of the hardware store and sneezing in aisle five of the grocery store, leaving little patches of COVID for other shoppers to pick up.
These other shoppers may be buying supplies for people who are too compromised to be in public. Now, these good Samaritans take the virus with them to a elderly parent or grandparent, to a child who will eventually go to summer camp and interact with dozens of other children, any of whom can — again, completely asymptomatically — infect somebody who will not just shrug off the infection, but who will instead die from it.
Masks are not foolproof, of course. But when I’m wearing one in an indoor public venue, it’s a reminder to be conscientious, to use hand sanitizer at the entrance and exit, to stay six feet away from others when possible.
The mask is also helping to make sure I don’t inadvertently infect somebody with a potentially deadly virus I may not even know I have.
I understand that COVID fatigue is setting in. I vacillate in any given hour from believing the virus has been overhyped by the media to believing that it hasn’t been emphasized enough, especially when I read of the carnage it’s causing in hot spots around the nation and the world.
I’m glad I don’t live in one of those hot spots, and one reason I don’t is because of the proactive choices made by Gov. DeWine and his advisors, including his May 1 decision to extend stay-at-home orders.
Yet I’m disappointed by the policy change about the masks, and the unintended message it sends to rush back to normal later this spring and summer.
That sense of misplaced urgency could mean that a lot more people won’t be with us in the fall.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Thursday, April 30, 2020
America innovates in time of need
The spirit of American adaptation and innovation never ceases to amaze me.
I was pondering this the other morning as I stood in line to get into the local Walmart, mask around my face, disposable gloves on standby, and phone at the ready to pay without touching cash or handling a credit card.
Two months earlier, the experience of shopping with so many people dressed in full-plague gear would have been equal parts depressing and surreal. Now, it’s just Wednesday.
Not only did it take the public a remarkably short time to adjust to a new normal, but it took the retail and grocery world only a few weeks to institute systems to provide services safely — plexiglass shields at checkouts, X’s along sidewalks to encourage social distancing and one-way aisles to decrease traffic.
One part of mask-wearing I hate is that people can’t see you smile. And, indeed, companies have started to manufacture transparent masks, the better to catch those nonverbals and to aid people who are deaf and read lips.
Last week, I completed a touchless pickup at a local pizza franchise. My wife called ahead and ordered, paying over the phone. When I arrived, an employee brought the order outside, placed it on the hood of my car with a canvas bag underneath, and then backed away to the safety of the sidewalk. Once I had exited the vehicle, picked up the pizza and put it into my car, he came back and retrieved the bag.
Here was a ritual that didn’t exist a few weeks earlier, and one you would be hard-pressed to explain to any time traveler visiting from the distant era of, oh, February.
As strange as this all felt, in another couple of months it will be so commonplace as to be hardly worthy of comment, much like increased security for airplane flights were so unreal in those first months after 9/11, yet today we are acclimated to taking off our shoes and opening our luggage.
Our boundless capacity for adaptation and change on full display, once again.
Even when we conquer this coronavirus and are standing at the door of a reopened economy, like John Travolta’s immuno-compromised character in “The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,” wiggling our collective toes at the yellow tape separating shelter-in-place with complete freedom, some concessions may have to be made.
I can envision a world where, like those ubiquitous bagcheck stations at ballparks and concert venues, screeners take ticket holders’ temperatures and ask a few basic questions: Recent fever? Cough? Shortness of breath?
It may be the price we pay for watching a double-header on a sultry July day or seeing a favorite band prance about on the stage. Someday, our kids and grandkids will marvel about a time when this didn’t happen, when sick people were encouraged to go to work and weren’t asked to leave public places.
It will also be interesting to see how many work-at-homers and learn-at-homers are allowed to continue in this fashion, even once stay-at-home directives are lifted. After all, businesses have invested in outfitting workers for remote work, so maybe that will become the new norm, or at least some hybrid version dividing time between home and office/school. (Tax preparers should expect to see a deluge of deductions for home offices next April.)
