2021: It was no 2020, but still...

Happy holidays! Is it just me or has this year gone by about a trillion times faster than the last one? Seriously, if years were movie names, 2020 would have been Night of the Day of the Dawn of the Son of the Bride of the Return of the Revenge of the Terror of the Attack of the Evil Mutant Hellbound Flesh Eating Crawling Alien Zombified Subhumanoid Living Dead, Part 5 (real movie, by the way). 2021 would've been closer to Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind (still long, but airier and more optimistic).

By the time we'd gotten to last December, things were looking up for sure. After nine months spent locking down, masking up and wiping off, we watched as the first vaccinations found their way into the arms of America's front line medical workers and highest-risk populations. Science was poised to purge our cootie-ridden meat jerseys—again.

The past 20 months have underscored the fact that we're a nation as divided as a Spears family clam bake. Even so, how could we have guessed that just a year later, with shots available pretty much everywhere but My Pillow Liquidation Outlets, 30 percent of our population would still be holding out? And "holding out" assumes that there's a chance these folks might change their minds. Seems mostly to be a hard nah at this point.

Since the overarching mission of this blog is to inspirationally annoy, I don't expect to convince anyone to jump ship and enter the light (Tweeeet! Mixed metaphor foul—loss of down!). Let's look at some of the big news of 2021 and see if we can at least agree on some of the high-level stuff. 

January 6, 2021: Following the ex-president's rally and speech at the White House Ellipse, pro-Trump rioters storm the US Capitol as members of Congress meet to certify the Electoral College results of the 2020 presidential election. A total of five people die, including a Capitol Police officer the next day.

What we might disagree on: This was one of the darkest days in our country's history, and had it not been for some well-placed decision-making, Son of Mussolini might still be orangeing up the place.

What we may agree on: MAGA merch sells big among the faithful. All those flags and beanies and noose kits are a freaking cash cow. Crazy about those "We Shall Overcomb" Christmas sweaters, and the American flag is a such a clever and unexpected weapon of choice against police in gun-free zones.

January 7, 2021: Congress formally affirms Joe Biden's 2020 victory, completing a final step in the electoral process.

What we might disagree on: Biden won. 

What we may agree on: The same people who tabulated your presidential ballots also counted your Councilwoman Schitzenfurer's victory over socialist upstart and small business owner, Jimmy Yoplait. 

July 20, 2021: Jeff Bezos and a crew of three go to space and back on an 11-minute ride aboard a penile rocket developed by his space company, Blue Origin. He exits the capsule wearing a cowboy hat.

What we might agree on: Bezos is a douchebag.

What we may disagree on: How much of a douchebag Bezos is. 

September 1, 2021: A Texas law that bans abortions at six weeks goes into effect after the Supreme Court and a federal appeals court fail to rule on pending emergency requests brought by abortion providers.

What we might disagree on: It's hypocritical to assert your own bodily autonomy while denying others theirs.

What we may agree on: Should Roe vs. Wade be overturned, access to safe abortion will stop in many parts of the country. Abortions won't. 

November 19, 2021: Biden temporarily transfers power to Kamala Harris while he is under anesthesia for a routine colonoscopy. Harris becomes the first woman to hold presidential power.

What we might disagree on: Joe makes innocuous but slightly off-color comments to the medical staff while under anesthesia.

What we may agree on: Joe has a double bacon cheese at Ghost Burger right afterwards. I'm starving, man!

Here's to a peaceful finale to 2021. It was no 2020, but it's definitely a year in need of some counseling.

Skidding Down the Back Slope of the Learning Curve

As you may know from a couple of posts ago, I've been going through a lot of family slides lately. It's the perfect task for a sentimental guy like me. Put it this way—if nostalgia was hot fudge, people would be stopping by to dip their Oreos in me. Ew. 

