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.

Super Bowl XLIX: New England vs. That Team From Somewhere Out West.

Wait, what? 

Let me get this straight: You’re saying that, down two touchdowns with three minutes to go, the Seattle Seahawks still managed to defeat the storied Packers of Titletown by six points? 

You mean to tell me, after 57 minutes of offensive ineptitude, our boys in blue managed to dig their talons into their ruffled tail feathers and extract a big, jagged “W” from the depths of their musky undercarriages? 

Wow. 

Seriously, I haven’t seen a comeback like that since Bill Cosby erased a 27-accusation deficit to exonerate himself, using nothing but Fat Albert and a complex Illuminati flowchart.

So, yeah, for the second consecutive year, our Hawks are swooping into the sporting world’s brightest spotlight, facing the New England Patriots in Superbowl XLIX. 

Last year, I got a little emotional about the whole thing. A lifelong Seattlite, I wallowed in Seattle’s dismal record as a major league city, whining about the dearth of championships during my half century here at the continental USA’s eleven o’clock. And this time, if I really wanted to, I could double down on the pity. After all, when compared with Boston’s storied past, this image comes to mind:

Well, screw that, because you know what? Who gives a baggy Bill Belichcik boob about the past? So what if the city of Boston has hoisted the chalice 34 times compared to Seattle’s five (including a Stanley Cup won five years after the Titanic went down). 

What matters is this game, and like any other game, it’s all about matchups. So let’s use our heads this time people, because our hearts will inevitably hitch a ride anyway. 

Here’s my take on the most intriguing micro-clashes when the two teams take the field a week from Sunday:

Tom Brady vs. Russell Wilson:

This isn’t Brady’s first rodeo. Married to a supermodel, changing his haircut more frequently than Belichick changes his underwear, the Foxborro Fox is comfortable in the limelight. Russ has his share of endorsements, but he’ll have to spend a little less time at Children’s Hospital and a little more at the Playboy Mansion to catch up with Brady.

Advantage: New England.

Vince Wilfork vs. Michael Bennett:

While both of these interior defenders display freakish athletic prowess, I’m not sure Wilfork could ride a bike in full pads without the aid of ski poles and his new friend, Jenny Craig.

Advantage: Seattle.

LaGarrette Blount vs. Marshawn Lynch:

Interestingly, Blount began the season with the Pittsburgh Steelers. Unhappy over his playing time last November against Tennessee, he left the game early and was promptly released and signed a week later by the Patriots. Marshawn Lynch would rather invite ESPN to brunch than quit on his team.

Advantage: Seattle.

Bill Belichick vs. Pete Carroll:

I guess it depends on what you’re comparing. If we’re talking about who looks more like a smudgy hobbit and smells like a gamy casserole made of burned toast and chickpeas, well then—

Advantage: New England

Overall Team Branding:

Seattle’s isn’t complicated. They’re the Seahawks, a pissed off bird of prey who looks like he hasn’t eaten since this morning. The Patriot looks more like a guy who showed up at the Halloween party with the other white dude who lives on the Raider helmet. 

Plus, a patriot is more of a compliment than a mascot. They may as well be the New England Really Good Landscapers.

Advantage: Seattle.

Finally, here’s the thing. Most New Englanders don’t even know where Seattle is. If you ask, they’d say something like, “I have an aant in Paaatland. Isn’t that neeyah theyah?” 

At least we in the Northwest were able to point to Massachusetts on a map, even prior to the the ascension of its finest patriot—Mitt Romney.

Overall advantage: Seattle. Go Hawks.

Let Them Eat Crab.

It’s been a great summer; best in a long time. I can think of a few reasons why, but number one on the list is an unprecedented preponderance of household harmony. The home and hearth, while fully occupied, has emanated the aromatic bouquet of tranquility.

Why? Because the kids have gotten along.

Why? Because they haven’t been around each other much.

And for the last time, why? Because the older kid’s been working! 

Gives me goosebumps to say it. All summer she’s been whacking the alarm clock and punching the time clock, packing a lunch and coming home spent like a two-for-one Applebee’s Groupon. To a skeptical parent, how soothing flow the foamy waters of the Protestant work ethic. 

By the same token, for a college sophomore who typically brims with the boundless energy of a seven-year-old, what more serendipitous summer vocation exists than an opportunity to professionally frolic with genuine seven-year-olds? None that I can think of, so let’s see how things went.

I caught up with our YMCA-camp-counselor-in-residence, codename Zebra, last weekend during a ninety-minute car ride down to Olympia. Able to nap at a moment’s notice, I felt compelled to engage her prior to her succumbing to the taunting luxury of our ’06 Hyundai. 

They call you Zebra. Why is that?

All the counselors have nicknames. It’s to keep the kids from finding us on social media. Like a little kid would actually do that.

Hey, you never know. Did you name yourself?

We all name ourselves. There’s T-Rex, Sharkzilla, Scooby, Snickerdoodle…let’s see… Razzle, Flounder, Puppy…

Sounds like a mushroom-inspired Barney episode.

Good one, Dad.

So what was it like having to wake up at 6:30? 

Really hard. I haven’t gotten up that early since eighth grade. It made naps even more crucial than they were before. I still managed to get in eight hours a night.