Also remaining to be seen is how the pandemic shifts America’s — and the world’s — buying habits and, more importantly, priorities. Economists speculate that some big-name retailers may not bounce back, their business eclipsed by online options and an inevitable recession. The pandemic would have only hastened the demise of some, where the writing has long been on the wall.
As for our priorities, perhaps Julio Vincent Gambuto, writing for Forge, said it best in a recent column when he urged Americans to resist gaslighting attempts by the Establishment — the potent forces of government and advertising — to convince us to return quickly to “normal.”
“Take a deep breath,” Gambuto advises, “ignore the deafening noise, and think deeply about what you want to put back into your life. This is our chance to define a new version of normal, a rare and truly sacred (yes, sacred) opportunity to get rid of the bullsh** and to only bring back what works for us, what makes our lives richer, what makes our kids happier, what makes us truly proud.”
If enough Americans do this, the revolution that follows could be the most significant adaptation and innovation of the 21st century.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
I was pondering this the other morning as I stood in line to get into the local Walmart, mask around my face, disposable gloves on standby, and phone at the ready to pay without touching cash or handling a credit card.
Two months earlier, the experience of shopping with so many people dressed in full-plague gear would have been equal parts depressing and surreal. Now, it’s just Wednesday.
Not only did it take the public a remarkably short time to adjust to a new normal, but it took the retail and grocery world only a few weeks to institute systems to provide services safely — plexiglass shields at checkouts, X’s along sidewalks to encourage social distancing and one-way aisles to decrease traffic.
One part of mask-wearing I hate is that people can’t see you smile. And, indeed, companies have started to manufacture transparent masks, the better to catch those nonverbals and to aid people who are deaf and read lips.
Last week, I completed a touchless pickup at a local pizza franchise. My wife called ahead and ordered, paying over the phone. When I arrived, an employee brought the order outside, placed it on the hood of my car with a canvas bag underneath, and then backed away to the safety of the sidewalk. Once I had exited the vehicle, picked up the pizza and put it into my car, he came back and retrieved the bag.
Here was a ritual that didn’t exist a few weeks earlier, and one you would be hard-pressed to explain to any time traveler visiting from the distant era of, oh, February.
As strange as this all felt, in another couple of months it will be so commonplace as to be hardly worthy of comment, much like increased security for airplane flights were so unreal in those first months after 9/11, yet today we are acclimated to taking off our shoes and opening our luggage.
Our boundless capacity for adaptation and change on full display, once again.
Even when we conquer this coronavirus and are standing at the door of a reopened economy, like John Travolta’s immuno-compromised character in “The Boy in the Plastic Bubble,” wiggling our collective toes at the yellow tape separating shelter-in-place with complete freedom, some concessions may have to be made.
I can envision a world where, like those ubiquitous bagcheck stations at ballparks and concert venues, screeners take ticket holders’ temperatures and ask a few basic questions: Recent fever? Cough? Shortness of breath?
It may be the price we pay for watching a double-header on a sultry July day or seeing a favorite band prance about on the stage. Someday, our kids and grandkids will marvel about a time when this didn’t happen, when sick people were encouraged to go to work and weren’t asked to leave public places.
It will also be interesting to see how many work-at-homers and learn-at-homers are allowed to continue in this fashion, even once stay-at-home directives are lifted. After all, businesses have invested in outfitting workers for remote work, so maybe that will become the new norm, or at least some hybrid version dividing time between home and office/school. (Tax preparers should expect to see a deluge of deductions for home offices next April.)
Also remaining to be seen is how the pandemic shifts America’s — and the world’s — buying habits and, more importantly, priorities. Economists speculate that some big-name retailers may not bounce back, their business eclipsed by online options and an inevitable recession. The pandemic would have only hastened the demise of some, where the writing has long been on the wall.
As for our priorities, perhaps Julio Vincent Gambuto, writing for Forge, said it best in a recent column when he urged Americans to resist gaslighting attempts by the Establishment — the potent forces of government and advertising — to convince us to return quickly to “normal.”
