We Have the Best Protests.

Saturday, we took a walk through Seattle with 100,000 of our closest friends. 

The official title of the event was Womxn’s March on Seattle, the “x” acknowledging the impact of discrimination based not only on gender, but on race, sexual orientation, nationality, faith, class and disability, and how different forms of discrimination often intersect, overlap and reinforce each other.

Seems that sort of behavior has been on the upswing lately. And since becoming official policy on January 21, a few million people decided to address the issue peacefully, joyfully and in multitudes not seen since the Iraq War protests.  

So many causes were represented, from Black Lives Matter to Planned Parenthood, yet the common thread was a defiance to a newly-anointed administration that believes civil rights are nothing more than “alternate” rights.

Frankly, I haven’t experienced discrimination. I’m a white guy, and contrary to what a lot of rightward leaning hombres blancos may think, we pretty much reside at the top of the privilege pyramid, right there with Yertle the Turtle:

The star-bellied Sneetches:

And Don Draper:

Seriously, the closest I’ve ever come to being discriminated against is when the lunch lady looked at my protruding belly and told me it might not be the best idea to get seconds on hamburger gravy. Innocuous as her comment may have been in the big picture, it still didn’t feel very good along with all the other insults I heard as a fat kid. Even so, I can’t imagine what it must be like to endure that kind of bullshit on a weekly, if not daily, basis your entire life.

Which brings me to the march. And rather than trying to describe what happened, I’ll do my best to illustrate the day in semi-accurate diary form.

10:57 AM—My wife and I arrive at Judkins Park/Playfield. Crowded as all get-out, but naturally not too crowded for the ultimate documentary evidence, the selfie:

11:45 AM—Still not out of the park yet, but lots of folks behind us now. As you can see, feline-based headwear dominates the scene:

12:38—Finally out on Jackson Street. Great signs everywhere, including "Viva la Vulva," "If men got pregnant, you could get an abortion at the ATM," and this one:

My bride chose not to carry a sign, but it's not like I didn't provide her with some good ideas. Among them were "Donald Trump: at your cervix," and "You've got Melania, so stay away from m'labia." 

Not interested, even when I posed it to her in an Irish brogue. 

By far the most prevalent sign is one that reads, "This pussy grabs back." Hmm. Okay, ouch.

1:02—People packed the street in both directions as far as the eye could see:

One of the day's coolest aspects, other than the perpetual electric buzz of being around so many like-minded people, is the constant groundswells of cheering, usually forming blocks away and spreading over the crowd in waves.

1:29—Two bald eagles soar in circular formation over the march. Would've been even cooler if two people behind us hadn't started singing, "This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius, age of Aquarius..." That was a little too over the top for even this hippie commie AARPnick.

2:15—Taking a bathroom break at the Seattle Public Library. Here's the view:

This, which is about halfway into the march, is where we first encountered Seattle police. Were they wearing riot gear, champing at the bit to break some heads and douse a few mugs with habanero spray? Heck no. In fact, one cop is stationed by the women's bathroom, letting people in a few at a time and making sure the toilet paper is fully stocked. 

So, yeah, sorry to disappoint my conservative pals who envisioned a day of chaos and thuggish violence; WTO 1999 this is not.

2:41—Still haven't gotten over how chill this whole thing is. Everyone is so joyful and every block or so are bull horn stations where people wait in line to say their piece while standing on actual soap boxes!

3:10—Seattle Center! Of course, I insist that we touch the fountain to signify the ceremonial to the march, because that's what we OCD types like to do. My wife, ever the good sport, agrees, so naturally, as any good documentarian does:

I take another selfie. 

Afterward, I couldn't help but imagine how opposite the process of peaceful protest was for the Freedom Riders and other civil rights marchers of the '50s and '60s, back when organized resistance was met with violence, humiliation and imprisonment. I doubt that many police officers back then handed out toilet paper or high-fived students on their way into the South's first integrated public schools.

We have so many people to thank for their sacrifice, and a responsibility to use our privilege to resist the new tyranny seeping from the Oval Office. Get involved!

Don't Turn the Page Just Yet.

What the hell, 2016? Why'd you have to go and be such a lowlife bastard?

Seriously, if years were body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's ass. If they were colored body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's grey, vein-marbled ass, and if they were textured, colored body parts, you'd be Donald Trump's saggy, grey, vein-marbled ass.

A year ago, so many giants still lived among us as we entered 2016—Prince, Harper Lee, David Bowie, Muhammad Ali—only to dissolve from our presence one by one, as we made our way through one of the most discouraging years I can remember.

Our planet was ravaged by cataclysms both natural and otherwise. Unprecedented flooding, drought and blizzards racked North America. Iraq and Syria's war-torn populaces fled for somewhere, anywhere, and were received with little more than fear and suspicion. Simultaneously, the the western world retreated to levels of xenophobia and nationalism not witnessed since the advent of the Cold War 70 years ago.

