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.

Rejecting Rejection

How are you at handling rejection? Not great? Yeah, same here.

Sucky as it is, rejection is a wallop to the tum tum that we all have to deal with every so often. And it's not even unique to the human experience. If you're of an age as I am, you may remember tuning into Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom just in time to see the elderly chimp blackballed by the young douchebags of the clan and banished to a thirsty prune grove on a remote savannah. Thank God Jim Fowler was there to wrestle the old guy to the ground, stuff him in a helicopter and take him to LA to live out his life in Fowler's backyard, with occasional day trips to Burbank for Tonight Show appearances.

I think most of us learn rejection early. It could be the second-grade recess friend triangle that exposes us to our first experience of getthefuckoutofhereism, or that time in third grade when friends 1 through 5 get invited to Jeffrey Johnson's birthday party, while we weigh in at number 6. 

In junior high, I can remember rejection as being more commonplace than smelly jeans. Dances were the worst, especially for the girls. It was the '70s and Victorian rules still applied, meaning boys asked girls to dance. It was the rare seventh grade girl who asked a boy and an even rarer one who danced with another girl. Because of this, it wasn't uncommon for a girl to show up dressed in something really nice that she'd planned and prepared for weeks, only to stand around the whole time and go home danceless. Awful, and even though it wouldn't exactly have been Prince Charming to the rescue, I regret not having the  gumption to take more action than I did.

Rejection can feel so personal. How do you know it really isn't about you? I suppose one way is to reject rejection itself, like a certain citrus-skinned assface who wears red ties that hang down to his Huggy-draped taint.* In his case it's more rejection denial than election denial.

*Please see Blogger user agreement which requires one sick Trump fry per post.

I've been a graphic designer for 33 years, a job where rejection is a necessary component of the creative culling process. Is it possible that I may have been a little sensey-poo in those early days, maybe even referring to myself as a fake designer on occasion? 'Tis. But over the years, I've become hardened. A rough shell has formed around my ego, a fragile membrane covering the molten ball of resentment that will surely bubble to the surface when I uncup that mouse for the last time. 

But there's another category of rejection that I really wanted to talk about. It's the kind where you start with the old tabula rasa and go from there. Throughout the past ten years I've been writing and revising two middle grade novels—stories with an intended reader of ten to fourteen years old, but really meant for anyone. 

The first one is Ben's Fall. Set in the late summer, early autumn of 1975, Ben’s Fall is the tale of twelve-year-old Ben Lacey. Already anxious about his impending entry into the “big time” of junior high school, Ben’s stress is further compounded by his alcoholic father who constantly demeans his son’s lack of initiative and manliness. While Ben’s mother futilely attempts to protect him from his dad’s emotional abuse, Ben’s only true refuges is at the home of his closest confidant, Joel, and Joel’s single father, Bruce.

When school begins and Ben is thrust into a sea of older kids, girls and more worldly influences, his feelings of inadequacy only worsen. In the midst of his desperation to fit in, “cool kid” Lonnie Comstock befriends Ben and rescues him from an embarrassing incident in the boys’ restroom. Feeling both indebted to and accepted by Jake, Ben agrees to engage in an illegal after-school activity that he hopes may ultimately prove his worth to his father. It could also result in his dream bike: a Schwinn Fastback Five-Speed Stingray.

Each of Ben’s ill-fated decisions further stretch the distance between him and Joel, yet he’s now become blinded by Jake’s charisma and manipulation. When tragedy strikes, Ben is faced with some painful decisions to win back Joel. But is it too late?

The other middle grade novel is Against the Edge. Set in contemporary Seattle, it's the story of eleven-year-old fifth grader, Theo Cloverdale. Theo is reluctantly thrust into a relationship with Nathan, a classmate with special needs. The two boys are paired as partners for a class field trip to Seattle’s Olympic Sculpture Park, located along the downtown waterfront. Theo's mother Katie attends as a chaperone.

When the class becomes distracted by Lucy, an unruly classmate, Nathan wanders off and is eventually corralled by Theo at the top of the hill. With the boys separated from the other students, a massive natural disaster strikes Elliott Bay. Most of the class is swept into the mayhem, including Katie, and all is witnessed by Theo. 

Despite his profound trauma, Theo acts heroically and his bravery wins him instant, if unwelcome, celebrity. With his mother and many classmates still missing, and faced with this newfound notoriety, Theo’s turmoil reaches a boiling point when an individual enters his life, poised to become his greatest ally—or worst enemy.

Those paragraphs are excerpts from query letters I wrote to perspective agents. Just for a little background info, literary agents have nearly exclusive access to publishers. Agents receive hundreds of queries per week from people like me and must wade through mountains of sample chapters and synopses in search of the next Hunger Games or Holes. Chances are microscopic that a rookie author can run the entire gauntlet, from blind querying to signing with an agent to penning a book deal to cracking open a pristine copy of a hardback copy. It's almost impossible, really.