“Take a deep breath,” Gambuto advises, “ignore the deafening noise, and think deeply about what you want to put back into your life. This is our chance to define a new version of normal, a rare and truly sacred (yes, sacred) opportunity to get rid of the bullsh** and to only bring back what works for us, what makes our lives richer, what makes our kids happier, what makes us truly proud.”
If enough Americans do this, the revolution that follows could be the most significant adaptation and innovation of the 21st century.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Tuesday, April 21, 2020
Missives from a home office
For one thing, the commute is grueling.
Today I had to detour around a stack of unwashed dishes and a basket of laundry.
My office is under construction by the cat. He is stomping across the table like Godzilla sashaying through Tokyo, hurling papers and empty plastic bottles of diet iced tea over the side.
He says he’ll be done never, so I relocate to the opposite end of the dining room, where the sun shines in my eyes most of the morning.
My chair is hardly ergonomic. It’s just hard. I should complain to the boss. Oh, wait.
It’s tough to tell what day it is. All I know for sure is that it ends in a “y.” As in, why am I here? What is my purpose?
I know it’s not Saturday or Sunday because the newscasters on TV are the ones who work on the weekdays. I can’t tell the date from the stories because they’re all the same: Some state official is arguing with the big orange guy in D.C., somebody is throwing a virtual birthday party for somebody else, a mom in Poughkeepsie is stressed because she can’t send her three kids, ages 6, 8, and 11, to school.
I start the day playing Brady Bunch on my computer. The game is always the same. Zoom this, Zoom that. Or Google Hangout, let it all hang out.
When we started virtual meetings, everybody had their cameras on, and it was fun to peek into co-workers’ living rooms and kitchens. Somebody had a banana in a wire basket hanging from the ceiling. Each day, it got older and blacker. The banana, not the ceiling. Fascinating.
But now, all the video shades are drawn, and coworkers hide behind avatars. Just disembodied voices, shouting into the void.
I saw a Saturday Night Live skit about virtual meetings recently. Or maybe last year. Time has no meaning anymore.
In the skit, one Zoom participant takes her computer into the bathroom while her co-workers beg her, for the love of God, to stop. It’s supposed to be funny.
At some point, I wander outside to get the newspaper. I could have sworn one day there was an inch-and-a-half of snow, but it’s April. Unless it’s still March, and my sometimes officemate, who is married to the only other human occupant of the office, got ambitious and changed the calendar early.
Some mornings I wear gloves and turn the newspaper pages gingerly, like they’re brittle artifacts unearthed from a dead civilization. Which, well.
The printed news is the same as on the TV — the COVID Chronicles. It’s the only show that isn’t on hiatus.
I kind of remember watching something about a Tiger King. And Carole, who maybe fed her officemate, who was married to the only other human occupant of her office, to a tiger.
It seems to me they said tigers can devour a person so completely that they leave no bones behind. I thought only pigs did that. I will have to look it up. Maybe this afternoon. Or next year.
Online news isn’t much different than the printed stuff. There’s just more of it. I skip all the big stories in the name of good mental hygiene even though physical hygiene has gone by the wayside.
I might still be brushing my teeth. The toothbrush is wet, at least.
I go straight to the arts and culture sections online. Somebody is writing about plague literature. Again. Did you know Shakespeare wrote many of his best works while the London theaters were closed because of the plague?
All I’ve written during our pandemic is this column. Way to overachieve, Shakespeare.
Anyway, most of those stories also mention Camus and “The Plague,” Stephen King and “The Stand,” and of course Edgar Allan Poe and “The Masque of the Red Death.”
Not so many mention Richard Matheson’s “I Am Legend,” about a plague of vampirism. That’s one of my favorites. At the end, the main character is the only human left in a world of blood-sucking ghouls. Sorry if I spoiled the ending.
By the way, Carole is guilty. There, spoiled that one, too.
Lunch in this office sucks. The in-house cafeteria is serving three-day-old sloppy joes on stale buns, and I have to serve myself. A few oranges are still rattling around, too. At least I won’t get rickets.
