Quidnunc, whose name comes from the Latin “what now,” is out and about as often as possible to bring you news overheard in elevators, rest rooms and spied in various e-mail boxes.
QUID HAS HEARD that mysteries of the pandemic will abound far longer than the disease itself, which yours truly gets from a top source will miraculously disappear soon. Seems that one of the mysteries demanding a solution before then is what happens to city lawmakers late into the night when they’re riveted to every word the little people write to them, and yet their Zoom windows go mysteriously dark. In case you’re not among the crowd that rejoices twice a month when when your slate of Aurora City Council nabobs appears live on streamfest instead of seated at the dais of City Hall, then you don’t know. You aren’t privy to the sniping from the safety of living rooms, extra bedrooms and outdoor kitchens, where city lawmakers tune in to vote and smote virtually. At some point in the night, late by agreement, St. Stephen Ruger, chief sitter of the electeds, is forced to read hours of comments John and Jane Q. Public send to city council, because they can. Mysteriously, as the riveting comments continue, screen by screen from the sumptuous homes of council members, which your faithful affiant assumed all have a steady source of electricity, go gray. Certain they’re still listening, Quid assumes that Councilmember Dave Gruber is multitasking and humbly ironing the family linens, and that Councilmember Marsha Berzins was trying to finish the last few chapters of Anthony Trollope’s, “The Warden,” in case there was a quiz. Councilwoman Allison Hiltz reportedly wanders away to attend to a newborn that has only been seen in social media posts. Any shed light here can be sent to the hacks that fill this rag, and who fade off lastly.
AND THAT’S ALL THE NEWS THAT FITS
