Saying Goodbye to Canada

"Oh, Canada."

When you read those words, how do they play out in your head?

1) As a statement of surprise and delight, as in "Oh, Canada. You look quite nice in that tank top. I wasn't aware you worked out."

2) Like you just bumped into your sociopath ex-girlfriend, Canada, while boarding a cruise ship for two weeks: "Oh. Canada, Long time no see. So, you're here by yourself? Great." 

3) Most likely, you hear the opening line to the Canadian national anthem: "Ohh, Caaaaanadaaa." I know you're singing it right now. When you do, are you able to keep going? I always try, but I can only make it to "our home and native land...," then just trail off in my typical crude, West-Seattle-tinged growl. Maybe I'll try to learn it this weekend with the help of the internet. I figure if I take half a day to learn it on Saturday, I can know it for the rest of the day on Saturday prior to having no recollection by Sunday morning.

America's Hat. The Great White North. Land of Milk and Hockey—I love Canada. I'd think we all do, especially up here in the PNW, where many of us have been crossbred like Labradoodles with our cousins up yonder. They are us and we are they, eh? This entire region might as well be called Vancattle. Okay, maybe not.

Sure, there are differences. When it comes to branding, Americans prefer the fierce, majestic bald eagle to the benign yet attractive maple leaf. Canadian citizens own 35 firearms per 100 people, whereas Americans possess 120 guns per 100 residents, so while the Canadians could beat our ass with a snow shovel if they had to, chances are they wouldn't shoot us. 

For me, the relationship is complicated. My first trip to Canada as a kid was as part of a soccer exchange program between my local soccer club and a league up in BC. Along with my teammates, I was left with a randomly selected Canadian family overnight. The following day, we were reunited with our hungover parents, who then watched as we played an international friendly against our new pals (Note to future soccer parents: Never use the word "leave" or "left" with your eight-year-old, especially a month before the abandonment takes place. They'll immediately stop listening to whatever lame sales pitch you're attempting and worry about it from then on.). 

The family I stayed with was nice enough, except the house smelled like Vienna sausages and the mom kissed me goodnight. Following her unwelcome gesture of affection, I tried to sing myself to sleep with the lyrics to the Partridge Family's highly underrated second album. But alas, sleep eluded me until the wee hours of a murky British Columbian morning. Later on, I had an absolute shit soccer performance and represented my homeland shamefully against the Canadians due to a profound sleep deficit. 

Even so, a bond with our funny-sounding continent mates had been cemented, only to become bolstered over time. During my musical awakening, so much great stuff was oozing down from the north, from Joni Mitchell to Rush, from Triumph to Alanis Morissette, The Tragically Hip, Sarah McLachlan, Neil Young and Nelly Furtado. Canada had infiltrated my DNA. 

During my early adult years, I took several trips to Vancouver with my friend, John. We drank, spoke in Scottish accents to each other (his parents were from Scotland) and had our ears pierced. And who knows, I may have smoked a Player non-filter or two and purchased a Sex Pistols album that was only available north of the border. 

Our northern junkets tapered off as we grew older and formed other relationships, but I always believed someday John and I would head back up, we'd take one last trip for old time's sake. Like most of us folks looking down the backside of the mountain, I've always welcomed the opportunity to recapture a smidge of the youth that seemed to have evaporated so quickly. To my profound regret, this final, awesome, hilarious trip to Canada with John never happened. Now it can't.

Yesterday, I learned that my company has immediately ceased its operations in Canada, which includes both the online presence and 13 stores. Most people know where I work since I've been there so long, but if you don't, it's a major fashion retailer based in Seattle. The Canadian business accounts for a small portion of total sales, but it hit me so much harder than I would've thought. 

Maybe it's my strange introduction to the country or my crazy trips with John. Maybe it's my worries about job security or my age or this aversion to change that seems to go with it. Whatever the case, loss never seems to get any easier. 

Love you, Canada.

Just Around the Corner

This story originally appeared in In Parentheses Magazine, Summer 2020

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.

The party of Lincoln is currently out of the office.

Happy November! I do love the fall. Even if it's as murky and cold as leftover moose au jus, there's a lot to be excited about. The holidays are looming, a joyous season of revelry and salty lard. 

And football—football, America's premier celebration of conquest and domination, is in full swing, even on Thursdays! Okay, it's not lost on me that staging Thursday night games, usually only four days after a team's previous game, can be hazardous to these players' health. My best argument against that, I suppose, is that I really enjoy watching football on Thursday night so they should definitely keep having these games.

How are things going in your orbit? Family's good? Job's bearable? Bladder's not screaming out like a chafing toddler with double pinkeye?

