We're Almost There.

Hey! So nice to see you again—in a figurative sense, anyway. Why is my face petrified into a semi-congenial grimace here? Two reasons, really: 

a) I've just wrapped up a week of freezing morning bike rides and am relieved that marginal sensation has begun seeping into ancillary flesh bits.

b) I'm remembering that we're another day closer to cleansing an ugly, orange splotch from our collective fabric. Cold cycle, please. Yeah, go ahead and throw in another Tide Pod, but first, hit it a couple of times with that stain pen.

Now that we're into December, the monsoon that was Election 2020 has dwindled into a single, toxic layer of bronze vapor that lingers over our nation's capital. Meteorologists are theorizing, however, that the disturbance could abruptly change course during the next few weeks and disintegrate somewhere over south Florida, never to return. If only.

I'm not going to lie, I've still got a spring in my step, and it's been almost a month since this thing was called for Joe and Kamala. Admittedly, I didn't behave all that well in the immediate aftermath, gloating on Facebook and prodding a handful of my fellow Caucasian fifty-something-ers to meme the shit out of my feed and flood it with their "it-was-rigged-and-by-the-way-COVID-is fake-too" counterpoints. 

Of course, things devolved rapidly, which they always do. Even so, all I cared about at that moment was spiking that goddamned pigskin as hard as I possibly could. To put it another way, if schadenfreude were a cat, I felt like a freaking Tigon:

But that's enough of that, you know? As with past dustups, I ultimately discovered that spite is petty, hollow and mean when it spills over into social media. It never amounts to anything but a prolonged pillow fight, and as much as I'd like to persuade these people, it's never going to happen calling Loren Culp (Washington State Republican gubernatorial candidate) an ass clown on Facebook.

In light of the presidential victory, and with the promise of a vaccine in the next few months, I've already been feeling reflective of the past nine months. So much has happened and so much has changed, some of it maybe forever. 

Then the other day. I got an email, from Spotify of all people. As you may know, they like to accumulate playlists and they provided me with my most listened-to songs of 2020. Talk about an accurate snapshot of the year we've had. Turns out my number ten most played song for 2020 is Linger, by the Cranberries (Well, so far, anyway. I could still binge on Time to Change by the Brady Bunch and propel it to the top spot by year-end.). But wow, so accurate. This damn year has lingered like leftover mustard packets. 

But you be the judge. Tell me if my subconscious wasn't somehow trying to make sense of the year through selective listening. Here are the rest:

9) Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John: This one's a little spooky, because I do live in Seattle, aka the Emerald City. And, all you have to do is replace the words "Yellow Brick Road" with "West Seattle Bridge," and it's like Sir Elton is suddenly Nostradamus, only with hair plugs that came from his bottom.

8) Edge of Seventeen, by Stevie Nicks: Totally makes sense that this was one of my top songs of 2020. In fact, during last Saturday's Husky game, I was on the edge of 17 Oreos by the end of the first quarter.

7) Don't Stop Believin', by Journey: Remember, ain't no "g" on the end of "believin'". If you pronounce it with a "g" on the end, you'll sound like Siri. 

I knew you'd try it. 

Anyway, Don't Stop Believin' is kind of the comfort food of pop songs, right? It's loaded with good intentions and gives us a nice warm, cheesy feeling inside, sticking to our ribs (and in our heads) for a long, long, long time.

6) True, by Spandau Ballet: I've always really liked this song, so sue me. This is the sound of my soul.

By the way, who's the old man at the club today? For God's sakes. So far, every song on this list was performed by someone who's slated to get the vaccine right after the health care workers.

5) Don't You Forget About Me, by Simple Minds: An old favorite that has inspired me to "reply all" to every company-wide email. Feeling a little isolated, is all.

4) One, by U2: I must have been drawn to this song since it's the number of different hoodies I wear per week. 

3) Don't Dream It's Over, by Crowded House. Obviously, this is the ironic pick of the pandemic, since I DREAM IT'S OVER EVERY F*CKING NIGHT! Whoa, geez, sorry about that. Might be time to stock up on some more of that special toaster strudel from Uncle Ike's.

