Excerpts From A Pandemic Diary

There’s no place like home. It’s your refuge from the world. Your space, your rules, your germs. But when a global pandemic hits and settles in for the long haul, home can start to feel like a prison with a more progressive happy hour policy.

Aside from motivating me to pare my daily wardrobe down to four t-shirts, three pair of shorts and a face mask, fears of a highly contagious virus have greatly complicated my thoughts and routines. Here, from the squirrel cage that is my brain in pandemic mode, are some diary entries that reflect a life on the edge.

March 27
Today was filled with sheltering in place highlights, including:
- Read History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.
- Created a muffin out of crumbs and ground turkey.
- Learned to speak Creole.
- Spent quality time with my imaginary friend PJ.

April 10
My home lockdown phone chat today went like this …
Me to a friend: “How was your day?”
Friend: “I attended a Zoom meeting of a humanitarian group that builds orphanages in poor countries.”
Friend to me: “And how was your day?”
Me: “I bought a big jar of peanut butter pretzels on Instacart.”

April 19
To break up the long hours stuck inside, I went for a power walk today. Some people ask me what "power walk" means. It means that while I'm out walking, I swing my arms in an exaggerated, cartoonish fashion sacrificing all dignity and self-respect.

My reward is an extra 2% toning and cardio benefit. Who's the wacko now neighbor lady who when she saw me coming told her kids to "get in the house"?

April 24
The isolation has taken a toll on my personal hygiene, but I'm still a shower and shave away from my old self. Anyone got some Altoids?

May 2
One month into home lockdown and I've had a lot of time to reflect on my life. When all is said and done, I want to be remembered for 4 things:
1.) Being 5'11" but carrying myself like a 6 footer.
2.) Never wearing a lobster bib just to show off.
3) Selling the last known Big Mouth Billy Bass singing fish at a garage sale.
4.) Almost rhyming "Phoenix" with "Kleenex" in an unfinished poem.

Thanks in advance for your cooperation. My legacy is in your freshly-washed hands.

May 10
Who am I to ask you to social distance and wear a mask? I'm the guy who asks people things, like "What's your middle name?" and "Where did you get your sunglasses?" and "How often do you change your oil?" and "What's in the backpack?" and "Why the face?" That's who I am.

May 24
I miss singing songs around the piano with Alicia Keys, Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson, Giada De Laurentiis, Darius Rucker and Rick, the guy who cuts my lawn. The piano really does bring people together ... except when there's a global pandemic. If anyone's looking for me, I'll be in the shower. Singing.

June 1
My home gym is getting a lot of use since the sheltering in place requirements started.

HANDY TIP: If you’re lifting weights, make them heavy enough to challenge your muscles, but not so heavy that you get pinned under them for hours at a time and have to wait for help to arrive.

June 10
Following in the footsteps of the Batteries + Bulbs stores, I see great potential for a new retail chain called "Takeout + Toilet Paper." I’ll put together a business plan after I finish my 1,000 piece Tiger King jigsaw puzzle.

June 15
To thrive during a prolonged home lockdown, I recommend the following back-to-basics strategy: Eat when you're hungry, drink when you're dry, and don't touch your nose or your mouth or your eye.

June 23
I rewrote Glen Campbell’s “Gentle On My Mind” today. The new version goes “It's knowing that your door is always open and your path is free to walk ... that makes me tend to keep 6 feet away so I don't come within your cough.”

July 2
Due to continuing supply chain disruptions, my wife and I went 72 hours without paper towels in the house. Our descent into madness ended with the purchase of a six pack of Brawny. I'm still a little woozy, but glad to be back living a paper towel-supported life.

So there you have it – a glimpse into the diary of one man’s life interrupted. During these uncertain times, I want to remind you that we are all in this together and we will all get through this together ... from a remote distance.

Also, I am offering 10% off all my homemade face masks and Anti-Viral Soy Candles while supplies last.

Be safe, stay sane, choose soap and hope.

A Rocky Relationship

The suburbs have their share of wildlife – squirrels, birds, possums, Airbnb party animals. My wife Sherry and I had even gotten use to the iguana invasion that hit our South Florida neighborhood hard the past several years. But when a raccoon showed up in our backyard recently, we recoiled in horror.

It wasn’t that raccoons were menacing or frightening or even particularly unsightly. It was just that 2020 had already thrown a global pandemic, social isolation and deep-seeded fears of an unpredictable future at us. The sudden appearance of a masked mammal didn’t feel like a good omen.

