The party of Lincoln is currently out of the office.

Happy November! I do love the fall. Even if it's as murky and cold as leftover moose au jus, there's a lot to be excited about. The holidays are looming, a joyous season of revelry and salty lard. 

And football—football, America's premier celebration of conquest and domination, is in full swing, even on Thursdays! Okay, it's not lost on me that staging Thursday night games, usually only four days after a team's previous game, can be hazardous to these players' health. My best argument against that, I suppose, is that I really enjoy watching football on Thursday night so they should definitely keep having these games.

How are things going in your orbit? Family's good? Job's bearable? Bladder's not screaming out like a chafing toddler with double pinkeye?

Good, good. Glad we're all on some decent footing here. Because I am nervous as shit about next Tuesday. Actually, I don't even know if "nervous" describes the emotion. Other languages include words describing more nuanced meanings than English can accommodate, words like backpfeifengesicht, which is German for "punchable face". Here's how you might see it used in a sentence: "Der Müzzerfücher Drumpf hat das backpfeifengesicht." Then you're supposed to pick your nose with your left hand and drink.

If there is a word anywhere that describes the unprecedented fear of democracy's imminent death, it defines the feeling that takes up a nice portion my current emotional baseline. The election of 2020 provided a little bit of a respite, an opportunity to crank the timer back a little. But we knew this was coming, and now, here we are. 

In the aftermath of January 6, 2021, who would have predicted that the instigator of it would be the GOP's capobanda going into the midterms? Who didn't think the guy was toast? That's when I realized it's not about him, it's about his voters and their grievances. They're pissed and they want blood. Even so, are there enough of these voters to actually defeat democracy? 

Definitely in some places, which is frightening. Couldn't you see Ron DeSantis seizing dictatorial powers in Florida? I can imagine him forcing school kids to wear little military uniforms with those white shiny rain boots that he likes. 

Or Ted Cruz could attempt to wield his newfound fascist authority by requiring everyone in America to watch his hilarious new sitcom, Teddy Didn't Do It. Turns out he's a natural when paired with Esther, the Giggling Goat. 

In truth, there's nothing funny about these people. Some present themselves as religiously oppressed conspiracy believers with little to no critical thinking skills and a profound distrust for mainstream media and factual data, while others come across as little more than crafty sociopaths attempting to slake their insatiable thirst for power by any means necessary. The party of Lincoln has gone the way of bubble gum ice cream with real bubble gum in it.

Okay, well, on that note, have a nice day. 

Holy shit, what times we live in. I do hope that, whatever happens, wherever you are, you are healthy and happy and that you're able to turn this shit off every once in a while. Unfortunately, the Nazis will still be there when you get back. There's still a lot to be grateful for, like you, and it's something I need to remind myself of from time to time. Thanks for listening. 

Checking in at the Six Decade Mark

I turned sixty the other day. That's S-I-X-T-Y, aka LX, aka L'il Five Duzzy.

How the hell did that happen? I feel like teenager, for heaven's sake (Obviously, I don't talk like one). I still even get zits—just, you know, not on my face.

Like some of us, 60 is an age I've spent the bulk of my life believing isn't just old—it's damn old. And if you're a fellow sexagenarian (that's an etymological moniker, not a condition that requires bi-weekly cognitive behavioral therapy), tidbits like these may exacerbate your angst:

1) You were born less than 20 years after the end of World War II. At the time, the average-aged war vet hadn't hit 40 yet.

2) You've seen 12 presidents, six moon landings, two Darrens and one shark jump.

3) You've been alive for 24.3% of our nation's history. That one blows my mind. 

While I'm on the subject, here's to democracy and the continued health of the great American experiment. In my opinion, our republic is teetering more precariously than any time since the 1940s. The Big Lie has legs and there's an ugly, violent movement that wants nothing more than to see the realization a real-life Gilead.

During my younger years, 60 seemed ridiculously ancient. Ten-year-old Tim would've pegged Gus the Fireman from Leave It to Beaver as somewhere around that age:

Or Chef Boyardee:

Maybe even Colonel Sanders:

I figured Santa must be somewhere in the neighborhood of 60, wearing his puffy, gin-blossomed greatcoat of comorbidities like a drunken gambler playing with house money:

Jokes aside, this birthday has left me feeling more emotional than past years, more introspective than times of yore when I was springier of chicken. I think a lot of it had to do with my high school reunion. The 40-year was supposed to take place last summer, yet was postponed along with billions of other events until 2022 due to that punk-ass scourge we've all been dealing with. 

