World pandemic. Collapsing economy. Unemployment boom. Sounds like the perfect time to reignite a locally based, self-congratulatory comedy column, right?! One with all the tact and grace of a two-year-old fingering through his birthday cake.

I’ve been told, “levity is the soul of wit,” a phrase I believe penned by Joe Exotic at his husband’s funeral. Will these columns serve to annoy and confuse many of the townspeople? Does a one-legged duck swim in circles? Yes. (Unless of course that leg is in the middle of its body).

I was dead set on waxing philosophical about my hate of apple juice. Jason Campbell and a multitude of brainwashed Johnny Appleseeds are mired in the belief that this back of the fridge toilet cleaner is somehow a desirable thirst quencher. Search your hearts people – nobody, I repeat, nobody, has ever craved apple juice. It’s the Brady Bunch’s cousin Oliver of juices. Forced upon us for some reason, and we tolerate it because it ended up in the fridge. Possibly because all the worthwhile juices have been consumed: orange, pineapple, tomato, even lemons manage to upstage the apple in juice form.

I’d rather drink a glass of Eric Wohle’s tears as he drones on and on about a linguica sandwich he’ll never receive. My grandmother has a tin of apple juice in a cupboard. How long has it been there? It has a picture of the cast of The Love Boat on the front of it – because no one will ‘gopher’ it. Even during our current stampede and cart filling exercises, it is the one juice you can assuredly find still sitting on a grocery store shelf . . . and this will be my ham-handed segway into our current pandemic predicament.

I’ve been quarantined inside a tractor these last few weeks. As a man that has made every bad decision in life, this has been a self-imposed lifestyle – I’ve endured endless hours in a cab of solitude since 1979. In a sunflower seed shell, not much has changed for me as far as pandemic quarantining. We spent the last week doing a custom harvesting job in lovely Dixon (in Yolo County west of Davis). You haven’t quarantined until you do it here, the lobby to hell in the form of an exit off I-80. While the world news, social media, and mutual text threads trumpet the experience of being alone, I fancy myself an expert in this game. Social distancing is par for the course for this essential worker. Until a moment outside a Chevron on Thursday gave me a little perspective . . .
“Daddy! Put on your mask, I don’t want you to die!” was yelled from a car window by what appeared to be a seven-year-old. It was reiterated by a younger brother, and with the same panicked tone. I locked eyes with the kids as I neared their father and the entrance. They gave me a look that said, “Stay away from my dad,” it was heartbreaking to see these little faces consumed by a worry far beyond their years. The father gave me a shrug, and we did the awkward social distance tango.

Do we hold the door for each other? Do we touch the door up high? Hoping to pick the perfect spot. One unfettered by a virus we can’t see, but has taken over every aspect of daily life. On my way out, I made sure to give a wave and a smile to these boys. It was sheepishly returned by both. A small gesture, one that hopefully comforted them, as much as it did myself. It was the first instance during this moment in time that I felt dread. Two little boys burdened during a simple trip for snacks, as I saw their dad buy the economy sized bag of beef jerky. Excellent choice, Dad.

I can’t imagine what it is like to be a child during this. In the early 80’s my generation was force fed a similar fear. The Russians were definitely going to attack us with nuclear warheads. It was palpable, and made all too real with seemingly useless protocols. We would practice hiding under our desks, as if the particle board shelter overhead would stave off the impending blast. I fortified mine with a heavy Trapper Keeper, and the entire Encyclopedia Brown series – good luck Ruskies!

The stainless-steel milk tank at our dairy though, that was going to be my ultimate survival hang spot. Complete with 1500 gallons of milk, I’d survive for the first month, bathing and eating cereal in a pool of safety. It seemed the perfect plan, until my Uncle Wes Harris set me straight.

“Chris we are within a few miles of the Sharpe’s and Tracy’s military depots, the Russians will target those, and we’ll be cooked first…” So much for his milk tank invitation.

Yet I digress. Are we making sure to protect the sensibilities of our kids during this time? The fear of an unseen and deadly virus is terrifying for an adult, much less someone that just a month ago was taking their cues from SpongeBob SquarePants. As a confirmed bachelor, and proud uncle of many, I don’t take my duties with these kids lightly -- beyond just the fact that they’ll be the ones deciding which old folks’ home I’ll eventually be placed into. There are determined and incumbent social graces we all share, steps that assure the kids of today aren’t oversaturated with talk of pandemic, economic failure, and political strife.

A phone call to my nephew Bode, just to call him an “idiot,” or a text to my nephew Nico letting him know Pearl Jam has a new album out (which was immediately met with, “Who?”). There are little steps we can take to lighten their load. We should all play our part, as long as it doesn’t require me sharing a glass of apple juice with them. I have to draw a line somewhere.

There will come a day and time when we return to a new normal. Let’s all do our part to get there with heads held high. Patience, Respect, Tolerance. Live it – Learn it – Teach it.

RIP David Bayless

Two weeks ago, I lost a dear friend, Dave Bayless. It was non-COVID-19 related, and it came as a shock. He was a vibrant kind soul. A former star athlete at Manteca High, the fastest dude in my group of jocks –  though I’m certain Tony Coit will debate this fact, even in Dave’s passing – something he’d laugh off. In a group of alpha males, Dave was always a gentleman. I never heard an unkind word from him, in regards to anything. He managed to be a beacon of philosophical wisdom, amongst a group of beer swilling peers like myself. He even penned a book of poems a few years ago. The pandemic has put a stop to having a proper memorial and send off. It’s something we should all remember during this crisis. Time stops for no one. I thank him for being my friend, and look forward to seeing him again. We love you, Dave.

“It’s not where ya do, It’s what ya do.”