The fog has dissipated. We may not be back to normal, but we’re getting there.

It’s reminiscent of the opening scene of Stanley Kubrick’s futuristic “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Whatever those apes were doing, I could relate this past week.

Out and about, it’s as if we’ve slogged out of the muck and are ready to go back to living.

Remember when Bobby Ewing peeked around the Southfork shower curtain and told Victoria Principal that it was all a dream?

He hadn’t been shot like his brother; it was a swerve. I would have wanted my year back. That little bit of ridiculousness drove home the point that TV writers should stick to penning “The Pokey Little Puppy” and other mindless tomes.

Even back then, I was confident those “Dallas” writers would win no awards.

And the folks calling the COVID shots should go home empty too. They did us no favors.

We’re ready to rock and roll.

Restaurants are more crowded. Smiles have replaced forlorn faces.

Sorry Mr. President. What say you put your inane granting permission to share a hotdog on July 4th back in your pocket?

You have our permission to go back to sleep. While you count sheep, the kids will commence counting down the end of the school year. They want their year back, too.

I’ve noticed a defiance as “Masks? We don’t need no stinking masks” is becoming a prevalent rally cry.

We’ve all heard “no man is an island.” If there was ever confusion as to the meaning, a solid, year-long dose of “pandemic-mania” drove home why most of us would stink at becoming monks and taking a vow of silence.

After days/weeks/months of gloominess, when the sun came out to play this past Thursday, we couldn’t have been happier.

It’s going to be interesting if we rush willy-nilly into normalcy. Remember going to church last Easter?

Me neither.

We were all relegated to being shut-ins, watching services online. At Christ The Redeemer Catholic Church, it looks like parishioners are heeding requests to return and celebrate the Mass.

Now the problem arising is that with all those returning, it’s going to be necessary to ease up on the capacity restrictions.

This will be interesting to see how this unfolds in the few Sundays before Easter.

Over at The Collection, crowds are growing each day. AMC Theaters is open for business, but I don’t believe there are lines to watch what’s being offered.

It’s no wonder. The Oscar nominations were announced this past week. Unless you are related to Siskel and Ebert, it’s a longshot if you were familiar with those invited to the annual self-aggrandizing party.

For many businesses, it’s mask mandate be damned.

At Phenix Salon Suites, it makes little sense to mask up. There’s no big room, just a one-on-one experience in intimate setting.

I think we’re smartening up. There’s plenty of toilet paper on store shelves, which is a blessing for me.

I can’t be thinking about movies or March Madness. Not until I get Tuesday’s colonoscopy behind me. There’s a need for a sufficient supply of paper goods when Monday’s prep commences promptly at 6pm. I’ll have the best seat in the house.

It sure doesn’t look like a pandemic when the County parks are buzzing with activity. How’re you going to rob parents of screaming for their kids by mandating a muffler?

It’s as if last week’s rain has wiped the slate clean. It seems like COVID debates on any news station have become whispers. I’m so over news networks and am pretty much weaned myself from them. It drives home the point that no news really is good news.

In no way am I suggesting that we can jump-start the Covid kick-out immediately. As baseball looms, the Braves announced Truist Park, at least for April, will be “filled” to a third of the stadium’s capacity, with fans sitting in pods of two or four.

Oh yeah, everyone must wear a mask. Except when you’re eating. I’m thankful that was cleared up. A mustard soaked face covering would be most unappealing when we sing “Take Me Out To The Ball Game” in the seventh inning.

Greg has been forming his baseball-watching plans. He says he’ll just eat the whole game.

Can someone tell the Braves that there’s no roof at Truist.

Mike Tasos’ column appears every other weekend. He can be reached at miketasos@earthlink.net. He is also on Facebook.