2) Nothing Compares 2 U, by Sinead O'Connor: What started as reflection on alienation and despair has morphed into my personal ode to the Nineties, a decade of amazing music and hassle-free airports, an era when half of America didn't think Bill Gates was a mind-harvesting antichrist, or if they did, it was because of Windows 95.

1) Jolene, by Dolly Parton: I just straight-up love this one, 2020 or no 2020.

I know we've got a dark winter ahead of us and it's probably going to suck and we're probably going to get really tired of our surroundings and hear a lot of bad news. But please, we're almost there! Stay safe.

Right now, we all deserve a little hope.

Hello again! How are you feeling these days? 

As you can see, I'm wound pretty tightly. I've been busy trying to prevent acid reflux from shrinking up my viscera and causing it to irreversibly coil itself around my rather rustic skeletal architecture. Think third-grade tetherball game where the pole is my spine and the rope my lower intestines. 

I been trying the conventional coping tools, with spotty success:

Take a walk. Take a ride. Take a break. 

Take a Headspace down there by the lake.

Take a breath. Take a cry. Take a beer. 

Take a pill so I'll sleep for a year.

Thanks for the tips there, Dr. Seuss. That last tactic is more of a Covid-themed sci-fi fantasy, but hey, imagine if tomorrow, some V.I.P. from Moderna said, "Hey, listen, we felt like, rather than just sitting on all that cash that's been flowing like fake movie butter, we're also going to deliver a little Scoobie Snack for the emotionally overwhelmed. We're calling it a 'durable therapeutic.' Just pop one of these into the old gob and you'll wake up around the time the Kraken take the ice next fall. Who's in, America?"

I say, diaper me up, Scottie. 

Actually, no, no way. We've all waited this long, so I'll be doggoned if I'm going to stop paying attention at the most pivotal social and political moment of our lifetimes.

Originally, I was going to wait to post something until after next Tuesday's election. That way, I could:

A) Gloat about Joe Biden's victory and the ensuing blue wave that knocked Lindsay "I-Sold-My-Soul-to-a-Hair-Brained-Hog-Goblin" Graham and Mitch "If-I-Lose-I'll-Have-to-Go-Back-to-the-Sea" McConnell.

B) Whine about Drumpf's, victory. I'm not sure how that would even look because my mind immediately thrusts up large concrete barriers to block the way down that route every time I try. I say to myself, "Dude, just imagine the worst-case scenario and plan on what it would be like to live under those conditions for at least another four years."

Two points here. Number one, no matter how bad we imagine things can get, this man has proven they can get even worse. The second point is that I never call myself Dude while engaging in internal dialogue, nor should I. And if you hear it happening out loud, definitely point it out.

We're three days out right now. What are you doing to keep yourself sane, or at least less insane? I've developed such a love/hate relationship with the news. My thirst for new information is insatiable, but it's become a slippery slope, and I'm wearing Crisco-slathered flip flops. Headlines must be vigilantly scoured for potentially triggering content. 

Do I really want to read about the latest polls in Pennsylvania? Probably not. Should I click on the link to an exposé that chronicles the Trump family's history with Russia? Not if I want that stubborn vein to recede back into my forehead. 

To illustrate, let's do a little exercise. I'll list a few headlines from the Associated Press (considered the most unbiased source of information in a Gallup/Knight Foundation survey) and we'll consider whether or not to click on in:

• Road to 270: Biden has options, Trump walks narrow path—Nope, not going to read this one. I'll get all excited and hopeful, plus this has been the case forever.

• After year of disruption, America set to choose a path ahead—This is no different than a headline that reads, After sleeping for 7.5 hours, man wakes up, checks Frosted Mini-Wheat supply. No shit, AP people. This is where you imagine Dana Carvey's George Bush I voice proclaiming, "Not gaaa read it."