Two doors down, our friends Toby and Terry were even more on edge. The raccoon, which was quickly nicknamed Rocky, had taken a liking to their tropical backyard pool area and would appear at random moments with the demeanor of a guest wondering what was for dinner that day. Overnight, Toby and Terry’s outdoor lifestyle of swimming, grilling poolside, and laidback lounging was replaced by the paranoia and angst common among troops under siege.

“When I’m outside, I’m always strategic about what door I’m closest to if I have to take evasive action,” Terry told me.

“Does it ever come at you?” I asked, digging for details that might benefit me during close encounters of the raccoon kind.

“No, but it doesn’t retreat either,” he observed, painting a picture of a calculating, fearless adversary.

Sure enough, the next day while picking up a fallen palm frond in my backyard I came face to face with the serenely unruffled Rocky. He was no more than 30 feet away and in no hurry to increase the distance between us.

I made an exaggerated stomping move in his direction, thinking it would spook him to run for safety.  He just stared at me quizzically as if to say “Is there something wrong with your leg?”

When my bloodcurdling yelping sound also failed to budge him, I decided to lose the battle and head inside to focus on winning the war.

Toby and Terry were way ahead of us.

“We’ve hired a trapper,” Toby told Sherry. “He’ll put cages in our yard, your yard and Barbara’s.

“Is Barbara on board?” Sherry asked, knowing that our good friend and long-time neighbor has a pro animal policy of “feed it first, ask questions later.”

“She’s okay with it as long as they catch and release it unharmed into the wild,” Toby confirmed.

There was talk that Barbara also wanted the raccoon’s email address to keep in touch, but she backed off for the sake of expediency.

On the morning after the trapper set up his holding cells I awoke early to find a reluctant tenant in the cage at the north end of our backyard.

“We got a raccoon,” I called to Sherry, “but it’s smaller than Rocky and has different markings.”

As I adjusted my eyes in the pre-dawn shadows, I realized the idea that it was even a raccoon at all was sketchy.

“It’s a possum,” Sherry announced a few minutes later as the backyard sunlight made species identification more of an exact science.

After touching base with Toby, Terry and Barbara, the trapper was summoned, the possum relocated, and the cages refilled with food for another night of raccoon seduction.

“Do you really think Rocky is going to fall for this?” I asked Terry. On day one, he had seen the raccoon sniffing around the cage in his yard and then walking away as though too smart to take the risk.

“I don’t know, but I’d like to give it another shot,” he shrugged, his tone at odds with his hopes.

The next morning, much to my disbelieving eyes, it happened. There he was, caught, caged and collected. “ROCKY CAPTURED!” screamed the boldfaced headline in my brain. We alerted our partners in raccoon reconnaissance and summoned the trapper to carry out extradition to more suitable territory.

After weeks of wariness and tension, our long national nightmare was over.  Well, not our national nightmare, but certainly our neighborhood nightmare.

Terry and Toby are finally enjoying their backyard paradise. Sherry and I have stopped worrying about what surprises lurk in the branches of our mango tree. And Barbara, well, word has it she got Rocky’s contact info and is keeping him in the loop on neighborhood news.

I’ve asked her to update him on a new strain of raccoon-eating iguanas that some claim to have spotted here. Hey, it might just be a rumor, Rock, but why take a chance?

Resolutions 2018

The dawning of a new year is an opportune time to pause and reflect on my life and how I can live it with more purpose, peace and enjoyment. But due to the hectic nature of the holiday season, my profound reflections are often pre-empted by thoughts like “Can I just get everyone moist towelettes this year?” and “Mmmm . . . cocoa brownie balls.”   That being the case, here’s the best resolutions could come up with under such challenging circumstances.

Resolution # 1: I will find the time to go back to doing what it is I do best: teaching inner city kids to yodel.

Resolution # 2:  I will develop an alternative to the Internet called "The Infobahn." It will have only a fraction of the content but will be 10 times faster.

Resolution # 3: I will make plans to throw a big party sometime. (Wait, did I say "big party"? I meant "discussion group with light refreshments.")

Resolution # 4: I will work day and night to put together the Leno/McCartney reunion concert that the world yearns for. (I just can’t help shake the feeling that the concept is fundamentally flawed. Must talk to Jay and Paul’s people about their interest levels.)

