Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P. 3 of 3)

One would be mistaken to describe the effects of this plant as something akin to grass or even mescaline. It is like you are stamped wholly in this illusion that we term reality, where glimpses of another reality pops-in on occasion, revealing an alternative. Everything inwardly and outwardly feels normal, as sober as the morning. Then, from no-where, something odd appears that doesn't fit at all in one's “normal” perceptions.

We were traveling east on Interstate 40, otherwise known as Route 66 towards the Texas panhandle to the college town of Amarillo. In the summer 0f 1974, I believe there was a single gas station the entire 100-mile trek. You would look out the passenger window to the south or the other window to the north and see nothing but stretches of endless sand.

In the beginning, we traveled in silence, when out of no-where. Greg yelled:

“What?”

“I didn't say anything, man.”

“Yes you did, man, I can hear you speak!”

“I swear, Greg, I didn't say a word.” I said.

We would travel for another thirty miles or so, when out of the blue:

“WHAT.” Greg would yell.

“I didn't say anything!” I said.

“Yes you did. You said that I was driving too slow and needed to gun it a little harder. You said there were no cops around.”

“That's weird,” I said. “I know I thought that, but I know I didn't say it out loud.”

“You also said you wanted to find Denny's restaurant when we get into town. You said you wanted to eat at least 2 cheeseburgers...”

Greg was absolutely correct. That's exactly what I was 'thinking,' but I know I'd never said any of those things out loud. Was this guy reading my mind or what?

Right up ahead sat a figure in the distance. As we traveled closer,  an old man was wearing a sombrero, sitting on an old leather suitcase, with his thumb in the air.

“Do you see that hitchhiker Greg? Are you going to pick him up?”

“No fucking way, man!”

When we reached the strange hitchhiker, Greg swerved the car hard to the left to, I guess, put as much distance as possible between the old man and the car. I looked back, and the hitchhiker was now standing and waving at us with a friendly smile.

Dusk had now turned to blackness. There were no lampposts along the thoroughfare at the time, so all that could be seen was what the headlights permitted. No more than 10 miles further along, sat the old man again, wearing his big hat and sitting on his suitcase in the short distance. This time Greg didn't swerve the car but punched the accelerator, and we zoomed past our persistent hitchhiker.

We didn't say another word to each other until we turned off the freeway on the ramp leading us to the city.

Along the main street of gas stations and various stores, in the distance, sat Denny's restaurant. We pulled into the parking lot, and Greg killed the engine, and we sat there in silence, for it felt like over five minutes. “Okay, man. Let's eat.” Greg said.

After a month of ham and cheese sandwiches and rank TV dinners, sit down in a restaurant and eat real food felt like a brand new experience.

“ Were you screwing with me back there? I mean, you weren't saying anything to me?” He asked.

“No, man, I know when I talk or not, but I was 'thinking' those things you thought you heard I was saying.” I said.

“You mean you think I was reading your mind?” he asked.

Greg then looked out the window of the restaurant and turned a mild form of green. I followed his line of sight to see an old man sitting across the street, sitting on a suitcase, staring at us.

“Well, I'll be damned,” I said.

Greg grew panicked and said. “That's it. I wanna go back to New Mexico. This is getting way too weird, man.”

No, let's just find a rock club somewhere, listen to some music, and have a few 'real' drinks. Screw that old man. He won't follow us into any club.” I said.

Greg had a change of heart, whether from a full stomach of real food or putting aside the situation's strangeness, we paid the bill and headed out downtown. It was not long until we hit a part of town that consisted of mainly strip clubs and pool halls. Finally, we came to a place that had a long line in front of it, and the marque in front had the name of a rock band that currently escapes me. We joined the line and eventually entered the place.

After more than a month of living a routine existence of a Trappist monk, sleep, work in the fields, sleep, swim, work and sleep, day after day, can do a number on your head. Anything outside this strict and narrow routine becomes out of the ordinary. However, we had ventured out with not only escaping a monk's existence but with the enhanced variable of the local plant life running through our brains.