• Sean Connery, the 'original' James Bond, dies at 90—Definitely reading this. I feel like he would've threatened to kick my ass if I didn't ("Read the fuckin' tribute or I'll knock ya shenshless, ya litt'l pishant.").

 • Who is voting? Who is winning? Early vote only offers clues—Such click bait, isn't it? I want answers to all these questions, plus I'd love to analyze the clues like a real detective! Wait, nope. After 2016, I think we've learned that political prognostication is about as dependable as an N95 mask with teriyaki stains.

Based on this small sample, I'd say a conclusion can be drawn. Now comes the hard part, the challenge of avoiding online political content for the next three days. 

I also just wanted to say, all the best to all of us, regardless of how we vote(d). And while my beliefs clash so starkly with those of the other side, I think we would all agree that this year hasn't been kind to any of us.

That's why it's time for Joe and Kamala to provide us the hope we deserve.

Two Mental Health Tips to Help You Through the Covidemic

Hi! Don't be shy—come on in! 

Welcome back to Disaster Burger! Yeah, sorry about that, door's a little sticky.

Belly up to the counter! Okay, that's a little too close, huggy boy? Take a couple baby steps back and adjust that sporty gaiter you've got going on. Yep, you're gonna want to tuck the old schnoz in there, too. Oh, hey, here's a little rhyme to help you remember: 

My mask is like undies, 

That go on my snout. 

I'll look like a flasher, 

If something sticks out.

Cool, thanks for hiding the hambone. there. Anyway, let me tell you about our new specials; the menu's expanded quite a bit since the last time you came in. 

First of all, we've got a Western Wildfire Smoke Burger—It's a half-pound of extra-porous ground chuck meat. We left a tubful of it out on the sidewalk last week for an hour or so, giving it a nice gravelly crunch that exfoliates the uvula when swallowed. Served with filthy fries or grits with grainy, green gravy.

There's the Vaccine-by-Novemburger—Our slogan for this masterpiece is, you might get a little hot and plaguey, but he promised it would be readily maybe. Whatever that means, it comes with Mitch McNuggets, specially sourced from chinless chickens.

We've got the Double Deck DeVoswich, made only by people off the street with zero cooking experience. Served with Ben Carsunchips (I know, that one's a reach).

And finally, there's the Supreme Court Burger—Actually, you know what? Forget this one. Why order something that's missing its best ingredient? 

Okay, enough of the parodies, even though humor does tend to serve as one of my go-to coping mechanisms. 

The reality is, there's no making light of the most turbulent era I can remember, this indefinitely prolonged moment of suffering and uncertainty. While the pandemic and social unrest alone have caused tectonic societal shifts, so much other stuff is piling on top of it—the upcoming election, the real, undeniable consequences of climate change—okay, just say it with me: "This suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks!" 

It just does. And it's not going away, not tomorrow, not next week or even next month. 

How many mornings have I awoken 17 to 23 minutes prior to my alarm going off and begun ticking off one reason after another as to why I shouldn't get up that day? More than a few. Hell, that's why they call it a laptop, right? My employers wouldn't have lent me one had they not expected the computer to perform its intended duty all propped up in my bed.

I've mentioned before that I'm prone to depression, that it's as big an ingredient of my genetic recipe as high arches and meatless Irish lips. Fortunately, thanks to a generous dose of counseling, I've come to understand that wallowing the day away in a dark room is worse than fruitless, it's harmful. 

Self-talk is crucial, and it can determine the course of a day. Let's say that, in the midst of one of my early-morning mental roundtables, I decide to take an approach of gratitude, to examine the big picture and my place of relative comfort in relation to those who've come before me.

I could think no further than my own grandfather, who immigrated from Ireland as a young man. He quickly found work but lost a leg in a wagon accident. Even so, he and met and married my grandma, uprooting them both to set up a homestead in a remote area of North Dakota (actually, isn't the whole state kind of remote?). They went on to have seven children, enduring the deaths of two. He labored tirelessly on their arid strip of land, supplementing his hardscrabble farm bounty by working as a janitor in the tiny town where they'd settled.

