Pandemic: Robbed

20 years ago this week, Captain Midnight and I got invited to a goofy party at Rob and Marie Cummings' house in Bellevue. Rob was turning 37, so he decided to host a Monty Python-themed "Old Woman" party (watch Monty Python and the Holy Grail a few times and you'll get it) and he asked all partygoers to come dressed as their favorite characters from any Python sketch. If I remember correctly, I dressed up as the deranged chef from the Dirty Fork Sketch, and CM went as the random street flasher (with a large sign reading "BOO!" under his trenchcoat). It was just as silly and fun as you might imagine; I think everyone had a great time.

So today is Rob's 57th birthday.

He isn't here to celebrate it, though. He died last month of congestive heart failure.

As his widow, Marie, expressed it, "While he did not die directly of COVID-19, he delayed seeking medical help because of his fear of contracting it."

We didn't get to see him one last time. We didn't get to thank him for his friendship or say goodbye.

We weren't even able to attend his funeral service.

Let me put this in terms Rob might appreciate: if the coronavirus were Mr. Creosote, I'd give it a wafer-thin mint and calmly watch it explode. It needs to die, and it needs to die now.