I made my way to the crowded bar and ordered two more G and T's. When I returned, a pretty blond girl was sitting next to Greg, chatting with him up. I remember Greg continued to have a look of shock and loss on his face. We listened to the band for a set, playing the Top 40 covers of the day. I was starting to enjoy myself, The set had ended, and I retrieved more drinks from the bar. Now that the music was less loud, a proper conversation could take place.

In an unusual moment of silence, the pretty blonde peered at the both of us and said. “I want to tell you before we get too friendly, but I'm known as the local white witch in town. And I know you have come across Mexcalito in your travels here to Amarillo.”

In that instant, Greg dropped his fresh drink on the floor and said to me, “That's it, we're leaving!”

At that instant, I wanted to ask the pretty girl how she knew, and who really was “Mexcalito.” But Greg wasn't having any of it. He grabbed my sleeve, and we scrabbled out of the bar in seconds. Back in the car and zooming back west on Route 66, we didn't say a word the entire way back to the hotel.

We never discussed the old man's incident or the self-proclaimed white witch in the rock club during the remaining two months of our working in Tucumcari. Greg was a pragmatist, a man who liked his steak medium rare and potatoes mashed to his liking. Anything that extended beyond this perception of “reality” was simply not discussed nor seriously considered.

It was a year later at college, that I sat on the bed of a fellow actor (we were in the same production) after a few beers, that she turned to me in all seriousness, and asked: “You've seen stuff, paranormal stuff, that others have never seen. I'm right, right?”

I turned to her and said,

“I'd rather not talk about it. And really, you don't want to know.”

Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P.2)

Over the first month working in the desert, nothing really occurred worth mentioning. Greg had our daily routine down to a science. The night before, he's making our lunches of ham and cheese sandwiches, and five Oreo cookies each for dessert with coffee for the mornings. Greg was elevated to the pile driving crew, the dirtiest, and most difficult work. Whereas, I landed with a cement crew, shoveling wet concrete in a crew of locals who could barely speak English. I managed to learn a little Spanish, though just enough to get by. I remember on one day, received two bee stings one after another, rolling in pain on the ground, while my concrete associates writhed with laughter. It was one Friday evening after work, sitting on lawn chairs drinking beer, that Juan, our landlord, approached us and began asking a few questions.

“I notice you two never leave the motel.” he said.

“Well, there isn't that much else to do out here.” I responded.

“ Do you guy's like to swim?”

“Sure, Juan,” Greg responded in a loud beer belch.

“I'll come over in the morning and show you guy's something that many people around here don't know about.” he said.

The next morning around 9:00, Juan pounded on the door, waking us both after a long week on the chain gang. We hopped in Juan's truck and headed west off the main drag.

Stopping the truck, Juan, announced, “Well, here we are.”

From where we were seated in the truck, nothing could be seen except more sand and cactus. Once out of the truck, only a few yards away was the biggest “watering hole” I'd ever seen in my life. In fact, looking down into the water, it was surrounded by jagged rocks, cliff-like edges that had a drop off about 60 feet. To swim, one had to climb the cliffs downward to reach the water.

Greg began his decent, while I looked on with interest and a little trepidation. Though before Greg reached the bottom, Juan backed away and ran to the edge, taking a perfect swan dive, disappearing directly in the center of the water. He soon surfaces with a cheeky grin on his face.

“C'mon man”. Juan yelled. “Dive in. It's perfectly safe.”

It didn't matter that the drop was only 60 feet. It could have been 1000 feet from where I was standing. But something out-weighed my fear in that instant, so I stepped back a few yards and took the plunge, landing dead center in the water. It felt absolutely magnificent. The more difficult part was climbing the cliffs back to the top. Juan climbed the cliffs like a practiced climber/diver. Floating in the water, I watched his accent and followed his lead back to the water holes top ledge.

