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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.

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.

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.

Can't Wait to Hug You.

Well, hello. How are you holding up?

From where I sit here in this makeshift office, converted from a dining room that was previously converted from an office, we're about halfway into week six of, well, take your pick:

•  The 2020 Feel Sort of Cold All Day Festival, sponsored by the Lack of Movement movement.

•  A Vicious, Vegetative, Viral Vacation of Vain, brought to you by the AWSTDSICBTSTSIC (Assholes Who Said They Didn't See It Coming But Then Said They Saw It Coming) Foundation.

•  The First Annual Stop It, You Damn Fool. There's Not a Chance in Hell That You're Hungry Because Twelve Minutes Ago You Ate a Small Ham with Half a Box of Chicken in a Biskit and a Coffee Mug Full of Sweet Baby Ray's Marathon.

•  The Eczema Project. To prove they never really went away, the Beatles have again burst onto the scene with the unofficial theme song of this under-hydrated season: I Want to Hold Your Hand (Sanitizer). Makes my old heart crack and bleed, harkening back to times both simpler and moister.

Since this all started, it seems we've been living through a bizarre confluence of eerie, bored calmness and a gut-churning, sleep-thwarting anxiety about our future. For the first time that I can remember during my 57 years, never has such uncertainty hovered over tomorrow, let alone next week or next month. Only September 11 seems an example of a new reality capable of sinking its talons into us, virtually overnight.

Oh, and speaking of "virtually," this also marks my sixth week of working from home. In the midst of America's economic collapse, I count myself so lucky to still have gainful employment. Furloughs and layoffs rampant as they are, so many surviving occupations have become either monumentally challenging (i.e. teaching small children) or of profound peril to life and limb (healthcare and essential service workers). History will mark these ordinary groups of people as the heart that sustained and delivered us during the age of COVID-19.

Okay, enough of that hero stuff, right? Let's give you a little snapshot of a typical day for Joe Ordinary, low-impact corporate employee. I know you're more motivated than a Trump with the new May Hustler to learn about my WFH routine, so here's a little time-lapse exposition of an average morning, complete with numeric descriptions:

Figure 1) As I sit down to begin my day, I smile at the thought of working for a first-class company. I also say a little prayer asking God to plant little clothes-buying seeds in America's collective consciousness, at least those who have the privilege of caring about buying clothes right now.

Figure 2) Forgot to take a second pee before settling in! Curses!

Figure 3) Ahhh, peed.

Figure 4) Nothing jumpstarts my morning like a hot cup of my friend Larry's Kabaty Coffee. One sip and you'll tell the green mermaid to put down her damn tail and get off your property.

Figure 5) Hmm, what's going on in the news?

Figure 6) I can't believe how rude those reporters are! Why the hell should a president of the United States be challenged on his lies! At length, my anger subsides, and I again petition my maker, thanking him for creating Fox News—last bastion of druther-based factualism.

And that's just my morning.

I probably shouldn't say this, especially considering my standing as a representative of the fashion industry, but not all of those pictures were taken on the same day. And since we're on the subject of wardrobe, I recently ran into this lonely figure in the spare bedroom:

I'm told it was referred to as a belt, meant for holding up non-elastic-based trousers.

Hmm, doesn't ring a bell.

All this frivolity aside, I truly hope you're feeling decent and dealing with the anxiety in a healthy way. I speak from experience when I say that alcohol, during times like these, tends to treat us like that time when we were little and went to the Puyallup Fair with our parents. We spent all our money on rides during the first fifteen rapturous minutes and then endured the next three hours in the pavilion, regretful and sad as we got dragged through the quilts and jam.

Can't wait to hug you.

From Tricky Dick to Slippery Don: 50 Years of Presidential Hubbub

Turn up the ruckus.