How inspirational can one guy's story be, right? Shouldn't my inner self be saying, "Wow, I've never dealt with a single one of those challenges, let alone all of them. I'm going to get my ass out of bed, go for a bike ride and rejoice in my overabundance of good fortune"? 

Yes, absolutely I should. Unfortunately, my inner roundtable host (let's call him Merv) is more likely to proclaim, "Oh, no, you're not going anywhere, Sparky. Instead, you're going to lie in bed for another couple of hours and flog yourself for being a mollycoddled cheese curd of a man who couldn't hold your grandfather's goat milk bucket. Now go get yourself some Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey and come back to bed." 

Appreciating one's station in life should exclude self-degradation and shaming, which is why I'm currently in the process of interviewing new roundtable hosts. 

Another area of self-care I'm employing is to curtail my participation in social media. How healthy can it really be to linger on Facebook for half an hour just to stalk an argument between two politically polarized "friends." I can still taste the lemony vitriol coursing through my gullet with each tone-deaf comment spewed by the fascist, then regaling in the righteous, yet predictable, talking points rattled off by his commie adversary. 

Things usually get personal in no time, with the leftie exploiting the rightie's spelling and grammar errors. Stating that he'd seized the their-there-they're gauntlet by third grade, the pinko continues to lambast the nazi's habit of capitalizing every third word. Inevitably, the never-masker feels his back against the wall and responds with offensive slurs uttered in judgment of the socialist's sexual orientation or undiagnosed mental disability. 

Social media still has its place for me now, but it's on a lighter footing; posts to this blog will still run through my Facebook group. I love the brilliant photos of Instagram and pithy snippets of Twitter. But ruminating all day on some anti-vaxxer meme that I stumbled across is not good for me. These sites are minefields of toxic, non-productive debates, and while the participants might switch up, the fight never ends. And because of that, I'll be happily, healthily walking away from that lifestyle.

Oh, by the way, before you go, I need to remind you to come by Disaster Burger in six weeks, right around the first week of November. We're hoping to add a new special called the Trump Loses in a Fucking Landslide Burger. 

Stay safe.

How to look better than ever while working from home.

How are you? Since we're now nearly six months into this lousy scourge, I thought I'd check in again. Hope you and yours are doing okay. 

We're often told how important it is for our overall well-being to stay positive, to find rays of light that pierce the darkness. And I really do try. It's just that, things are so tough for so many people and for so many different reasons, even a brilliant Pacific Northwest summer day can periodically seem engulfed in a carrot-hued haze of anxiety. 

I feel incredibly lucky to have a job right now (insert sound of knuckles raking against splintered mahogany). In addition to its being a reliable source of income, mine is an occupation that doesn't require me to place my health on the line, every single GD day. While I work in close proximity to PSDs, JPEGs and HTML files, none have coughed or sneezed in my face, even once. It's a setting that stands in stark contrast to my wife's line of work. She's an elementary school teacher, a vocation that's experienced more shape shifts than a gob of yellow hair in the prop wash of Marine One.

Education has found itself perched squarely between the stoniest of rocks and hardest of hard places. At the risk of draping myself in a Captain Obvious cape, teaching kids, especially the little guys, is difficult under the most favorable of conditions. Then, when we plaster tiny masks to their mini mugs and order them to stay six feet from that kid with the cool fidget spinner, doesn't that just seem like a bridge too far? For God's sakes, between the ages of five and eight, I can count the number of times I effectively washed myself, and that would be zero, point zero zero four.

On the flip side, keeping our rug rats at home also causes extreme hardships, both to their social and emotional development and their parents' abilities to earn a living. If there were ever to be a flawless, real-world example of the term "clusterf#ck," educating our children during the age of COVID-19 comes closer than anything since, "Houston, we have a problem."

Like a lot of us, I miss going to work. I miss the morning commute, a daily ritual where I could watch through a scratched bus window as my beautiful city's silhouette came to life against the brightening sky. Ultimately, I'd disappear inside its grey canyons, adding my pulse to the energy from a million other hearts already inside. 

