A PLACE IN THE SUN

In September, 2022, still banned from the Rutgers gyms for not vaxxing, I joined the Y in Piscataway, NJ. Two or three mornings/week, I play basketball there. On any given weekday, some random subset of 25 familiar guys who work afternoon or night shifts, work from home or are students drop into this gleaming, five-year-old facility’s gym.

This group is a comprehensive mix of 17-35 year old African, Latin, Asian, Indian and Persian-Americans, plus one Slavic/Celtic Boomer. Except for some occasional disagreements about the score or foul calls, and some funny trash talk, everyone plays hard and gets along and, other than missing some easy shots, enjoys the sessions. Some news show should do a slice-of-life story about this setting. But such a counter pervasive-racism dispatch would be too chill and too positive to get airtime.

This past Friday morning, upon arrival, I walked down the main hallway and looked through the tall, broad glass wall alongside the fishbowl courts’ western edge. Only a couple of guys had shown up and thus, no games could materialize. I turned around and departed. I figured I’d wait outside and see if enough latecomers would trickle in to constitute a quorum.

While spring arrived late this year and much of May had been gloomy, Friday morning was beautiful: the sky was deep blue and the mid-70s air was dry and breezy. Accordingly, when I exited the building, I contentedly settled onto the east-facing park bench just outside the front door.

The sunlight looked and felt great. I was enjoying the time alongside a parking lot as much as if I were looking down into the Grand Canyon or gazing up at Denali. And the trip to the Y is much easier; it’s only three, low-traffic miles from my house.

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Ten minutes later, a pale, sweat-suited seventy-something man emerged from the building’s exit/entrance, fifteen feet to my left. As he passed me on the way to his car, he smirked and said, only, “If you keep sitting there with no hat or lotion, you’ll end up across the street.”

Across the street, i.e., an at-grade four lane highway, there’s a big cemetery.

The air and sun felt too good to let his silly negativity distract me. Besides, it was 9:15 and I only planned to sit there for twenty minutes; I had other work to do. But I wanted to live in the moment. It’s a basic hedonic principle: doing something one likes for a short time pleases the doer nearly as much as does doing it for a long time. I exercise, play music and generally live with the same approach: regular and moderate, short and sweet, be here now. I value variety more highly than I value excellence; it shows, in various deficits of mastery. But I’m happier this way.

Besides, as I’ve lived over six decades, I know that, from ages five to 105, some people say more than their share of stupid stuff via throw-away comments. And I don’t expect to live forever on this Earth. Thus, I don’t take every possible precaution or measure in an obsessive, perhaps futile attempt to extend my life.

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Be that as it may, the sweat-suiter’s gratuitous, vicariously sun-phobic comment struck me as a sign of the Coronamanic times. During the past four years, I could never accept or understand the vast majority’s insane overreaction. Throughout, I expected better from people.

Seeing hundreds of millions of people respond so inappropriately to a respiratory virus has been pathetic, disappointing, disunifying and economically destructive. It’s also exposed widespread mental illness. There are legions of hypochondriacs and, relatedly, many death-phobic people; more than I previously thought.

I suspected that, during Coronanmania, the you’re-gonna-be-ultraviolet-irradiated-to-death guy, and his ilk, dutifully stayed home, masked up, regularly repeated to themselves—and spouted to others—the litany of trite, hollow “Covid-crushing” slogans, took multiple worthless tests, injected ineffective, injurious mRNA or J&J juice, read the misinforming New York Times, watched palpably biased PBS and CNN, and listened to National Pravda Radio. As are the solar-phobic, the Covophobic are/were alarmingly gullible and compliant.

The sun and virus-fearing are also poor risk assessors. I suspected that my unsolicited/unappointed health advisor/guardian, and many other Covophobes, go home and eat food and take pills that I avoid like, well, The Plague.

During a dinner conversation in Staten Island a few nights ago, a vaxx-refusenik MD friend corroborated what others have said about our overmedicated society. She reported that many patients who were referred to her took a half-dozen or more prescriptions and that these caused many adverse side effects. Consequently, they took five more pills to counteract the first half-dozen. Overall, this tricky, untenable balancing act worsens their health. My doctor friend tries to break this vicious cycle.

In this vein, and by phonetic and pharmaceutical coincidence, I read a very interesting Substack post by Dr. Colleen Huber theorizing that widespread statin use had lowered cholesterol levels and consequently, lessened Vitamin D levels, which, in turn, weakened immune response. Thus, statin use may have caused many Covid deaths.

During each annual physical, my doctor tells me my cholesterol is high—I counter that my HDL and triglycerides are fine—and advises me to take a statin, presumably for the rest of my life. This won’t happen. I take no meds.

Though I do involuntarily subsidize, via insurance premiums, others’ prescription drug overuse. Additionally, some of my tax dollars funded the Covid injections and the ad campaigns to promote jab uptake. Thus, I have a personal stake in overmedication such that I might assert a right to tell people that popping pills is bad for them.

But I say nothing. Unlike the sun-phobic or the vaxx fascists, I generally reason that people should make their own decisions about what they put in their bodies. Though I’d prefer that pill poppers pay for their own meds; doing so might cause them to focus more on healthy living. Further, removing insurance/government Pharma coverage should lower Rx costs across the board. When there are very deep public/insurance pockets to pay for pills, there’s insufficient incentive to control prices.

The NPI and shot supporters strongly believe in purportedly “scientific” interventions. Like the solar-phobic, they like barrier methods. They’re drawn to shield modalities because they inaccurately, dysfunctionally see the natural world and other humans as intrinsically hazardous.

During the past four years, it’s also been clear that, as did my sun monitor, many try to convince others to share their fear and to control those around them. These false prophets of doom also strongly support government efforts to control others.

People with the above-described characteristics make up much of the rank-and-file Coronamanic Coalition. They’re fearful, poorly informed, prescriptive groupthinkers. It’s been a very bad mix: brainwashed cult members zealously drinking the Covid Era Kool-Aid served up by government and media operatives.

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If I see someone sitting in the sun, I don’t assume that they don’t know how to take care of themselves and/or that doing something they like for a few minutes was dangerous. To the contrary, I think some sun exposure is good for them, both emotionally and physically. Maybe if they spent more time in the sun, or just did some exercise, they’d stop swallowing anti-depressants. Besides, our immune systems need Vitamin D. My sun affinity may partially explain my Covid resistance. Whatever I’m doing has worked way better than did the “vaxxes” that so many foolishly exalted and pushed on others.

I have some lines in my face. But I’ve lived and worked vitally, often outdoors. Life entails balancing costs and benefits.

Overall, I trust people to use good judgment about how long they bask in solar rays. And I don’t paternalistically fret about any—highly unlikely—deaths that might flow therefrom. I reckon that those who, like John Denver, are made happy by sunshine on their shoulders can manage their own health and weigh risk versus reward better than did any of those who imposed or supported lockdowns and school closures.

Consider this: if he were alive today, mawkish old John might be labeled a skin cancer misinformer/superspreader, deemed an Enemy of the State and cancelled. Maybe government goons would smash his folk guitar in front of an angry mob and hand him its disembodied neck, while some bureaucrat kicked him in the backside as he scurried off the stage into commercial oblivion. Like Michelle Shocked, his songs would get no more airplay.

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Regardless, when I see someone enjoying sunny weather, I simply say to them, “Wow, what a great day!”

Yeah, I know. I’m an enabler.