Is One Less Prison a Good Thing?

Built in 1876, America's last "island prison" is destined for the scrap heap.

McNeil Island Corrections Center, located in Washington state's south Puget Sound, is closing next spring, due to state budget cuts and cost inefficiencies. Nearly fifty years after our country's most famous island fortress, Alcatraz, shut down, McNeil Island will finally lock its doors, but this time no one will be clamoring from the inside.

The facility has housed some notorious bad guys, most notably, that big man on campus, Chuck Manson. Manson served a five-year stint in the early 1960s, prior to his discovery that The Beatles needed him to stab some people for them. I might have washed their cars or walked their dogs, but I suppose Charles was just a little more of a pleaser.

Prisons have always fascinated me. I think it began at the tender age of fifteen, when a documentary aired, entitled Scared Straight, in which juvenile offenders visited Rahway State Prison in New Jersey. They sat in a room and listened as a group of inmates serving life sentences described prison life in intimate detail. The kids were screamed at, provoked and highly intimidated as they heard about what they would encounter should they continue down their delinquent paths.

Even though I was exceedingly "straight" when compared with these adolescents, I was still fascinated and terrified by this broadcast. By no means was I keen on following my "daddy" around the prison yard, my index finger hooked in his rear belt loop or being traded to a convicted arsonist for a Butterfinger and half a jar of Vaseline, but I couldn't pry my eyes away.

Ever since, I've been drawn to prison-themed TV shows and movies, like Escape From Alcatraz, Bad Boys (where Sean Penn smacks a guy with a pillow case full of coke cans), The Shawshank Redemption, Cool Hand Luke, The Longest Yard and Papillion. I even liked The Andy Griffith Show, since someone occasionally ended up in Sheriff Taylor's cage.

It's difficult to imagine actually doing hard time, which feeds my obsessive anxieties about going to prison. For instance, what if I just happened to be walking downtown wearing jeans, a blue jacket, white Adidas shoes and a George Bush mask, right when some guy happens to be robbing a daycare center in an identical outfit. See how simple it would be to be sent away?

I'm not prepared. I don't have the skills to give someone a tattoo with a Tootsie Pop stick or make a shiv out of a large Cheeto. I do use liquid soap, though, so no problem there. And call me old fashioned, but I prefer a much longer courtship before a relationship is consummated than is par for the course in the big house.

So farewell, McNeil Island Corrections Center. After 134 years, you've served the public good by housing those who owed a debt to the public. If only your walls could talk.

On second thought, it's probably better that they can't.

Batman isn't too happy about these guys.

Finally, I've got something to fall back on if my day job doesn't work out.

I can be a superhero.

Hey, it's not funny. Okay, it's kind of funny, but not if I did it.

Seattle has witnessed an influx of real-life superheroes, banded into a group know as The Rain City Superhero Movement. They're a real-life Justice League, patrolling Seattle's mean streets and attempting to foil would-be crimes and apprehend criminals, while keeping their identities secret.

They go by names like Thorn, Green Reaper, Gemini and Phoenix Jones (that last one sounds more like someone Hugh Grant picked up for a five minute date on the Sunset Strip). All of these men claim to be either former military or mixed martial artists and, although they carry pepper spray, Tasers and nightsticks, none is packing heat.

They've actually spooked a lot of the good guys, including Seattle cops, with their strange uniforms and masked faces. I think the police are still a little squeamish about people who hide their faces ever since November of 1999, when roaming bands of masked thugs trashed our friendly little Mayberry and shut down the WTO conferences. Apparently, people like Catastrophe and Thunder 88 were still at Superhero Voc/Tech or they could have lent a hand.

I suppose I applaud their efforts, but every since I saw The Gimp in Pulp Fiction, I'm a little cynical about role playing in costumes. I think it's great when little kids dress up like their favorite comic book heroes; I can remember being four or five and my dad had forgotten his lunch at home. He was a high school teacher, so I asked my mom if I could deliver it to him dressed like Superman. I ran into his classroom, cape flapping, and was scooped up by my papa to the oohs and ahhhs of the nice teenagers in his room.