I miss the after-work happy hours where I'd undoubtedly laugh my midriff into a knotted, pre-hernial outgrowth. 

I miss the donuts, but not the donut knife which always ended up inside the pink box next to half a glazed and .173 of a bear claw, it's handle crusty with frosting and coconut shavings.

Okay, that's enough of that. We can't spend our time lamenting the old normal, right? After all, if wishes were fishes, Trump would get a red cod (Little shout out to pun-loving soccer fans from New England!). 

My intent here is not to magnify your angst, oh, goodness, no. It's just that, unless I'm absolutely mindful of it, I trend toward the half-empty side of life's ledger. So, rather than dwelling on  the negatives regarding all the sucky things about working from home, here's one overwhelming positive:

Every day—whether it's today, tomorrow, a week from Thursday or seven fortnights previous to last Tuesday—is t-shirt day! And for that, I say woo to the freaking hoo. 

Okay, granted, it's not like I wore American Gigolo-level duds to work when I was going in on the daily:

American Gigolo-level duds, as worn by Richard Gere in American Gigolo

But I am employed by a fashion retailer, so I couldn't walk through the doors in the morning looking like a total schmendrick. It's why now, during this horrible age of Covid, I can at least finally express my dynamic, sometimes disturbing, inner inklings when the mood strikes. I can now be helplessly nostalgic:

Nerdishly belligerent:

Oozing with dad-quality content:

For Pete's sake, you crazy baboon! Seattle U doesn't, nor have they ever, had a football team!

Incurably provincial:

Playfully fickle with overt notes of shameless dishonesty:

Sociopathically jumbled:

Or just downright inspired:

In this new world, one where we've all been living one week, one day—one health-conscious decision at a time—maybe our work-from-home clothing choices are more telling than I'd ever imagined. Be well.

I'm Racist, and I'd Like to Talk About It.

Are you a racist? 

Such an ugly, incendiary word, isn't it? I mean come on, unless you're a cross-burning, tattoo-misspelling, Clorox guzzling Proud Boy, who among us, whether liberal or conservative, wants to include RACIST in our personal rubric, nestled right there between Eagle Scout and Competent Toastmaster? And as a middle-aged white man, just hearing the word makes me want to pull out my imaginary wallet and proudly show you the small, laminated list of all the reasons why I'm not a racist:

a) I haven't voted Republican since 1988, and even then, I was really just voting for Dana Carvey's version of Bush.

b) I have black friends—I can name at least four off the top of my head, but I know I could come up with more if I really tried. Also, there's a black family on my street, whom I cheerfully greet whenever I see them on one of my COVID exercise walks. Like the Toyota commercial for zero percent financing says, "We're all in this together."

c) I voted for Obama. Oh, yeah, twice!

d) If there's still any doubt that I'm not a racist, check out my Facebook and Instagram posts from last Tuesday. See? Nothing but a black rectangle. Quite a statement in my opinion, when I obviously could've been posting cool and compelling pictures of myself.

Here's the definition of racism, according to Webster's Dictionary:

1: a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

2a: a doctrine or political program based on the assumption of racism and designed to execute its principles

2b: a political or social system founded on racism
3: racial prejudice or discrimination

What do you think? Do any of these apply to you? 

Definition Number 1 seems pretty hardcore; like, you'd have to have some really archaic misconceptions about human anatomy and genetics to really get behind it. Still, some do:

Seems like a strange time to brag about your pants, moron. 

To give the majority of us caucasians the benefit of the doubt (hey, why stop now?), let's allow ourselves a "no" for criterion 1 and a "not applicable" for 2a and 2b, which address institutions rather than individuals.

Now let's talk about the third characterization of racism as defined above: racial prejudice or discrimination.

Sorry, can't clear that hurdle; guilty as charged. I do possess conditioned prejudices based on race. I do see color. And so do you, and every other white person in America. We're all racist, and we need to freaking own up to it if things are going to improve. 