Resolution # 5: I will lose 35 lbs. on The Chicken Pot Pie and Low-Fat Fudgesicle Diet and inspire millions to do the same by appearing in a series of national ads using my old pants as a parasail while being pulled over the ocean by a powerboat.

Resolution # 6: I will become utterly absorbed in a new and greater reality while still maintaining my availability to participate in happy hours, barbecues, card games and other traditional, old-reality activities.

Resolution # 7: I will only LOL when I find something LOL funny, which won’t be nearly as often as a lot of LOL people who will LOL without any provocation whatsoever. (Example #1: Just bought two cans of diced tomatoes, lol.” Example # 2: “Thought today was the 24^th, not the 23^rd, lol.” Example # 3: One of these days I’ll get to Wyoming, lol.) I hope that gratuitous LOL people everywhere will follow my lead and stop the insanity. LMAO (but not really).

Resolution # 8: I will finally learn my lesson and stop listening to TV weather people who give advice like “good day to hit that street fair downtown.” Instead, if they predict ‘no rain’ for the day, I’ll make it a point to load up on DVDs and wait for the torrential downpour.

Resolution # 9: I will do some serious soul searching and decide whether I’d rather be a big fish in a small pond, a small fish in a big pond, or a fish special on a menu of diverse offerings that may include Seared Peppered Scallops with Orange-Soy Glaze, Moroccan Chicken with Eggplant and Almonds, and Blackened Red Snapper with Creole Sauce. (SPOILER ALERT: The smart money’s on “big fish, small pond.”)

Resolution # 10: I will express my “inner werewolf” by not showering or shaving for weeks on end and throwing my head back whenever I get the urge and letting loose with a hearty “Aw, Aw – Awwwwooooo!!”

Happy 2018 everyone! Greet each day as a gift, enjoy the journey, and don’t forget to stop and smell the cocoa brownie balls. Oh yeah, and one last thing: “Aw, Aw – Awwwwooooo!!”

Power Mad

Post-storm power outages are different in Florida. Sure, they begin with the familiar crackle, pop and plunge into darkness. In other parts of the country this would be a signal to light that nice candle your aunt Adelaide gave you for Christmas. In Florida – there’s no sense in sugar coating it – the power going out is a signal to kiss life as you know it goodbye and prepare yourself for a slow but steady descent into madness.

First, you will have to renounce all worldly possessions and creature comforts – even the small ones like clean underwear and cornflakes with milk. Then, you will be forced out of your home and onto the streets where you will join other disaster zombies forming lines the length of several football fields for a bag of ice, a tank of gas or a flight to San Diego. I was once on a line so long, I kept a journal of it.

Dear Diary,

It’s day three and we seem to lack the forward motion one hopes to experience on a line. I suspect it has stopped completely or is even moving backwards. I’ve made a commitment to follow this through to the end, but if it’s going backwards is the end really the end, or is it the beginning of a line I’ve lived through on my way to yesterday?

Most people (me included) are troopers for a few days. We help neighbors, join the hunt for food and water, pull old books and board games out of retirement to fill the powerless hours. But there comes a point, even for the best of us, when our built-in, shock-proof stress detector calculates that we’ve endured way more than our fair share of hardship.

 “I can’t believe those condos out at the beach have power and we don’t,” I grumble to my wife, insinuating conspiracies at the highest levels.

 “They’re on a different power grid,” Sherry explains sketchily, no doubt conserving energy.

 I’m tired of conserving energy. I’m ready to storm the palace gates.

 “Can someone explain to me how we can live in the richest, most technologically-advanced society in the history of the world and still be without power seven days after a storm?”

“It is starting to get aggravating,” Sherry concedes, hinting that her limitless patience may have an expiration date after all.

For the record, my patience ended three days before when we reheated two cold turkey franks over some sterno and pronounced then “dinner.” (In a blind taste test, Sherry and I both picked a flashlight over the turkey franks as having superior flavor and visual appeal.)

 Somewhere along the line, when I least expected it, something revitalizing happened. I discovered how resourceful, unselfish and compassionate I could be – a real leader of the masses in times of adversity. Had you been by my side during those difficult days, you would have heard me say this:

“Here’s another 60 gallons of bottled water Mrs. Obermann. I’ll have fresh batteries for your portable TV within the hour – I make them myself from a kit I got off the Internet.”

And this:

“Out of gas, Sean? You drive, I’ll push – there’s a station about a mile up the road.”

 And this:

 "Hey Tommy, stop crying. Climb up on my shoulders and let’s see if we can get you closer to that breeze that’s passing through.”