But I must say, when the cuteness factor evaporates, so does a lot of the public acceptance. When it's a chubby, adult male in a Batman costume paying a visit to an emergency room because he tore his ACL while "rescuing" his wife, well, next time just keep it to the back seat of the Taurus, I mean, Batmobile.

So good luck to you guys. Sure, none of you has true super powers like Spiderman, Flash or The Green Lantern, but you do have something that most of us don't:

A little too much time on your hands.

Life after Facebook de-friending: How to pick up the pieces.

It's cool. I'm okay...really.

Yesterday, I discovered that a guy had "de-friended" me on Facebook. Instantly, I was overcome with emotion— confusion, dismay, sadness. How should I feel, since he really wasn't my pal in the first place, yet he still cared enough to become my "e-friend?"

Rejection is never easy, and I've had my share of it. I decided to rank this setback among my life's other disappointments, just to keep things in perspective. Was it worse than realizing I could never grow a really good mustache? No way. Was I more distraught than when I discovered that I'd built my gas grill backwards, and I'd need another full day to reassemble it? Yes, I was.

In the final analysis, on the disappointment scale, my de-friending landed somewhere between the Seattle Supersonics leaving for Oklahoma City and Pee Wee Herman getting busted "red handed." I realized, yet again, that it's not how we deal with success, it's how we handle the slimy bologna slap of rejection.

After eventually swallowing the bitter pill, I turned inward. Why had this happened? What could I have done differently?

I'm fully aware that my writings have polarized and offended those who:

-believe that five thousand years ago, Adam was either created in God's image (which apparently resembles Mattel's Ken doll plus naughty area), or was dropped off by aliens from the planet Xenu.

-favor affordable health care, for those who can afford it.

-don't want their children taught by anyone gay, because the teacher may either sneeze the gay onto the child or accidentally touch the kid and transfer a lighter case of bisexuality.

-are convinced that our President is Chairman Mao's love child, conceived out of wedlock with an African succubus while on vacation at the Kenyan Club Med.

-Believe that Glenn Beck, Bill O'Reilly and Rush Limbaugh more closely resemble Abraham, Martin and John than Moe, Curly and Larry.

A large number of my friends and family members ideologically lean to the right, and they know I love them unconditionally. And for the rest of you, go ahead and de-friend me. Your scorn will only fortify my resolve.

Besides, I've found these new places called chat rooms, filled with new friends who happen to be single, hot and 22 years old.

I will love again.

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.

A salute to some unsung heroes.

"Whoopie! Man, that may have been a small one for Neil, but that's a long one for me."

-Commander Charles "Pete" Conrad, Mission Commander for Apollo 12, upon stepping onto the surface of the Moon.

Forty-one years ago today, November 14, 1969, Apollo 12 embarked on the second manned expedition to the lunar surface. Only four months previously, arguably the most profound human endeavor of the twentieth century materialized as Neil Armstrong remarked, "That's one small step for man...one giant leap for mankind."

We never seem to remember or acknowledge outstanding achievements unless they are the first of their kind. I can rattle off in my sleep each astronaut on the Apollo 11 mission (Armstrong, Eugene "Buzz" Aldrin and Michael Collins—okay, I was a space geek), but I had to look up all three names for the Apollo 12. They were Pete Conrad, Richard Gordon, Jr. and Alan Bean, pictured above.

These men were engineers, mathematicians, athletes and pilots, but most of all they were master improvisors. I wasn't aware that Apollo 12's Saturn V rocket was struck by lightening—twice—immediately after lift-off, and that the mission was nearly aborted but for the quick thinking of Bean, the Lunar Module pilot. As nearly every warning light in the cockpit flashed, he quickly switched the craft to its auxiliary fuel cells and restored telemetry to the main cells, thereby ensuring that the launch continued successfully. Scotty's got nothing on that man.