Monday's inaugural presidential debate between Hillary Clinton and Donald Trump drew 84 million viewers, which is nearly a third of every male, female and undecided from sea to shining sea. Turns out it was the largest debate audience in history to boot, besting the 1980 Jimmy Carter/Ronald Reagan showdown which drew 81 mil.

What makes the Clinton/Trump number even more impressive is that it was watched—get this—on TV! Seriously, television is a medium losing its mojo faster than a hornless billy goat in a toddler-plunking tourney. Back in '80 when the B-actor squared off against the peanut farmer, the only entertainment alternatives were a 700 Club rerun and a two-hour, CHiPs in Tijuana special. Conversely, these days I could binge-watch the entire, ten-year run of The Waltons on my iPencil.

So yes, apparently we'd been pining for this prime-time slime sling since 2015, when The Orange One descended a Trump Tower escalator, permanently establishing residence in the darkest chasms of our souls. The contest didn't disappoint; Trump interrupted Clinton 51 times, he eye-rolled, he lied and he condescended on countless other occasions. When the dust settled and the huge vein receded into The Donald's sweaty red neck, most scored it a victory for Secretary Clinton and the Dems.

I'm going to assume you watched it, so I don't need to sprinkle events any further with partisan punditry. What I would like to do is see how much of a bandwagon jumper you are. Was Monday your first go-round or are you a battle-worn rodeo clown, barely smearing your makeup before leaping into the barrel? How far back does your debate prowess reach? What say you take the quiz and find out.

Who famously stated, "I knew Jack Kennedy. Jack Kennedy was a friend of mine. Senator, you're no Jack Kennedy."

a) Marilyn Monroe, speaking to Bobby in 1962 after finally managing to compare the two brothers head to head.

b) Donald Trump to Hillary Clinton, even though it's obvious he's lying. Trump's never had an actual friend.

c) Lloyd Bentsen to Dan Quayle in the 1988 vice presidential debate after Quayle claimed to have as much experience as Kennedy had when he ran for the presidency.

The answer is c, and from what I hear, Quayle is still really upset. Freaking low blow, Lloyd.

Who said, "You're likable enough, Hillary."

a) Bill Clinton, just before proposing.

b) Donald Trump, speaking with Russian beauty contestant Hillary Hrbedzgova. He went on, "Plus, it doesn't matter a goddamn lick how likable you are, okay. Trust me, sweetheart, okay? Long as I can hang my goddamn hammock on that rack of yours, we're good to go, okay? Now get out of here and see if you can't find me a twenty piece McNuggets."

c) Barack Obama interjecting the comment during a 2008 primary debate after the moderator asked Clinton whether she had the personal appeal to best her opponent.

The answer is c. Kind of a douchey remark, but alas, true.

Which presidential candidate, when asked about the United States' relationship with the Soviet Union, said, “There is no Soviet domination of Eastern Europe, and there never will be under an XXXX administration.”?

a) Michael Dukakis in 1988, followed by "Not by da time I get troo wid 'em!"

b) George W. Bush (and he was right!).

c) Gerald Ford, during the 1976 presidential debate vs. Jimmy Carter.

The answer is c. Wow, Gerry, not cool. For God's sake, what did you think KGB stood for—Keep Gargling, Betty?

And finally, who said, "... and they brought us whole binders full of women."?

a) Bill Clinton, talking about a funny prank George Stephanopoulos played one morning in the Situation Room. George had such a serious look on his face when he slid that notebook containing the national security briefing across the table. Turns out it was a year's worth of Penthouse! "Ah'll be dipped in hog jelly if it wadn't mah birthday that day!" a giggling Clinton later mused.

b) Donald Trump, followed by, "And most of them were fat, disgusting cows. Hey, were are my goddamn McNuggets?"

c) Mitt Romney, when asked during the 2012 presidential debate how, during his term as governor of Massachusetts, he went about seeking more women for top government positions.

Sorry, trick question. All three are correct!

How did you do? You know what? It doesn't matter. Just check the right box on November 8.

