One More to the Fall Classic

Well, hello. Thought I'd check in again. It's been such a long time since we last touched base, and now 2025 is set to peace out in a couple of months. Apparently the better looking I get, the more time speeds up.

I still can't believe it's 2025. Sounds so sci-fi, which makes me annoyed that the jetpacks still haven't become a thing. I was thinking though, you'd have some really bad jetpack accidents, right? It would be like taking those bitch ass electric scooters and dropping them from the sky with tequila-soaked, 150-pound, Gen-Z meat torpedos loosely gripping the handlebars prior to juicily thwacking onto the embarcadero. 

Throughout the year, I've experienced a few false starts after deciding to write something new,. Time and again, I'd talk myself out of it, feeling the pull of all the depressing shit going on around us. Why recap all the horrible, horrific things? We're watching it in real time every day. 

That's where my mind gravitated each time—and to the culprits responsible for so much suffering. I found myself brainstorming insulting monikers: Stephen "Even My Mom Hates Me" Miller, Kristi Gnome, JD "Is There Eye Liner In My Beard?" Vance, Mike "I Go Places You Wouldn't Believe With My" Johnson, and last but not least, the Orange King of Brown Diapertown, Pope Dumb Ass I, The Great Gonorrheanator himself... 

...the name escapes me. But enough of those fools; their time will come. 

I'm writing today for one reason: tonight, the Seattle Mariners are playing for their first trip the World Series. We're talking about a team that's been around for 48 years, a squad that hasn't even sniffed a title since it's inception in 1977. To give you an idea of how long ago that was, I managed to dig up some notable events from that spring the M's first trotted onto the astroturf of King County Stadium:

1) Olympic Junior High in Auburn, Washington holds its annual spring dance. According to reports, most students don't drink or use combustibles beforehand, but many do. Those students reportedly have a better time. 

2) As obtained from eyewitness accounts, after the dance, the attendees walk to Pizza Hut (an actual hut in 1977). Some never go inside, instead smoking and/or throwing up in the convenient shrub beds that line the hut.

3) According to interviews, everyone is pretty well sobered up by the time the parents roll up around midnight. Even so, most dance attendees opt for the cautious route, choosing to just be cool and ride home silently in the back seat of the Gran Torino.

Wow, that was ages ago. Thank God for archives on microfiche. 

Anyway, I'm trying to savor this moment and these few hours prior to Game 7. It's been a rough year, and this Mariner run could not have happened at a better time for Seattle. It's been a slow recovery post-covid, but for all its well-documented flaws, our city is still a wonderful place. 

Prediction: M's win 8-7 in 11 innings.

Another Quarterly Newsletter

Hey, you. Been a minute. As Robin, the world's number-one number two might say, "Holy wrist cramp, Batman, it's about time you wrote something again." 

Indeed it is, old chum. I can always count on you to set me straight. It is a bit unfortunate, however, that my bat vision has again been mercilessly hijacked by that straining, threadbare moose knuckle of yours. What's the name of that pose, anyway—Flasher Moth?

I'll stop being Batman now. How are you holding up these days? When we last connected in July, had you any inkling that that witless, salmon-dyed ass captain would again be elected president? I really didn't think it could happen, not when it boiled down to each American blacking out that little oval on the ballot. How could a 34-time convicted felon who incited an attempted coup win back the office he nearly refused to leave last time?

Only in the U S of A. Or...Hungary or Turkey.

Granted, Joe Biden didn't do the Democrats any favors by showing up at the debate looking like a college freshman who'd just hoovered a papa nug of his older roommate's skunk bud, leaving him with the entire English language on the tip of his tongue. 

Nope, not helpful, and it proved to be a bridge too far, where even the newly-allied Dems and old-school Republicans couldn't provide enough of a bump to overcome the will of America's premier political party: People With Grievances. Here's a small list of their grievances, followed by some watertight counterpoints.

Grievance: The mainstream media is nothing more than a communications outlet for the socialist deep state and very possibly the Illuminati. 