I understand that high school reunions aren't everyone's cup of Rainer, but I've always enjoyed attending and I was really looking forward to this one. In the weeks leading up to the party, several classmates experienced life-changing tragedies, compounding my desire to just check in with people, to take a day to celebrate our childhood connections. Nothing warms my crusty old heart like reliving the heaven on earth that is hamburger gravy over whipped potatoes with someone who can relate.

A week-and-a-half before the reunion, I came down with the aforementioned punk-ass virus. It was my turn to understand first-hand that the shit is serious business, and that I'd have a ten-day period to get over the symptoms, test negative, wait 48 hours and test negative again. It was my sole path toward engaging in any hamburger gravy talk. 

During the initial three or four days, this seemed very unlikely. My head pounded and I couldn't remember that kind of throat burning since my tonsils were carved out in the '60s. I have asthma, so I was fortunate enough to receive a prescription of Paxlovid. It's an antiviral therapeutic and I'll be dipped in corn yogurt if it isn't the most amazing pharmaceutical I've ever taken (well, top five, anyway). After five days I was symptom free, and after ten I'd had two negative tests and no rebound infection. Hamburger gravy was on! 

At that point, I was elated just to be feeling better, and the reunion was great. There's something about being around people who accompanied me through my most exciting, uncertain, coming-of-age years that just can't be matched. I'm so grateful to be reminded of this every ten years.

Our brains were indeed offline back in those days—but at least they were offline together. 

Dealing with those emotional velociraptors.

How's your anxiety level these days? Off the chart? On the chart but off the grid? On the grid but off the chain? On the chain but off the hook?

Lord knows there's a smorgasbord of triggers out there right now. It's like the instant we wake up, we take our place in the buffet line of dreadful delights. We slide our tray down the rails, accepting warm plates heaped with gun violence, war, climate catastrophe, inflation and more varieties of COVID-19 than there were soft serve toppings at Roy's Chuckwagon. 

And for good measure, who's down at the end of the buffet line carving the roast beast under the heat lamp, but this dude:

The mysterious creature above was photographed just outside a zoo in Amarillo, Texas. I swear to God, these days if it's not hitchhiking clowns, it's a damn chupacabra in search of a hookup.

I've always been an anxious person. Like I've swallowed a stiff, unwashed hankie that never digests, my anxiety lives wadded up inside my chest and stomach. Its crusty, gym sock-sized wad seems to swell and shrink with unpredictable regularity both day and night. 

I've employed various strategies in an effort to tamp down my anxiety—things like self-medicating with a six-pack of Bodhizafa and box of Double Stuff Pop Tarts, Now With Real Pork! shortly before bedtime. Typically, this approach is effective until around three in the morning, when I wake up in a self-loathing hot flash with a throbbing headache and the aftertaste of Satan's dingleberries in my mouth. 

As it is with depression, mindfulness can be a very helpful tool in combating anxiety. By challenging our thoughts rather than swallowing them, it's possible to step over the rabbit hole instead of plummeting into it.

I mentioned that morning is my most anxious time. Here's an example of an average day's waking thoughts:

1) Shit, I need to address that work thing, that thing where that guy's asking for that thing that's not really a thing, but I have to convince him it's not a thing, and that's the thing. 

2) The world is burning up (except for Yellowstone, site of Noah's Ark II).

3) Democracy is doomed because Orange Ass Face is going to run again and win.

4) My kids are out there somewhere, completely defenseless and unprotected (by me). Because of this, something terrible could, and probably will, happen.

5) COVID is mutating again, and it's coming back with wings, hooves, teeth and a spinal column.

6) My arches are cramping and there's not quite enough milk left for the proper Grape Nuts to milk ratio. 

Therefore, I'm screwed and nothing's ever going to be okay—ever, ever again.

So yeah, that's my typical morning medley of horrors. But here's the good news: it doesn't have to take an answer ending in "_anax" to put out this fire. In fact, it can be as simple as devoting just an additional smidge of thought to each worry and formulating a reasonable, factual response.

