First Things First.

The following story is based on real events. Names have been changed so that you'll have no idea who I'm really talking about.

Hank's Tuesday began like most winter days. His bladder had rudely woken him and bullied the warm covers from his body. It was 4:06, which meant that after he peed, he'd have a little over an hour to lie in bed and think about shit until the alarm went off.  In the dark, Hank trudged the few familiar steps to the bathroom, not bothering to switch on the light. 

As he pulled his gym shorts down, he felt something brush against the inside of his left leg. It felt like a piece of laundry had been stuck inside his shorts and fallen out. The hell was that? Hank wondered. 

The answer was prompt. It wasn't too dark for his aging eyes to register the five-inch rat scurrying along the bathroom floor, frantically searching for escape. Hank's thoughts materialized in the following order:

1) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!

2) Oh my God. Is that one of those toilet rats? I think it might be. What are the chances?

3) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!

4) I need to get that rat.

Hank flicked on the bathroom light just in time to see it skittering out of the bathroom, its little rat claws clickety clacking on the tile. A right turn would've given the beast access to the entire house, but for whatever reason, the gods of rodential home invasion smiled upon Hank that cold January morn. The little bastard juked left and into the spare bedroom.  

Quickly and as quietly as possible, Hank chased the creature further into the bedroom, then turned on the light and closed the door behind him. Silence. It has to be under there, Hank thought. He lowered himself into the throw rug and peered under the bed, discerning the silhouette of the small mammal perched all the way back where the walls came together.

Hanks's thoughts materialized in the following order:

1) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!

2) It would be really great to take care of this before Stephanie (Hank's partner) wakes up. She doesn't do well with this sort of thing.

3) Should I trap it? How? With a f*&ing Tupperware bowl? I'm not going to do that. I think I need to kill it. Shit. But how do I kill it? With a stick, that's how! Yeah, get a big stick and kill it!

4) F^*k! Gross! That's f*$king Gross! Ahh! F&%k!

Hank left the bedroom, closing the door and half sure that the rat wouldn't be going anywhere unless provoked. The broom closet didn't offer much in the way rodent-destroying weaponry, but there was a ratty, girthy, plastic broom that hung on the wall. Hank and Stephanie had owned it for ages.  It had a higher calling now. He grabbed it.

Hank dashed back to the bedroom, confident that a couple of good whacks would slow the vermin down enough to finish it off. He poked under the bed, bristle end first. It wasn't working. Every time the mangy little bitch ass punk came out into the open, he'd be out of position to bring the hammer down. Each fruitless swipe against the hardwoods would splinter off jagged shards of broom plastic along the floor.

"Hank?" Stephanie was outside the bedroom door.  "What are you doing?"

Shit. He had to tell her now. "There's a rat in here."

"Are you f*&ing kidding me?"

"No."

"Oh my god."

"It was on the toilet when I went in there. I think it might be one of those toilet rats."

"That's disgusting."

"I know. It's trapped under the bed. I'm trying to get it out from under there so I can hit it with this broom. But it's not working."

"Do you need my help?" said Stephanie, her voice shaking. Hank knew it was a question she really, really didn't want to ask.

"I think so," he said. "Can you grab something to poke at it when it's in the corner under the bed? Then I can be ready for it when it runs out."

"Okay." Hank heard Stephanie's footsteps making their way to the broom closet. A few seconds later, she opened the bedroom door, gripping a metal dust mop handle with both hands. "I'll get up on the bed and poke at it with this," she said.

"Okay," Hank said.

"But before that, we should put our shoes on."

"Good call," said Hank. "Definitely a shoe occasion." He grabbed his running shoes and laced them onto his bare feet, deciding for whatever reason that socks weren't called for when the game was Whack-a-Rat®.

Stephanie stepped onto the bed and positioned herself near the head and against the corner. Without panic or wasted motion, she worked the stick behind the bed, poking and prodding at the shit squirrel. Time and again, the rat dashed onto the open bedroom floor, the broom narrowly missing its target with each swing. One swipe did land solidly, resulting in a satisfying, dog toy-like squeak from Rat Fink. 

Finally, like a calf that's lassoed and roped with perfect timing, the little f*7cker came darting out to Hank's right, allowing Hank to slam down the bristle end over its body and press down. The thing was trapped, the only proof of life being its curly tail flailing outside the confines of the broom head. Hank held steady pressure, not letting up until the tail stopped moving, and then some. It was done. 

"I'll get the shovel," he said.

As Hank made his way to the tool shed, feelings of both repulsion and exhilaration washed over him. He and Stephanie had done this together. What would have happened if that thing had disappeared into the house? How would they have slept then? Closing his eyes, he summoned the spirits of his Neanderthal ancestors with gratitude. How different are we, really? Hank thought. 