Everything's Going to Be Fine-ish.

Suddenly summer.

Hard not to love this time of year. That creaky old lumbar don't pay as much mind, and the sun stays up longer than a starving cat in a tuna tree. Oh, just so you know, that's how I like to talk in the summer, like I'm back on the porch, sipping on a tall Hi-C. Matter of fact, I can still hear my old hound dog barkin', chasin' down some hoodoo there.

Born in Puyallup.

But while each season throws off its own distinct vibe, summer's mood is magnified; it's a little lazier but a lot more passionate. The quarter of all Americans who regularly attend school are abruptly handed a box of instant holiday (now with fifty percent more free time!), and we all know shit tends to happen when the kids get bored.

And aggravating our restlessness a notch further this particular solstice is a churning storm on the horizon, kicking up an angst about America's future that a lot of us can't remember previously feeling. Violence dominates our headlines and citizens are rancorously divided over whether to address it with more violence or otherwise. The president we elect in November will inherit an unprecedented hunk of disenfranchised voters from whichever side loses. Whether we like it or not, we're stuck with either a libelous Beltway lifer or a racist, peach-pallored prick. Seems pretty grim, doesn't it?

Mmm... nah. Our country has actually teetered a lot closer to the brink than we are right now (Please see World War II and Cuban Missile Crisis.). Oh, and that term "good old days"? That's about as real as those WMDs they cooked up to hornswoggle us into the Iraq boondoggle.

So, to demonstrate how our union has persevered despite taking a few shots to the pills from time to time, I'd like to highlight some of the good and bad mojo visited upon this country we love.

Summer of 1966
We move our hunting rifle from the gun rack to under the bed because of this: During August, race riots inflame much of the nation, most notably in Chicago and Waukegan, Illinois, and Lansing, Michigan. A state of emergency is declared in Cleveland, and troops are dispatched to restore order.

But damn it, we're still a great country because: On July 4, President Lyndon B. Johnson signs the Freedom of Information Act.

And this cool thing happened: The first Star Trek episode was broadcast on September 8, further dividing America into those who love Star Trek, and nerds.

Top one-hit wonder of the summer: The Men in My Little Girl's Life, by Mike Douglas. It was the only top ten hit for the famous talk-show host, and with a title like that, I can see why.

Summer of 1976
We move our hunting rifle into the closet and buy a .38 revolver because of this: In New York City, the "Son of Sam" pulls a gun from a paper bag, killing one and seriously wounding another, in the first of a series of attacks that terrorize the city for the next year.

But damn it, we're still a great country because: We watched Bruce Jenner, Sugar Ray Leonard and the Spinx brothers make quick work of their commie counterparts in the Montreal Olympics, dominating them until Apollo Creed's tragic beating in Rocky IV.

And this cool thing happened: The first woman is admitted to the U.S. Air Force Academy.

Top one-hit wonder of the summer: Afternoon Delight, by Starland Vocal Band. A curious thirteen-year-old at the time, by the end of that summer I'd surmised that this wasn't about the joys of a Fudgesicle at 3:30.

Summer of 1986
We move our .38 revolver under the bed and buy a new .357 for under our pillow because of this: The HIV/AIDS epidemic continues to explode, and what better reason to protect you and yours from wandering bands of deathly ill homosexuals than with that little beauty of a pistol you found under the Christmas tree last year.

But damn it, we're still a great country because: Top Gun debuts, grossing $177 million and causing the firearm owners mentioned above to feel aroused and dirty. Many went on to purchase VHS players for future Top Gun screenings in the privacy of their own homes.

And this cool thing happened: During "Hands Across America," at least five million people form a human chain from New York City to Long Beach, California, to fight hunger and homelessness. Unfortunately it quickly deteriorates into a vicious game of Red Rover.

Top one-hit wonder of the summer: Rock Me Amadeus, by Falco. Wait, did I say top one-hit wonder?