After witnessing Juan and myself dive from the ledge, certainly not wanting to be outdone, Greg reversed his descent, climbing back to the top. Without any hesitation whatsoever, he took a running start, jumping into the water below.

Over the next two weekends, this became our respite from the outside world. Juan let us in on a secret, that not even the local “gringo's” were aware of...it was our secret.

On the third weekend, the three of us bathing under a New Mexico summer's sun, that Juan brought up something unusual.

“Have you guy's ever heard of Peyote”? he asked.

Greg appeared a little confused. But through my high school days, read everything I could get my hands on by the author, Carlos Castaneda. Carlos was an anthropologist that met an Indian shaman by the name of Juan Mantas. Castaneda soon became an apprentice under the tutelage of Juan in the ways of the Indian sorcerers. His first lesson in “seeing” was under the influence of peyote. Only after this one experience of the local plant Castaneda didn't use it anymore in the art of “seeing,” Thus, his apprenticeship continued.

It was only much later that I discovered that peyote buttons were legal in the state of New Mexico for religious purposes within the Indian community.

Juan pulled out a plastic sandwich bag containing a green substance.

“This is not pot.” Juan said. “It's a peyote. Would you two like to try some?”

Greg and I looked at each other and shrugged.

“What does it do?” Greg asked.

“Well it's different for every person. It all depends on what the soul of the drug wants you to see and experience.” Juan said.

“How much?” Greg asked.

“You can have this one for free. Only, of course, you like it and wish to try it again.”

Having read Castaneda, I was more than willing to give the plant a go. So I asked, “Do we smoke it or eat it?”

“I'd advise eating the plant to gain a better experience.” Juan replied.

The three of us piled into Greg's Volkswagen, and not a word was spoken the entire trip home.

Once inside, Greg said, “Let's eat this stuff and take a drive across the panhandle into Amarillo. The drinking age is 18, so we can hit a few of the rock clubs.”

“Sounds good to me...” I said.

The substance tasted awful, chasing it down with the local 3'2 beer. After around 15 minutes or so, both of us began vomiting. This went on for a few minutes, where the two of us passed out on our respective beds. We woke up at the same time, and Greg was already in the shower, getting ready for our 100-mile trip east to Amarillo, Texas. I followed suit, and before long, we were barrelling down the freeway at dusk.

It was then that shit started to get very strange.

Mexcalito & the Cliffs (P.1)

The summer after graduating my 12^th year of high school, a good friend offered me a construction laborers job in the deserts of New Mexico. The town closest to the working site was Tucumcari, a town I only knew from a Linda Rostand song. After little negotiation with my parents and the excellent argument that the money would be sent home every week for my college tuition, the deal was set. However, only on the stipulation that one of my parents would drive me halfway between Colorado and New Mexico and meet my friend. My dear mother had just acquired her driver's license, so she would be my ride South down I 25. Looking back, this was a significant event for both of us. She had never driven that far before, and this was really my first long-stint away from home.

We finally arrived at a small park just inside of the Colorado border. My friend hadn't shown, so we sat under a large tree in the shade drinking a couple of cans of Coors beer.

“So you call me if you run into any trouble, right”? she asked.

“ Sure mom, everything is going to be fine.” I said.

In the distance, I could hear my friend's old Volkswagen. He arrived all smiles with that boyish charm he was known for all over town. Greg and I were the same age with similar interests in going to college and becoming famous actors. He certainly had the looks and a wonderful singing voice. Though I thought at the time, my looks and voice left a lot to be desired.

“Don't worry, Mrs. M, here is the motel we're staying and the phone number.” he said.

My mom gave us both big hugs and drove off, while Greg and I watched her drive back up North on I 25.

The motel was a real dive run by a local Indian boy. Juan loved us because we were from the big city of Denver. When he showed us to our room, he assured us it was the motel's best room. Once settling in, we ate a few local burgers and drank some beers, when I asked: “So, we start tomorrow, right?”