Good, good. Glad we're all on some decent footing here. Because I am nervous as shit about next Tuesday. Actually, I don't even know if "nervous" describes the emotion. Other languages include words describing more nuanced meanings than English can accommodate, words like backpfeifengesicht, which is German for "punchable face". Here's how you might see it used in a sentence: "Der Müzzerfücher Drumpf hat das backpfeifengesicht." Then you're supposed to pick your nose with your left hand and drink.

If there is a word anywhere that describes the unprecedented fear of democracy's imminent death, it defines the feeling that takes up a nice portion my current emotional baseline. The election of 2020 provided a little bit of a respite, an opportunity to crank the timer back a little. But we knew this was coming, and now, here we are. 

In the aftermath of January 6, 2021, who would have predicted that the instigator of it would be the GOP's capobanda going into the midterms? Who didn't think the guy was toast? That's when I realized it's not about him, it's about his voters and their grievances. They're pissed and they want blood. Even so, are there enough of these voters to actually defeat democracy? 

Definitely in some places, which is frightening. Couldn't you see Ron DeSantis seizing dictatorial powers in Florida? I can imagine him forcing school kids to wear little military uniforms with those white shiny rain boots that he likes. 

Or Ted Cruz could attempt to wield his newfound fascist authority by requiring everyone in America to watch his hilarious new sitcom, Teddy Didn't Do It. Turns out he's a natural when paired with Esther, the Giggling Goat. 

In truth, there's nothing funny about these people. Some present themselves as religiously oppressed conspiracy believers with little to no critical thinking skills and a profound distrust for mainstream media and factual data, while others come across as little more than crafty sociopaths attempting to slake their insatiable thirst for power by any means necessary. The party of Lincoln has gone the way of bubble gum ice cream with real bubble gum in it.

Okay, well, on that note, have a nice day. 

Holy shit, what times we live in. I do hope that, whatever happens, wherever you are, you are healthy and happy and that you're able to turn this shit off every once in a while. Unfortunately, the Nazis will still be there when you get back. There's still a lot to be grateful for, like you, and it's something I need to remind myself of from time to time. Thanks for listening. 

Checking in at the Six Decade Mark

I turned sixty the other day. That's S-I-X-T-Y, aka LX, aka L'il Five Duzzy.

How the hell did that happen? I feel like teenager, for heaven's sake (Obviously, I don't talk like one). I still even get zits—just, you know, not on my face.

Like some of us, 60 is an age I've spent the bulk of my life believing isn't just old—it's damn old. And if you're a fellow sexagenarian (that's an etymological moniker, not a condition that requires bi-weekly cognitive behavioral therapy), tidbits like these may exacerbate your angst:

1) You were born less than 20 years after the end of World War II. At the time, the average-aged war vet hadn't hit 40 yet.

2) You've seen 12 presidents, six moon landings, two Darrens and one shark jump.

3) You've been alive for 24.3% of our nation's history. That one blows my mind. 

While I'm on the subject, here's to democracy and the continued health of the great American experiment. In my opinion, our republic is teetering more precariously than any time since the 1940s. The Big Lie has legs and there's an ugly, violent movement that wants nothing more than to see the realization a real-life Gilead.

During my younger years, 60 seemed ridiculously ancient. Ten-year-old Tim would've pegged Gus the Fireman from Leave It to Beaver as somewhere around that age:

Or Chef Boyardee:

Maybe even Colonel Sanders:

I figured Santa must be somewhere in the neighborhood of 60, wearing his puffy, gin-blossomed greatcoat of comorbidities like a drunken gambler playing with house money:

Jokes aside, this birthday has left me feeling more emotional than past years, more introspective than times of yore when I was springier of chicken. I think a lot of it had to do with my high school reunion. The 40-year was supposed to take place last summer, yet was postponed along with billions of other events until 2022 due to that punk-ass scourge we've all been dealing with. 

I understand that high school reunions aren't everyone's cup of Rainer, but I've always enjoyed attending and I was really looking forward to this one. In the weeks leading up to the party, several classmates experienced life-changing tragedies, compounding my desire to just check in with people, to take a day to celebrate our childhood connections. Nothing warms my crusty old heart like reliving the heaven on earth that is hamburger gravy over whipped potatoes with someone who can relate.

A week-and-a-half before the reunion, I came down with the aforementioned punk-ass virus. It was my turn to understand first-hand that the shit is serious business, and that I'd have a ten-day period to get over the symptoms, test negative, wait 48 hours and test negative again. It was my sole path toward engaging in any hamburger gravy talk. 

During the initial three or four days, this seemed very unlikely. My head pounded and I couldn't remember that kind of throat burning since my tonsils were carved out in the '60s. I have asthma, so I was fortunate enough to receive a prescription of Paxlovid. It's an antiviral therapeutic and I'll be dipped in corn yogurt if it isn't the most amazing pharmaceutical I've ever taken (well, top five, anyway). After five days I was symptom free, and after ten I'd had two negative tests and no rebound infection. Hamburger gravy was on! 