Well, gotta go. A rerun of the Brady Bunch is starting.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Today I had to detour around a stack of unwashed dishes and a basket of laundry.
My office is under construction by the cat. He is stomping across the table like Godzilla sashaying through Tokyo, hurling papers and empty plastic bottles of diet iced tea over the side.
He says he’ll be done never, so I relocate to the opposite end of the dining room, where the sun shines in my eyes most of the morning.
My chair is hardly ergonomic. It’s just hard. I should complain to the boss. Oh, wait.
It’s tough to tell what day it is. All I know for sure is that it ends in a “y.” As in, why am I here? What is my purpose?
I know it’s not Saturday or Sunday because the newscasters on TV are the ones who work on the weekdays. I can’t tell the date from the stories because they’re all the same: Some state official is arguing with the big orange guy in D.C., somebody is throwing a virtual birthday party for somebody else, a mom in Poughkeepsie is stressed because she can’t send her three kids, ages 6, 8, and 11, to school.
I start the day playing Brady Bunch on my computer. The game is always the same. Zoom this, Zoom that. Or Google Hangout, let it all hang out.
When we started virtual meetings, everybody had their cameras on, and it was fun to peek into co-workers’ living rooms and kitchens. Somebody had a banana in a wire basket hanging from the ceiling. Each day, it got older and blacker. The banana, not the ceiling. Fascinating.
But now, all the video shades are drawn, and coworkers hide behind avatars. Just disembodied voices, shouting into the void.
I saw a Saturday Night Live skit about virtual meetings recently. Or maybe last year. Time has no meaning anymore.
In the skit, one Zoom participant takes her computer into the bathroom while her co-workers beg her, for the love of God, to stop. It’s supposed to be funny.
At some point, I wander outside to get the newspaper. I could have sworn one day there was an inch-and-a-half of snow, but it’s April. Unless it’s still March, and my sometimes officemate, who is married to the only other human occupant of the office, got ambitious and changed the calendar early.
Some mornings I wear gloves and turn the newspaper pages gingerly, like they’re brittle artifacts unearthed from a dead civilization. Which, well.
The printed news is the same as on the TV — the COVID Chronicles. It’s the only show that isn’t on hiatus.
I kind of remember watching something about a Tiger King. And Carole, who maybe fed her officemate, who was married to the only other human occupant of her office, to a tiger.
It seems to me they said tigers can devour a person so completely that they leave no bones behind. I thought only pigs did that. I will have to look it up. Maybe this afternoon. Or next year.
Online news isn’t much different than the printed stuff. There’s just more of it. I skip all the big stories in the name of good mental hygiene even though physical hygiene has gone by the wayside.
I might still be brushing my teeth. The toothbrush is wet, at least.
I go straight to the arts and culture sections online. Somebody is writing about plague literature. Again. Did you know Shakespeare wrote many of his best works while the London theaters were closed because of the plague?
All I’ve written during our pandemic is this column. Way to overachieve, Shakespeare.
Anyway, most of those stories also mention Camus and “The Plague,” Stephen King and “The Stand,” and of course Edgar Allan Poe and “The Masque of the Red Death.”
Not so many mention Richard Matheson’s “I Am Legend,” about a plague of vampirism. That’s one of my favorites. At the end, the main character is the only human left in a world of blood-sucking ghouls. Sorry if I spoiled the ending.
By the way, Carole is guilty. There, spoiled that one, too.
Lunch in this office sucks. The in-house cafeteria is serving three-day-old sloppy joes on stale buns, and I have to serve myself. A few oranges are still rattling around, too. At least I won’t get rickets.
Well, gotta go. A rerun of the Brady Bunch is starting.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Saturday, April 11, 2020
Under cover of COVID, leaders reveal true selves
What a breath of fresh air Ohio’s leadership has been during the coronavirus pandemic.
Each day around 2 p.m., with few exceptions, Ohioans can tune in to a thoughtful press conference from Gov. Mike DeWine, Health Director Dr. Amy Acton and Lt. Gov. Jon Husted.