Summer of 1996
We put our .38 in the glove box of the F-150 and move the .357 to the nightstand. For further protection, we purchase a Glock .45 because of this: The Centennial Olympic Park bombing at the 1996 Summer Olympics kills two and injures 111, so y'all might want to listen up: no immigrant Islamist terror tool is going to make me a victim without tasting a headful of lead. Wait, what's that? He's a white American Christian? Whatever, I do love me a sweet new gun.

But damn it, we're still a great country because: President Bill Clinton signs the Comprehensive Nuclear-Test-Ban Treaty at the United Nations.

And this cool thing happened: The unemployment rate drops to 5.1%, the lowest since March 1989. House Speaker Newt Gingrich laments that five percent of the country is still slackers.

Top one-hit wonder of the summer: Standing outside a broken phone booth with money in my hand, by Primitive Radio Gods. Sheer genius, as it was the only song ever written with its entire lyrics in the title.

Summer of 2006
We give our .357 to the wife, put the Glock in an ankle holster and buy an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle because of this: Spinach contaminated with E. coli kills two and poisons over 100 others in 20 states. We learn that leafy vegetable-based terrorism is real and if you don't believe it, explain the sneeze guard, tough guy.

But damn it, we're still a great country because: Google buys YouTube for $1.65 billion. Well, at least the YouTube guy must think we're great.

And this cool thing happened: The world's tallest living tree, a 379-foot tall coast redwood (sequoia) now named Hyperion, is discovered in Redwood National Park.

Top one-hit wonder of the summer: You're Beautiful, by James Blunt. This song always gets my hopes up at the beginning because the guy has a plan, then leaves me feeling raw and empty. Damn you, Blunt!

Thanks for sticking with me. Hopefully we can all agree that over the past five decades, through the good but especially the sad and horrific, we Americans have shown a way of coming together when it's least expected.

I'm certainly not expecting it this summer.

Trump vs. Hillary: Wake Me Up When It's Over.

Finally it's come to pass—Trump vs. Clinton—estúpido hombre vs mujer acostada.

Are you ready? If not, that's fine, because we've got a solid six months ahead of us to watch a muck-huckin' donnybrook not witnessed since Geraldo took a neo-Nazi chair to the face. We'll have a nice long exposure to this toxic spectacle, so let's just pace ourselves, okay?

And by ourselves, I mean me.

Four years ago, little intrigue marked the 2012 presidential primary season. As with every incumbent president over the past thirty years, Barack Obama sailed through spring and summer unopposed by anyone from his party. In fact, the last time that happened was 1980, when a cranky Ted Kennedy challenged Jimmy Carter ("We cahn't bayah fah mah yeeahs of wicked pissing failyah!").

On the right was Mitt Romney: tanned, rested and crisply mom-jeaned. After biding his time in the well-choreographed dancing order of Republican establishment candidates, he'd placed considerable distance between himself and the field by May, anti-climactically creaming Santorum in the final delegate count 1575 to 245.

That Obama-Romney matchup, while packing some considerable wallop due to the men's stark ideological and cultural differences (car elevators, magic underwear and Stanford vs. single moms, magic cigarettes and Harvard), seems nearly flavorless compared to this year's eminent insane.

Currently, Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton are polling historic numbers in the category of "strongly unfavorable." It seems that we don't just despise Trump, we want to take that orange mull-hawk and hurl it around the freaking room like Bam Bam with a granite easy chair. As for Hillary, she doesn't just lightly chafe our sensibilities, she fracks into our souls with her venomous guile and heaves around more baggage than Mr. and Mrs. Howell.