Then he remembered that he wore shoes when he hunted and also wouldn't end up eating the rat like they probably would. 

He returned to the house and scooped up the carcass, flicking it unceremoniously into the ravine behind the backyard. When he came back inside, Stephanie was still in the spare bedroom. They looked at each other, then hugged. There wasn't a lot to say. It would be a while before the day picked up for each of them, but it eventually did.

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.

Now Streaming

Greetings, this midsummer evening. I hope you're well and that the little things are mattering in your life. By the way, I'm not sure "mattering" is a word. If it is, it might mean something quite different, for instance, inadvertent skin shedding. An example would be, "Someone mattered on the loveseat. No more half shirts in the house, kids."

As much as we're thankful for the little things that keep us going, there are also those big things, or the things that are consequential to all of us. A prime example is the presidential race.  It's played out like a Hulu TV series, but unlike a show that streams weekly, this one puts out a new episode every day, including weekends. Think House of Cards without a predatory star in ManSpanx. 

Season 1:

The president of the United States (and protagonist, whom we'll call Joe) must come to grips with a precipitous decline in his mental and physical abilities. Joe will be the first to admit that he's lost a step or two, but he believes he's misunderstood and that frankly, his pale, tottering meat suit is all that stands between democracy and tyranny. In his view, people have suddenly forgotten his numerous presidential accomplishments and the five-decade body of work preceding it. Still, in the face of plunging poll numbers, Joe appears incapable of seeing what we, the movie watcher, can clearly track: the man is slipping quickly. 

But Joe's got one more chance, one last shot to reverse his fortunes. He's always savored his role as underdog and he's typically been a decent debater. He's no orator, but his populist opponent can barely string a sentence together and prefers to communicate in ideological sound bites. Joe welcomes this test of his Scranton grit. A solid performance could silence his critics once and for all. 

Joe bombs in the debate. Even his opponent is stunned and Joe is humiliated. He knew what he wanted to say, he just couldn't get it out. Days later, his opponent survives an assassination attempt, followed by a coronation at his party's convention. At 48%, he's never enjoyed a higher favorability rating. Politically speaking, things have never looked darker for Joe.

His closest allies urge him to reconsider his candidacy. Joe now faces a decision. The decision. In a soft, mildly hoarse tone, Joe tells us that he's got an announcement to make.

End, Season 1

After years of anxiety regarding Joe's future plans, I haven't felt this optimistic in a long time. And is it just me, or didn't Joe always seem like the perfect stopgap solution, as opposed to a long-term answer? 

Here are some things I've been wrong about:

• Lance Armstrong is a good guy.  

• I can jump over that double railroad tie.

• Today's the day I'll find something new and delicious at Safeway.

• That Hasselhoff can act.

• The ants will go away. 

• I won't worry about peeing before I leave.

But I don't think I'll be wrong in thinking that Kamala is going to win.

Pretty in Gray

Hello and happy June! According to my new bestie, ChatGPT, the month of June attributes its name to Juno, the Roman goddess of marriage and childbirth, among other things.  

Okay, first of all, let's state the obvious: June should not be named after some nebulous pagan deity—it should be named after freaking June Cleaver. She's the goddess of basically everything, and will forever beckon my heart until we meet again for a hearty back hug and glass of whole milk in heaven's kitchen.

And secondly, marriage and childbirth are two completely disparate arenas for Juno to preside over. Weddings don't involve excruciating lumbar pain, ice chips and spectacular torrents of profanity directed at the groom for inflicting such suffering. That happens on the honeymoon (ba-doom-bah).

Anyway, thought I'd grease the skids a little by rattling off a few more fake headlines that were left strewn across The Needling's cutting room floor over the past month or so:

• Kraken drops Root Sports and pisses off all 4 subscribers.
• Trump confused about why Supreme Court won't grant immunity to his debilitating syphilis.
• West Seattle man jogs into crosswalk with 3 seconds to go and still makes it to other side in plenty of time.
• All light rail stations slated to include Level 1 trauma centers by 2035.
• West Seattle man confirms that it's the end of the world and the ants are taking over.
• Justice Alito says every day is Flag Day, bitch.
• "I love that shit, man." Biden perplexed as to why Israel wants to eliminate hummus.
• Group of pissed off kids and a few adults with PTSD chase away Seafair Pirates for fucking good.
• For 143rd straight year, lawn darts and Jågermeister top Father's Day wishlists.
• Record low tide at Alki reveals body of Jimmy Hoffa.
• Trump-Biden debate to include dunk tank.

