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Greetings, my fellow port swillers!

Tuesday, again.

Tuesday has always been Ol’ Robbo’s least favorite day.  As in the title, I’ve long thought of it mostly as the hole in the week:  No psychological milestone; no character; not even a trash pick-up.  It’s simply a 24-hour amorphous lump.

Having said that, a little this n’ that:

Regular friends of the decanter will know that Ol’ Robbo has had almost nothing positive to say about the lockdown now entering its third grim month.  But I will say this:  I haven’t been in this good shape for quite a while.  Without the commute, Ol’ Robbo can roll straight into his workout routine once he closes his laptop for the day and I’ve been diligent about sticking to it.  In all modesty, the toning has been quite noticeable, and I’m guessing that the next time I go in for a check-up my doc will have no excuse to squawk at me about my blood-pressure, either.  (The real question will be whether I can keep this up once things get back to normal.  I hope so.  I hope so.)

Speaking of the commute reminds me that starting this weekend Metro will close down its entire subway system in my county, keeping it closed until Labor Day (and most likely beyond).  Originally, they had planned a modified, limited shutdown for just my line, which would have been an immense nuisance, but still workable.  If the siege is lifted and I need to start putting in regular appearances at the office during the new plan, Heaven alone knows what I’m going to do about it.

Also speaking of the commute, under normal conditions Ol’ Robbo doesn’t get his first cuppa kawfee until he gets in to work.  What with the drive, the train, and all, he is at that point at least awake enough to operate his (illicit**) kawfee-maker intelligently.  At home seems to be different.  I use a single-serving maker here (a gift from Eldest) and more than once in my morning grogginess I have forgot to put a mug under the filter, leaving a thorough mess on my kitchen counter.  Heigh ho.

Speaking of grogginess, I had another of my patented weird dreams last night in which I came home to find that Port Swiller Manor had been burglarized.  Not only had all of our possessions been taken, the thief had also removed all the fixtures, drywall, and moldings.  Even the stairs were gone.  If I wanted to reach the second floor, I had to climb up the exposed studs in the wall.  Then the thief appeared.  It was Michael Keaton as Beatlejuice, except he had no makeup and his hair was blond.  He announced that he did it because he was an anarchist and wanted to make a “statement”.  I’ve no idea what to make of this.

Oh, one more thing:  For those of you keeping score, Mrs. R and I seem to have hit on a happy compromise re Robbo’s Beard.  Call it a heavy stubble.  On another front, I’m afraid I’m finally going to have to let her have a go at the back of my head with the scissors, as I am starting to look like a hippy (anarchist?) and can no longer stand it.

Well, enough for now.

**We’re not supposed to have them in our offices.  I keep mine hidden behind my monitor.  Don’t tell anybody.








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May 2020