Ironclad retort: Bullshit. Just because you don't like the information doesn't mean the information isn't true. Check out the sourced journalism at AP, rather than the unfettered chatter bouncing around the echo chambers of TikTok, X, One America Network, CNN and MSNBC.

Grievance: High egg prices are Biden's fault. Not sure why, exactly, they just are.

Ironclad retort: High egg prices are the direct result of an unprecedented avian flu epidemic, and it might not be the best of timing in dismantling the CDC and NIH. 

Grievance: LGBTQ+ rights, DEI and general wokeness is fake news. Why endow some people with more rights than others? 

Ironclad retort: Let's be clear on this one. Straight, white people start the ninth inning standing on third base, and that transgender person in the bathroom just has to pee. Wokeness, while no longer a fashionable term, simply means compassion and if you're against that, it's on you.

Grievance: Illegal immigration is threatening our safety and stealing our jobs.

Ironclad retort: It's a problem, no doubt about it. But tell me, People with Grievances, how has this personally affected you? Maybe you truly are running around out there in the wild, dodging murderers and rapists at every turn. But once that baby gets thrown out of the country with the bathwater, you might plan on seeing a dishwashing fee tacked onto the tab next time you visit your favorite bar or eatery. 

Okay, enough of the politics. We'll get through this the same way we made it through the first term, and every day that passes is one less day that orange shitsicle plants his hemhorroid-ribboned haunches behind the Resolute Desk.  

On a personal note, my life has changed a bit since we last talked. Following a six-month job search, one in which I learned that this age thing really is a bit of a albatross, I landed a job at a place you may be familiar with. I'm not going to lie, it's been quite an adjustment. After spending 39 years at desk jobs, let's just say I've arrived home pretty tired for that first twenty-two weeks or so. 

I've also managed to find my way into the art department, where the signs and displays are done by hand. Here's an example, if you haven't guessed my new establishment:

I've chronicled my art journey on a Pinterest page here, if you're interested. See if you can tell which sign was the first one (It shouldn't be too hard, I don't think!). 

Also, I published Against the Edge, my debut novel on Amazon in September. Thanks so much to those of you who've so generously supported this ten-year endeavor, and please tell your friends. My marketing effort is as rustic as Fred Flintstone's electric shaver. 

Hang in there.

Now Streaming

Greetings, this midsummer evening. I hope you're well and that the little things are mattering in your life. By the way, I'm not sure "mattering" is a word. If it is, it might mean something quite different, for instance, inadvertent skin shedding. An example would be, "Someone mattered on the loveseat. No more half shirts in the house, kids."

As much as we're thankful for the little things that keep us going, there are also those big things, or the things that are consequential to all of us. A prime example is the presidential race.  It's played out like a Hulu TV series, but unlike a show that streams weekly, this one puts out a new episode every day, including weekends. Think House of Cards without a predatory star in ManSpanx. 

Season 1:

The president of the United States (and protagonist, whom we'll call Joe) must come to grips with a precipitous decline in his mental and physical abilities. Joe will be the first to admit that he's lost a step or two, but he believes he's misunderstood and that frankly, his pale, tottering meat suit is all that stands between democracy and tyranny. In his view, people have suddenly forgotten his numerous presidential accomplishments and the five-decade body of work preceding it. Still, in the face of plunging poll numbers, Joe appears incapable of seeing what we, the movie watcher, can clearly track: the man is slipping quickly. 

But Joe's got one more chance, one last shot to reverse his fortunes. He's always savored his role as underdog and he's typically been a decent debater. He's no orator, but his populist opponent can barely string a sentence together and prefers to communicate in ideological sound bites. Joe welcomes this test of his Scranton grit. A solid performance could silence his critics once and for all. 

Joe bombs in the debate. Even his opponent is stunned and Joe is humiliated. He knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn't get it out. Days later, his opponent survives an assassination attempt, followed by a coronation at his party's convention. At 48%, he's never enjoyed a higher favorability rating. Politically speaking, things have never looked darker for Joe.

His closest allies urge him to reconsider his candidacy. Joe now faces a decision. The decision. In a soft, mildly hoarse tone, Joe tells us that he's got an announcement to make.