Yeah, that’s not true. But moving along, was there anything that surprised you about this job? 

It’s fairly unstructured. Each counselor gets a group of ten kids, and it’s up to us to find things for them to do. We go on field trips a few times a week, but the rest of the time is sort of our choice. 

How do they behave?

Overall, they’re pretty good. The worst time is when we’re lined up for the bathroom. It takes a full 25 minutes to get everyone through, so they start messing with each other. They throw rocks and pine cones at each other. They use acorns like currency. 

Sounds like a prison yard.

I still can't figure out how their faces get so dirty. Did my face get dirty?

Filthy. Just disgusting. Yes.

The other day a kid came up to me holding a little crab he found on the beach. It was still alive. He said “Zebra, can I eat this crab?” I said “Absolutely not.” He said “Well, how come Tristan gets to?” I went down to the beach and Tristan had already eaten a couple of the legs off a live crab. I said “Tristan, why are you doing that?” He said “Because people eat crabs all the time.” I said “Tristan, you have to kill the crab before you eat it.” He said “I didn’t know that, Zebra.”

What part of your job did you enjoy the most?

I always liked it when we ate our lunches. The kids were always content and liked to talk about stuff.

What kind of stuff?

This one kid, whose name is Joseph, is so cute. When he makes the “s” sound it sounds more like “sh.” The other day, he said “Zhebra, I have to tell you shomething. Well, remember when I told you one of my momsh ish dead? Well, I feel bad. That wash a lie. She’sh alive. I jusht wanted to shee what you would shay.”

They don’t care about hanging out with the opposite sex. A couple of kids even became boyfriend and girlfriend. They’re so adorable, you can tell by the looks on their faces that they really like each other. They give each other acorns.

Sounds like quite a learning experience. Do you think working with kids may be something you’d like to do for a career?

Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Dad.

Thanks for your hard work with the little ones, Zebra. Relating to them is easy. Taking care of them isn’t.

It's Morning in Seattle.

43-8. Wow, didn't see that coming.

They did it. We did it. 

We are the champions, my friends. The Seattle Seahawks destroyed Peyton and his Broncs as if they were the semi-pro Algona Aardvarks. You know the team, right? The wide receiver works in the paint department at Home Depot and the quarterback played for Algona High back in the day, but now he's thirty pounds heavier and his helmet hurts his hair plugs? Yeah, those guys.

As I've mentioned a few times before, if you're not from Seattle, it might be hard to relate to our historical futility. The last team to win a major title was the 1979 NBA Supersonics, back when a Walkman cost 200 bucks and a gallon of gas was 89 cents. Jimmy Carter was president and I thought seriously about fathering Olivia Newton John's children, sometimes up to three times a day.

Who would have known that three and a half decades would pass before the Jet City would again kiss the cup?

Folks in other towns have toasted their franchises on countless occasions during the Emerald City's three-and-a-half-decade drought. New York, Los Angeles, Chicago, Baltimore…hell, even Tampa Bay won a world championship while Seattle warmed herself in a stuffy slicker of Prozac and Pearl Jam. Boston twice vanquished the Bambino's curse, while the Patriots, Celtics and Bruins accumulated hardware like Fred Sanford. Marcia's nose never would've been broken if it had been Tom Brady, rather than Greg, throwing that pass.

Meanwhile, things grew worse in Seattle. Thanks to a Starbucks cracker and an Okie fracker, the Sonics jumped ship in 2008. A perfect storm engulfed the Northwest, a convergence zone of greed and dishonesty rendering our citizens disillusioned and bitter. Fortunately our baseball team, the Mariners, contended for the pennant on a yearly basis, often well into the second week of the season. 

Until last night, Seattle resided with its own bambino, but this baby was 35, still living downstairs and only coming up to pee and stock up on pork rinds and Mountain Dew. 

Prior to Super Bowl XLVIII, the Broncos and Seahawks had squared off 53 times, and never in the history of the rivalry had either team won a game by more than 24 points. Not once in 37 years had one team dominated the other with the prowess of an Appalachian canoe-welcoming committee.

Until last night. At the conclusion of the bloodbath, as Peyton Manning waded through a blizzard of blue and green, congratulating his opponents and consoling himself with the bland promise of Papa John's pie for life, I drank in the dignified gait of a vanquished warrior. How noble he looked, how proud he stood in the Bronco uniform, its orange the color of smoked salmon and Cheeto vomit…and a tear came to my eye.

Damn allergies. 

Here's to Russell and Marshawn,  the Legion of Boom  Michael, Cliff, Percy and every Twelve who's spent the past 21 weeks sweating and bleeding blue, green and occasionally wolf grey. You deserve this.

We deserve this.

My Wife and Daughters: A Date With Macklemore.

I have to admit, I was fairly skeptical when my wife told me her plan. In fact, had I actually verbalized my feelings, I may have said something like...

"Yeah, and monkeys might fly out of my butt." 

Even twenty years later, I've not found a human being capable of turning a phrase with the raw candor of Wayne Campbell from Aurora, Illinois. Party on, Wayne.

Yeah, so anyway, a little backstory—every female in my house is enamored with a man named Macklemore. Who is this Macklemore guy, you ask? This Rasputin who drives the mother ship like Han freaking Solo?