Around the same time – give or take an hour – I also discovered how cranky, self-pitying and sarcastic I can be: the Child King with a craving for pizza rolls and cable TV.

Had you been there in my weaker moments, you would have heard me say this:

 “Are air conditioners, TVs, stereos and household appliances now simply novelty items to be enjoyed on those rare occasions when the Power & Light gods are feeling benevolent?”

 And this:

 “Who’s going to reimburse me for the episodes of ‘Hollywood Game Nights,’ and ‘American Ninja Warrior’ I’ve missed?”

 And this:

  “I’ll start shaving and bathing again when this neighborhood is lit up like a Vegas casino!”

 Like I’ve been saying, prolonged power outages are a uniquely transforming experience. They bring out the best and the worst in people – often simultaneously. As for me, I’d much rather turn on a light than curse the darkness. In Florida after a storm, your best bet is to reach for the flashlight first. I keep mine handy next to the turkey franks.

The Passion of the Crust

“Bread is dead,” the headline screamed. The shock of it caused me to cough violently, launching a chunk of partially-chewed Pepperidge Farm Honey Wheat on a short and tragic flight to the floor below.


The demise of bread was a crummy prospect indeed. Take away bread and, in my view, you risk the collapse of civilization itself. Remove bread from the equation and you usher in an irreversible breakdown of the very fiber of existence. And for what? The chance to lose 15 pounds in six weeks so you can gain 30 six months later? People of Planet Earth, I implore you. Is this how you want it all to end – not with a bun, but a whimper?


My life had been a journey driven and nurtured by bread, a quest enriched by bread as a daily symbol of sustenance and stability. Bread, in all its glorious varieties added to me, defined me, made me more than I would otherwise be. I lived for bread, and my life is a testimony to bread’s splendor.


Feeding Young Minds. Studies have shown that empty stomachs lead to poor concentration and a harder time learning in school. What studies have not confirmed, but what my personal experience proves without a doubt, is that getting the nutrition kids need to learn, grow and succeed every day in school is greatly enhanced by eating a seedless Kaiser roll with breakfast. I’m absolutely certain of this due to the dramatic improvement in my grades from the time my father started bringing seedless Kaisers home with the paper in the morning. Before the Kaisers, I was flunking math and scrapping by in geography. After the Kaisers, my math grades soared to solid “B’s,” and my grasp of geography impressed my teacher enough to write on my report card “Alan thinks globally, acts locally, and smells of cream cheese.”


The Battle for the Biscuit.  For as far back as I can remember, Thanksgiving has been my favorite holiday. No cards, no gifts, just say “grace” and begin the gluttony. While my mother would awake at some absurdly early hour to prepare a feast that would make a pilgrim weep with gratitude, my two brothers and I were interested in only one thing. The biscuits. When loading our plates with food, we each left ample room for the flaky golden delicacies, begrudgingly adhering to the one-at-a-time rule my parents had established after the “Biscuit Blitzkrieg of ’81.” On that infamous Thanksgiving Day, 90 percent of the biscuits landed in two of the five mouths at the table, and the battle for the last biscuit was fierce and vindictive. I can still hear my mother say, “there, now neither of you gets it,” as she extracted it from the combined clutches of my brother Bob and I and devoured it in two lusty, unladylike bites.


A Loaf of Bread, A Jug of Wine. When I got married, my relationship with bread achieved even greater significance, as the preparation of meals took on a new prominence in my life. Conversations like the following became a daily ritual.


Me: “Any thoughts on dinner tonight?”
My Wife: “How about grilled cheese?”
Me: “What kind of bread should we use?”
My Wife: “The Publix Sour Dough Plus Five grills up good.”
Me: “True. But their Country Rye is a larger loaf size and holds the melted cheese in place better.”
My Wife: “What about the sauerkraut rye we used to get?
Me: “That was at Winn-Dixie, and they stopped making it. I’ve been boycotting them ever since, which explains their recent downsizing.”
My Wife: “Then just pick out what looks good to you and surprise me.


This, of course, was music to my ears, as visions of a steaming loaf of Basil Parmesan Sun-Dried Tomato Foccacia stirred my expectations for a night of hot buttered bliss.  


Call me a fanatic, but for those who claim that bread’s final expiration date is here, I strongly disagree. Bread is not dead. Bread will rise again. Bread is reborn! Crust is King! Long live bread!