I tend to immerse myself in things like this. At this point, I've combed through hundreds, maybe thousands, of images from the 1950s,'60s and '70s. Occasionally I'll come across a childhood photo of me and try to put myself back in that kid's head. What was important to him at the time (besides not wearing that suit)? Having spent just a handful of years on Earth, what did that boy believe was true? Or not true? 

The kid above believed that Santa came in the house when everybody was asleep, which in turn contributed to an already-robust fear of the dark. Holy shit, can you remember how scary it was when the adult in your house flicked off the light and shut the door? Everything instantly disappeared and random noises filled the void. It probably also didn't help that he'd been sent to bed halfway through Kidnapped and Buried Alive: the ABC Tuesday Night Movie of the Week. You know, school night and all.

I remember when this guy refused to believe that his friend's dad weighed over 100 pounds. Only upon returning home for lunch one day to scarf down a deviled ham sandwich was he informed by his mom that adults commonly weigh well into the triple digits. Also that lamp shade.

The dude standing here in his new fall school jacket firmly believed that babies are conceived with little more than a wink and a nod. I mean sure, this is sort of true since winking and nodding are involved at some level. Still, most of us don't know the full story until we're clued in one day at rainy day recess by a kid named Kenny or Billy or Julie Lou.

Finally, this young fella most likely believed that Jesus was a nicely-groomed white man with amazing hair that smelled like Pert, not unlike a Scorpions roadie. Only later when he'd received his own subscription to National Geographic and started reading the articles did he discover that JC had the biological makeup of a modern-day Iraqi Jew. 

We embark on our lives' journeys, perpetually sifting through the data and hopefully honing our understanding of the world around us. Along the way, we learn that, although the number 100 is indeed massive, very few full-grown adults weigh less than a hundred pounds. We discover that despite his sick fishing skills, it's highly unlikely that Jesus was Swedish. And somewhere around 2014 comes the revelation that darkness doesn't mean everything disappears; just that the room has transfigured itself into a glorious theater of the smart phone.

But I joke because I fear. At this moment in history, 30 to 40 percent of Americans are skiing down the back slope of a bell-shaped learning curve. Many are people I grew up with, folks raised in an era of moon landings, unquestioned election results and mass vaccinations in the school gym. 

The unlearning is well under way. For so many, science now equals tyranny and government is nothing more than the Illuminati's instrument of killing and eating all the White people except Joe Biden, Hillary Clinton and Tom Hanks.

I get it, I suppose. The government doesn't always have the best of intentions; Ronald Reagan and all that. And of course, you're scared, too. Society is changing before your eyes and you're afraid of being "left behind" in some manner. Sure is a hell of a lot more comforting to believe that your candidate's victory was stolen, that your opinions still fall among the overwhelming majority.

But they don't. Not anymore. Storming the Capitol was both stupid and criminal, and you know it. Trump lost, and you know it. Vaccines work. 

Let's get back to debating policy, not the facts themselves.

Right now, it's the best we can do.

Life can feel pretty helpless these days. After all:

1) We live on a planet that's drying out faster than day-old cornbread in a stoned man's pie hole. 

2) A sizable wad of our populace has decided to team with the Covid Delta variant to give us Groundhog Year, 2021. I'm sure we all know someone who, while gloriously worm-free, has chosen to prolong this dismal plague based upon what some former reptile chiropractor says about RNA-altering microchips on their Parler channel.

3) After a twenty-year hitch in Afghanistan, we Yanks have peaced out. As a result, entire brigades of Afghani guardian angels and their families have been left in the lurch, getting by who-knows-how, living who-knows-where and doing who-knows-what to stay alive.

And those aren't the only problems that can make us feel helpless and depressed and angry—homelessness, racial unrest, the economy...

I'll just stop right there, because this is where I want to flip things. Segues have always been a challenge.

What if we were to squad up a little, to combine forces and take on Problem #3? Would you be willing to take a few minutes to enlist your services toward a collective effort? It may not succeed, but I know I'll feel better for at least trying and hopefully you will, too. Let me explain.

