My name is Matthew and I am on the internet a lot.
This hasn’t been one of the best summers. I think I think that every year by mid-August, when the humidity makes me as irritable as the constant shift between the sweltering outdoors and people’s air conditioned fortresses. This August hasn’t been like that. I’m sure it’s a byproduct of the impending apocalypse, but this has been the most comfortable summer I can remember.
On the other hand, seventy-five degree days haven’t compelled me to the beach like ninety-degree days would, and I haven’t gone to my favorite beach once. In fact I only went to the beach at all twice, and it was so windy the first day and so chilly the second that I didn’t go in the ocean at all.
I did do things, though, although the summer was definitely front-loaded with fun. My only getaway, and it was technically a work trip, was the Provincetown Film Festival, where I watched movies and sat by several pools and managed to sit next to Stephin Merritt at a movie and Barney Frank the following morning at breakfast. Andrew Sullivan even said hello to me.
I also went to doctors, which isn’t fun but which is sort of fun when you haven’t done it since six years ago when you quit the only
you ever had that came with a benefits package. My primary care physician didn’t seem fazed when I mentioned how many alcoholic beverages I consume weekly, although the number sounded absurd to me. But when I mentioned smoking two or three cigarettes a week—only when I’m out, only when I’m with friends, and not even when it’s too hot or too cold to comfortably stand outside for teh minutes—that was a different story. I said I haven’t even bought a pack of cigarettes in six months and she suggested counseling and Chantix. She also told me to lose ten pounds and get a mole on my shoulder checked out.
My new eye doctor told me that my vision is complicated and bad, and that the peripheral vision on one side is so bad that I might have early signs of glaucoma. I looked at glasses and actually found a pair I liked, though I’d never be able to afford them. Then this morning I saw a dermatologist, a loony-looking German whose glasses separate at the bridge and reconnect with a magnet. I had to wait for hours and then was told that the mole was surely benign, though removed it anyway.
Sunday is a beach day. A good friend is moving to the midwest at the end of the month and this is her last hurrah. I will finally, finally spend an hour in the water.
So, I figured out why this sketchy neighborhood app thing has been bugging me, and it’s actually not the “sketchy=black” insinuation or the fact that the app developers clearly live in plastic bubbles or the one guy’s hair or even the fact that people post-Y2K using the word sketchy are about as linguistically relevant as people telling you to talk to the hand. No. It’s the fact that we’ve reached a point where people literally can not look up from their phones long enough to gauge their own personal feelings of safety without actually being told that information by their phones. And also that this is now a marketable thing and not a source of shame.
Records also show he used an unlicensed person to conduct funeral services on at least five occasions. One case resulted in a confrontation with the family because the unlicensed person in charge didn’t know what to do at the church or cemetery.
Pennine also failed to report deaths in a timely manner, renewed his license once with a bad check, and faced repeated complaints of not holding burials on time, records show.”
That’s my neighborhood!
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