So yeah, this one's a little different, and there's no way to know how a contest between two such remarkably unappealing candidates will affect voter turnout. On the one hand, this November could experience record participation from non-white and young voters. Specifically Latinos, with their 48% turnout lagging behind African-African (67%) and white voters (65%) during the 2012 election, may go big on November 8. Why? A little refresher:

They're not sending you, they're sending people that have lots of problems and they're bringing those problems. They're bringing drugs, they're bringing crime. They're rapists and some, I assume, are good people, but I speak to border guards and they're telling us what we're getting. -Donald Trump, July, 2015

By the same token, over the past year both Trump and Bernie Sanders have risen to symbolize America's immense dissatisfaction with traditional insider politics. Not all who backed Sanders can be considered rubber stamps for Hillary, and certainly not for Trump, whose splintered his own party like the delicious inside of a Butterfinger.

This war of attrition will end in six months. Pissed off honkies who can't find it in their consciences to vote for either candidate will recycle their ballots and set their iTimers for 2020. Pissed off Latinos and African-Americans will vote in record numbers, but more as a referendum against Trump than an "atta girl" for Hillary. She'll win the presidency decisively.

Remember, though, there's still a long way to go, so you need to calm the hell down.

And by you, I mean me.

Ignorance and Hate in the Tar Heel State

Okay, what's up with this whole bathroom thing?

Back on March 16, the North Carolina General Assembly passed HB 2, banning employers and businesses from discriminating against employees or customers based on their race, color, country of origin, religion, age or “biological sex.”

Which is good... ish. Problem is, by saying what can't be done, Carolina's new law is actually implying what can be done. Omitted from the bill's language is any prohibition on discriminatory practices against those who identify with a different sex than the one designated to them at birth.

Before we go too much further, help me understand why—what were the true motivations behind such a strange rule? Why did a state's congress spend so much time and energy crafting this legislation? Here's all I could come up with, as explained by Davy Doug Duggar, Carolina kissin' cousin to the celebrated Duggar clan of Arkansas:

a) Fear—"Y'all just watch. Y'all gonna see those goddamn abonimabations settin' up shop in every laydees room from here to Stoney Creek. 'Specially that one down the hall from the food court at Raleigh Mall. Y'all never mind how I know that, I just do, a'ight?"

b) Power—"Case y'all forgot, we're the waht gahs. We in charge. Y'all can take yer baby killers, Mexicans and freaks and dump 'em on off in San Francisco or Seattle or one o' them other shit holes in California."

c) The convenience of dealing in absolutes—"Ever since Adam and Eve was cast out of the Olive Garden, men have held sole possession of the penis. Except that Jamie Lee Curtis, and ah do love her work."

Feel free to add your own theory, because this whole thing freaking flummoxes me. And in terms of item c), while life is mostly grey, there are plenty of black and white issues I can get behind. Here's three off the tip of my tongue:

1) There will never be a perfect ratio of chips to salsa. Ever.

2) The coat closet can never be left partially open. Since moving in, I've closed it 6,022 times. Yes, I figured it out.

3) Cats are weird.

I mean, sure, at my current proportions I'm imposing enough to be Leo's prison daddy, but if I ever shrank to the size of a troll doll, first he'd torture me by slowly gnawing off my arms with his toothless gums, then finally halt my misery by clamping down on my little Adam's Applet.

Fickle beasts, they are.

Given more time to consider the concept, I'm sure most of us would be able to conjure up a few more examples of good and bad, of black and white, of right and wrong. But gender isn't one of them. What right have we to label someone as wrong or bad after what has surely been years of struggle and shamed secrecy in pursuit of his or her true identity?

I'll answer that one, too—we don't have that right. If you're uncomfortable with your kid using a public restroom, go in with them or find a single-occupancy "family" facility. And speaking of family, according to the National Center for Health Statistics, of the 69,000 child abductions that occurred in 1999, about 82 percent of them were perpetrated by family members, and 11 percent by friends of the family (or other adults that the child knew well). So, North Carolina, if you really want to keep your children safe, maybe y'all should look a little closer to home. 

This is simply another in a long line of smoke screens churned up by repressed conservative men to keep the usual suspects in line. Anyone who disputes that our lives contain shades of grey apparently hasn't figured out how to utilize the grey matter God gave them.

