Covidology

Covidology like codology. It’s endemic and philosophers who can only virtually pull their chins discover new ways of presenting the counter intuitive as a revelation. Don’t smack your foreheads please when you are told that the deaths in Italy are an artefact of the method of collation of data and a 60 year old with an excellent chance of survival with treatment should be passed over for the 20 year old with a poor prognosis with or without treatment. You see he’s got probably more life to lose and he could be deader for longer. And what about this warty thing on my forehead, it could be cancer. Nobody cares.

There is a laugh out there from Nick Laird’s NYRB blog:

Last Wednesday night I met my friend Eddy and we sat six feet apart on the bench in the middle of Houston Street—between the two traffic lanes—and drank: him a half-bottle of Woodford Reserve bourbon, and me a children’s thermos filled with Pinot Grigio. A bearded man dressed in rags and trimmed with lit-up Christmas lights wandered the empty sidewalk, shouting at the occasional car passing, “I feel you, I feel you, brother.”