End, Season 1

After years of anxiety regarding Joe's future plans, I haven't felt this optimistic in a long time. And is it just me, or didn't Joe always seem like the perfect stopgap solution, as opposed to a long-term answer? 

Here are some things I've been wrong about:

• Lance Armstrong is a good guy.  

• I can jump over that double railroad tie.

• Today's the day I'll find something new and delicious at Safeway.

• That Hasselhoff can act.

• The ants will go away. 

• I won't worry about peeing before I leave.

But I don't think I'll be wrong in thinking that Kamala is going to win.

Pretty in Gray

Hello and happy June! According to my new bestie, ChatGPT, the month of June attributes its name to Juno, the Roman goddess of marriage and childbirth, among other things.  

Okay, first of all, let's state the obvious: June should not be named after some nebulous pagan deity—it should be named after freaking June Cleaver. She's the goddess of basically everything, and will forever beckon my heart until we meet again for a hearty back hug and glass of whole milk in heaven's kitchen.

And secondly, marriage and childbirth are two completely disparate arenas for Juno to preside over. Weddings don't involve excruciating lumbar pain, ice chips and spectacular torrents of profanity directed at the groom for inflicting such suffering. That happens on the honeymoon (ba-doom-bah).

Anyway, thought I'd grease the skids a little by rattling off a few more fake headlines that were left strewn across The Needling's cutting room floor over the past month or so:

• Kraken drops Root Sports and pisses off all 4 subscribers.
• Trump confused about why Supreme Court won't grant immunity to his debilitating syphilis.
• West Seattle man jogs into crosswalk with 3 seconds to go and still makes it to other side in plenty of time.
• All light rail stations slated to include Level 1 trauma centers by 2035.
• West Seattle man confirms that it's the end of the world and the ants are taking over.
• Justice Alito says every day is Flag Day, bitch.
• "I love that shit, man." Biden perplexed as to why Israel wants to eliminate hummus.
• Group of pissed off kids and a few adults with PTSD chase away Seafair Pirates for fucking good.
• For 143rd straight year, lawn darts and Jågermeister top Father's Day wishlists.
• Record low tide at Alki reveals body of Jimmy Hoffa.
• Trump-Biden debate to include dunk tank.

There we go. Helps the digestion to purge myself of that mental flotsam. I feel randy and spry once again. 

In other non-developments, it's hard to believe I've been pretired* now for over four months.

*"Pretired" is a term I made up. It's defined as the 5-7 year period prior to full-on retiring, when jobless oldsters are most vulnerable to ageist asshole hiring managers and their bullshit attitudes about older people. The word is a shirt-tail relative of "funemployment." 

I had heard that getting a job was more challenging for those of us a little longer in the ear hair, but experiencing it in real time was a little shocking. One interview seemed to have gone particularly well. It was a solid 45 minutes long and it seemed like the role was a perfect fit for my skill set. In addition, I felt like I'd really hit it off with the Chief Creative Officer (a title I now find sort of obnoxious). I was ready to enter the weekend feeling more confident than Rudy Guiliani with a new catheter. But at the very end, just before signing off, he thanked me for my time and told me that "we're looking for someone who can inject some energy into our department." 

Right. Energy. I understand your code, hipster. One of the most frustrating things I've encountered during my job search is the assumption that five or six good years at a place just isn't enough for an employer to take the "risk". Here's a little secret for the chief creative poobah: My generation is one of the most loyal workforces out there. I can't speak for X, Y or the Millennials, but in my experience, if you can get five years out of anyone these days, that's pretty damn good. 

But bitterness is not a good look, right? Two recent documentaries—Brats, with Andrew McCarthy and Thank You, Goodnight, with Jon Bon Jovi—illustrate just that. Both men are staring down 60 and both appear quite unsettled about their legacies. They go to extremes to get answers, and (spoiler alert), I'm not sure the answers were the ones they were chasing. Men my age tend to define themselves by their careers, and that's my challenge. Paradigms grow calcified over time, and I can choose to wallow in the unfairness of it all, or I can move forward and find joy in the everyday. 