How Well Do You Know Your Holiday Specials: A Quiz

Happy holidays! Although Yule season commercials have been on TV since a couple of days before Halloween (October 28, for Walmart—made a note of it), it hadn’t really felt a lot like Christmas until Sunday, when two things happened:

1. We put up our Christmas tree and all the trimmings around the house, and good news: this time, I didn’t sweat enough getting the tree into the stand to have to change my shirt.

2. The promo for Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer aired on CBS. It’s on tonight (Tuesday) at 8.

A rush of Christmas emotion overtook me as I watched those little, jerky characters marching around. I knew then and there that Noel was officially on. 

But good Lord, Bumble the abominable snow monster, as low-tech as he is, still scares the gizzard up my gullet. As a kid, I always found it convenient to grab a HoHo and linger in the kitchen until he was finally subdued through unbridled tooth extraction.

In my opinion, Rudolph, produced in 1964 with its innovative stop-motion animation, and Chuck Jones’ How the Grinch Stole Christmas, combining the genius of Warner Brothers and Dr. Seuss, are the Ali and Frazier of holiday TV specials.

But there are so many others. That’s why today, as we countdown to Rudolph’s 52nd network-television take-off, I’ve scrawled out little a quiz to see how well you know your boobtube Festivus fare. Best of luck in choosing the correct answer, because this one's no cakewalk.

Who claimed, “I want to be a dentist.”

a) Jeb Bush after looking at his latest poll numbers.

b) A four-year-old me, just before they put me under to get my tonsils out.

c) Hermey, the meek elf in Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. That is, until he went all medieval on Bumble with those pliers.

d) All of the above.

Answer: b—Bush would never put his hands in people's mouths, and I wanted to play for the Packers.

Who said, “All I have in my pockets are a short-circuited wand and a few last morsels of magic feed corn that make reindeer fly”?

a) Greg Brady, when Carol finds smokes in his letterman’s jacket.

b) The Winter Warlock in Santa Claus is Coming to Town, as Mrs. Claus desperately attempts to spring him from the North Pole supermax.

c) Beaver Cleaver, after a tough Saturday frog hunting.

d) Ben Carson, maintaining that Jesus listed these among his carpentry tools.

Answer: b— Greg  also had weed in there, The Beav never came home without at least a few polliwogs, and JC didn’t need that shit to do a nice mudroom remodel.

Who wondered, “What if Christmas doesn't come from a store?”?

a) Jeff Bezos.

b) The Grinch, just before his heart grew three sizes.

c) Donald Trump (“F&ck no! I told you, not if that shit’s made in China!").

d) All of the above.

Answer: d

Who said, “I’m cuuuuuute!”?

a) Me, yelling out the window when I cruise Alki Beach.

b) Rudolph, when Clarice’s words made him spring briefly into the air for the first time. As we know, those things can happen to a young reindeer. Perfectly normal.

c) Most dogs who’ve just eaten a shoe.

d) All of the above.

Answer: b and c—I don’t need to shout it out, right?

I hope you’ve fared well on the Christmas special quiz; I know it wasn’t easy. Sorry for not including some of the other great shows, like A Charlie Brown Christmas, Frosty the Snowman, A Christmas Story and so many more. Enjoy the season and watch a few of the old favorites!

Fly on the Wall: The Presidential Conversation You Weren't Supposed to Hear.

At last, a legacy congeals into actual brick and mortar.

Dang, it's about time; the world has teetered on pins and needles long enough.

Located upon a twenty-five acre spread on the campus of Dallas' Southern Methodist University, the George W. Bush Presidential Library and Museum is slated to open April 25.

And according to the numerous sources I've dug up with the oxidized metal detector that is Google, President Obama and his four living predecessors-in-chief will also drop in to the hoedown for the slow clown.