Now are you going to back away from that last biscuit or are we going to have a problem here?

Dinner With The Babe

I'd serve a lot of hot dogs,
buns and beans and beer.
There's never too much food around
when Mr. Ruth is here.

He'd come fresh from the ballpark,
in unifrom and cleats.
We'd talk about his batting stance,
and broads and booze and eats.

I'd say, "You're such a hero,"
he'd say, "I'm just a man."
And as he'd shovel down the beans
I'd fetch another can.

He'd throw back a mighty mouthful,
then a hefty swig of brew.
He would hold his fork just like a bat
and take a swing or two.

"What's it like to be a legend?"
I would ask and watch him smile -
"Oh it's the next best thing to sex
to hit a ball a country mile."

Now I've dined with rich and famous,
and I've broken bread with kings.
Had sloppy joes with Elvis,
and grits and onion rings.

But if you want my real opinion,
just call me Honest Abe.
For hearty chow and chatter,
I'll take dinner with The Babe.

The Lost Years

If you see my face on a missing person flyer any time soon, don’t be alarmed.  It’s not that I’ve been kidnapped. It’s just my lousy sense of direction leading me away from wherever I’m suppose to be.

At this point in my life, I’d venture to guess that my frequent navigational goofs have added up to a total of five solid years spent completely and hopelessly lost. And that’s just while driving. If you factor in false steps on foot, you’re up to seven years or 70,000 miles, whichever comes first.

The two years squandered getting lost on foot I can live with. After all, the average adult spends two years of their life just waiting for the guy ahead of them at the post office to pick between the American flag stamps or the Legends of Boogie-Woogie stamps.

It’s the five years lost in my car that makes me melancholy. After countless misguided journeys left me older but no wiser, I decided to keep a travel journal to chronicle trips of various durations, monitor driving patterns and – hopefully – learn from my mistakes.

Submitted for your amazement and pity are a couple of excerpts from that journal.

Orlando, August 2008. While driving from our hotel to a nearby attraction called Church Street Station, my wife and I become lost. What makes this unremarkable event remarkable is that once off the highway we actually see Church Street Station. In fact, we see it several times at close range as we drive from block to block. The problem is that a series of one-way streets keeps us from making the turns we want to make and soon Church Street Station disappears into the night.

Just when it appears things can't get worse, the lighted, paved road we are on turns into an unlighted, dirt road and dead-ends abruptly at a metal gate by some rundown warehouses on the outskirts of the city. My wife, who has been uncommonly quiet for the last few minutes of our descent into oblivion, turns and says: “Is this the part where we stumble onto a drug deal going down and are shot gangland style and left to die?” She’s such a kidder.

New Jersey, October 2011. While back in my home state for a cousin’s wedding, I decide to show my wife some of my old stomping grounds. Things so pretty well at first as I successfully find my way back to my first apartment, the office I worked at right out of college, and the state park were I use to hike. But heading back to the hotel it all unravels. It seems that some of my “old stomping grounds” were stomped on by other people in the years since I left. Their overzealous and gratuitous stomping resulted in new roads, new scenery, and more opportunities for me to get spectacularly, irreversibly lost.

Soon, we find ourselves in a gritty, bars-on-the-windows kind of town with the gas gauge almost on empty, darkness falling fast, and the sound of broken glass crunching under our tires as we stop for a red light. My wife, who has been uncommonly quiet for the last few minutes of our plunge into purgatory, turns and says: “Is this the part where we run out of gas, are taken hostage at knifepoint by a sociopath named “Skunk” and are featured in a story on Dateline intitled “Last Exit to Horror Cabin.” I’m telling you, she’s such a joker.

So what have I learned about my horribly deformed sense of direction from my travel journal experiment?

I’ve learned that when I come to an intersection and confidently go left, I should have gone so far to the right it would make a conservative republican proud. I’ve learned that when I decisively go straight ahead, I should have turned 20 miles back while there were still useful landmarks like buildings and living people. And I’ve learned that I can continue to count on being an accidental tourist paying tolls on roads I shouldn’t have been on and asking directions at gas stations so far removed from where I’m going that the name of my destination is “a new one” on the locals.          

Just last night, coming home from work, I got detoured into an unfamiliar neighborhood and lost my bearings. As I circled the same streets for the third time, I could almost hear my wife say “Is this the part where we decide to buy a home here and start life fresh instead of trying to find our way back out to the main road?”

My wife. She sure makes a lot of sense sometimes.