1) Yes, I do have to figure out that thing, but I will, the same way I have been for the past 30 years. In fact, chances are that I won't even remember the thing a couple of days from now.

2) It's true, and it's frightening. But I can only do what's in my control, like recycling, composting and taking my styrofoam to the forest rather than burning it.

3) This is also a terrifying thought, and one that isn't going away. But worrying about it and/or demonizing the "other side" won't change a thing. As convoluted as their thinking may seem, it's based in fear the same way mine is.

4) Step off, old man. The kids are fine. 

5) Perhaps, but at least it'll be more challenging for it to enter my nasal lining. Plus, I'll be able to use a baseball bat against it instead of a mask.

6) I'll stretch out my arches and heat up last night's spaghetti. Mmm...last night's spaghetti.

See? Not hard at all, and it normally keeps those issues from lingering like a banana peel in a tube top. For most of us, anxiety isn't something we can eliminate from our lives, but like the dinosaurs of Jurassic World, maybe we can learn to co-exist with those emotional velociraptors.

Shock Doesn't Make an Appearance Anymore.

I've always had challenges labeling my emotions, especially the subtler, more nuanced feelings. Titles like aggravation, anticipation, envy and amusement are not easily accessible on my emotional bookshelf, so I've been working on that. I try to be mindful in anxious situations, to think about what I'm thinking about prior to allowing myself to escalate into that popular loop of fear, anger and shame. Despite those efforts the cycle is triggered every time a mass shooting occurs. 

Fear predictably floods in first. Thoughts of my family. Could this could happen at the elementary school where my wife teaches? Or at my daughter's college, or the high school where my other daughter coaches? 

I know the answer. The fear has a purity, a validity, now a familiarity. It's not the childish terror of an imaginary bogie man who enters when the lights go out. It's the fear of a real one who bursts in and destroys the world a little before noon on a Tuesday. 

As I lie in bed, I think about people like Ted Cruz and Greg Abbott. I wonder how they can live with themselves and what are they thinking about right now. Do they actually believe what they say or is it an act?  I conclude that Ted does believe it because he's a narcissistic douchebag with no conscience. Now it's anger's turn, time for dark sentiments to bury the fear. 

Finally, all that's left is the shame. We're all pretty good at that one, right? It's something we bestow on ourselves and each other with such regularity. In this case, we will share it, again. 

Setting the Record Straight About Seattle.

Seattle's been my home for around 40 years, and for most of that time, the town's flown under the national radar, nearly invisibly occupying its place in the upper left corner of the country. The place has always been the quiet kid in the back row who does well in science and dresses for the weather.

Throughout, the Emerald City's political sensibilities have leaned left, but it wasn't until the WTO shutdown of 1999 that Seattle catapulted itself into the "big league" of protest cities. When George Floyd was murdered in 2020, the Seattle demonstrations again drew worldwide attention, as Fox News portrayed the city as a flaming, dystopian hellhole, driven by a lawless mob intent on exterminating the police.

I do wonder sometimes what people who've never been here or haven't visited in a while, think Seattle is currently like. Do they believe it's nothing more than a weed-reeking nest of Marxist honkies who slow roast newborns on Webber pellet kettles in the Amazon employee picnic area while analyzing every vaccinated person's personal data as obtained from injected microchips?

Who knows? Maybe, which is why I'm here to answer your questions. Granted, I'm no expert, just a citizen of the Jet City intent on setting the story straight, but I've taken a deep dive into the mailbag and compiled your most asked queries:

Q: Is there a limit to the number of political and personal belief signs I can place in my front yard?

A: Yes, the limit is 36, but you can get around it by listing as many as 12 beliefs on a single sign. In stark contrast, you may have noticed that the other side prefers flags, with minimal or no words. Probably a good idea.

Q: Is it true that Seattle's radical leftist educators assault our children's minds with a non-stop barrage of critical race theory, LGBTQ+ lifestyle indoctrination and forced multiculturalism?

A: Okay, that's what you'd call a loaded question. It's like being asked if you've stopped spanking your cat, which presupposes the fact that you spank(ed) your cat. And while it's true that on occasion you've wanted to spank your cat with a confusing enthusiasm, you've never done such a thing, and therefore the question's basis is flawed. The same goes for the Seattle schools question. Love and acceptance are taught, as is history. Pretty simple, and not necessarily commie practices per se.