By the way, why is it necessary to point out that all former presidents attending are still alive? I'd hate to see what Nixon looks like these days.

I'm guessing that Bill Clinton, Barack Obama and Jimmy Carter will probably sit together and pretend to save the seat next to them for Al Gore, the man actually elected president in 2000. Naturally, Gore won't show, but now they'll have a little buffer so George the Elder won't nestle in and hear the dirt they're dishing about the child he probably wished he'd left behind.

What I wouldn't give to catch a whiff of their confidential vitriol. Oh, well, let's just imagine, shall we?

Obama: Afternoon, gentlemen. Great to see you two. You're looking fit, Jimmy. Building houses for poverty-stricken families across the planet suits you…doggone it, look at those leathery hands of yours. What are you now, a hundred and seven? Granted, what you're doing doesn't achieve the same lofty altruistic heights that painting puppy portraits does, but you're no spring chicken, either. Heh, heh!

Carter: Well, you know, Rosalynn and I do what we can. Holy Christ, those Texas crickets are loud!  Are they coming from that field over there or inside the head of that mouth breathing peckerwood we're honoring today?

Clinton: Easy there, Jimmy. You and I are southerners, too.

Carter: And from what I understand, Bill, you asked an intern or two to move south, if you know what I mean.

Clinton: Touché, my friend.

Obama: Can you believe this place is a quarter of a million square feet? Damn. Maybe they should just move Gitmo here. Then they can just execute them all—you know—being Texas and whatnot.

Carter: I can't believe it's the second largest presidential library. The only book the guy read in eight years was My Pet Goat, and I'm not even sure he finished it.

Clinton: Touché, my friend.

Obama: Yeah, well it's also a museum. It's gonna have the bullhorn he used at the Twin Towers and Saddam's revolver. Cheney suggested they be displayed together! Heh, heh!

Carter: Good one, buddy. Where is that Cheney, anyway? At his vacation bunker?

Obama: I heard he's pissed that there isn't a waterboarding station where you can get your picture taken like when you're riding the Six Flags roller coaster. He's not coming.

Clinton: Okay, let's cut out the smack talk, eh, gents?  This is a library, after all, and educational institution meant to both celebrate and enlighten. As George himself said in 2004, "the illiteracy level of our children are appalling."

Carter: You guys always make me feel so much better. Oh, looks like we're getting started. I knew I should have peed earlier.

Done Deal: How to Master the Art of Negotiation.

Why so much bickering? Why so much vitriol, so much downright meanish, cruelish nastiness?

These could be considered rhetorical questions, but really, a simple answer exists as to why our Congress can't seem to find common ground...on anything.

They've lost the ability to negotiate.

We occasionally read that they have come to some sort of agreement on some sort of issue, but consensus is rarely reached based upon give and take; it's based on give and give.

For example, last year an historical health care bill squeaked through a Democratically controlled Senate and House and was signed into law by our President. Cool, no?

No. What actually transpired in a Congressional super majority was the pledging of favors and earmarks to buy crucial votes...from other Democrats! The G.O.P sector didn't even need to show up, since not a single Republican crossed the aisle to vote in the affirmative. The Democratic Party, on the heels of a sweeping electoral mandate, failed in their ability to negotiate, even among each other.

Pathetic, indeed.

Had the right wingers in Congress actually stepped to the bargaining table, the following demands would surely have been honked out by one orange-skinned, gravelly voiced congressman from Ohio:

"We, the Republican caucus, in representing the interests of the American people, agree to allow health insurance for thirty million uninsured Americans, including ten million children. In return, we humbly request tax-exempt status for pharmaceutical corporations, a Saturday morning cartoon featuring Joe Camel and we'd like President Obama to wear an Exxon t-shirt on his next state of the union address and tearfully deny global warming... Oh, and we'd also ask for a brand new war somewhere."