It's what my favorite people already do.

A First Quarter Newsletter

Hey! Great to be back in front of your foxy eyeballs. My last post was back in '23, so I thought it might be nice to pull out the BIC ballpoint and get caught up. 

As Ross might say, a few things have pivahhhht-ed. At its onset, 2024 showed unmitigated promise. The year opened with my Huskies earning the college football silver medal following their greatest season ever. Just twelve days later, my baby girl was married in a ceremony that was so much fun, no more fun was available for the rest of the month. 

My wife came down with covid two days after the wedding, then I caught it. A week after that, just as things seemed to be returning to normal, I was laid off from a company I'd been with for 32 years. Shocking? Yes, like a bad dream. Surprising? Not really. Artificial intelligence is upon us, and it was apparently time for the robots to take over designing ads and emails. I can hear their metal fingers tapping the keyboard as they work silently in long rows. They don't take lunch breaks or waste time in the bathroom stalls because they don't eat. And go ahead and get rid of the Keurig because robots don't drink coffee either. So many wins. 

I've been hemming and hawing about further discussing my joblessness. It happened over two months ago now and I already thoroughly plastered it across LinkedIn and Facebook. Before that, I posted this cryptic IG story: 

A lot of you reached out in the ensuing days and weeks with words of encouragement and empathy. This was huge. I'd never been laid off before, and I really think I'd gotten to the point of considering myself unlayoffable, which I realize now was a little naive. Regardless of who we are or what we do, there's always a chance that the coach is going to want to see you in her office on a random Thursday morning. And yes, bring your playbook.  

I did finish the puzzle in late March:

And that's about it. Tragically, I learned that All My Children and One Life to Live went off the air a while back, so I'm working through how to fill that hole in my daytime life. I've been looking for jobs, both freelance and otherwise, and collecting unemployment. Life's not too shabby. I've had the time to go for really long walks and write a little bit more. In fact, since you are a loyal reader, I'll let you in on this headline I wrote for the Needling that I didn't really tell anyone about since it's, well, inflammatory: 

Like I said, I just came up with the headline, but the whole article is here.

To close out, here are a few more fake headlines that were not selected. You might notice that I was a little salty about the way things shook out in college football:

• New UW coach Fisch vows to give Huskies the best months of his life.

• South Lake Union poodle fed up, leaves Instagram.

• Overworked mom enters transfer portal.
• Coach DeBoer sidelined with sexually transmitted infection after fucking so many schools.
• WSU to have bake sale for football team Thursday night at the Elks Club. 

• New Carnation Amphitheater hopes to compete with larger venues by also making your departure a living hell.

• Banned from sheriff's association, Loren Culp fine with just being the town drunk.
• Citing years of futility, Mariners petition MLB for aluminum bats and an extra outfielder.

I hope you're doing well. Take care of yourself and try not to think about the election yet.

I can say that? Okay!

It's been a while! Good to see you again, at least in a figurative sense. Last time I checked in was August and now look at us, already nestled in the lardy perineum between Thanksgiving and New Year's Day. I'd like to say I've been too busy to write, but please, if I can find the time to consume all twelve seasons of Evil Lives Here in a single fortnight, I can probably pound out a blog post or two. But enough with the self-debasement (put that in de basement). I actually have been writing, but it's been in pursuit of a different objective, namely fake journalism. 

Chances are you're familiar with The Onion, a satirical website that parodies current events through the guise and format of a real newspapers, but without bylines. To illustrate, here's a headline from last week: Leonardo DiCaprio Tears Fabric Of Universe Apart Attempting To Have Sex With Girl Not Yet Born.

Kind of edgy and inappropriate, yes? Also right up my alley. And as luck would have it, Seattle has its own version of The Onion, focused predominately on Seattle and the PNW, but also with the occasional piece centered around a national issue. It's called The Needling, Seattle's Only Real Fake News. 

Started five years ago by Lex Vaughn, former real reporter for the Seattle Times and winner of the actual Pulitzer prize for her coverage of the Oso Mudslide, The Needling was born when she decided to combine her love of comedy with some formidable journalistic chops.