Unless you're my sister, Ann. In 2009, on the strength of her debut novel, Also Known As Harper, she did just that, snagging an agent, who then marketed the story into a bidding war (or "auction," as it's called in that scenario) between two publishers. The result was a two-book deal with Henry Holt and Company. Around that time, she began encouraging me to consider writing a middle grade novel. Maybe I will, I thought, reverting to my four-year-old self. If she can do it, I can do it. How hard can it be?

Really, really hard, that's how hard. Ben's Fall received 61 rejections, while Against the Edge has now accumulated a whopping 328. Three agents requested full manuscripts of Ben's Fall and six asked for the whole enchilada of Against the Edge. Things have gotten close, just not over the top. Here are some of the kind yet heartbreaking breakup letters from agents who had requested the whole novel:

"Thank you for sending me AGAINST THE EDGE. Your writing is really gorgeous, and I love the pacific northwest backdrop. Unfortunately, while I loved your writing voice, I’m not confident I have the vision necessary to make this particular project stand out in the MG space. And so, I’ll have to pass."

"Hi Tim, I want you to know that I consider each project I receive very carefully, and while there is so much to love in your story, I found myself just not connecting to it as I would have wanted. BUT! Even though your project is not exactly what I’m looking for at the moment, I would definitely encourage you to keep trying… agents are subjective and we’re each looking for different things. I know your work is important to you and I'm absolutely grateful that you wrote to me."

"Hi Tim, I read AGAINST THE EDGE, and while I think you are a good writer, I found the subject matter a bit too terrifying for that age group. Sorry not to have a better reaction. I wish you the best of luck with your work."

Still another agent had a similar comment regarding the subject matter, but hey, kids don't get enough credit sometimes for the reading choices they make and how maturely they're able to handle "terrifying" subject matter. I've decided to keep things as they are.

After ten years of near hits and misses, I'm at a crossroads of sorts with these books. I'd love to share what I've done, whether it's through self-publishing or another option, but I'm kind of tired of shopping them around and I'm ready to move on. Since you've made it to the end of this diatribe, I'd appreciate your answer this question: Would you be interested in reading one or both books? Please be honest. 

I don't write to publish books. To me, that seems kind of sad and unfulfilling. I write because I love it and there are few things more incredible than getting into a "zone" where I actually enter the story. It's how I've always felt when I write here as well. Rejection has no place. This has been a long post, so thanks for making it all the way through.

The Damages of Fear

May is national mental health month awareness month. Excellent, right? Always a good idea to shine a spotlight on a difficult subject, maybe perform a quick self-assessment as we head into summer. To see how we feel about how we feel, yes? 

Realistically speaking, I've got to devote a lot more than thirty days a year to my mental health. If not, the unchecked emotional toppings can pile themselves thicker than a Logger pizza at Northlake Tavern (Had to give one last prop to Seattle's best pizza. Rest in peace, my delicious friend.). 

It's a subject that makes the news on a daily basis, usually in a tragic light. Regardless of our opinions about gun laws, few are disputing that these horrific acts are being committed by mentally unwell people. Seems to me like a logical precondition. 

But where do we discern between a congenital mental disorder and a normal brain that's been so saturated with fear that it alters itself? According to Mary D. Moller, associate professor at Pacific Lutheran University School of Nursing, the potential effects of chronic fear on emotional health include dissociation from self, inability to have loving feelings, earned helplessness, phobic anxiety, mood swings, obsessive-compulsive thoughts.

Sounds exhausting. The thing is, based on the support we've seen for a tiny-pawed huckster who stokes their worst fears, 74 million people were that elevated in 2020. And even more if you count the millions of rigged votes. 

Can you imagine how you'd feel on the daily if you acknowledged the existence of a globalist cabal so powerful that it controls our government, our media and our healthcare system, meanwhile eating babies simply because they taste good with chocolate milk?

Not good, I'll tell you. One of my FB friends is a former co-worker who I'll call June. I never knew June super well, but she was nice, had a good sense of humor and was solid at her job. We'd become FB friends in the platform's early days. Eventually she moved on from the company, married and had a kid. I started noticing the anti-vax posts first, nestled between family photos and memes. Then came the videos—pseudo newscasts with dubious experts and unproven claims. Finally came exchanges like this, complete with coded messages:

June: Washington state is an udder nightmare at the moment. It's just getting worse and worse. I wish it were different.

June's Friend: I am mot s proponent of public schools period. If children feel need to wear their (furry) suit to school every day there is likely a dysfunctional issue within the home or school community that the child is trying to escape or the child does not feel safe at school.

June's Other Friend: So glad you got out of Washington. God destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah for their wickedness, He can do it again in other evil places.

