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.

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.