If you guessed it's the gritty utility infielder from that brief era of major league baseball in Seattle, that's a solid stab, but you're thinking of Mark McLemore:

This is the guy I'm talking about.

His real name is Ben Haggerty, but he's decided to adopt that hip single-name moniker, like Madonna, Pelé or Fil, the shop teacher at our local alternative middle school.





The dude is talented and I like his stuff, too, don't get me wrong. Just not to the stratospheric level it sends my wife and daughters.

Which, thanks to my long-windedness, returns me to my original point. I'm the only family member not currently at his show...like right now.

And here's the kicker—they're together. Yes, my wife orchestrated the whole deal, so right now, those monkeys flying out of my butt feel more like winged orangutans with sandpaper capes.

I actually think it's fantastic, especially since we're experiencing an era of palpable friction between my bride and our thirteen-year-old. Anything that bonds them during this season of malice and confusion is an emotional Vicks Vaporub.

It's just a little strange that three people so unalike can find this common ground. My parents hated my music like Fox News hates black Santa Claus. The only tune we could agree on was maybe the happy birthday song, but it couldn't include any drums.

Sure, if I put an album on the top of my wish list, they'd relent and buy it, but their scowls of bewilderment as I peeled back the wrapping paper to expose Angus Young's snarling mug on Highway to Hell is carved into the thickest bark of my brain stem.

My mom's arched eyebrows and deep frown lines seemed to silently yelp, "He was such a nice boy, Lionel. He just hasn't been the same since his brother hit him in the head with the pet rock."

And then, to raise things a notch, can you imagine back in the day, actually going to a rock show with your mom? Holy shit, talk about awk to the ward. Bless her Charlie Pride-loving heart, I can just hear her now, freshly frisked and entering the smoggy arena. "Honey, I think something's burning. I'm not sure we can stay, you know, with your asthma and all. Frozen malt? My treat.

"And why do you kids only like groups named after places, like Kansas and Boston, and why would Mrs. Tull have wanted to name her son Jethro?"

I love you, Mom. Glad we acknowledged our creative differences and moved on.

But the three most important people in my life are in one spot as we speak, and although I'm sure they'll have a great time, I can guarantee my wife has probably embarrassed our younger kid at least three times.

They may not even be out of the car yet.

America's Gun Laws Are Killing Us.

Contrary to the lay of our polarized political landscape, cold blooded murder can't be painted with a red- or blue-dipped brush.

When a man like Ian Stawicki, someone with a history of assault, mental illness and permission to carry a concealed handgun, saunters into a bohemian coffee house in Seattle—one from which he'd been ejected several times for his threatening behavior—and empties his weapons into every carbon-based organism within point-blank range, it's difficult to view his savagery through a constitutional prism.

Why, then, must our society's epidemic of handgun-inspired slaughter be eternally politicized? Why do we endlessly debate in the Op/Ed columns and talk radio while we wonder if maybe we or our children will be the next winners of this anti-lottery while shopping for iPod cables at Target.

Like Groundhog Day, we wait for the next time when we will again stand in gape-mouthed horror at another Columbine or Virginia Tech or four-year-old who found something under Mom and Dad's bed and decided to try it out.

But nothing changes.

People are dying because of America's gun laws. When our founding patriarchs jotted out the framework of the Bill of Rights on a rough parchment cocktail napkin, they decided it might behoove them to be able to form a quick local militia or two.

All it took for Thomas Jefferson and Ben Franklin was a peak down the bar at a group of obnoxious Redcoats downing Jagermeister shots and trying to get the bar maid to freak dance with them.

In those days, the state-of-the-art military equalizer was the musket. All a soldier had to do to pop a cap in some punk's ass was open the cartridge, push the striker forward and pour a small amount of powder into the flash pan, push the frissen back, hold the weapon muzzle-up, pour in the rest of the powder, insert a lead ball, wad the barrel, remove the ramrod and place it in the storage pipe, raise the musket to firing position, pull back the hammer, aim and fire.

Wow, I can't believe it's already lunch time. On average, reloading and firing an eighteenth century musket took fifteen seconds.

Now, let's request a little assistance from Doc Brown of the Back to the Future trilogy and insert Tom and Ben into the DeLorean for a trip to 2012 and place them on stools at the bar of Seattle's Café Racer.

If someone had walked in carrying a musket, even if it had been previously loaded, he would surely have been rushed by the bar's patrons upon hoisting the heavy firearm. Instead, our two forefathers' last breaths would have been spent witnessing the savage capabilities of futuristic handguns, each of which were easily concealed for optimum surprise.

Is that really what they had in mind?

I'm not proposing to rid society of all firearms. But how about if we start with the handguns?

Look, I have a family and I understand the necessity for protecting them and our home against invaders with bad intentions. But how about using a rifle? Is it really necessary to play Miami Vice by replacing your Pillow Pet with a Luger, when a shotgun serves your purposes fairly decisively?

Last I checked, "NRA" didn't stand for "National Nine-Millimeter Glock Association."

People get really angry about this. They think Barack Obama wants to personally knock on their door and ask for all their firearms, and yeah, go ahead and throw in your awesome Supersoaker squirt gun while you're at it.

That's not going to happen. As much as folks like Terrible Ted Nugent want you to believe it, no one is assaulting your right to assault people who assault you.