Greg hesitated and had an expression of guilt on his face.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Well, man, you don't really have the job yet.” he said.

“What'?!

Hey don't worry about it, man, the head foreman knows my dad, and I'm sure he'll hire you tomorrow...”

“Shit, Greg, you should have told me...” I said

“Would you have come all the way down here. If I told you you didn't exactly have the job,”? he asked.

I shook my head, “Probably not.” I said.

“Hey man, don't worry, I'm sure you'll get it.”

At that point, I was a little too drunk and tired to worry about it. The next thing I know is Greg is kicking me out of bed, and we're in his car headed towards the job site.

As soon as I met the construction foreman, Bob Freedman, a 50-year-old, leather-faced man from Arkansas, who I soon discovered had a slight speech impediment, I knew I was in trouble.

Bob didn't really talk like other human beings but kind of spoke under his breath, mumbled, and spat. He chewed a lot of tobacco, so his teeth were the color of slightly burnt logs. I guess he told Greg to go meet someone on the other side of the worksite. He then grabbed a yellow barrel of what I thought was drinking water and threw it in the back of his truck.

“You, boy, gurgle-spit- come with – gurgle – mumble – with me.” he said.

I got in the truck, and we headed out into the open desert. After around a 30-minute drive, we stopped, and he spat at me to get out of the truck. He grabbed a long-handled shovel from the truck and told me to get the water canister...

“Now boy - mumble-spit-I want you to dig a hole -mumble – gurgle- and dig me a hole six feet – mumble – by three feet-spit- gurgle- and I'll be back by quitting time. Got it-spit-mumble.”

All I could do was nod my head as he got back into his truck and drove away, watching the dust from his vehicle disappear, almost glittering on the desert surface like a mirage you see in the movies.

From what I could gather, he wanted me to dig a big hole in the middle of no-where, at a depth of 6 feet. So that's exactly what I did and only stopped every half hour to drink some water and rest. It was a hot day without any shade in sight.

It was around 3:00pm that I saw a vehicle coming towards me from a distance. Old Bob pulled next to the hole and got out. Looking down, he appeared to be inspecting my day's work.

“Okay – spit - mumble- get in the truck.” he said

We soon pulled into the work site, and I could see Greg leaning against the hood of his car, waiting for me. I got out of the truck and saw old Bob and Greg have a short exchange just out of earshot.

Greg waved to me to come over and get into his car. On the way home, I said, “Well, what the hell was that all about? He leaves me in the middle of the desert with no lunch and...”

“Look man, you got the job. That was a test. Don't you see it? He wanted to see if you'd give up or something. I don't know. But you got the job, man”!

Looking back over so many years, I remember being a bit shocked and mostly hungry. Greg stopped at a local shop and bought some tacos and 2 six-packs of beer because we were celebrating. I remember eating half the meat and drinking a few cans of the beer before I collapsed into an exhausted sleep, only for it start all over again at 5:00am the next day.

 

Will a Biden Presidency make a Difference?

 

Awoke this morning to the television blaring in the next room, announcing that Joe Biden had reached 270 electoral votes, and a declaration he is the next president of the United States of America. Certainly, this is a big step forward, removing a right-wing, narcissistic clown from the highest office in the land. Trump, in the end, was an embarrassment for America. A maniac tweeter, and a rambling fool, including his blatant racism, indeed divided a country. From the start, we knew this with his comments on the race riots, “good people on both sides,” emboldening every white supremacist across America. Now that the clown is gone, will anything of substantial change in the US?