At the end of the mission, Apollo 12's objectives had been met, including a far more precise Moon landing than its predecessor had achieved, and it splashed down in the South Pacific with far less fanfare.

Apollo 12 was a little like that second or third kid who's born into the family. She doesn't get as many pictures taken of her, she wears a lot of hand-me-downs—she flies under the radar. Maybe its because I'm a third kid that I'm writing this post, paying tribute to an historic feat in its own rite, one that deserves its own place in the spotlight.

So here's to all of those people who weren't the first, but were highly inspirational nonetheless. How about Larry Doby, the the second African American Major League Baseball Player after Jackie Robinson, who had to suffer the same indignities that Robinson did, and with nowhere near the media attention and implicit support.

Our what about the Buffalo Bills, who made it to four consecutive Super Bowls? Many will remember them as the most notorious losers of the NFL Championship until we consider that the were NFC champions an amazing four years in a row.

There are so many more—the "Who Shot J.R.?" episode on Dallas, which was the second highest rated television show of all time (next to the final episode of M*A*S*H), the fact that Jack Nicklaus finished second nineteen times in major golf championships, or that Susan Lucci was passed over for a Daytime Emmy Award a record eighteen times before she finally won one. We Americans seem to be all about who gets the gold. As Jerry Seinfeld once said, "The Silver Medal just means you're the best of the losers." How about we try to shake this attitude once and for all?

And by the way, this has nothing to do with the fact that my teenager beat me in a game of H-O-R-S-E this morning.

I solemnly swear.

Warning: The following post is intended for mature audiences. Okay, actually, it's intended for immature audiences.



What is it about swearing? Forbidden, yet alluring. Crass, yet liberating. Easy, yet sometimes difficult to sculpt into a perfect delivery.

In some situations, swearing is acceptable or even expected, as in the  animated example above. Coaches, athletes, tavern stool sitters or any other manifestation of pure testosterone demands a firm grip on the profane. You can't punctuate a good fishing story without a few expletives. You're not going to win over the dudes in the locker room if you comment that the chick on the Stairmaster had "some beautiful gosh darn skin." Nope, you've got to go for broke, and preferably with a few of George Carlin's seven words.

As kids, most of us were warned against using foul language, even though we frequently heard our parents spew their vitriol, most notably while driving or immediately after a holiday with the in-laws. We knew that one day, we would also enter that forbidden land.

And therefore, cussing is one of the first vices most people adopt. It's possible, as a youngster, to pilfer a couple of smokes out of your mom's purse or top off the vodka bottle with tap water, but swearing out of parental earshot presents far fewer risks.

I'll never forget my inaugural sailing on the SS Potty Mouth. I was around eight or nine years old, playing in my room with a couple of friends. They'd already begun their foray into vulgar verbiage and were highly encouraging, so I dipped my feet into the water, tossing out a quiet F-bomb.

That's when my life changed forever, as I realized what a truly victimless crime I had committed. I swore loudly and I swore proudly. From that moment forward, I've embraced blue language more tightly than Robin hugs Batman on the way down the Bat Cave pole.

Sure, some don't swear because they prefer to be more "folksy." I'm speaking of people like Donald Rumsfeld, former U.S. Defense Secretary, who used to say things like, "Jiminy Christmas, gee willikers and dad gummit! Stop whining about serving one more year in Iraq, folks!" He reminds me of my grandpa telling me to go back down to the basement and finish removing that rabid wolverine's teeth, and then we'll have some nice oatmeal.

There are also people who refuse to swear, but they're willing to come ridiculously close. Seriously, what's a "gosh" or a "freakin'" or a "darn" or a "geez," other than a nasty word in Donny Osmond clothing? Come on, either say it or don't say it. Don't be like those weird people who go swimming but won't get their hair wet.

There are a lot of colorful, versatile words out there, and they're just itching to drive your point home. Put a few in your shopping cart, load them in the trunk and bring them out when you need them. You won't be sorry for a f*(_^&g second, you g@%^&*n @$$*0)e.

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.