Wow, okay, I'll just stop there. Obviously I wasn't the only mortal beast left reeling from Shitstorm '16—you were, too, for Pete's sake. How about if we try and take a little of the edge off, eh? Since gratitude is a quality I've never been exactly stellar in recognizing in myself, maybe it's time I celebrated some of humanity's accomplishments over the past year rather than constantly dwelling on the worst we have to offer.

Here's just a sampling of the positive events that helped shape our year:

On May 10, an Indian fertility clinic announced that a 70-year-old woman had given birth to a baby boy. I'm not sure why this needed to happen, but how awesome is it that now we can wait until Social Security kicks in to start a family. Plus, thank God people can finally lay off elderly new parents like Steve Martin, Mick Jagger and the spry Scotsman himself, Rod Stewart:

Apparently, a few of those British are still invading.

On February 17, the oldest known case of human-Neanderthal sex (100,000 years ago) was revealed by the Max Planck Institute for Evolutionary Anthropology. Using complicated computer modeling, the humanoid's appearance has now been simulated to a reliability level of 99.9%:

It's never easy to act completely human when deep down, you know you're only half.

And finally, December of this year saw the wedding of my nephew, Andrew. Here's a shot of me with my sister and foster grandpa, obviously still thrilled about his recent murder acquittal:

While it's no secret that attending a friend or relative's nuptials accounts for some of life's most joyous events, this one packed a little extra oomph. You see, here's what Andrew looked like when he entered the scene in the autumn of 1984:

The little guy was smaller than a freaking crusty pup. He was delivered ten weeks premature, weighing two pounds, twelve-and-a half-ounces. Even now, neonatal care is a dicey proposition, and you can imagine how much more so it was thirty-two years ago.

Necessary that he remain at the hospital through his full-term date, Andrew's lungs were so underdeveloped those first weeks that his brain forgot to make them breathe a few times. Thankfully, the University Washington isn't merely one of the best football schools in the earth's history, it's also home to a world-class neonatal facility, and the amazing doctors and nurses at UW Medical Center proved adept at meeting the multitude of challenges inherent in a lad this tiny.

I'll never forget when he finally came home and eventually learned to rock any type of cable knit sweater thrown his way.

When Andrew married Jen earlier this month, I'm sure his parents had a moment, because I sure did. Here he is with his cousins:

And new bride:

He's grown into one of my favorite, 100% human beings...

... I guess 2016 wasn't such a bad year after all.

Hang in There, Friends.

It happened. Yep, really did.

And still today, a week removed from one of the biggest political shocks in modern history, much of the world hasn’t fidgeted even an inch, still staring numbly into a future that looks a damn sight murkier than it had prior to November 8.

Even as the clock approached eight o'clock Pacific Time and the results began trickling in, things didn't feel all that ominous; the math still favored Hillary… and then it didn’t anymore.

One swing state after another—first Florida and North Carolina, then Ohio, Michigan and Pennsylvania—gradually bloomed into tints so red they began glowing orange. It was a flavor of dread I can’t recall tasting before.

As the evening wore on, the boulder that loomed high above us began its slow descent, its shadow darkening our surroundings. Did it drop suddenly, shattering our bodies in one crushing wallop? Of course not. The huge stone pushed patiently and steadily into our chests, ultimately smothering our diaphragms and milking our few last shallow breaths. Stars filled our eyes and engulfed our vision; wouldn’t be long now.

But then, in the most deliciously sadistic of mercies, the giant stone slowly lifted from our bodies, the air rushing to our lungs and our vision returning to focus. Still alive we are, yet reborn into a new world of pain and disbelief.

As I write this, most of us are still scared shitless, so I’m sure you’ve found your own methods for coping with Trump’s ridiculous victory. Maybe you’ve cried or screamed or cried and screamed and thrown a cat or two. Still others may have inquired into residency in another, more tolerant sovereignty with an affable pressed leaf as its national symbol. We’ve all got our coping mechanisms, so do what you have to. Here, however, are some of my personal techniques, should you run out of spray paint and places to decorate with anti-fascist messaging:

5) Do something that makes you feel good. Whether it’s volunteering, scheduling a mani-pedi or engulfing a complete stranger in a wonderfully startling back hug, take some time for you.

4) Swear more. Curse, cuss, take the Donald’s name in vain. Profanity (and F-bombs in particular) is such an underutilized venting mechanism, and lately, few things have hit the spot like stepping out onto the front porch, staring at the super moon and shouting, “Donald Trump is the biggest motherf*^%ing d*&chebag ever conceived by a pair of g%^damn human f*&^%ing beings! The only reason his f*^%ing red ties are is so long is to hang down over his f*&^%ing crotch and cover a g%^damn pair of f*^%ing testicles that still haven’t f*^%ing dropped!” Then go back in the house and tell the kids that Daddy is better.