Still with me? Great, because I swear I could hear the mouse clicks of countless friends and acquaintances who chose a quick detour to the friendlier confines of TikTok and fuzzy puppy subreddits. Some uncomfortable shit, for sure, to be labeled a racist by some sanctimonious blogger.

Whatever. Find yourself another blog if you're offended by this assertion. The fact is, labeling myself a racist doesn't make me a bad person; quite the opposite, really. According to anti-racist educator Robin DiAngelo, author of the best selling White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, admitting to our own racial biases is the first step toward changing a system about which we claim to be outraged. 

The longer we defend the status quo through our silence and lack of dialogue, the more we deny the existence of racism in ourselves, the more we doom our society to an endless cycle of racial unrest. George Floyd, Philando Castile, Breanna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray and an endless stream of injustices will continue, for the rest of our lives and beyond.

Am I a racist? I suppose that's in the eye of the beholder, but I'm going forward believing that I am.

Logic in the Time of COVID.

Who doesn't love a good conspiracy theory? I know I do.

Or did, anyway. The JFK assassination has to be one of the classics. It alone has more angles than a presidential comb-over: the CIA did it, the mob, LBJ— even Woody Harrelson's dad's been thrown into the mix.

Historically, conspiracy theories have covered the spectrum of deceit and collusion, from simple, self-serving schemes (Jim Morrison faked his death) to intricately-planned, elaborate capers encompassing the deepest corners of government and society (Lou Reed was killed by Lady Gaga).

There's Area 51, quirky and benign member of the Conspiracy All-Star Squad since the mid-20th Century. Or the Illuminati, with its ancient and über-secretive roster of influence, currently boasting such A-listers as Beyoncé, Jay Z, Madonna and Lindsay Lohan (Wait, how is Lohan still a member? Freaky Friday was her last good movie, and it was far before her Botox and Four Loko era.).

With the new millennium arose a docket of fresh, even more sinister theories. The 9-11 Truth movement claimed that the September 11 attacks were actually a controlled demolition orchestrated by the U.S. government, meant to incite war in the Middle East and seize control of the petroleum industry.

In short order, with the election of our first non-white president, came the "birther" movement, where a healthy smattering of Americans maintained that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. According to their purview, only a deviously well-oiled plot could secure his ascension to commander-in-chief, and that's precisely what went down.

Oh, and remember who really latched onto that one? A quick hint—his name rhymes with his daily activity between 2:00 and 2:17—that's right, a McDonalds Dump. Yeah, him. And he's taken the whole conspiracy playbook to a level not seen since Milli met Vanilli. The difference is, this time people are dying.

Why do we gravitate toward conspiracies? And how have some of us devolved into these people who view even the most basic truths through a lens of skepticism and distrust? Surely, a single man can't be responsible for this, right? Well, as the guy himself has been known to bark: "Wronnnng!"

In my opinion, the only way a leader can convince his followers to dispute science is to take a sharp right and go after the scientists themselves. If a mask of conspiracy can be strapped to Dr. Fauci's substantial, yet handsome, ears, then all bets are off. What if he truly is a Deep State operative who's been embedded to sabotage the president's chances for re-election?

That's exactly what's going on, according to Alex Jones, a cuddly right-wing conspiracy theorist and YouTube deity, who's also puked out that no one died at Sandy Hook and students who survived the Stoneman Douglas shooting were paid "crisis actors." Crisis actors? I wonder where that would fall on the pay scale in relation to porn acting. Bet some of the lucky ones do both porn and crises.

I just find it really arrogant for someone to claim that they and a few other enlightened souls have the goods, that all this overwhelming scientific evidence is bullshit and they're going to go ahead and opt for the opinion of the social media douchebag who talks like a pro wrestler. How miserable it must be to believe the stuff this guy's schtick, to wake up every morning convinced that faceless zombies in black SWAT gear could bust down the door at any moment.

