Jed Wolf

Thanks again for all your lovely birthday wishes yesterday. Resting upon my sixty sixth milestone in a recycled party hat in a clump of invasive bamboo, I can’t pretend to be fond of birthdays. I was one of those kids who spent them alone in my room or drunk in the woods, so now if finding comfort watching a horror movie while hiding out from Covid on my special day helps, “It’s my party.”

As I said, I had the most fun birthday yesterday watching the extremely well-written series “Midnight Mass” on Netflix. Hearing from so many of you while white knuckling through certain scenes was awesome. “One person’s antidote is another’s poison,” I thought scrolling through the reactions to yesterday’s impetuous post I should have waited on. I knew I’d be misinterpreted mentioning horror on my birthday and meant to fix it but I had to go. I paused fixing my post while binge-watching “Midnight Mass” to go to an appointment at my urologist. “Happy birthday,” the aid said drawing birthday blood.

Though I’m barely able to provide a pee sample and will need continual tests, the good news is, the biopsy results show the growths on my prostate are benign and my PSA is acceptable. It’s fair to say I have cause to celebrate, in between other weekly appointments lately regarding my indecisive heart, weakening eyesight, precancerous hide, and pressure to find true happiness nearing the end of times.

Remaining grateful for the medical community’s attention to my aging frame is awesome as was the couple kicked out of the urologist’s office for refusing to wear masks. Though partially deaf and no longer able to read lips due to masks, it was obvious to me what their issue was, as I held the door with the “masks required” sign for them and my breath and my tongue. “Tis an un-weeded garden gone to seed,” I dared complain like Hamlet, reminding myself to stop at Walmart for my booster feeling grateful even if I don’t show it all the time.

Outside, after I ripped off my mask and took a deep breath, I noticed the anti-mask couple sitting in their vehicle. “Just like a couple in “Midnight Mass,” I thought. “Perhaps they’re wondering if Angels or Demons run their church. With nowhere else to safely sit but in their SUV, maybe they’re wishing their invulnerability or wits might save them,” I wondered fueled by compassion from Mike Flanagan’s horror movie.

“But break my heart, for I must hold my tongue,” I thought mixing metaphors. “Nah. I’ll post my movie review on Facebook with a demon pic and endure the slings and rubber arrows from FB friends who missed yesterdays point, which I cannot blame anyone for but myself for being unclear.

“I’d be happy if the entire planet watched this horror movie.” There, I came right out and said it.

In-between Netflix episodes and episodes in the outside world, I also ripped out a ton of invasive bamboo from behind the pond for my 66th birthday – the kind of Sisyphean task I’ve always loved and loathed and am healthy enough to continue today here on earth between dusts.