Every time I decide to do something vaguely useful with my life, the universe conspires against me. Last week, for example, I decided I was going to get into gardening. Growing stuff seemed a healthy sort of way to cope with the disintegration of American democracy and the rapid rollback of civil rights. It’s certainly healthier than my usual coping mechanisms: drinking wine and complaining.
Now, I don’t know very much about gardening but I do know that you need soil, so I ordered a couple of large bags of the stuff online. The soil took a couple of days to arrive and just minutes to be stolen by porch pirates. Two guys dressed like delivery men scurried over to my doorstep and hauled it off in their car. Instead of spending that evening cultivating my garden, I drank wine and complained.