Let's be real; have high-level conspiracies transpired throughout our history? Of course; look no further than Watergate, Iran Contra or Apollo 11 (Watch the movie Capricorn One and it'll all make sense).

This isn't one of them. We're all doing the best we can right now, and that includes our doctors, scientists, governors and mayors. It sucks when a plague becomes political.

Can't Wait to Hug You.

Well, hello. How are you holding up?

From where I sit here in this makeshift office, converted from a dining room that was previously converted from an office, we're about halfway into week six of, well, take your pick:

•  The 2020 Feel Sort of Cold All Day Festival, sponsored by the Lack of Movement movement.

•  A Vicious, Vegetative, Viral Vacation of Vain, brought to you by the AWSTDSICBTSTSIC (Assholes Who Said They Didn't See It Coming But Then Said They Saw It Coming) Foundation.

•  The First Annual Stop It, You Damn Fool. There's Not a Chance in Hell That You're Hungry Because Twelve Minutes Ago You Ate a Small Ham with Half a Box of Chicken in a Biskit and a Coffee Mug Full of Sweet Baby Ray's Marathon.

•  The Eczema Project. To prove they never really went away, the Beatles have again burst onto the scene with the unofficial theme song of this under-hydrated season: I Want to Hold Your Hand (Sanitizer). Makes my old heart crack and bleed, harkening back to times both simpler and moister.

Since this all started, it seems we've been living through a bizarre confluence of eerie, bored calmness and a gut-churning, sleep-thwarting anxiety about our future. For the first time that I can remember during my 57 years, never has such uncertainty hovered over tomorrow, let alone next week or next month. Only September 11 seems an example of a new reality capable of sinking its talons into us, virtually overnight.

Oh, and speaking of "virtually," this also marks my sixth week of working from home. In the midst of America's economic collapse, I count myself so lucky to still have gainful employment. Furloughs and layoffs rampant as they are, so many surviving occupations have become either monumentally challenging (i.e. teaching small children) or of profound peril to life and limb (healthcare and essential service workers). History will mark these ordinary groups of people as the heart that sustained and delivered us during the age of COVID-19.

Okay, enough of that hero stuff, right? Let's give you a little snapshot of a typical day for Joe Ordinary, low-impact corporate employee. I know you're more motivated than a Trump with the new May Hustler to learn about my WFH routine, so here's a little time-lapse exposition of an average morning, complete with numeric descriptions:

Figure 1) As I sit down to begin my day, I smile at the thought of working for a first-class company. I also say a little prayer asking God to plant little clothes-buying seeds in America's collective consciousness, at least those who have the privilege of caring about buying clothes right now.

Figure 2) Forgot to take a second pee before settling in! Curses!

Figure 3) Ahhh, peed.

Figure 4) Nothing jumpstarts my morning like a hot cup of my friend Larry's Kabaty Coffee. One sip and you'll tell the green mermaid to put down her damn tail and get off your property.

Figure 5) Hmm, what's going on in the news?

Figure 6) I can't believe how rude those reporters are! Why the hell should a president of the United States be challenged on his lies! At length, my anger subsides, and I again petition my maker, thanking him for creating Fox News—last bastion of druther-based factualism.

And that's just my morning.

I probably shouldn't say this, especially considering my standing as a representative of the fashion industry, but not all of those pictures were taken on the same day. And since we're on the subject of wardrobe, I recently ran into this lonely figure in the spare bedroom:

I'm told it was referred to as a belt, meant for holding up non-elastic-based trousers.

Hmm, doesn't ring a bell.

All this frivolity aside, I truly hope you're feeling decent and dealing with the anxiety in a healthy way. I speak from experience when I say that alcohol, during times like these, tends to treat us like that time when we were little and went to the Puyallup Fair with our parents. We spent all our money on rides during the first fifteen rapturous minutes and then endured the next three hours in the pavilion, regretful and sad as we got dragged through the quilts and jam.

Can't wait to hug you.

Weird Times. Take Care of Yourself.

How are you holding up? For lack of a better word, these times are interesting, aren't they?