June: In my opinion, I don't think all this stuff belongs in school. Reading, writing, music, math, history, social studies, art and teaching kids to think for themselves. But we both know public schools are not teaching that. They have deviated far off path. They're more about social engineering the poor kiddos.

Also imho, I believe that all these changes to this demographic of children comes from the increased jab schedule. There are bits of ab0 rted feta1 d n A that has known (ancer,<irus +animal, reptile fragments etc. These jabs are basically eug€ eni( programs and our kids are the s(1ence projects. When these foreign fragments of d n A glom onto human receptor sights it alters the senses and existence of the affected person. Poor kids never even got a voice. Zero consent for them. It's a sad sick world and I've grown weary of the blinders a good part of the world has towards these products. People are literally brain wA shed by big ph ArmA. I had a friend poo poo home 0 pathics because they weren't safety tested but has a 0ncol0gist husband who left his job because the forced protocols don't work. Still the blinders?

I pray Jesus is coming!

Okay, a little to unpack there. First of all, is it a good idea to pray that JC is coming? Doesn't a bunch of terrible shit have to happen when he materializes over Mount Rainier? I can't remember how it's supposed to go, but I'm pretty sure it's not one hundred percent Mr. Pibb and Red Vines.

Secondly, I don't know what schools these people have visited, but I've spent the last six months volunteering at my wife's elementary school, and I have seen kids meow and say they're cats and bark and say they're dogs and not make any noises and say they're unicorns. That's a problem why? They're freaking kids! Did you have everything figured out when your were eight? 

Lastly, calling Washington an udder nightmare is cowist.

My intention here is not to "out" June. This could definitely lead to an un-friending, but I mean her no ill will. I understand feeling helpless in a fucked up world. Awful things happen and we're all doing our best to cope. I just wish that the fear openly expressed by her and so many others was grounded in reality.

Saying Goodbye to Canada

"Oh, Canada."

When you read those words, how do they play out in your head?

1) As a statement of surprise and delight, as in "Oh, Canada. You look quite nice in that tank top. I wasn't aware you worked out."

2) Like you just bumped into your sociopath ex-girlfriend, Canada, while boarding a cruise ship for two weeks: "Oh. Canada, Long time no see. So, you're here by yourself? Great." 

3) Most likely, you hear the opening line to the Canadian national anthem: "Ohh, Caaaaanadaaa." I know you're singing it right now. When you do, are you able to keep going? I always try, but I can only make it to "our home and native land...," then just trail off in my typical crude, West-Seattle-tinged growl. Maybe I'll try to learn it this weekend with the help of the internet. I figure if I take half a day to learn it on Saturday, I can know it for the rest of the day on Saturday prior to having no recollection by Sunday morning.

America's Hat. The Great White North. Land of Milk and Hockey—I love Canada. I'd think we all do, especially up here in the PNW, where many of us have been crossbred like Labradoodles with our cousins up yonder. They are us and we are they, eh? This entire region might as well be called Vancattle. Okay, maybe not.

Sure, there are differences. When it comes to branding, Americans prefer the fierce, majestic bald eagle to the benign yet attractive maple leaf. Canadian citizens own 35 firearms per 100 people, whereas Americans possess 120 guns per 100 residents, so while the Canadians could beat our ass with a snow shovel if they had to, chances are they wouldn't shoot us. 

For me, the relationship is complicated. My first trip to Canada as a kid was as part of a soccer exchange program between my local soccer club and a league up in BC. Along with my teammates, I was left with a randomly selected Canadian family overnight. The following day, we were reunited with our hungover parents, who then watched as we played an international friendly against our new pals (Note to future soccer parents: Never use the word "leave" or "left" with your eight-year-old, especially a month before the abandonment takes place. They'll immediately stop listening to whatever lame sales pitch you're attempting and worry about it from then on.). 

The family I stayed with was nice enough, except the house smelled like Vienna sausages and the mom kissed me goodnight. Following her unwelcome gesture of affection, I tried to sing myself to sleep with the lyrics to the Partridge Family's highly underrated second album. But alas, sleep eluded me until the wee hours of a murky British Columbian morning. Later on, I had an absolute shit soccer performance and represented my homeland shamefully against the Canadians due to a profound sleep deficit. 

Even so, a bond with our funny-sounding continent mates had been cemented, only to become bolstered over time. During my musical awakening, so much great stuff was oozing down from the north, from Joni Mitchell to Rush, from Triumph to Alanis Morissette, The Tragically Hip, Sarah McLachlan, Neil Young and Nelly Furtado. Canada had infiltrated my DNA. 

During my early adult years, I took several trips to Vancouver with my friend, John. We drank, spoke in Scottish accents to each other (his parents were from Scotland) and had our ears pierced. And who knows, I may have smoked a Player non-filter or two and purchased a Sex Pistols album that was only available north of the border. 