So Ted, just relax, but not enough that your Derringer falls out of that place where they'll never find it.

Some Unsolicited Advice for Sun Worshippers.

It's no news flash that Seattle is a cold and rainy place.

Oh, and speaking of news flashes, according to komonews.com, Seattle only gets fifty-eight sunny days per year.

By the way, why do TV stations want us to leave our couches to access their websites? Usually I feel so ashamed for even watching local news that I strap on a self-abusive spiked rope belt like the crazy monk in The DaVinci Code, so any excuse to extricate myself from the elevator talk between the news anchor and weather guy is as welcome as spotting a fresh toilet paper roll without getting up.

Sorry about that really long sentence.

Anyway, yeah, Seattle—we don't see a lot of sun here. And when we do, people act really odd.

My wife awakened me this morning, Mother's Day, by staring at me until I woke up. It's weird how someone's eyes can actually burn through your slumber to jar you into consciousness. Then again, I suspect it's a genetic female trait which can be traced to ancient cave dwelling women who just really had something on their minds.

The second my lids pried themselves open, she began speaking. Again, since it's Mother's Day, I held no political capital. "Hi. It's so nice out, why don't we go for a nice walk on Alki, get some Starbucks and maybe read the paper?"

Sure, it was phrased like a question, but it wasn't a question.

Opting for a top shelf experience from the get-go, I suggested taking the Hyndai sedan rather than the Kia minivan. I felt that my lady deserved the unbridled luxury of our Elantra to celebrate those two days her body contorted so profoundly and bloodily to usher forth new life.

We drove the ten minutes to Alki Beach, the original settlement of Seattle's honky pioneers. Naturally, the natives had already been there for a few hundred or thousand years before Whitie arrived, but they didn't seem to mind relocating to some nice real estate in south King County where they could quietly enjoy a little touch of whopping cough courtesy of those parting high fives.

Okay, tangenting. Must stick to the story.

So we got to Alki, parked the car and started walking. It's kind of a Venice Beach type situation, where roller bladers, cyclists, two-on-two volleyball games and various and sundry rental vehicles litter the concourse.

But here's the thing: these are people who aren't used to this, like southern Californians. We don't get sunshine in Seattle...ever. And that's why, while I don't like to give unsolicited advice, I feel a straining necessity to talk to my people right now.

Citizens of Seattle, here's some food for thought next time a beautiful day lures you to the beach:

1) You don't have to take your shirt off on the first sunny day, guys. In fact, you shouldn't. I saw some dudes who were so white they were teal. Like you could see the veins under their skin, similar to the "Bodies" exhibit . Guys, do some pre-tanning in your back yard, or go to one of those booths like that insane tan mom, just don't take enough time to finish a Sudoku book and a Lunchable like she does.

2) Hey you, the middle-aged guy with the girlfriend who is twenty years younger and you've been waiting all winter to display her on a nice stroll down the promenade—you look like a tool and you creep me out because she could be your daughter and I'm visualizing you and her doing it. Go to Vegas instead, where everyone looks like you.

3) Don't attach your dogs' leash to your bike's handlebars. I wouldn't really mind seeing you weeded from the human gene pool this way, but you do put us all at risk with this behavior.

4) If you want to play whiffle ball with your kids in the sand because it seems like a nice family activity, absolutely go for it. But don't make your six-year-old son pitch to you so you can show him how far you can hit the ball and then almost take your four-year-old daughter's head off. This is no way to show Seattle that you've still got it.

Okay, I now realize that all my beach advice has been aimed at the men of the Puget Sound area, but I'm not just giving the women a pass because it's Mother's Day. Really.

I'm thinking it's probably just a bunch of liberated guys who said to themselves, "Screw it. This is one Sunday I'm taking a break from working at Microsoft."

Slutty in Seattle.

Wow, who would've thought?

I've lived in Seattle for thirty years, and apparently, I've allowed myself to be lulled by the gray skies and melancholy masses as they shuffle along the sidewalks in sensible walking shoes and utilitarian hair styles.

We are super mac daddy freakazoids!

Seattle is, according to our own Post Intelligencer and this internet dating site, the second most promiscuous city in our fair land. Again, wow. 

Maybe all of that polar fleece is attached with an accessible Velcro strip in the back. Could ordering a "double tall with room" mean something a little different than what I'd always believed? Does REI actually stand for "Really Easy Intercourse?"

I've been married for a while, now, so, while I haven't been able to play my card of sluttiness, good luck to the rest of you, my neighbors. Whether you hook up in the Whole Foods organic Pop Tart section or the "How to teach your dog to compost" class, I tip my hat to you.

Here's the remainder of the list. I think you'll be a little surprised at how it shakes out:

1) Portland—Our fair hamlet to the south rules the promiscuity universe. I never had considered Portland a modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah, but five words come to mind—"Baby, leave your Birkenstocks on."

2) Seattle—I've already touched on my hometown. So to speak.

3) Pittsburgh—Another surprise, Pittsburgh never struck me as a free love type of place, residing in America's Rust Belt. I'd always considered foreplay in Pittsburgh to be similar to Dorothy lubing up the Tin Man.

4) Miami—So many having unsafe sex down there in Florida—no socks.