In the last four years, the democratic congress has passed just about everything that Trump wanted: $ for his border wall; massive defense budgets, and barely resisted his SC nominees. Since COVID 19, the US is experiencing around 100,000 new cases a day and as a result, towering unemployment, and the great possibility that hundreds of thousands will be kicked out of their homes in the coming months. Trump and the democrats did nothing to prevent this fallout. They did coordinate the biggest transference of wealth to the top 1% ever seen in the world's history. Rather than write a check for the people to survive and keep the economy running, the government had simply taken care of their own. After observing a weak democratic congress over the last four years, there's no doubt that anything will be any different under Biden.

Once the celebration settles, and Trump finally goes away (not without a fight); what will the Biden administration actually do to help the American people.? My guess is absolutely nothing.

Biden even stated during his campaign that nothing would change under his presidency. The old adage, 'business as usual'; before Trump. And what was that business as usual, anyway?

In the Obama era, he brought the US into 7 wars from 2. Obama was hailed as the “drone king' by the military, as he bombed other countries to such an extent that they actually ran out of bombs. He turned Libya into a failed state. And shared with Saudi Arabia in the systematic genocide of Yemen. Domestically, he deported much more illegal aliens than Trump and actually began the systematic separation of immigrant children from their parents as a “deterrent – he also built the cages that currently house these children. He supported the poisoning of Flint, Michigan's water supply. He even visited Flint, and jokingly drank the water as a stunt. Under the Obama/Biden administration, more whistleblowers were prosecuted than under any administration in US history through the antiquated 'Espionage Act.' Biden's 'Crime Bill' created what is currently called the 'Prison Industrial Complex.' More American's are incarcerated per capita than in any country on the planet. Trump put a vulgar face on all these corporate fuelled catastrophes, but they were created and originally put into practice by Obama/Biden. I could go on, but I believe you get my point.

Though many people know my extreme cynicism about American politics and politics, in general, asked me who I would have voted for in this election. My answer was Biden because he is the lesser of two evils. Understanding that both parties are essentially right-wing, though Trump is a little more Right. The choice was an obvious one.

The so-called liberal Left in the United States essentially went to sleep under the Obama/Biden administration. They put a good face on bad policies. This must not be allowed to happen again. Now that we have a conservative democrat in office, the pressure should be laid on even harder. Politicians should not be allowed to only vote in their corporate donors' interests but held accountable for their actions or inactions regarding the American people's welfare.

As far as foreign policy is concerned, these hyped-up regime change wars need to stop. The Trumpian “might makes right,” and their application of brutal sanctions on countries across the globe must stop. We must move into an era of diplomacy, real diplomacy, and not the bully tactics of a Mike Pompeo or the dictates of the military Industrial Complex.

In my well-earned cynicism, I don't believe any of these issues raised above will be addressed, but simply continued with a “kind face.” When the celebrations finally stop, and the Trump-dust settles, we must work together to push our politicians to work for us and stop working for their corporate donors.

We took our eyes off the ball during the Obama era, this should not happen again under Biden.

Disillusionment in 2020 Presidential Election

 

                                                                  Opinion

After watching a portion of the US presidential election over 10,000 miles from the action, the process hasn't changed all that much in many years. I had the unfortunate experience of viewing Australian commentators stating their sports-like renditions of Trump and Biden's voting race on Tuesday. The election is covered like a football match or a painfully long horse race. The American mainstream did seem to call out more of the facts, making a seemingly concerted effort to stick with the game numbers.

Began reading Hunter S. Thompson's Fear Loathing on the Campaign Trail 72, and have come to the grim conclusion that nothing has really changed in American politics, at least over the last 50 years. Thompson makes an insightful comment on “objectivity” in American journalism. He states:

So much for Objective Journalism. Don't bother to look for it here – not under any byline of mine; or anyone else I can think of. With the possible exception of things like box scores, race results, and stock market tabulations, there is no such thing as Objective Journalism, The phrase itself is a pompous contradiction in terms.