Even though it's been around since 2018, I was oblivious to The Needling's existence until last spring. But when I discovered that they accepted headline pitches from the general public, I immediately became Lex's worst nightmare. Having been a serial maker-funner-of all my life, I now had an outlet for all things emanating from the darkest, most warped corners of Tim's Funnytown. 

Not knowing if I'd even be in the ballpark, I submitted these headlines for last May's upcoming news stories:

Seattle is the fastest growing city in the US, especially since starting puberty over the summer.

Drivers in Seattle swerve, honk and say what the fuck in honor of World Bicycle Day.

(For Father's Day) Local dad hugs kids, says you can never have enough WD40.

Mother confirms that Father's Day is every day when it comes to husband Larry.

Gen Z to observe two consecutive Sundays this Sunday.

Rep. Jim Jordan to wrestle child for Ohio children's charity.

Meta users found three times less likely to hold a train of—

Local militia hosts weenie roast fundraiser for member who blew penis off.

Mariners run out of shades of blue, move on to various orange tints.

Lex replied a couple of days later (and who do you think was Mr. Happy then!), saying that the Mariner headline was a strong candidate for a story in The Needling. Naturally, I dropped everything and wrote up the story, using the journalistic format that is required for these types of stores.

Mariners Run Out of Shades of Blue, Move On to Various Orange Tints

Having exhausted every shade of blue following the unveiling of their “city connect” uniforms, The Seattle Mariners announced an “exciting new direction” in color scheme on Wednesday.

“Our new orange shades may seem random to some of our fans,” said Andy Hockinson, Assistant Director of Excess Marketing, “but they’re so much more than that. Once a week for the rest of the summer, our players will be wearing a different ‘Salute to Eastern Washington’ uniform. We call them our ‘Eastside Burner’ unis, where every shade of orange is from an actual wildfire. Monday’s outfits get their vibe from the 2015 Chelan Wolverine blaze. Simply put, they’re breathtaking.”

While shifting color palettes have become commonplace for many major league sports franchises, the Mariners believe they’ve set themselves apart by tapping into the dramatic hues of natural disaster. “This is only the beginning,” said Stacey Shawcey, Mariners Vice President of Customer Engagement. “We’ve got a Seattle Fault Tsunami colorway all ready to go—sort of a muddy, grey, murky look. God forbid something like that ever happens, but let’s face it, the kids are gonna want that merch.”

Shaw said the Mariners will be having some great promotions to coincide with this summer’s Salute to Eastern Washington series, including Monday’s game against the Rangers where the first 10,000 fans will receive “Matt Brashfire” bobbleheads. First pitch is at 7:05.

Ultimately, this story wasn't meant to see the smoky, filtered light of day. It didn't quite clear the gauntlet of editors and reviewers needed for publication, but that was okay. I'd now at least made the list of contributors that received periodic emails from Lex containing prompts of upcoming local and national newsworthy events. All summer and into the early fall I pitched headlines):

To celebrate National Coming Out Day, Elon Musk reveals that he's been an awkward douchebag his whole life.

Crowd cheers as children chase off Seafair Pirates once and for all.

WSU football coach excited about joining "crazy talented" Texas high school league.

Death Cab for Cutie adds afternoon show at Fife Senior Center.

Citing lagging exchange rate, Canadians only 84% sorry for exploiting indigenous peoples this Thanksgiving.

FDA lists Big Mac as most effective over-the-counter laxative.

Florida voters approve less cumbersome non-sex offender registry.

Bezos moves to Florida because that’s where all serial killers go at the end.

Bezos moves to Florida to constantly be closer to Blue Origin penis rockets.

Bezos wants Seattle to know that he appreciates you. Not.

Local dog laughs off frightening misunderstanding about Veterinarian's Day.

Colon health nonprofit pushes for name change to Brown Friday.

New Seattle mental health response squad thinks it would be cool to dress like Fantastic Four.

Apple Cup to Kick Off at 1:00 Because That's When Most WSU Fans' Edibles Will Kick in.