5) San Francisco—Okay, what's going on here with the west coast? It's like a constellation of naughty. I suppose if Seattle is the head, then Portland is the chest, San Francisco is the bathing suit area...and L.A. is some moppable substance left on the floor.

6) Dallas—Obviously, Debbie still lives there.

7) San Bernardino—Comforting to know, considering my sixteen-year-old daughter just returned from a week at basketball camp down there.

8) Denver—Hello! Dreamy man fox, John Elway, lives in Denver. Not a shock, by any means.

9) San Diego—I'd always thought "Chargers" signified horses, but actually it's a term for people who pair up in thirty minutes or less at the Coronado TGIFridays.

10) Houston—Houston is also the sixth fattest city. Maybe I should scrap this diet I've been on.

So next time you plan a vacation, instead of New York, Chicago, Boston or Philadelphia, rather than Minneapolis or Atlanta, consider Seattle. 

Someone's waiting for you, and they can't wait to get you onto their futon.

Seafair: a slowly mellowing rite of summer.

As we stood sipping our beers, looking upon a sun splashed Lake Washington, Mount Rainier looming in the murky distance, my friend Corey casually placed his hand on one of the metal barriers which cordoned off the beer garden.

A middle-aged, balding security guard swiftly approached from our left, his wispy comb-over fluttering in a mild gust.

"Sir, you're going to have to remove your hand from that railing while holding that beer. Those bars are considered outside the drinking area, so you can either put down your beer and grab the railing, like this, or let go of the railing and hold your beer, like so. Just not both. You can even do this..."

We watched as the pudgy man bent his upper torso over the bar, his head reddening and upside down on the non-beer garden side of the barrier.

"See what I'm saying? You can do gymnastics on this thing as long as you are not in possession of beer or wine. Have a good day, now."

As he retreated into the sparse crowd, the three of us stood silently. How times have changed.

Since 1982, Corey  my brother and I have upheld a tradition, a rite of summer in the Puget Sound area since the early 1950s—we've been attending the Seafair unlimited hydroplane races on Lake Washington.

The event, held the first Sunday of August, isn't really much of a race at all. An overwhelming majority of the day's heats are noncompetitive and comprise a minuscule portion of the entire day. It's kind of like a house-sized hum bow, where the bread part tastes pretty good, but there's only about a thimble full of gooey pork filling.

Seafair Sunday has seasoned itself and evolved at a similar rate to my companions and me. What began as a free-to-the-public, alcohol soaked orgy of homemade keg barges and overflowing Honey Pots, has grown into a choreographed, rule-laden corporate juggernaut.

What started as every twenty-year-old's dream day of swimming, subtle nudity and complimentary Eve cigarettes, has morphed into three guys in their forties and fifties looking for a shady spot to have some Pad Thai and a Jamba Juice.

But with all the flux in Seafair tradition, the day's marquee event hasn't changed since I've been attending. At least half of those in attendance park their lawn chairs solely to gaze up at the Blue Angels, the United States Navy's precision fighter air show.

I slightly enjoyed those blue and yellow jets my first ten viewings, and I still admire the pilots' skill and athleticism. But then the novelty dissipated, and the Blue Angels started looking like a really nice dining room set, where the seats are electric chairs made of the finest mahogany. They may look cool, but their true function cannot be questioned.

I understand that many don't share my left coast viewpoint on the BAs, so call me a bleeding heart socialist, call me a commie ass clown, or just call me a guy who's tired of the same two-hour routine every year, but that's a pretty expensive demonstration of government testosterone.

But hey, time to take the high road and ignore the politics of the day.

Every year, after I return home from twelve hours in the sun and I'm scolded by my wife for not using sunscreen, I flop down on the couch and ponder the boats and the food, the planes and the babes, the friends and the laughs.

The boats of the past will never return, the Pride of Pay 'n' Pak, the Miss Budweiser, Atlas Van Lines, Miller American, Winston Eagle, Squire Shop or Circus Circus.

Will I keep coming back? Yes, I will...even if Corey, Tom and I have to form a Little Rascal caravan.

Now I know what’s behind the green door.

I'm not a runner.

In fact, I hate running with a searing passion.

My wife's a runner, my sister runs and my dad has completed thirteen marathons. A lot of my friends like to dart around on the pavement as well. I know it's a great form of exercise, since all you need are forty-five minutes, some decent shoes and the earth's surface.

Yada yada yada.

I've definitely participated in other activities while running, like yelling at buses to stop or fleeing from a college girlfriend I'd just broken up with, but I'd rather do just about anything than pound the asphalt with my size nine-and-a-halfs.

Sometimes, however, there's not a choice.

My wife and I have been encouraging our ten-year-old daughter to be more physically active, whether it's playing soccer, the Wii Fit or sucker punching me in the kidneys and wrestling me to the ground. So, when she agreed to participate in an annual Seattle event, the five-kilometer St. Patrick's Day Dash, I felt compelled to acquiesce, even though I'd rather guzzle a beaker of laboratory waste than plant myself in the middle of fifteen thousand fun runners.

My other daughter, the fifteen-year-old, is half shark, so her state of perpetual motion assures that she can finish a 5K without ceasing a text message, and my wife runs that far every single freaking day.

In other words, mouth, I'd like to introduce you to my money.
 