This is my friend, Roger. Some of you may already know Rog, but if you don't, here's a little background on a man who's devoted his life to the service of others, much of it taking place while being shot at. Here's a photo of him in front of the Afghan National Army (ANA) Court of Appeals. 

Having spent a twenty-year career as an army JAG, including multiple assignments to war zones in Somalia and Afghanistan, Rog signed on as a civilian contractor with the Department of Defense to perform “Rule of Law” work for a Provincial Reconstruction Team (PRT) in Afghanistan.

Roger: My last trip to Afghanistan was from September, 2018 to September, 2019. I worked in Kabul at a place called Camp Resolute Support (aka Camp RS), which was located next door to the US Embassy. Our job was to work with Afghan counterparts in strengthening their legal systems. 

And it's how Rog met Fahim Sabet, his interpreter during that final tour.

Roger: Fahim and I would ride together in up-armored cars to the Ministry of Defense (MOD), to meet with two ANA generals. One was the highest ranking lawyer in the Afghan Army and the other, the Chief Judge of the ANA. We met at least once per week, often times more. (Those were fun rides...not). 

I worked with Fahim every day. He would translate conversations and also translate legal documents for me. We would also spend some time—just the two of us—with Fahim trying to explain the complex social structure of Afghan society.  It was a real eye opener. Nobody had a bigger influence on my cultural awareness of Afghan norms. He always had patience with me and always steered me in the right direction. 

Early on in my tour, he and his wife had their first baby, a boy they named Mano. As the father of a newborn, Fahim was constantly worried about his son. He and his wife believed that Mano had a fever on a regular basis, and she would take the baby to the hospital or clinic nearly every day, only to find out that the baby was just fussy and did not have a fever. 

I mentioned using a baby thermometer. Fahim had no idea what I was talking about and he was blown away that there was such a thing. I got on Amazon and bought him one. He was so incredibly thankful for that small gesture. It's why I cringe when I hear him talking about how Mano is now not eating because of stress and lack of sleep. No little kid should go through that.

Which brings us to now. Having spent ten years working in support of the US mission, Fahim has become a prime target for Taliban retribution. Although he was able to obtain a Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) from the US State Department for him and his family, it's of little use. Numerous attempts to even approach Kabul's airport have failed, and three-year-old Mano has been traumatized by the chaos, often subjected to the random gunfire employed by the Taliban as a method of crowd control. 

Unfortunately, money can't help solve this problem, not as long as Fahim and his family are trapped inside Afghanistan. 

Roger: Many have asked what can be done for Afghans trying to get out of the country. The short answer is, not a lot or enough. That said, I had a thought: We can all contact four or five friends and request that they email their congressman/senator, inquiring what is being done to assist Afghan nationals who've supported the US over the past decade. Then keep contacting them. At least then we're doing something.

Isn't that the key? Doing something?

For those of us living in Washington state, Senator Patty Murray has two people assigned to the Afghan refugee crisis: alejandra_villa@murray.senate.gov and Anthony_Pena@murray.senate.gov. If you live elsewhere, Google makes it pretty easy to figure out who represents you. And to hopefully save you a little time, you can copy and paste the following message if you feel like it:

Dear Senator/Congressperson,

I implore you to do everything in your power to liberate Afghan nationals who have contributed to the US effort, but are now trapped inside the country following the Taliban takeover.

Fahim Sabet is such an individual. Mr. Sabet has spent the past 10 years working as an interpreter and assisting the US mission, making him and his family prime targets for the Taliban. He holds an approved Special Immigrant Visa (SIV) from the US State Department, yet has been left behind along with his wife and 3-year-old son. This is unacceptable.

I know the United States can do better. Thank you for your help.

And thank you. 

Experiencing the World Through the Eyes of Your Dad, the Teenager

The kid you see here is my dad, Lionel Haywood. In this photo he was fifteen, maybe sixteen. This one was taken some time during the late 1940s, and oh, by the way, he bought that sweater with money he earned working in the bulb fields. It makes me wish there was a color version of this picture just to see what kind of RBG values are going on with that pullover.