Seven Handmaids Escape Washington Commanders Team Hotel During Loss to Seahawks

Local Third Grader Really Fucking Stressed About Parent/Teacher Conferences

Federal Way Dad Suffocates on Jolly Ranchers in Heartbreaking Attempt to Finally Finish Off the Shitty Halloween Candy

Then in October, I hit paydirt. Rather than pasting the whole article here, I figured you could just click on the link if you want to read it:

Climate Pledge Arena to offer a hot dog, small drink and kick in the throat for $49.99

I'll tell you, when I found out this one had made it through the gauntlet, it felt like Lorne Michaels had green-lighted my sketch idea. I was elated, and I'm so grateful to Lex and her crew for entertaining the questionable material that typically performs in my brain before an audience of one. 

More to come, hopefully.

An Eventful Summer, Yes?

Hello again and happy midsummer! 

In the words of '90s one-hit crooners 4 Non Blondes, I said hey, what's going on? (Actually, the song is called "What's up?" yet at no time does she sing the actual words "what's up". I'm thinking it's because after she woke up in morning and stepped outside, she took a deep breath, got real high, poured herself a bowl of Boo Berry and forgot the rest). Even so, I do love that song and its grungy grunginess.

It's been an eventful summer, but by "eventful," I'm sorry to say I don't mean county fairs and ice cream trucks. The devastation caused by the Maui wildfires can't be accurately put into words. The Maui Strong Fund is a great place to donate if you can. If there was ever a time for the millions of us who've enjoyed (and dare I say, exploited) this paradise to step up—myself included—that time is now. And stop blaming Biden for...whatever you seem to be blaming him for when it comes to Maui.

West Maui, as seen from Ali'i Lavender Farm, July, 2023

Indeed, the summer of '23 hasn't been full-on awesomeness. In July, Jason Aldean's "Try That in a Small Town" rocketed to the top of the country charts, its lyrics celebrating racism and violence. The video was even shot at the Tennessee's Maury County, site of a lynching in 1927. As much of a craze as this song became for a cup of coffee or even two, hate is the enemy of creativity, Jason. See Ted Nugent.

Then, just couple of weeks later, the U.S. Women's National Team lost to Sweden, forcing its earliest exit in the history of the World Cup. To make matters worse, their elimination was heralded by some rightward-leaning pundits as just desserts for a squad of commies masquerading as patriotic footballers. They were even accused of tanking the games to screw their country. Yeah, that's rational.

On a positive note, while the plague still circulates among us like a vaporous swirl of Dementors, we've nonetheless returned to what might be considered normalish. Thanks to the quasi herd immunity brought on by life-saving vaccines and dead but nicely de-wormed ivermectin users, society can again enjoy hanging together. Which is nice.

Summer TV has been good too, and I'm not even talking about the latest "Untold" episodes on Netflix or that series about the Duggars on Prime (both fantastic). I'm talking about network news, where pert-near every week has brought with it a new set of criminal indictments against Little Mister Toadstool Pants.

The problem is, now that all the indictments are in, we'll still have to wait several months to see Satsuma Noggin face justice. I'm also low-key salivating at the thought of Rudy Giuliani's saggy ass being traded for three Marlboro Lights and a can of WD-40 somewhere in the bowels of Rikers Island. And if I weren't already a highly disciplined TV watcher from finding other uses of my time in between seasons of The Handmaid's Tale, I'd be rip roaring ready for them to mugshoot that mug, fingerprint those fingers (I wonder how they deal with all pinkies) and light this candle. 

I know, I know. The wheels of justice turn at the speed of Twinkie compost. I'll move on. 

Before I started writing this post, I thought, do I really want my blog to devolve into nothing more than a bitchfest about the dumb but fervent fascist enemy among us? After all, fourteen years ago ROASP began as nothing more than a journal of my life as a dad to a couple of funny daughters. Is it constructive to hurl cheap insults and coin new monikers for the bloated nationalist strongmen who are currently attempting to murder our democratic system? 

I'll say yes. And despite today's subject matter, please have a great rest of your summer.