Oh, and before we move on, doesn't it seem like it would be difficult to spank a cat more than once? And chances are it would happen tail-up. No thanks.

Q: Is the Seattle freeze real?

A: Hell, yes, it is. And morning walkers in Seattle are a group of particularly cold-hearted assholes. For god's sake, I'm so careful about not getting any theatrical makeup on them during the hug.

Q: Why do you want to defund the police? Are you daft?

A: That's two questions, so I'll go in order. No one I know in these parts favors eliminating police. What's needed are supplemental, differently trained first responders. Police officers can then focus on honing skill sets that deal more effectively with their entire communities. As to the second question, yes, I have been daft for a preacher's fortnight. *

* Not a thing

Q: Is it true that there is one type of Seattle dog owner who is so annoying that this must be called out in your blog?

A: Great question! Yes, this is unfortunately true. The group consists of people who believe their dogs understand English language and sentence structure. The other day at Alki, here's what the woman on the left said to her dog as it yapped away at a passerby:

"Let's regulate. Take a couple of deep breaths, Meatballs."

Meatballs? If you're convinced your dog understands English, how insulting is it to name him/her/them Meatballs? Plus, have you ever seen a dog take a deep breath? Usually not a good sign.

Q: There's no debate that our city is facing some massive challenges, many with no solution in sight. With all that's going on in Seattle—the homelessness, the racial unrest, the crime, mountains of trash and endless blankets of graffiti on shuttered storefronts—is the city a lost cause?

A: I don't think so. But Seattle can't heal in a bubble. Until the rest of the nation addresses the same issues that Seattle struggles with—those originating in their own back yards—the Emerald City is in for a rough go.

I suppose for now, all we can do is regulate.

The Most Wonderful Time of the Year

Hello and happy 2022! I say this even though we're well into February. It seems like wishing you Happy New Year at this point is like congratulating you on going Clear when really you've been an Operating Thetan for months! *

* Made this mistake while standing next to Tom Cruise at a urinal in 1988.

Right now, we're closing in on both Super Bowl Sunday and Valentine's Day. Blech, it gives me a tummy tornado just to say them both in the same sentence. This year they're perversely falling on back-to-back days, so all those football fans withdrawing hard from the end of another season will now have 24 hours to get their shit together and turn into Mickey Rourke by Monday.

The Super Bowl makes me feel simultaneously hungry and queasy. It's an event that lasts a long time, and there's typically a massive spread from the get-go. People bring enough homemade peach cobbler and Costco Hogs in a Lovesack for 90 people, and, yes, go ahead and open that third box of Chicken in a Biskit on your way to the pulled pork station. All day long, it's:

a spoonful of this
and a forkful of those
and a plateful of pie covered with Oreos.

By the end of the third quarter, I've consumed enough sodium and nitrogen to constitute a live explosive, should I merely opt to eat a smidge of lawn fertilizer. Oh, and while we're on the subject, the other night I was watching the Olympics and two commercials came on. The first was for a colitis medication, followed by an ad for Chipotle. I found this a curious juxtaposition, and if anything, shouldn't the Chipotle spot have been first, based on nature's laws? 

Well, enough of the scatological bullshit. Let's talk about Valentine's Day, an event I'll call VD for simplicity's sake. I don't know about you, but it's one of those holidays that hasn't ever gone very well. I've never been much of a romantic, nothing even approaching such legendary standard bearers as Patrick Swayze in Ghost or the guy with the perm who played Luke in General Hospital. 

During my dating years, VD always caused discomfort, like an itch that was impossible to scratch. I found myself constantly guessing, wondering if I was doing enough or maybe going embarrassingly over the top, seemingly "too committed" to a relationship. And by the time this happened, VD and self-esteem had become nothing more than two shiv-waving cell mates. Ultimately I found a partner who lovingly shares my intolerance and scorn for this holiday. We may disagree on the allure of Wordle, but thank the Lord that we're no Kellyanne and George Conway when it comes to this. 

But please understand, this is my own personal hang-up. Just because I'd rather little spoon with Marjorie Taylor Greene than plan a VD surprise for someone, doesn't mean you're not entitled to your own mental scrapbook of wonderful holiday memories, both mental and physical. Knock yourself out.

Because I'd rather knock myself out than do Valentine's Day.