The trio provides current numbers of confirmed cases and fatalities. DeWine carefully and thoughtfully provides his rationale behind each decision he makes to fight the spread, from extending school closures to releasing inmates from state prisons.
Viewers may not always agree with the administration, but nobody can fault the transparency behind the explanations. Nor can viewers doubt the sincerity of Dr. Acton, who sometimes appears close to tears as she alternately explains the need for continued social distancing and praises Ohioans for saving lives by staying home as much as possible.
Our state leaders also practice what they preach. Organizers go to great lengths to keep officials separated by at least 6 feet during the conference. Reporters ask questions from a separate room to comply with the directive against large gatherings.
Last week, DeWine and Acton received a measure of pop-culture fame when an animated spoof, in heavy rotation on social media, cast the two as sitcom legends Laverne and Shirley, teaming up to battle the virus. Even the state’s interpreter for the deaf had a cameo.
The news conferences have become such a lifeline for Ohioans that they’ve been dubbed in some quarters as Wine with DeWine, and virtual-viewing parties have popped up on Facebook so that stay-at-homers can feel some measure of solidarity with one another during the broadcasts.
Despite such fanfare, DeWine, Acton and Husted never lose sight of the situation’s severity, keeping the focus squarely on facts and the impact the coronavirus has on all aspects of the state’s health — physical, financial and emotional.
Contrast this with the almost daily dysfunction coming from Washington, D.C., where our president treats the presence of cameras and microphones as an excuse to contradict established science and his own experts, advocate for unproven treatments, shift the blame for bungled responses to past administrations and state leaders, change the description of a stockpile of medical supplies to dovetail with his son-in-law’s interpretation of same, crow about his ratings and Facebook popularity, and berate the press for not praising him enough.
Behind the scenes, under the cover of COVID, one might say, Trump has fired the inspector general who filed the whistleblower complaint about his call to Ukraine, fired the person who would have overseen the administration’s pandemic relief fund, and continued his administration’s rollback of environmental protections and healthcare.
And this week, Americans learned the administration largely ignored a pointed early warning from one of its own about the seriousness of the coming crisis. Instead, the president continued to downplay the novel coronavirus publicly, calling it a Democratic hoax and predicting the handful of cases would soon dwindle to one.
Monday-morning quarterbacking is always far too easy and often unfair. Just a few weeks ago, many of us, myself included, were far less concerned with the coronavirus than we should have been.
Then again, we aren’t the president. And we didn’t have access to the sort of the information that Trump was apparently disregarding.
This wasn’t the president staying positive in the face of a serious challenge, as some supporters claim he is doing with his daily intrusion into the nation’s living rooms.
No, this is a man who is almost criminally ill-equipped to lead this charge, who cannot crawl out from beneath his own ego to provide the leadership so vital in such a problematic time.
For that, the country needs to turn to people like DeWine, Acton and Husted, who are showing each day how to set policy and provide comfort and solace to a frightened and hurting nation.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Each day around 2 p.m., with few exceptions, Ohioans can tune in to a thoughtful press conference from Gov. Mike DeWine, Health Director Dr. Amy Acton and Lt. Gov. Jon Husted.
The trio provides current numbers of confirmed cases and fatalities. DeWine carefully and thoughtfully provides his rationale behind each decision he makes to fight the spread, from extending school closures to releasing inmates from state prisons.
Viewers may not always agree with the administration, but nobody can fault the transparency behind the explanations. Nor can viewers doubt the sincerity of Dr. Acton, who sometimes appears close to tears as she alternately explains the need for continued social distancing and praises Ohioans for saving lives by staying home as much as possible.
Our state leaders also practice what they preach. Organizers go to great lengths to keep officials separated by at least 6 feet during the conference. Reporters ask questions from a separate room to comply with the directive against large gatherings.
Last week, DeWine and Acton received a measure of pop-culture fame when an animated spoof, in heavy rotation on social media, cast the two as sitcom legends Laverne and Shirley, teaming up to battle the virus. Even the state’s interpreter for the deaf had a cameo.