There we go. Helps the digestion to purge myself of that mental flotsam. I feel randy and spry once again. 

In other non-developments, it's hard to believe I've been pretired* now for over four months.

*"Pretired" is a term I made up. It's defined as the 5-7 year period prior to full-on retiring, when jobless oldsters are most vulnerable to ageist asshole hiring managers and their bullshit attitudes about older people. The word is a shirt-tail relative of "funemployment." 

I had heard that getting a job was more challenging for those of us a little longer in the ear hair, but experiencing it in real time was a little shocking. One interview seemed to have gone particularly well. It was a solid 45 minutes long and it seemed like the role was a perfect fit for my skill set. In addition, I felt like I'd really hit it off with the Chief Creative Officer (a title I now find sort of obnoxious). I was ready to enter the weekend feeling more confident than Rudy Guiliani with a new catheter. But at the very end, just before signing off, he thanked me for my time and told me that "we're looking for someone who can inject some energy into our department." 

Right. Energy. I understand your code, hipster. One of the most frustrating things I've encountered during my job search is the assumption that five or six good years at a place just isn't enough for an employer to take the "risk". Here's a little secret for the chief creative poobah: My generation is one of the most loyal workforces out there. I can't speak for X, Y or the Millennials, but in my experience, if you can get five years out of anyone these days, that's pretty damn good. 

But bitterness is not a good look, right? Two recent documentaries—Brats, with Andrew McCarthy and Thank You, Goodnight, with Jon Bon Jovi—illustrate just that. Both men are staring down 60 and both appear quite unsettled about their legacies. They go to extremes to get answers, and (spoiler alert), I'm not sure the answers were the ones they were chasing. Men my age tend to define themselves by their careers, and that's my challenge. Paradigms grow calcified over time, and I can choose to wallow in the unfairness of it all, or I can move forward and find joy in the everyday. 

It's what my favorite people already do.

A First Quarter Newsletter

Hey! Great to be back in front of your foxy eyeballs. My last post was back in '23, so I thought it might be nice to pull out the BIC ballpoint and get caught up. 

As Ross might say, a few things have pivahhhht-ed. At its onset, 2024 showed unmitigated promise. The year opened with my Huskies earning the college football silver medal following their greatest season ever. Just twelve days later, my baby girl was married in a ceremony that was so much fun, no more fun was available for the rest of the month. 

My wife came down with covid two days after the wedding, then I caught it. A week after that, just as things seemed to be returning to normal, I was laid off from a company I'd been with for 32 years. Shocking? Yes, like a bad dream. Surprising? Not really. Artificial intelligence is upon us, and it was apparently time for the robots to take over designing ads and emails. I can hear their metal fingers tapping the keyboard as they work silently in long rows. They don't take lunch breaks or waste time in the bathroom stalls because they don't eat. And go ahead and get rid of the Keurig because robots don't drink coffee either. So many wins. 

I've been hemming and hawing about further discussing my joblessness. It happened over two months ago now and I already thoroughly plastered it across LinkedIn and Facebook. Before that, I posted this cryptic IG story: 

A lot of you reached out in the ensuing days and weeks with words of encouragement and empathy. This was huge. I'd never been laid off before, and I really think I'd gotten to the point of considering myself unlayoffable, which I realize now was a little naive. Regardless of who we are or what we do, there's always a chance that the coach is going to want to see you in her office on a random Thursday morning. And yes, bring your playbook.  

I did finish the puzzle in late March:

And that's about it. Tragically, I learned that All My Children and One Life to Live went off the air a while back, so I'm working through how to fill that hole in my daytime life. I've been looking for jobs, both freelance and otherwise, and collecting unemployment. Life's not too shabby. I've had the time to go for really long walks and write a little bit more. In fact, since you are a loyal reader, I'll let you in on this headline I wrote for the Needling that I didn't really tell anyone about since it's, well, inflammatory: 

Like I said, I just came up with the headline, but the whole article is here.

To close out, here are a few more fake headlines that were not selected. You might notice that I was a little salty about the way things shook out in college football:

• New UW coach Fisch vows to give Huskies the best months of his life.

• South Lake Union poodle fed up, leaves Instagram.

• Overworked mom enters transfer portal.
• Coach DeBoer sidelined with sexually transmitted infection after fucking so many schools.
• WSU to have bake sale for football team Thursday night at the Elks Club. 

• New Carnation Amphitheater hopes to compete with larger venues by also making your departure a living hell.

• Banned from sheriff's association, Loren Culp fine with just being the town drunk.
• Citing years of futility, Mariners petition MLB for aluminum bats and an extra outfielder.

I hope you're doing well. Take care of yourself and try not to think about the election yet.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.