Dad was born in Aberdeen, Washington in the waning days of spring, 1933. His parents had welcomed his sister and only sibling, Lila, nine years earlier, and he entered the scene a true baby of the Great Depression. Dad's early years were marked with upheaval and transition, his parents planting shallow stakes anywhere electrician work was available. To say things were tough would be a significant understatement, and while Dad claims he never went hungry, imagine hearing as a six-year-old that tonight you have two choices for dinner: rutabagas or nothing.

As the Thirties came to an end, America's burgeoning war effort provided its workers with plentiful economic opportunities and the family settled in Sumner, a picturesque community nestled in the lush Puyallup Valley—think soda fountains, matinees, Floyd the barber—you know the place. 

Dad's parents created a comfortable yet hard-working existence in Sumner, purchasing this house on Zehnder Street. 

His first job was thinning out carrot patches in the nearby fields. He was eight. Seems a little on the young side, even for the 1940s, but I just realized I had not one, but two jobs at age eight: 1) watching as much TV as possible and 2) asking one question too many. 

Sometime along the way, Dad managed to get his hands on a Kodak Baby Brownie Special...

...and his lifelong passion for photography was kindled. He estimates that the photos you're seeing here were taken between 1945 and 1948, all with his Baby Brownie, and a few of them developed in his makeshift home darkroom. 

To a lot of us, a house isn't a home until it's filled with the clickety-clackety cadence of a four-legged creature. Enter Bingo, a caffeinated mixture of Spitz and Pomeranian, and my dad's first creative muse:

Bingo was a free spirit, a bohemian if you will. His favorite pastime was to magically appear, smiling and wagging his tail, at unexpected locations. It might be outside the school or in the post office parking lot, but wherever it was, he'd appear convinced that you were elated to have run into him. Get out the special coffee cake, honey, we've got company. Bingo's here!

Due to the dog's outgoing sensibilities, the town police chief, a man named Nort Winn, had grown to know Bingo on a first-name basis (Okay, I understand that all Bingo had was a first name, but you get what I mean.). Despite my dad's best efforts to keep Bingo tied up in the yard, the mutt would invariably escape, popping up to taunt Chief Winn in parts of Sumner both near and far. He'd engage the cranky cop in his own version of whack-a-mole until Nort would grow tired of the chase and drive off, vanquished again by this lovable scoundrel.

All the while, Dad continued to explore the world with his camera. His other subjects were typically family members like Grandpa Purl:

Dad said that in this shot, Grandpa Purl was messing around with a cousin. I don't know, though, it kind of looks like a post-Sunday-supper exorcism. I'm thinking this little exercise might've taken place somewhere between the after-dinner Lucky Strike and double scoop of Neapolitan ice cream, hold the strawberry. 

I'll just remind you that these photos were snapped by an adolescent male. Hence, this ill-advised shot Dad took of his mom working in the kitchen.

He might happen upon Uncle Jack preening from the business end of a dairy cow:

Or compose the scene of a just-completed model airplane poised for takeoff from the picnic table:

Overwhelmingly, though, my dad's focus returned to his best buddy, Bingo. Here again is the pooch, mugging with the omnipresent Grandpa Purl:

Bingo was like that guy who's up for a good time 24/7. Because of this, Dad thought it might be a good idea to bring him along for an overnight trip to Scout Island on Lake Tapps. Since the scouts were a high-energy lot, it seemed as good a pairing as Chips Ahoy and V8 juice. I mean, come on, don't these guys look like they'd love to have a canine mascot to frolic with?

And things did go well—the first day, anyway. But the following morning, a dark shadow of contempt would soon envelope Dad's trusty companion. As the boys rolled up their sleeping bags and prepared for breakfast, one of the scouts uttered a simple, three-word query that would change everything: 

"Where's the bacon?"