The four of us awoke early on a rainy Sunday morning, like early-church-service early, only this time, my mom wasn't around to spray my hair with Aquanet and help me clip on my tie. We parked a few blocks from the starting line, and didn't leave the extreme luxury of the heated minivan until the last possible minute. After all, why subject yourself to a torrential downpour when you can listen to two kids arguing about personal space in the back seat?
 
We decided that, prior to embarking on the nearly four-mile odyssey, we should hit the massive row of portable relief stations. I realized immediately that I had won the day's dirty parts lottery. Upon noticing the green "open" signal on the Honey Pot door, I advanced quickly and threw it open.
 
The butt was female. Two questions flooded my consciousness:
1) Why hadn't she locked the door?
2) Why is her naked bottom facing me?
 
She looked like a half naked football center, ready to snap me some sort of ball, but I wasn't sure about from where the ball would originate. I jerked backward faster than Tom Brady shifting into the shotgun formation, and sidestepped to a vacant box.
 
I needed a couple of minutes to relax after that. I rationalized that perhaps that lady practiced some sort of new age body syphoning, but I was a little shell shocked by the Eight a.m. moon rising I'd just witnessed.
 
Seattle people are funny.
 
The run began, and my fifteen-year-old disappeared into the distance with the runners, while my wife and I walked/ran with our younger daughter. The mood was festive, but the weather was cold and wet. I found myself encouraging our ten-year-old by pointing out that guy over there carrying an open keg over his shoulder. See how dedicated he is? He's also sharing, which is an admirable quality.
 
Maybe not the best example.
 
We walked and people-watched all the way down Aurora Avenue and back, and before long, we'd polished that course off. As we made our way through Seattle Center to rendezvous with our shark daughter, men in nothing but leprechaun hats and green underwear shivered as they lined up for the beer garden, but our experience was wrapping up.

Together at last, we dragged our soggy bodies in the direction of the minivan, but first I had to make one last stop.

This time I knocked first.

Snow and Seattle: A worse couple than McCain-Palin

I wonder if the Mayan calendar or Nostradamus prophesied about snowfall in Seattle. Every time we get the white stuff here, life as we know it morphs into something out of the Book of Revelation.

Yesterday marked the forty-seventh anniversary of President Kennedy's assassination, one of our nation's defining moments, yet for those of us who live in the Seattle area, we'll just wait until next year and think twice as hard about number forty-eight. Come on, it snowed.

When it snows here, people choose up sides. They're either on the squad of those who panic and leave work with the first dusting, or they join the team of those who stay too long and leave work together in their rear-wheel-drive Lebarons. If you're a member of the latter group, it doesn't matter if cars litter the roadside like Camel butts, because dammit, you know your skills and your equipment. You'll make it.

Oops, you didn't make it.

I always make the mistake of turning on the local news when it snows, maybe just to get a glimpse of the Automotive Ice Capades. Reporters love this stuff—they plant themselves with a camera crew at the base of Queen Anne or Capital Hill and tape the poor suckers as they skid one after another into the ditch or another car. At this point, the camera will pan over to the reporter in her Action22 News Parka as she analyzes the situation:

"I'm standing here at the bottom of Denny Way in downtown Seattle, where it's snowing. As you can see, it's snowing where I stand as well as at the top of the hill, where our Action22 Superzoom video camera is providing a spectacular shot of some different snow. And now, as you can see, I'm bending over to scoop up some snow with my Action22 gloves, available on our website. This snow is cold and white. Please, if you don't have to go out in this snow, don't go out in it, and if you do, please wear pants, shoes, socks, a shirt and maybe another pair of pants. Back to you, Gil."

Always riveting. Why do I watch? No idea.

Of course, I'm not going to put myself above everyone else and claim that my behavior doesn't change during a winter wonderland. I always feel the need to set out on foot in search of provisions. You'd think that if I didn't fulfull my quest and make it to Safeway for some cheese and a sixpack of IPA, I'd be faced with deciding which family member to eat first. I always feel so satisfied upon entering the supermarket, a frozen Fu Manchu of snot coating my face as I traverse the aisles. I rarely give myself pause to ponder that the grocery store is fully staffed, fully stocked and the parking lot is filled with cars. Who cares? I made it.

I am a Seattlite. I wear odd clothes when it snows. I keep them in the basement and bring them out like Halloween decorations or camping equipment. The idea is to wear the tight stuff under the loose stuff for maximum warmth (please see the above image of my daughter and wife). Some people, like two women I saw at Safeway, only wear spandex and that's only acceptable if they are crawling out of their bobsled or paying tribute to Freddie Mercury.

Another blizzard of fun in the Emerald City.

1001 incorrect uses for a blow dryer.

I've been spending more time at the gym lately. It''s not because I'm training for the Iron Man or because I want an even better body than I currently have—that's impossible.

Nope, I've been hanging out at the "Y" more because my ten-year-old daughter has taken an interest in improving her health. And really, what parent wouldn't rather follow his child's lead than order her to turn off the TV, put on her pink nylon shorts and head to the gym with her grumpy, old dad.

