Logic in the Time of COVID.

Who doesn't love a good conspiracy theory? I know I do.

Or did, anyway. The JFK assassination has to be one of the classics. It alone has more angles than a presidential comb-over: the CIA did it, the mob, LBJ— even Woody Harrelson's dad's been thrown into the mix.

Historically, conspiracy theories have covered the spectrum of deceit and collusion, from simple, self-serving schemes (Jim Morrison faked his death) to intricately-planned, elaborate capers encompassing the deepest corners of government and society (Lou Reed was killed by Lady Gaga).

There's Area 51, quirky and benign member of the Conspiracy All-Star Squad since the mid-20th Century. Or the Illuminati, with its ancient and über-secretive roster of influence, currently boasting such A-listers as Beyoncé, Jay Z, Madonna and Lindsay Lohan (Wait, how is Lohan still a member? Freaky Friday was her last good movie, and it was far before her Botox and Four Loko era.).

With the new millennium arose a docket of fresh, even more sinister theories. The 9-11 Truth movement claimed that the September 11 attacks were actually a controlled demolition orchestrated by the U.S. government, meant to incite war in the Middle East and seize control of the petroleum industry.

In short order, with the election of our first non-white president, came the "birther" movement, where a healthy smattering of Americans maintained that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. According to their purview, only a deviously well-oiled plot could secure his ascension to commander-in-chief, and that's precisely what went down.

Oh, and remember who really latched onto that one? A quick hint—his name rhymes with his daily activity between 2:00 and 2:17—that's right, a McDonalds Dump. Yeah, him. And he's taken the whole conspiracy playbook to a level not seen since Milli met Vanilli. The difference is, this time people are dying.

Why do we gravitate toward conspiracies? And how have some of us devolved into these people who view even the most basic truths through a lens of skepticism and distrust? Surely, a single man can't be responsible for this, right? Well, as the guy himself has been known to bark: "Wronnnng!"

In my opinion, the only way a leader can convince his followers to dispute science is to take a sharp right and go after the scientists themselves. If a mask of conspiracy can be strapped to Dr. Fauci's substantial, yet handsome, ears, then all bets are off. What if he truly is a Deep State operative who's been embedded to sabotage the president's chances for re-election?

That's exactly what's going on, according to Alex Jones, a cuddly right-wing conspiracy theorist and YouTube deity, who's also puked out that no one died at Sandy Hook and students who survived the Stoneman Douglas shooting were paid "crisis actors." Crisis actors? I wonder where that would fall on the pay scale in relation to porn acting. Bet some of the lucky ones do both porn and crises.

I just find it really arrogant for someone to claim that they and a few other enlightened souls have the goods, that all this overwhelming scientific evidence is bullshit and they're going to go ahead and opt for the opinion of the social media douchebag who talks like a pro wrestler. How miserable it must be to believe the stuff this guy's schtick, to wake up every morning convinced that faceless zombies in black SWAT gear could bust down the door at any moment.

Let's be real; have high-level conspiracies transpired throughout our history? Of course; look no further than Watergate, Iran Contra or Apollo 11 (Watch the movie Capricorn One and it'll all make sense).

This isn't one of them. We're all doing the best we can right now, and that includes our doctors, scientists, governors and mayors. It sucks when a plague becomes political.

Can't Wait to Hug You.

Well, hello. How are you holding up?

From where I sit here in this makeshift office, converted from a dining room that was previously converted from an office, we're about halfway into week six of, well, take your pick:

•  The 2020 Feel Sort of Cold All Day Festival, sponsored by the Lack of Movement movement.

•  A Vicious, Vegetative, Viral Vacation of Vain, brought to you by the AWSTDSICBTSTSIC (Assholes Who Said They Didn't See It Coming But Then Said They Saw It Coming) Foundation.

•  The First Annual Stop It, You Damn Fool. There's Not a Chance in Hell That You're Hungry Because Twelve Minutes Ago You Ate a Small Ham with Half a Box of Chicken in a Biskit and a Coffee Mug Full of Sweet Baby Ray's Marathon.

•  The Eczema Project. To prove they never really went away, the Beatles have again burst onto the scene with the unofficial theme song of this under-hydrated season: I Want to Hold Your Hand (Sanitizer). Makes my old heart crack and bleed, harkening back to times both simpler and moister.

Since this all started, it seems we've been living through a bizarre confluence of eerie, bored calmness and a gut-churning, sleep-thwarting anxiety about our future. For the first time that I can remember during my 57 years, never has such uncertainty hovered over tomorrow, let alone next week or next month. Only September 11 seems an example of a new reality capable of sinking its talons into us, virtually overnight.

Oh, and speaking of "virtually," this also marks my sixth week of working from home. In the midst of America's economic collapse, I count myself so lucky to still have gainful employment. Furloughs and layoffs rampant as they are, so many surviving occupations have become either monumentally challenging (i.e. teaching small children) or of profound peril to life and limb (healthcare and essential service workers). History will mark these ordinary groups of people as the heart that sustained and delivered us during the age of COVID-19.

Okay, enough of that hero stuff, right? Let's give you a little snapshot of a typical day for Joe Ordinary, low-impact corporate employee. I know you're more motivated than a Trump with the new May Hustler to learn about my WFH routine, so here's a little time-lapse exposition of an average morning, complete with numeric descriptions:

Figure 1) As I sit down to begin my day, I smile at the thought of working for a first-class company. I also say a little prayer asking God to plant little clothes-buying seeds in America's collective consciousness, at least those who have the privilege of caring about buying clothes right now.

Figure 2) Forgot to take a second pee before settling in! Curses!

Figure 3) Ahhh, peed.

Figure 4) Nothing jumpstarts my morning like a hot cup of my friend Larry's Kabaty Coffee. One sip and you'll tell the green mermaid to put down her damn tail and get off your property.

Figure 5) Hmm, what's going on in the news?

Figure 6) I can't believe how rude those reporters are! Why the hell should a president of the United States be challenged on his lies! At length, my anger subsides, and I again petition my maker, thanking him for creating Fox News—last bastion of druther-based factualism.

And that's just my morning.

I probably shouldn't say this, especially considering my standing as a representative of the fashion industry, but not all of those pictures were taken on the same day. And since we're on the subject of wardrobe, I recently ran into this lonely figure in the spare bedroom:

I'm told it was referred to as a belt, meant for holding up non-elastic-based trousers.

Hmm, doesn't ring a bell.

All this frivolity aside, I truly hope you're feeling decent and dealing with the anxiety in a healthy way. I speak from experience when I say that alcohol, during times like these, tends to treat us like that time when we were little and went to the Puyallup Fair with our parents. We spent all our money on rides during the first fifteen rapturous minutes and then endured the next three hours in the pavilion, regretful and sad as we got dragged through the quilts and jam.

Can't wait to hug you.