The news conferences have become such a lifeline for Ohioans that they’ve been dubbed in some quarters as Wine with DeWine, and virtual-viewing parties have popped up on Facebook so that stay-at-homers can feel some measure of solidarity with one another during the broadcasts.
Despite such fanfare, DeWine, Acton and Husted never lose sight of the situation’s severity, keeping the focus squarely on facts and the impact the coronavirus has on all aspects of the state’s health — physical, financial and emotional.
Contrast this with the almost daily dysfunction coming from Washington, D.C., where our president treats the presence of cameras and microphones as an excuse to contradict established science and his own experts, advocate for unproven treatments, shift the blame for bungled responses to past administrations and state leaders, change the description of a stockpile of medical supplies to dovetail with his son-in-law’s interpretation of same, crow about his ratings and Facebook popularity, and berate the press for not praising him enough.
Behind the scenes, under the cover of COVID, one might say, Trump has fired the inspector general who filed the whistleblower complaint about his call to Ukraine, fired the person who would have overseen the administration’s pandemic relief fund, and continued his administration’s rollback of environmental protections and healthcare.
And this week, Americans learned the administration largely ignored a pointed early warning from one of its own about the seriousness of the coming crisis. Instead, the president continued to downplay the novel coronavirus publicly, calling it a Democratic hoax and predicting the handful of cases would soon dwindle to one.
Monday-morning quarterbacking is always far too easy and often unfair. Just a few weeks ago, many of us, myself included, were far less concerned with the coronavirus than we should have been.
Then again, we aren’t the president. And we didn’t have access to the sort of the information that Trump was apparently disregarding.
This wasn’t the president staying positive in the face of a serious challenge, as some supporters claim he is doing with his daily intrusion into the nation’s living rooms.
No, this is a man who is almost criminally ill-equipped to lead this charge, who cannot crawl out from beneath his own ego to provide the leadership so vital in such a problematic time.
For that, the country needs to turn to people like DeWine, Acton and Husted, who are showing each day how to set policy and provide comfort and solace to a frightened and hurting nation.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
Monday, April 6, 2020
Virus hits home, and it’s time to heed experts’ advice
The coronavirus became much more real to the Alliance community over the weekend with the passing of Jeff Holbrook.
His wife, Kimberly, posted on Facebook that Jeff died on Friday at The Cleveland Clinic of complications from COVID-19. He was only 55 years old.
Nobody knows how Jeff was exposed to the virus, the post noted. It was community-acquired.
I didn’t know Jeff well, but I saw his intelligence and sense of humor reflected in his three children, all of whom I had the honor and pleasure to teach at Alliance High School. They were wonderful kids who grew into wonderful adults.
The fact that, in their time of mourning, the Holbrooks took to social media to share the news as a cautionary tale about the dangers of the coronavirus and the necessity of following the advice of medical professionals speaks volumes about their empathy.
Their pleas to the community to listen to science stand in stark contrast to some of the other spurious ideas floating around the internet, including a still-persistent belief that the media is overhyping the pandemic and that the virus was created in a laboratory as part of a deep-state plot.
Please.
I know two things about the people reading these words — and the person writing them.
First, the vast majority are not epidemiologists. We have not spent our professional lives studying diseases, how they are transmitted and how best to slow their spread. We laypeople know more than we did a few months ago, but reading newspaper stories and webpages isn’t the same as a deep dive into the research through an accredited program.
This is why, in times like this, we must lean heavily on the informed opinions of people who know the science and best practices. We see this reflected daily in decisions made by Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine, guided by Dr. Amy Acton, director of the Ohio Department of Health. DeWine is smart enough to know what he doesn’t know, and to listen to Acton, who in turn is guided by other professionals, disease modeling, and a lifetime of intensive study.
So when these people tell us to maintain social distance, to shelter in place, to wash our hands frequently and to avoid exposing susceptible members of our community to possible infection, we should listen.
Because the second thing I know about the people reading these words is that any one of us could have the coronavirus right now. Some of us could be asymptomatic, going about our lives without any of the telltale signs associated with the virus, but nonetheless potentially exposing every person with whom we come into contact.