Mainstream media outlets particularly have blatant editorial agendas that most don't even attempt to hide anymore. Of course, I'm talking about the MSNBC and FOX News outlets that spew misinformation and out-right lies to their respective audiences. If you want an insightful view of what I guess follows the Rolling Stone Hunter S. Thompson tradition, Matt Taibbi's Hate inc., spells-out MSM bias in scathing terms, designed to pit their audiences against the opposing point of view: MSNBC vs. Fox News. Left vs. Right, etc.

The American democratic system is one of the more corrupt and complicated in the entire world. For one, registering is a nightmare, and with the implementation of certain obvious biased laws, in many states, voter purging is rampant. The current US president claims that all mail-in voting is fraudulent and is now suing certain states over these allegations. He is doing this without a shred of evidence, which is the Trumpian way. Surprisingly to some, the race is neck-n-neck, where a few electoral states will ultimately decide. If you have ever attempted to understand America's electoral system, you'll find it confusing and, in the end, antiquated at best.  

Earlier in the year, I knew the DNC and the media rigged the primaries favoring Joe Biden over the popular Bernie Sanders. After the Iowa primary, where Pete Buttigieg declared victory based on the information supplied by a dubious App, that turns out had financial ties to Buttigieg, I knew it would be all downhill from there. The DNC rigged the Primaries and with the help of COVID, Biden was the anointed nominee. All carefully planned and highly corrupt.

This is pure speculation, however, if the Democratic Primaries had not been rigged, and Bernie Sanders was the candidate to run against Trump, would the race be as close as it is in the present time? Interesting to contemplate, but certainly irrelevant today.

American presidential elections are all about identity politics. Sander's campaign was all about policy, though Biden's campaign is all about beating Trump. In the Trump camp, it appears that his base has grown despite no definitive policies announced for the benefit of the American people. I believe this is the case of “better the devil you know.”

Both major parties in the United States are terribly right-wing. President Trump is blatantly so, though Biden is not too far behind. Both candidates campaigned on platitudes and vague generalizations. Because America bases their choices on personality and not actual policy, we have two candidates that offer nothing of substance for the people.

As Joe Biden has stated many times throughout his campaigning: “Nothing will change under my presidency.” And as far as everything and anything this man has said, we should believe him on this one.

I will not attempt to enter the Trump supporter mindset because it's riddled with inconsistencies and untruths. Again, this is not about policy but purely on personality, and Trump seems to have this aspect of 'identity politics' in the bag.

Personally, I believe Donald Trump to be a narcissistic clown and a habitual liar. Joe Biden is law and order, an establishment-corporate-owned old man with nothing to offer. Both are bought and paid-for politicians that only have their corporate $ handlers interests at heart.

Welcome to the United Corporations of America.

Disillusioned? Damn right!

Michael Crichton Writing as John Lange...

Drug of Choice

Crichton penned and published several novels while attending Harvard Medical School. Drug of Choice was Crichton's 6^th published novel (1970) under the pseudonym of John Lange. In this novel, we are immersed in familiar Crichton themes: Science exploited by those in power for nefarious reasons.

Our central protagonist is Roger Clark, a good-looking twenty-something; a participating resident in internal medicine at Los Angeles Memorial Hospital. Arriving on the late shift, he's told of a strange case of a Hells Angel brought in the ER from an alleged motorcycle accident. When examining the patient, there is no bodily trauma, no obvious bruises or scratches, yet the young man is in a coma. This does not appear to be a common coma because the patient appears merely to be in a deep sleep. As is a procedure in coma cases, a catheter is applied, and what Clark discovers later is the man's urine is blue in color.

Later a more central character enters the ER in a similar state: an apparent coma. After initial drug screening, there are no signs of a drug overdose. Except for the patient's urine is that same blue color. Clark brings this unusual fact, the blue urine, to a leading doctor's attention in the hospital. The lead doctor dismisses Clark's observations. It is at this point in the narrative that scenes and actions become a little weird.