Especially up here in the Seattle area. On Wednesday, to curb the spread of coronavirus COVID-19, the King County Department of Health advised businesses to allow "nonessential" employees to work from home. My company, based in the heart of Seattle's steadily-shrinking retail core, displayed a prudent abundance of caution, took the county's advice and told us not to grind our cootie-blooming carcasses against its freshly-disinfected door knobs until at least March 20.

Okay, sure, good call, but still I'm a feeling a little salty that creating cutting-edge digital advertising wouldn't be considered essential. There is such a thing as a fashion emergency, after all; it's freaking documented:

So here I am, working from home, aka WFH. Other commonly kicked-around corporatisms for this arrangement include IHD (It's Haircut Day), Riding Dirty (Remaining un-showered until... a little bit later) and SBCTLT (Shit, better check the laptop).

Just kidding, you all know my work ethic.

During times like these, I find that my fear of uncertainty can overwhelm the uncertainty itself, if that makes sense. My mind concocts scenarios far uglier than the actual events that eventually transpire.

Back around the time the hippie picture above was taken, I remember experiencing a sleepless night on the eve of a home inspection. Our house had been sold, and prior to closing they wanted this small window issue fixed. I took care of it myself, which of course immediately worried the shit out of me.

All night I churned out mental screenplays where the inspector berated me for the job I'd done, told me that now the house could never be sold and we'd all have to stay in that house and be miserable because we're having another baby in a few months and we'll all be crammed so close together that we'll hate each other and at least two of us will become homicidal and we'll never become a real family. Oh, and he was laughing.

It didn't quite turn out that way. The real inspector showed up holding a small dog, looked at the window for about five seconds and signed off on it without even putting down his Chihuahua. He wasn't laughing and he definitely had pants on. Sorry, that happened in one of the screenplays.

I'm trying to keep that mindset from seeping into my thoughts right now. Just because we don't know the true scale of events to come, it doesn't mean we should envision Armageddon as a given. Should we prepare ourselves? Of course.

Last Saturday, my wife and I assessed our current provisions. Living where we do, it doesn't hurt to have a small stockpile of canned and dried foods in the unfortunate event of an earthquake. Who wants to struggle a week without food, then desperately gnaw at the lifeless cadaver of Frank, your elderly next door neighbor who goes door to door during the holidays to dole out his world-famous mountain goat muffins? Wouldn't you just rather pop open a can of satisfying Chef Boyardee Beef-a-Roni and ignore Frank's body altogether?

That's what we figured back in 2012 when we took the girls to the grocery store to stock our emergency preparedness kid. In hindsight, it's creepy that we did that. What did we say to them? "Hey, kids, guess what? We're taking a trip to Safeway to buy stuff in case our house falls into the earth. Who wants Spaghetti-Os?"

Last weekend, after going online and discovering that even the most robust of canned food (low-acid products, such as meats and vegetables) can only hold out three to five years, I'd felt like I'd dodged a gastrointestinal grenade in not cluelessly devouring some honey baked beans from Obama's first term.

So we emptied out the old stuff:

Beautiful, yes? It has the makings of a hot dish to end all hot dishes. And while I don't specifically remember, if I were (pot)lucky at some point in the late '60s or early '70s, I scooped something similar to this ambrosia from a random slow cooker in the Messiah Lutheran Church fellowship hall.

Here's the replacement load, or part of it, anyway:

Since we were buying for a different demographic, the Boyardee factor gave way to slightly healthier choices. Still, canned food tends not to get that fancy; lots of salt and sugar, pretty much regardless of what you buy. And seriously, if things get that rough, I'll be breaking into the other shopping cart: the one filled with nothing but vodka and thoughts of happier times.

Please stay safe during this flu thing. We're all going to have to break some unhealthy habits in order to get a handle on this. I, for one, am willing to sacrifice, even if it means not kissing people good morning on the bus for a while.

Oh, and please stop buying toilet paper, because I'm sure you already have enough.

Take care of yourself.