Bingo continued to live a full life, quickly regaining his self-esteem, and putting the bacon affair behind him for good. Alas, in the end, he died with the same gusto that he'd lived, meeting his demise as a result of his need to ambush moving semi-trucks. Mercifully, Dad was at school at the time, and a kind next-door neighbor named Bill Moon witnessed the accident and buried Bingo in his yard before my dad came home. 

I'll end our show there. Dad took a lot more pictures with that Baby Brownie Special, followed by tens of thousands of photographs, slides, videos and eight-millimeter home movies. He's captured our holidays, birthdays, soccer games, band concerts—even my graduation from Art Institute of Seattle for God's sake, a one-year program I took in the evenings.

Here's he is with his great-granddaughter, Charlotte. 

I'm so grateful for his diligence in documenting so much of our family's lives. On top of that, to see how a teenager from 75 years ago views his world through a camera lens is another incredible gift, especially when that kid is your dad.

Getting Back Out There.

Springtime at last.

After everything that's come to pass, here's hoping that you're feeling well and that things are progressing at a steady rate toward a more December-of-2019 type of lifestyle. Baby steps, is what they're saying, right? And that's fine, except the baby seems to have been shuffling along in size 22 Timberlands. 

Let's face it, COVID just keeps being an asshole. It's hung around longer even than Bruce, that guy from the dorm who never seemed to pick up on when it was time to leave the party. Remember him? He'd start looking wobbly around eleven, eventually stumbling down the hallway to puke with the bathroom door open. He'd pass out on someone's bed for a couple hours, only to freakishly materialize in the living room next to the record player, smoking cigarettes, scraping out the last of the spodie punch and trying to talk to Stacey about UFOs. Ultimately, Stacey's best friend Janis would come over and tell Bruce he needs to run along, usually somewhere around four-thirty.

Is there some Bruce in all of us? Maybe, but the novel coronavirus has proven itself to be a class above. Scourging for over a year now, it's altered our daily mindset and with that, our behavior. We might be the same people that we were fifteen months ago, but we don't behave the same. It's going to take a minute for me to quit:

1) Fist and elbow bumping. Actually, I've never been big on fist bumping and as for elbow bumps, the target is deceptively small. A miscalculation from either party can result in an awkward "tricep rake." And alas, while I'd overwhelmingly prefer co-mingling the antipasto platter of bacteria in the palm of my hand with the microbial casserole in yours, nob thumping may very well be here to stay.

2) Experiencing day terrors when I can't find my go-to mask, the one that fogs up my sunglasses 30% less. Of course, there's a backup lying around somewhere, but when it's been a while, chain of custody can be questionable. Prior to COVID, I never realized how quickly a mask can be rendered icky and require the finger-tonging once reserved only for driveway garbage and third-party athletic supporters.

My wife and I went through our masks this weekend and kept only the best of the best:

The gaiters are convenient but get pretty disgusting less than a minute into a low-impact jog. And the "face" mask at the top left? It's my wife's. For teaching your children. That's all I have to say.

Additional stubborn habits nouveau include daily hoodie wear (including weekends), devouring podcasts like Chex Mix, taking the garbage cans to the curb in socks, borderline unhealthy fascinations with people's Zoom backgrounds, walking aimlessly through the neighborhood, disinfecting my Visa card after trips to Safeway...

In my post from March 6 of 2020, I encouraged you to stay safe during this "flu thing." Yeah, a bit off, there, Nostradamus. If COVID-19 is a "flu thing," the Titanic was a boat accident. No one on the planet has lived the past year-plus unaffected by the pandemic. It's taken a collective effort to curb the spread, and now science has provided us with a weapon to finish it off. 

Please, get yourself vaccinated. I know there are people reading this who are reluctant or even unwilling, and I do understand. Of course there are risks, but holy shit, if you're around my age, you drank from the garden hose, rode in the truck bed and ate the old Ding Dongs—the ones before 1973 with lead in the cream filling. Poor kids these days don't know a real goddamn Ding Dong.