Our northern junkets tapered off as we grew older and formed other relationships, but I always believed someday John and I would head back up, we'd take one last trip for old time's sake. Like most of us folks looking down the backside of the mountain, I've always welcomed the opportunity to recapture a smidge of the youth that seemed to have evaporated so quickly. To my profound regret, this final, awesome, hilarious trip to Canada with John never happened. Now it can't.

Yesterday, I learned that my company has immediately ceased its operations in Canada, which includes both the online presence and 13 stores. Most people know where I work since I've been there so long, but if you don't, it's a major fashion retailer based in Seattle. The Canadian business accounts for a small portion of total sales, but it hit me so much harder than I would've thought. 

Maybe it's my strange introduction to the country or my crazy trips with John. Maybe it's my worries about job security or my age or this aversion to change that seems to go with it. Whatever the case, loss never seems to get any easier. 

Love you, Canada.

Just Around the Corner

This story originally appeared in In Parentheses Magazine, Summer 2020

Captain Kirk for Speaker of the House

Happy New Year, 2023! Heavens to Murgatroyd, did I just say 2023? That's sounds more like a Rush album than the current year of our Lord.

By the way, we were promised flying cars by now, correct? That's what I'd been led to believe, anyway, and I'm not talking about weak sauce Chitty Chitty Bang Bang-type sky jalopies. I'm talking about sleek hovercraft that are pre-programmed to pick up George Jetson from H.D. Hotspurs at exactly 2:07 AM. The nicer editions are equipped to negate the emissions of George's non-carcinogenic Marlboro Light for the ride home.

Oh, well, comme ci comme ça. We may not yet have all the futuristic goodies predicted in our Weekly Readers, but we do have some of them. Supposedly, this art is from a German magazine of the 1930s, but I couldn't confirm the name of the artist or publication. Either way, I do love the server in the background. She's like, "Look, ladies, I've been by to take your orders twice already, and since you apparently aren't able to pull your eyeholes away from those goddamn picture phones, I'll be back in an hour, bitches."

Back in the day, how did you envision the world in 2023? It probably depends on which "you" we're asking. I'd like to think I came up with a pretty Zen way of putting this: 

People change. So do things.*

*Trademark pending 

In 1973, 11-year-old me would have pictured a Star Trek-themed 2023. Interplanetary travel would be commonplace, and as galactic goodwill ambassadors, it was our duty to liberate the oppressed humanoids. This could only be accomplished by defeating the alien warlord while ripping your shirt in the process, then making out with the foxiest female-presenting alien, as James T. Kirk did repeatedly throughout the universe. 

The terms "shelter in place" and "lockdown" didn't exist for any school-age kid.

When asked in 1983 about his vision of the future, 21-year-old Tim would've shoved a hearty clod of Kodiak between his cheek and gum, stared glassy-eyed at the floor until the buzz began to wane, and then answered with something like, "I don't know, but beer." He may have briefly pondered future tech advancements like cheese-stuffed crust or crust-filled cheese, but how could he have anticipated a worldwide pandemic that's killed nearly seven million people by the year's onset? 

No one could, except maybe Bill Gates and some other members of the Illuminati.

2003 me, a father at this point and finally clued in to the earth's dicey environmental future, would have been more locked in on recycling, composting and T-ball coaching than the looming invasion of smart phone technology and its power over all of us, especially those T-ball players in a few years.

Sorry to be so depressing, but please take heart. We've experienced scads of positive developments that most of us could never have anticipated. Who would've predicted that we'd have ourselves a vaccine within a year of the outbreak, one that's now saved millions of lives? Come on, only Q could've called that one. 

And how about televisions? After decades of bulky expensiveness, did anyone really think that by 2023, TVs would be as big as a house, light as a blouse and cheap as...visiting Laos?

But since today is January 6, how about if we end with the biggest blindside of all? Despite all the warning signs—the racist rallies, the Million MAGA March, the 2.7 extra Y chromosomes (on average) per rioter—I still didn't think there was any way those yahoos were getting into the Capitol, let alone halting the election certification. Wrong again. 

I can at least find a smidge of solace in the fact that a sizable hoard of swagged-out GI Joe wannabes shat their dungarees by live-posting to their cousin wives back at the Bethesda Days Inn. Smart technology indeed. 

Two years later, the abscess remains, albeit under the surface, like those things cats get. A gaggle of Nazi congressmen and women continues to piss into the gas tank of democracy, and even with a majority, the Republicans have proven themselves incapable of agreeing on a leader. Any hope for meaningful legislation is a bridge absurdly far from where we are now.

On that cheery note, please try not to despair too much during these opening moments of 2023. The adults are still in charge and there are lots of good shows and podcasts to distract us. And who knows, maybe by the end of the year, those flying cars will show up like they promised. 

Happy New Year, friend.