Whatever motives people have for working out, I fully support them, because no one likes a nation whose citizens are more marbled with lard than Kobe Beef. I just wish I didn't have to watch some folks while they exercise. Maybe it's because I'm usually highly anaerobic and sweat-drenched when I'm looking at these people, or maybe I just see myself in the mirror next to them and wonder when I turned into a gray-haired old man with a throbbing forehead vein, but here are the types of people who annoy me the most at our local YMCA:

The Self-Admirers: This group is ninety percent male and lifts massive amounts of barbells, dumbbells and sports drinks. They dress in tight shirts from Old Navy, borrowed from their little brothers, which form fit their torsos while exposing massive arm loaves. I like to make faces at them in the mirror because they never look at anyone but themselves.


The Incorrect Machine Users: These gym patrons usually don't dress for working out, either. An average member of this group is an older woman with a flowered blouse, stretchy polyester pants and powder blue flats. Many machines, such as the seated chest press, include a foot lever for putting the handles in proper position for the arm workout. She ignores this and pushes the foot lever up and down approximately seven times before stopping and just sitting there for a while. Nothing quite like a toned right calf muscle.


The New Agers: These people like to flop a mat down right between the lat pull and curl machines, thereby making my left knuckle touch their downward doggie ass every time my arm achieves full extension. I would appreciate if they would practice their art somewhere others will welcome them, like the Whole Foods bulk food section.

The Malodorous Mafia: I won't go into too many specifics because you might be eating, and I realize they probably can't help it. I'll just say that there's this one guy whose body chemistry is so objectionable that if I see him, I'll turn around, get dressed, go home and play Wii croquet.

The Real Housewives of West Seattle: These are two person teams, usually youngish moms. They chit chat as they jog on their tandem treadmills, usually about whose PEPS group raises more money for breast pump awareness or whose kid is more advanced in his preschool calculus class.

After observing some or all of these personalities, my daughter and I are ready to return home where things are familiar and relaxed. It's been a good workout, so I'll just get my stuff out of the locker and we'll hit the road. What could I possibly see at this point that's any weirder than the past forty-five minutes?*


*I saw a guy in the locker room blow drying his bottom on October 18, 2010.

It's so nice when two people hit it off

King County Metro Route 54, 7:54 AM

The tires on my Ford Ranger unnaturally chafed against the curb as I straightened the steering wheel. I had found a spot on the street, and the Metro bus, the second leg of my commute downtown, approached rapidly from behind. I tumbled out of the door, snagging my bag on the gear shift and slammed the door partially closed. Oh, well, I thought, it's still locked.

The articulated coach sped by me as I lengthened my stride to a full sprint, awkwardly clutching the bag's nylon fabric, rather than its strap or handle. The bus slowed to a stop to pick up passengers half a block ahead, and just as I reached it, began to slowly pull away. I slapped at its dusty blue and yellow exterior and mumbled an oath at the faceless driver and his mother.

The vehicle again slowed and stopped at a red light approximately one hundred feet up the street—one last chance. I jogged up to the door and stood in the middle of Alaska Street, staring up at the operator, his gaze locked on a distant horizon. I knocked but he didn't respond. I knocked harder and he finally turned his mulleted head in my direction.

My arms spread in a conciliatory manner, as if to say, "Hey, man, no hard feelings about leaving me in your exhaust. Now open the door, please." My facial expression betrayed pleasantness combined with anaerobic strain from the recent eighty-yard dead sprint. No words were exchanged; it was as if I were doing a private show for the man, where I played the part of a begging mime. He looked down at me, shook his head and swiveled his cranium back to its forward facing profile.

After abruptly realizing a lost cause, my emotions rapidly morphed from desperation to frustration to seething, swirling anger. I now wanted to yank his disproportionally long hair from the back of his head and duct tape it to his forehead to even things out. Since this wasn't an option, I quickly resorted to my profanity portfolio, ready to lob at least a couple of F-bombs into his area before he could drive away. Testosterone has a way of knocking on your door without first phoning.

Rage choked me as my brain fumbled for something, anything to yell inside the bus. I looked briefly to the left and noticed a small boy glaring out the window at me, curiously assessing this crazed, would-be passenger standing in the street, gesturing and panting. Our eyes met, and I could feel my ire transition from white hot to red to a dull orange.

I looked and felt like a fool.

The light turned green and King County Metro Route 54 lumbered away as I retreated to the safer confines of the sidewalk. A minute later, my head rose to greet the sound of another 54 approaching from the distance.

Racism is alive and well in liberal Seattle

Racism.

It's such an ugly word, with so much baggage. Some use it for political gain; some dispute its very existence. Most of all, we ignore it.

Last week at a Washington State Supreme Court meeting, the "r word" poked its head out of the sand yet again, as justices Richard Sanders and James Johnson shocked some participants when they stated that African Americans are overrepresented in the state's prison population because they commit a disproportionate number of crimes. They also disputed the view that racial discrimination plays a key role in the disparity.

Before I get all emotional about how my state's most powerful jurists feel about crime and punishment, I'd like to break things down, using some logic:

If what they're saying is fact, that would imply that African Americans are committing more crimes because either they're inherently more evil  than other ethnicities, or because they've learned that crime is more lucrative than attempting to find "legitimate" work.

If you believe the former, go ahead and log out of this blog and turn on FOX News, because Glenn Beck's coming on in a few minutes. If you lean toward the latter view, you may be right, but doesn't this shine a harsh light on our society and its disenfranchisement of a huge chunk of America?