Our second patient is a beautiful up-and-coming Hollywood starlet who, when leaving the hospital, takes a great liking to Roger Clark, thanking him for saving her life. As readers, this is unusual because Clark had little interaction with the patient. Sharon Wilder is a beautiful woman with numerous male suitors. So why the instant interest in a common resident? Obviously, Clark falls for her advances and meets her at a yacht party, where we encounter the usual Hollywood types. Clark meets up with Wilder on the boat, to find himself waking up in a strange apartment: Sharon Wilder's. Clarke's only problem is he cannot remember anything from standing on the bow of the yacht to waking up in the starlet's bed. Apart from his amnesia, he feels wonderful, unusually so, to investigate Wilder's connections, particularly her psychiatrist.

The novel is in three parts: Coma – Eden – Madness.

It turns out that Eden is a brand new resort of the highest caliber. Over a set of unusual circumstances, Clarke accompanies Sharon Wilder to this highly secretive and high-end resort. This section is the most revealing, and the creative imagination to come up with such a scene is absolute, Michael Crichton.

To describe the connection of science and the machinations of those in power to use it for their own gains would spoil the entire point of the novel.

It should be said that Crichton, writing this tale in 1969, reveals his genius, in the ways of science and it's exploitation, as he was known throughout his career.

Excellent read.

 

Unlocking during Lockdown

 

Since early August, Melbourne, Australia and the entire state of Victoria were under heavy restrictions as a result of a new outbreak of COVID, a huge spike in cases across the city. We were told that the state had moved from stage 3 to 4, and anyone breaking these restrictions would be heavily fined.

Generally these restrictions included people not able to travel over 15 kilometers unless for work or special circumstances. A curfew was implemented between 8:00am and 5pm in the evenings. Any social gathering of more than 3 people was strictly prohibited. Of course, masks were required when leaving the household, and the 1.5-meter rule was in effect. Because of a massive downturn in cases, recorded (0 cases today) and no deaths, the Victorian Premier, Dan Andrews, has lifted many of these restrictions since last Sunday, and relief and happiness in the air can be cut with a knife.

We have a local restaurant in the middle of suburbia in my neighborhood (mostly outside dining), and this afternoon, walking to the newsagent to buy my local newspaper, saw that the place once again, brimming with patrons, all wearing masks and bright smiles.

Because of the restrictions, my hair has grown out of control, as long as it was in the late '70s, and my local barber, “Good Fellas,” now have lines that run far, everyone wearing masks, and standing the required 1.5 meters apart...again, all smiles, particularly the hairdressers and barbers inside.

There is a local Op Shop in my local shopping center closed before the Stage 4 restrictions? This was necessary, of course, because most of the people working there are the elderly. Over the weekend, I visited the place and bought a new reading lamp for $4 and a used edition of Virginia Woolf's The Lighthouse for a massive 50cents! The cash lady exuded happiness, telling me to bring the lamp back if it didn't work and to enjoy Virginia Woolf. This was genuine happiness, and it has spread across the state.

Although the naysayers and wingnuts all protested the stage 4 restrictions in Melbourne and across the state, but these were in the minority. Although many businesses had to be shut down, those employees were given a fortnightly stimulus package. Those who were unemployed were given a financial boost as well. This was a smart move by the government, ensuring the lockdown would not hurt the common working person individually...and might I say, ensuring the economy didn't shut down completely.

There have many pundits from overseas criticizing the lockdown as fascism and a crime against basic human rights. The majority of these critics came from overseas and had zero facts to make their cases. In fact, over 52% of Victorians backed the premier's actions against the virus. The opposition, shouting, and screaming like children, their popularity ratings have fallen double digits.

In spite of the people's majority support of the lockdown restrictions, a few local protesters hit the streets, but nothing like we have seen in other countries across the seas.

The Victorian people wanted to get on top of this virus, and it seems now, we see the rewards for our sacrifices.: zero new cases and zero deaths.

A time for cautious celebration for many, though realistically, however, we have a long way to go.