3) Go to Las Vegas, sit on a piano and be serenaded by lots of women. Kind of hard to pull off but hey, this guy did it:

By the way, happy 21^st birthday, Jesse!

2) Get back to nature. Do some yard work, go for a nice hike or simply spend a little extra time in the produce section to appreciate the cantaloupe-sized watermelons and watermelon-sized apples. You’ll walk away feeling refreshed and confused.

1) Don’t read or watch the news and cut back on social media. I know this might sound hypocritical since most of my readership is generated through Facebook and other platforms, but I really did feel better after going dark for a week. Prior to the election I was so out of control with my news and meme consumption that my anxiety was causing a constant weakness in my knees and joints. Even the words, “Trump presidency,” made my bottom Kegel itself into a cramped tennis ball of flesh and veins. Since then, sports and Kardashians are the only two electronic pleasures I’ve allowed back into my life.

It’s going to be a long four years, but I’m going to try with all my being to not let this man’s face or the mugs of his gargoyle sons seep into my daily consciousness. 

I hope we all can. God bless America, indeed.

Finding Some Common Ground in This Age of Divisiveness.

This past weekend, I went to Las Vegas to do a thing with some people. So much fun, but as they say, what happens there stays there unless it's a blood-borne pathogen, so here are a just couple of highlights:

1) My friend Pete and I wore the same shirt to the Events and Adventures 2016 Seasoned Stallions Grub Tolo at New York, New York:

Can you tell the theme was Fifty Years of Hasselhof?

2) I had Eggs Benedict twice:

Okay, yes, I ate it twice, but it was spread out over seventeen hours.

3) And Air Force One taxied by as we waited to board our plane back to the PNW:

At the time I was so preoccupied elbowing the sick and elderly out of the way in search of the perfect grainy iPhone shot, I wasn't bothering to ponder the significance of the occasion.

Regrettably, it wasn't until the Boeing VC-25 disappeared around the corner and I'd settled back into my cracked vinyl seat to re-dedicate myself to my hangover that I wondered: How many opportunities are we afforded to see our commander-in-chief's flying command center in the process of ferrying said commander-in-chief? I'd say most of us get less than one.

So much history—the tragedy of LBJ's onboard inauguration, the triumph of Nixon's China visit, George W. Bush's seemingly callous Katrina flyover on his return trip from vacation—is packed into this symbol that's so much more than a steel tube with swivel chairs and good coffee.

Waves of nostalgia washed over me, nearly equaling the spasms of intestinal regret I'd acquired from my hollandaise-blazed malaise. I realized, though, as awesome a vision as that grand jetliner is, the pangs of sentiment I felt were actually initiated by the man inside the plane. His time is almost up, for God's sake!

If connections are formed by shared experiences, I've not bonded with any president more than with Barack Obama. It's not even close. The only thing I'd ever had in common with Gerald Ford was a love of football and the agility of a liquored-up kitten. Richard Nixon seemed more like my Uncle Monty, lifelong confirmed bachelor who sat in the corner at Thanksgiving quietly sipping a bourbon and smiling while snapping mental Polaroids of the female kin.

And holy shit, Reagan? Forget about it; he'd lost his keys five times before I was even born.

President Obama is less than a year older than I am. He's got two daughters and a fiercely independent wife. I wouldn't even be surprised if we've both owned Styx albums, so there's no way either candidate in this election will approach the feelings of simpatico I share with Mr. Obama.

So, to attempt a little damage control and to strive for some common ground with Donald Trump and Hillary Clinton, I've formulated a list of life events, nothing too drastic, that seeks to establish some of the common childhood denominators I share with the president. Let's see how this goes.

1) Who cleared the docket every Tuesday night for ABC's juggernaut tandem of Three's Company and Charlie's Angels?
Um, yeah that one's easy. Edge: Trump

2) Who grew up eating more Pop Tarts?

I'm guessing that Trump wasn't allowed Pop Tarts unless they were left behind in apartments where people were evicted by his dad, in which case he scarfed entire boxes.
But overall, edge: Clinton.  

3) Who played Battleship?

Probably both, but chances are, Trump never finished unless he cheated in time to win before he was bored and irritated.
Edge: Clinton.  

4) Who swore more as a child?

Trump looks like he's swearing even when he isn't, and I'm sure that's been going on since he emerged from the womb.
Edge: Trump.

5) And finally for tiebreaker, who enjoyed reading books as a child?

Trump still only reads shampoo bottles and anything in Hustler written in skintones.
Edge: Clinton.  

Hey, what do you know! Looks like I'm voting for Hillary!