Spring has sprang and 1/2 of the Ditmarstons have been vaccinated—Calvin (shot 1 of Pfizer) and me (J&J, so all done). Daisy will get her first shot next Monday.

Yesterday just after lunch, the EMTs rolled up on Maggie; Daisy noticed it out her window and alerted me. I made a half-hearted attempt at communicating with an EMT and then withdrew. Another neighbor told me the cops and paramedics talked to Maggie through her window, but she did not come out. I spent at least half an hour that night berating myself for not going out there and telling the cops that she was nuts and blah blah waiting on a restraining order blah blah. Law enforcement is not a blue line, but a blue wall of “I’m just trying to get back to the 114 where I can talk shit about the idiots who live here.”

I woke up this morning in my regular bed (very special when that happens) to the dulcet tones of Joni Fucking Mitchell singing Blue. I knew that was coming and in my heart I gave Joni to Maggie. I may even listen to that album again some day—who knows?

But then something very upsetting happened. I was listening to a podcast called “You’re Wrong About,” that debunks things you think you know about. I knew this was a danger zone but I did listen to the one about Yoko Ono, and in it, Paul Fucking McCartney does a very kind thing for Julian Lennon, the abandoned son of John Lennon, the biggest jerk of the Beatles.

Here was the situation: Cynthia, the ex wife of John Lennon, was basically cut off from her own social life when she and John Lennon divorced and Julian the son had almost no relationship with his father. One day Paul McCartney came over to Cynthia’s house with a single red rose and sang Hey Jule to Julian, and that was the song that became Hey Jude, which is a good song.

I got a little emotional over this anecdote from this podcast, which is how I pretend I have actual friends when at this point, I’ve seen no friends for months.

Damn you, Paul McCartney! Damn your decent character!