One More to the Fall Classic

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Another Quarterly Newsletter

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hang in there.