Who was that Masked Man? Life in the Time of the ChiCom Virus ...

I gave up. I had sworn that no mask would hide the ol' Diplovisage in my heroic battle with the ChiCom virus. That vow, however, did not take into account the Diplowife's need to purchase a new vacuum cleaner at the local Costco. That once venerable institution of Big Boxing now has adopted a policy of allowing nobody in the building without a mask. When I heard that, I swore never to set foot again in that place until that absurd policy ended, but . . . well, see sentence three of this para . . .

We got some crappy blue masks from Amazon and off we went: cue William Tell Overture . . .

We looked like extras in a cheapo Netflix dystopian future movie. We joined a small spiritless crowd of other masked extras wandering in the cavernous expanse of Costco. While we walked, loud speakers regaled us with the latest revealed wisdom from the CDC. "Members! Remember to wear your masks. Members! Keep six feet apart!" We had marks on the floor to tell us in which direction to march and where to stand. While the Diplowife went off to look at vacuum cleaners, I wandered, careful to maintain my prescribed social distance, over to the meat counter. There a burly masked man in a white coat dispensed "one meat product per member!" to the beaten down throng in line. In America?!? You must stand in line to get "one meat product"? Did I get transported back to 1970s Georgetown, Guyana? Am I in Venezuela? Where is the portrait of Hugo Chavez? 1960s China? Where is Mao?

What is happening? All this because of a virus not much deadlier than the typical flu season . . . insanity driven by "experts" and their models . . .

This still being America, however, I retained access to my computer . . . at least for now, that is.

Bored, frustrated, angry, I did what Americans always have done in times of crisis . . . shop online.

Thank you, Al Gore!

I ordered this brand new baby from a Chevy dealer in Nashua, New Hampshire a few days before my Costco misadventure:

I wanted a black, manual transmission, ZO6 coupe; the Diplowife wanted a red, automatic transmission, Stingray, convertible . . . so we compromised. You can see the compromise: a red, automatic transmission, Stingray, convertible . . . sigh. In the three days or so I have had it, I have placed not quite 5 miles on it. The Diplowife says I can't drive the Stingray if it's going to rain; that might get water spots on it. I can't drive it when it's sunny; the pollen, you understand . . .

I have sat in it in the garage, paired my cell phone to the nifty entertainment center, and activated the satellite radio.

I hear the car drives great, but will have to read the reviews to find out . . .

You're welcome, America. Not all heroes wear capes . . .