This is why the idea of quarantining only those people with symptoms, known exposures, or underlying conditions that could make them more susceptible doesn’t work. By the time people who test positive are isolated, they could have exposed dozens of other people, all of whom could have exposed hundreds more.
Many Ohioans are following the advice and orders from our government. They are waving at loved ones through the windows of nursing homes, holding birthday parties where “guests” drive by the house and honk without coming in, and checking in on each other by phone and Skype.
But some are not. They are inviting relatives to Easter dinner, letting their kids play together, and congregating on porches and garages where an uninvited guest, COVID-19, could tag along with any one of them.
Look, everybody wants to get back to normal. Employees want to go back to work. People want to go back to church, to restaurants and movie theaters. Kids even want to go back to school.
That day will come. But if it comes too soon, everything we have done so far will have been for naught.
Don’t base your decisions on gut feelings, sketchy blog posts or stock-market forecasts. Listen to credible advice from experts.
This is the best way to help spare other families like the Holbrooks from loss.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
His wife, Kimberly, posted on Facebook that Jeff died on Friday at The Cleveland Clinic of complications from COVID-19. He was only 55 years old.
Nobody knows how Jeff was exposed to the virus, the post noted. It was community-acquired.
I didn’t know Jeff well, but I saw his intelligence and sense of humor reflected in his three children, all of whom I had the honor and pleasure to teach at Alliance High School. They were wonderful kids who grew into wonderful adults.
The fact that, in their time of mourning, the Holbrooks took to social media to share the news as a cautionary tale about the dangers of the coronavirus and the necessity of following the advice of medical professionals speaks volumes about their empathy.
Their pleas to the community to listen to science stand in stark contrast to some of the other spurious ideas floating around the internet, including a still-persistent belief that the media is overhyping the pandemic and that the virus was created in a laboratory as part of a deep-state plot.
Please.
I know two things about the people reading these words — and the person writing them.
First, the vast majority are not epidemiologists. We have not spent our professional lives studying diseases, how they are transmitted and how best to slow their spread. We laypeople know more than we did a few months ago, but reading newspaper stories and webpages isn’t the same as a deep dive into the research through an accredited program.
This is why, in times like this, we must lean heavily on the informed opinions of people who know the science and best practices. We see this reflected daily in decisions made by Ohio Gov. Mike DeWine, guided by Dr. Amy Acton, director of the Ohio Department of Health. DeWine is smart enough to know what he doesn’t know, and to listen to Acton, who in turn is guided by other professionals, disease modeling, and a lifetime of intensive study.
So when these people tell us to maintain social distance, to shelter in place, to wash our hands frequently and to avoid exposing susceptible members of our community to possible infection, we should listen.
Because the second thing I know about the people reading these words is that any one of us could have the coronavirus right now. Some of us could be asymptomatic, going about our lives without any of the telltale signs associated with the virus, but nonetheless potentially exposing every person with whom we come into contact.
This is why the idea of quarantining only those people with symptoms, known exposures, or underlying conditions that could make them more susceptible doesn’t work. By the time people who test positive are isolated, they could have exposed dozens of other people, all of whom could have exposed hundreds more.
Many Ohioans are following the advice and orders from our government. They are waving at loved ones through the windows of nursing homes, holding birthday parties where “guests” drive by the house and honk without coming in, and checking in on each other by phone and Skype.
But some are not. They are inviting relatives to Easter dinner, letting their kids play together, and congregating on porches and garages where an uninvited guest, COVID-19, could tag along with any one of them.
Look, everybody wants to get back to normal. Employees want to go back to work. People want to go back to church, to restaurants and movie theaters. Kids even want to go back to school.
That day will come. But if it comes too soon, everything we have done so far will have been for naught.
Don’t base your decisions on gut feelings, sketchy blog posts or stock-market forecasts. Listen to credible advice from experts.
This is the best way to help spare other families like the Holbrooks from loss.
chris.schillig@yahoo.com
@cschillig on Twitter
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