It is Tuesday, I think! Never certain anymore. But it must be, because I did my usual what do I need run to our local Super Market, which I remember, had been done on Tuesdays’. I have been trying to exercise each day, and I do about 7 miles of walking, ending up at our local Pavilions Super Market, (which at one time had been infamously known as the Disco Pavilions in the 1970s and was also known in West Hollywood as one of the cruisiest places for Gay men.) But this is 2020, and times have changed, so instead of the pretentious and often times raucous look at me, don’t look at me, how come you are not looking at me, non-verbal communication, we have instead a very PRIVILEGED White Person shopper, who, with too much expendable income, very pricy cars which all seem to have a HANDICAP STICKER, and an attitude of I AM IN THE BUSINESS, (the movie industry,) and you are not, stench NOT necessarily standing five or six feet away as in social distancing, and who will grab what they want, without a mask or with one of those very rare expensive full-blown ONLY First Responders should own masks on their face, or dangling from their chins.
But I lament not about this demographic, but instead, of the imagery of shopping at Pavilions, and a suddenly Deja-Vu of watching the Trump Clusterfuck (aka) Coronavirus Task Force, Mini-Me MAGA RALLY, and the sense I was in the middle of it. Pavilions for their part are trying, it is the shopper, who frequents the store who for the most part cares, and then for some, could give one fucking shit about any reason or rhyme to stay safe, be safe and act rationally. Carts bumping into carts. Hissy men and women pushing other people’s carts out of the way. Couples standing in the middle of the aisle taking selfies, and any social distancing more than one foot away nonexistent. A shit show. And one question SUPPLY CHAIN GOD PRINCE KUSHNER, will the world ever be able to hold a bottle of LYSOL or a plastic bag of toilet paper, or even the most fragile of hand sanitizer, let alone rubbing alcohol in their grubby little hands? And I just wonder Prince Jared, how many of those do you and the future Mrs. Trump have in one of your half dozen taxpayer-paid homes?