As I stated earlier, this isn't negotiation, it's insanity. Why can't these people learn lessons from other areas of their lives where negotiation is commonplace and quite effective. Here are some cases where the art of negotiation prospers:

Husband/wife negotiation—"I promise I won't laugh when you try to grow facial hair if you promise not to grow facial hair." Done deal.

Workplace negotiation—"Let's just agree to disagree on this. You think I'm an egotistical prima donna and I think you're a knuckle-dragging mouth breather. You think I'm profoundly incompetent, while I believe you are grossly unsanitary. Now, we're are we going for lunch?" Done deal.

Parent/child negotiation (slightly more cumbersome)—
Father, addressing his daughters, aged ten and fifteen: "You guys, please make your lunches for tomorrow before Glee comes on. "

Fifteen-year-old daughter: "Okay." Done deal.

Ten-year-old daughter: "Really? So I have to make my lunch and take a shower before Glee comes on?"

Father: "Yes."

Ten-year-old daughter: "How about if I make my sandwich and take a shower before Glee comes on,  and then tomorrow morning, I'll add the fruit leather, goldfish and juice box?"

Father: "That's more for you to do in the morning then, and it might make us late."

Ten-year-old daughter: "Dad, technically, you should make my sandwich because you used the butts of the bread last time and we had an agreement about not using bread butts."

Father: "Fine. Add the other stuff in the morning." Done deal.

See? It's not that hard. Maybe these people are just spending a little too much time at cocktail parties with  lobbyists, and not enough with their bargain-driving offspring.

Let's hope these politicians can work together...but I'm not optimistic.

Anyone up for a little streaking?

We Americans love historical feats. We can’t get enough of those who dabble in the rarified air of an unprecedented accomplishment.

We love streaks.

The sports world is a prime breeding ground for records and streaks; nothing goes unmeasured, untimed, unnoticed. Cal Ripken owns Major League Baseball’s consecutive games played mark at 2,632. John Wooden’s UCLA Bruin basketball teams won an amazing 88 games in a row.

And on Monday night, another impressive run met its end: Brett Favre, quarterback of the NFL’s Minnesota Vikings, broke his chain of 297 consecutive starts due to a shoulder injury. Favre had been under center for the first snap of every contest since September 27, 1992—a stretch of time, which would allow a child to progress from birth all the way to high school graduation.

Playing through broken bones, torn muscles and brain trauma begs two questions about Mr. Favre: Tough? Definitely. Smart? Hmm. Let’s just look at some of his recent text messages to ascertain that one.

Since the sporting arena commands so much of America’s attention when it comes to streaks and records, I’ve listed a few numbers below which relate to other areas of endeavor. In my opinion, these figures are equally or more impressive than those accomplished playing games.

19,346—Consecutive days George W. Bush has mispronounced at least one word (i.e. “unceptable,” “ hispanically” or “subliminable”) since learning to speak at age eleven.

84—Consecutive prostitutes who have parted ways with Charlie Sheen while wearing one shoe.

273—Consecutive days someone at my workplace has finished a sentence with the words, “That would be great.” As it turned out, none of those 273 results were even that good.

842—Days since 2008 Miss Flesh Eating Bacteria, Sarah Palin, burst onto the scene, necrotizing the brains of her minions and slaughtering thousands of native Alaskan moose with her voice alone. “Todd! Bring me the baby! Now! The reporters are here! Todd!”

11—Consecutive days I was able to extract shampoo from a seemingly empty Herbal Essence bottle. Although my hair is extremely short and only requires a thimble full, I take enormous pride in this.

732,588—Number of cheddar goldfish I’ve packed into zip lock bags, while stepping on and crushing approximately six percent on the kitchen floor.

5,471—Consecutive days I’ve said to a smaller person, “If you’re not going to eat that, I’ll take it.” (This excludes days spent nursing or bottle feeding.)

So let’s celebrate life’s streaks, its untarnished runs of excellence. And while we’re at it, how about recognizing the biggest one of all:

Consecutive heartbeats.