My second Pfizer shot happened a couple of weeks ago. The aftereffects weren't terrible; just a sore arm and a case of acute couchiness for a day. Some aches here and there. Once the swelling subsided, the microchip implant is barely noticeable. And if you still have reservations, please consider that Bill Gates isn't learning anything about you that Facebook and Google don't already know. 

Take care of yourself.

Seven Dog Years In.

It's been a year now, a year since I started working from home for two weeks. 

You could say it's been roller coaster, but as my astute bride pointed out, even a roller coaster is supposed to stay on the track. To her point, the whole thing has seemed a little like hurling down that ancient, wooden thrill ride at the fair. This time, though, you enter the bottom turn way too hot and the entire train catapults into the purple Puyallup evening, its passengers set on a perfect collision course with the baby pig trailer. 

Worse, you'd decided to wait until afterwards to get a corndog.

A year ago now, things were moving fast. Remember? The term "pandemic" was a real thing, yet its implications were completely unfathomable to most of us during the early times. They'd get a handle on it and we'd be working from home for six weeks, tops. Dr. Fauci? Hadn't heard of him, but the more he spoke, the more obvious it became that he was an essential information source. Given the virus' severity and the ongoing stonewalling by the administration, I was amazed and grateful he'd been allowed a forum. 

A year ago, did I cringe a little when thinking of hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. On the other hand, did I have any idea how much I'd miss hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. 

In fact, I have this frequently-recurring dream of being in a huge, sunny field, running into old friends, smiling, laughing and just feeling euphoric. Its meaning is hardly hidden; it even sounds like a dream a dog might have, but hey, there's no shame when it comes to our internal quest for connection, be it Spot's or Tim's.

In other developments, here are some areas where I've improved during the pandemic:

• Watching TV: As skilled as I'd previously considered myself, I've gotten even better at watching TV. In October, I reached the 10,000-hour mark with my Apple remote, thereby making me an expert with it. Also, we've acquired a blanket that feels like a hundred fake minks were clubbed just to make this one blanket. It's the closest I can imagine to being in the womb and I just grossed myself out there.

• Riding my bike: I try to do it every morning, but not before this happens:

Me #1: Finish your coffee. It's 7:15, the agreed-upon time.

Me #2: Don't tell me what to do. I'm reading an important article about pizza.

Me #1: Nothing about pizza is important. Let's go.

Me #2: Did you really just say that?

Ultimately, we agree that pizza is indeed important, but we don't get out the door until 7:27.

• Knowing all the streets of my neighborhood: I'm not alone, here. Since the lockdown's inception, people are out and about, mornish, noonish and nightish, switching up routes or just taking that "favorite" way. We're everywhere, allowing plenty of space as we pass each other and do a quick WFH (wave from here). Seriously, the walk/podcast tandem gets my Oscar vote for Outstanding Actor in a Daily COVID Routine.

We keep getting closer. Maybe you've even already received your first or second dose. Or you're still waiting. My family is split, with my wife (a teacher) one shot in and my older daughter (a nursing school employee) fully vaccinated and ready to go. My younger daughter and I aren't there yet, but it doesn't seem long now. 

Sometimes it feels like any progress toward ending this scourge has happened at a snail's pace. But let's step back for a second; people are getting vaccinated, and in increasing numbers to match the ever-growing supply of vaccine. The United States has now immunized more people than have been infected, and our elderly are safe, a remarkable turn of events considering the conditions inside long-term care facilities less than a year ago. 

It's happening, so please, take care of yourself. I can't wait to see you.

And, exhale.

Why am I so happy? Oh, come on now, I think you know.

After a rough evening, Mom and Dad are finally home. And that crazy babysitter—she's gone.

You remember her, right? She spent all night on your couch, watching roller derby and talking on the phone with her 27-year-old boyfriend. Then, when you tried getting her attention, she rolled her eyes, glared at you and fumed that "any four-year-old with half a brain can learn to use an oven. Make your own goddamn pizza rolls, you little snot cookie." 