Now let's assume that the justices' stance is merely ignorant conjecture, and in reality, the criminal justice system is unfairly stacked against African Americans. This would acknowledge that "institutional racism" is alive and kicking, and these judges don't want to cop to it.

I'm not a sociologist. I'm just a middle-aged guy who lives in the upper left corner of the country, trying to make sense of my surroundings. My city, Seattle, prides itself on its liberal politics, its open mindedness. We love to think that we're some of the most inclusive, tolerant people in the nation.

But really, things are no different than they were fifty years ago. Black people still live predominately in the lower elevation areas of south to south-central Seattle. The white folks live everywhere else, plus any areas with views of water.

We hear people like Rush Limbaugh spouting off about racism having been rendered moot sine the election of our first African American president. And, granted, we no longer see cereal boxes like this:

or restaurants like this:

But here's an indisputable fact—every position I've ever attained has been the direct result of a relationship with a friend or an acquaintance putting in a good word, dating back to my first job as a dishwasher in 1979. And you can say all you want about bootstrap-pulling and earning everything you've gotten, but isn't that just an easy way out?

If we can rationalize that we're all given an equal opportunity to succeed, that we're all viewed by our economic and legal systems as colorless and classless, then we never have to acknowledge that there's a big problem with race in America.

Maybe we can all dig a little deeper.

Baseball in Seattle: Give us a hug

I'll preface these comments by noting that some may be offended by my cynicism.

One activity exists in our great, vast land which has become widely accepted as America's pastime. Its tradition is as rich a meandering family tree, and its heritage spans two-thirds of our nation's history. I'm speaking of baseball.

I love the game. I love its pastoral setting, its relaxed pace, its appeal to young and old, male and female. I grew up playing the game, staining my jeans on the outfield grass, grinding the infield dust between my molars, getting drilled in the elbow by an eleven-year-old's errant pitch. Baseball is a kids' game.

Which is why Major League Baseball, an assembly of the world's elite players, play the game with the same exuberance and joy that they did as children. Certainly, they've developed their bodies to gargantuan proportions and traded in their Double Bubble for massive wads of Beechnut or Red Man. When they win, they roll around on the ground in a muscly mass; when they're mad, they throw tantrums and helmets and dirt.

They're constantly expectorating. At the end of every game, each side's dugout has the appearance of a daycare around four o'clock, after the kids have had all the Gatorade and sunflower seeds they can consume. The floor is a slick mixture of tobacco juice, seed shells and paper cups.

The players never seem comfortable. They're constantly adjusting their hats, their lucky neck chains, their jerseys, and of course, their protective cups. Those things seem to slide around so much that these guys must be constantly checking to make sure their naughty bits haven't just shriveled up and fallen off from all that human growth hormone. But, hey that's baseball. We take the good with the illegal.

I live in Seattle. We have our own Major League team here, the Mariners, but things are different. Since the franchise's inception in 1977 (back when the players didn't need to check their cups because their pants were tighter than Batman's), I've maintained a steady loyalty. Nobody around these parts cared much about the team, especially since they played the summertime games inside a gloomy dome.

Everything changed in 1995, when the Mariners, against all odds, defeated the New York Yankees to reach the American League Championship Series. A new breed of Seattle baseball fan was born during that season, a fan who didn't care as much about the team winning as they did feeling good about the guys who played. Over the ensuing years, and with the construction of a sparkling new ballpark, these folks seemed more concerned with having every Ichiro bobblehead given away at the gate. Once inside, they cheered louder for the dancing grounds crew or the digital hydroplane races on the big screen than for an inning-ending double play.

Here in Seattle, its all about feeling good. Rather than adopting slogans like "Go to Hell, Angels," they go with "You've gotta love these guys." A few years ago, a large group of fans attempted to enter the park with "Yankees Suck" signs. They were politely confiscated by smiling ushers. Few fans heckle opposing players at Safeco Field; it just wouldn't be polite. Since I work in the fashion industry, I thought it might be witty to shout, "Hey, A-Rod, that black lace camisole shows through your pinstripes!" I'll be taking that one off my list.

Seattle's a great place to live, with lots of entertainment options, and I'm tired of attending hug fests. I want a World Series.

My emerald home

A few stereotypes of those of us who live in Seattle:
1) We don't own televisions, but if we did, they would have rabbit ears, be made of compost and only show PBS fundraising pitches.
2) We bike everywhere, even inside our houses.
3) Our kids are named Water or MossAnne or Hummus. No middle name.
4) We all live down the street from Eddie Vedder.
5) Give us your pet's old fur and we'll recycle it into kayak lining.
6) Grey hair is a sign of enlightenment. Silver hair is a sign of divinity. Silver hair with a ponytail is a sign that you've just moved from Portland.
7) We'll be really nice to you until you leave, then we might say a few things about your dog's outfit.
8) We possess recycling containers for food waste, yard waste, non-food waste, non-yard waste and part-food-part-yard-part-not-food yard waste.
9) We really want to eat a Quarter Pounder With Cheese.
10) The high schools don't keep score in any sports, and everyone gets cheez-its and a juice box, after running through the parent tunnel.
Those are just a few of our perceived traits. It really is a great place to live, as long as don't drive in the hybrid-only lane with your smart car.