Captain’s Log, April 12, 2020

I scored garlic! Sprouts had a supply. I called ahead. Since our daughter has yet to erect a camera in the trees across from our driveway to track goings and comings from our garage, I snuck out and bought eight bulbs, enough to last a month. I thought about buying enough to hang on our front door to ward off the virus, but thought better of it. My homeowners association architectural committee might send me a rude letter.

If this imprisonment lasts another three months, or longer, my wife and I will arrive on the other side still married and still talking with each other. But this raises the bar, even if the bar never closes — couples have to be in like with each other. I could not imagine a better person to be quarantined with. We are not quite the couple in John Prine’s “In Spite of Ourselves,” but we make it work — 49 years and counting.

She thinks all my jokes are corny

Convict movies make her horny

She likes ketchup on her scrambled eggs

Swears like a sailor when she shaves her legs

She takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’

I’m never gonna let her go.

He’s got more balls than a big brass monkey

A whacked-out weirdo and a love bugged junkie

Sly as a fox crazy as a loon

Payday comes and he’s a-howlin’ at the moon

He’s my baby, I don’t mean maybe

I’m never going to let him go.

We are blessed with healthy retirements that do not put us at financial risk or a burden to anyone. I ache for so many others at risk, even more so, now.

Maybe I will finally step up and clean the garage. That would be draconian. Or, learn conversational French so I can converse with my grandchildren. Sacré bleu.

Mail delivery has slowed to a drib now with the California March primary behind us, and cruising is taboo — the seafaring kind. Our creditors still know where we are.

The USPS is hanging by its fingernails. Please tell me someone who matters in Washington is on this. There is a certain political party that would privatize everything, including the USPS, even social security. Because, you know, the marketplace solves everything, including pandemics.

Mark my words, after this is behind us, the rich will be even richer and the middle class and lower class will be poorer. The corporations and wealthy paid a lot of money to game the system. Game, set, match to that certain political party.

I am doing more ordering of foodstuffs online — this morning: dried morel mushrooms and truffle salt. Last night I made curly fries in a blend of duck fat and vegetable oil. The seasoning calls for truffle salt. Next time.

Sorry to change the tone to food, but I was on the verge of another primal scream.

During cocktail hour last night I zoomed with male friendships now going on 35 years. Usually at this time each year we are in a mutual friend’s desert golf course home savoring a feast I have orchestrated, laughing and scratching and getting shit-faced on really good red wine. Vodka and bourbon might be in the mix, but only before we take the heads off the first wine bottle. These are the kind of friends who will repeatedly point out every flaw you have. Within the first 15 minutes of meeting up after another year of circling the sun, if you have an ego, it will be shattered. Love’em, like brothers. Maybe more.

As our four-day debauchery unfolds each year in April, some line is dubbed the best line of the weekend. Since we only zoomed an hour last night, I called the best line of the call — “Jared Kushner is our national cadaver,” offered by a life-long republican who is but a relic of the Grand Old Party. We also pledged to promote a national moon-in — everyone go outside at the same time and moon the virus. That alone should drive it away. Who needs to drink bleach? Everyone needs such friends.

We have now scheduled monthly zooms.

I just rifled my recipes looking for chocolate-based or chocolate-laced treats. These are times to treat ourselves well.

I am thinking of screening “Chocolat” tonight. I just downloaded a Julia Child recipe for Clafoutis, not chocolate-based, but decadent and comforting enough. Next, I am lusting after either the Dark Chocolate Salted Caramel Tart or the Double Chocolate Torte. I always thought a tort was a male version of tart. Then I realized I had been spelling it incorrectly.

I am not able to zoom on my large screen iMac. I can be seen but not heard. Some of my “friends” prefer that. I googled the issue, followed the guidance, but no solution. I opened up the sound icon in my preferences. Both input and output appear to be working. I called Apple Tech Support. After an hour, my “support” could not resolve the issue. I have what Apple calls a “vintage” iMac — meaning, no genius at an Apple store will touch it. I bought the iMac in 2011. I was given a list of six certified Apple repair businesses in or near my zip code. Hard to think of 9-year-old computer as vintage — 1956 Chevy — yes. This sounds like an Apple marketing plan to force me into a new iMac. Sorry Apple, no sale — but my friends will be happy.

Speaking of Chevy’s, the American auto industry used to operate under a planned obsolescence strategy — every three years their cars ran out of gas and needed replacing. This is one of the reasons why many used to say, back in the day, as General Motors goes, so goes America — and they didn’t mean mode of transportation.

We spotted a roadrunner crossing our backyard, the first sighting ever in our 37 years in this neighborhood. I half expected a coyote stalking behind, but he may have been staying-at-home waiting for a delivery from ACME. We have often seen and heard coyotes in our neighborhood. I did not hear the roadrunner say, beep, beep. I felt cheated.

Wily Coyote is my all-time favorite toon character. He never gives up, and who else comes back to life that often, not even a cat with nine lives.

Yesterday my registration came for my 55th high school reunion scheduled for early October. I will wait a bit before sending it in. The wait may take a month of Sundays.

Speaking of a month of Sundays, another favorite Facebook posting: “2020 is a unique Leap Year. It has 29 days in February, 300 days in March, and 5 years in April.” That feels about right.

Los Angeles County lost 55 today, a new high. What fucking flattening?