That's how I remember it, anyway. Then she'd say something like, "and save at least six of 'em for me. And don't burn 'em, either, you little shit sickle. Now leave me alone and go figure out where your sister went with that lawn dart." 

Dad's driving her home right now. After that she's moving to Florida and you'll never have to see her again.

As of yesterday, this:

has replaced this:

It's been a long, long, long four years since the last inauguration. On that chilly Friday morning in 2017, this shot of Kellyanne Conway and Steve Bannon was snapped just after the pair had taken bong hits in Bannon's van. Thank God there was an amazing buffet a little later.

I joke, but good Lord, what an excruciating one thousand, four hundred and sixty days we've endured. That guy really sucked. But even though making fun of him and his cronies was easier than finding a new skin tag, nothing could eradicate the musty, menacing cloud that had engulfed DC, our country—the world—while that guy was still perched behind the Resolute Desk.

I won't dwell on what was. We've all lived through it. In fact, I think I'll take a cue from a couple of friends who refuse to let Orange Dye # 45's actual name pass their lips, a la Harry Potter's cruel nemesis, He Who Shall Not Be Named. There's no need to subject ourselves any further to a moniker that's grown synonymous with misery, right?

Witnessing the inaugurations of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris along with the other festivities, was just so, I don't know, cleansing, ecstatic, beautiful—pick your adjective. It was the celebration we've been dreaming of. I watched it for hours and hours, even the part where the Clintons, Bushes and Obamas stood at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, silently waiting for the presidential motorcade to arrive. 

Although nothing was going on, I couldn't help but stare at these three couples, six people who uniquely understand the gravity and responsibility of the presidency. I despised George W. Bush as a president, but at least he follows the program. And he paints puppies now.

From VP Harris' historic swearing-in to Lady Gaga's triumphant, old school rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," I was tearier than a four-eyed Billy goat in a patch of Walla Walla Sweets. Then, when Amanda Gorman took the stage, it wasn't until she'd finished that I realized my jaws had been stuck in the fully open position the whole time. I've never seen anything like it.

So crazy to realize that a mere two weeks ago, a flag-waving horde of cultists, racists and clueless looky loos, at our president's behest, decided that storming the U.S. Capitol was a good idea. Because, you know, our flight doesn't leave until 5:30, so why not we commit three or four quick federal offenses, go back to the Days Inn, order Dominos and rest up until it's time to call a Lyft? Hopefully, the partial Nancy Pelosi placard fits in the big suitcase. 

We have so much to look forward to in 2021: 

1) An administration whose agenda names criminal justice reform, climate and green technology investment, immigration reform, voting rights legislation and infrastructure renovation to its list of priorities for the first hundred days.

2) A comprehensive national COVID-19 strategy, along with a vaccination blitz that finally curbs the spread and slowly returns us to our wonderfully huggy selves. 

3) An economy that explodes like never before (Sorry, that kind of sounded like him, didn't it?). So many folks lucky enough to have remained employed these past months may have accumulated substantial funds that otherwise would've been spent on travel, dining, maybe fantasy bowling camp. I predict a turbo-charged economic cash infusion as we enter the second half of 2021.

4) The improved COVID situation will allow for The Handmaid's Tale, season 4 to finally happen, because dystopia is so much more fun when it's fictional.

So truly, congratulations to all of us. While I understand that 74 million Americans don't share my enthusiasm, maybe some will when they see a little real-life benefit, such as the end of this God-awful pandemic. As it is, most of us take up residence far inland of the left and right extremes, and those are the people I'm resolved to have some good, tough conversations with, assuming they're up for it.*

*This will not be happening on Facebook, where civil discourse experiences an average shelf life of 4.73 comments.

As far as the QAnon conspiracy followers, White nationalists, Proud Boys and other racist douchebags, we have nothing to say to each other until you get some counseling. 

Here's to a great 2021 and that somehow, some way we'll be able to clink glasses before the year's out. Thanks for keeping me company in 2020.