At that point, I was elated just to be feeling better, and the reunion was great. There's something about being around people who accompanied me through my most exciting, uncertain, coming-of-age years that just can't be matched. I'm so grateful to be reminded of this every ten years.

Our brains were indeed offline back in those days—but at least they were offline together. 

Dealing with those emotional velociraptors.

How's your anxiety level these days? Off the chart? On the chart but off the grid? On the grid but off the chain? On the chain but off the hook?

Lord knows there's a smorgasbord of triggers out there right now. It's like the instant we wake up, we take our place in the buffet line of dreadful delights. We slide our tray down the rails, accepting warm plates heaped with gun violence, war, climate catastrophe, inflation and more varieties of COVID-19 than there were soft serve toppings at Roy's Chuckwagon. 

And for good measure, who's down at the end of the buffet line carving the roast beast under the heat lamp, but this dude:

The mysterious creature above was photographed just outside a zoo in Amarillo, Texas. I swear to God, these days if it's not hitchhiking clowns, it's a damn chupacabra in search of a hookup.

I've always been an anxious person. Like I've swallowed a stiff, unwashed hankie that never digests, my anxiety lives wadded up inside my chest and stomach. Its crusty, gym sock-sized wad seems to swell and shrink with unpredictable regularity both day and night. 

I've employed various strategies in an effort to tamp down my anxiety—things like self-medicating with a six-pack of Bodhizafa and box of Double Stuff Pop Tarts, Now With Real Pork! shortly before bedtime. Typically, this approach is effective until around three in the morning, when I wake up in a self-loathing hot flash with a throbbing headache and the aftertaste of Satan's dingleberries in my mouth. 

As it is with depression, mindfulness can be a very helpful tool in combating anxiety. By challenging our thoughts rather than swallowing them, it's possible to step over the rabbit hole instead of plummeting into it.

I mentioned that morning is my most anxious time. Here's an example of an average day's waking thoughts:

1) Shit, I need to address that work thing, that thing where that guy's asking for that thing that's not really a thing, but I have to convince him it's not a thing, and that's the thing. 

2) The world is burning up (except for Yellowstone, site of Noah's Ark II).

3) Democracy is doomed because Orange Ass Face is going to run again and win.

4) My kids are out there somewhere, completely defenseless and unprotected (by me). Because of this, something terrible could, and probably will, happen.

5) COVID is mutating again, and it's coming back with wings, hooves, teeth and a spinal column.

6) My arches are cramping and there's not quite enough milk left for the proper Grape Nuts to milk ratio. 

Therefore, I'm screwed and nothing's ever going to be okay—ever, ever again.

So yeah, that's my typical morning medley of horrors. But here's the good news: it doesn't have to take an answer ending in "_anax" to put out this fire. In fact, it can be as simple as devoting just an additional smidge of thought to each worry and formulating a reasonable, factual response.

1) Yes, I do have to figure out that thing, but I will, the same way I have been for the past 30 years. In fact, chances are that I won't even remember the thing a couple of days from now.

2) It's true, and it's frightening. But I can only do what's in my control, like recycling, composting and taking my styrofoam to the forest rather than burning it.

3) This is also a terrifying thought, and one that isn't going away. But worrying about it and/or demonizing the "other side" won't change a thing. As convoluted as their thinking may seem, it's based in fear the same way mine is.

4) Step off, old man. The kids are fine. 

5) Perhaps, but at least it'll be more challenging for it to enter my nasal lining. Plus, I'll be able to use a baseball bat against it instead of a mask.

6) I'll stretch out my arches and heat up last night's spaghetti. Mmm...last night's spaghetti.

See? Not hard at all, and it normally keeps those issues from lingering like a banana peel in a tube top. For most of us, anxiety isn't something we can eliminate from our lives, but like the dinosaurs of Jurassic World, maybe we can learn to co-exist with those emotional velociraptors.

Shock Doesn't Make an Appearance Anymore.

I've always had challenges labeling my emotions, especially the subtler, more nuanced feelings. Titles like aggravation, anticipation, envy and amusement are not easily accessible on my emotional bookshelf, so I've been working on that. I try to be mindful in anxious situations, to think about what I'm thinking about prior to allowing myself to escalate into that popular loop of fear, anger and shame. Despite those efforts the cycle is triggered every time a mass shooting occurs. 

Fear predictably floods in first. Thoughts of my family. Could this could happen at the elementary school where my wife teaches? Or at my daughter's college, or the high school where my other daughter coaches? 

I know the answer. The fear has a purity, a validity, now a familiarity. It's not the childish terror of an imaginary bogie man who enters when the lights go out. It's the fear of a real one who bursts in and destroys the world a little before noon on a Tuesday. 

As I lie in bed, I think about people like Ted Cruz and Greg Abbott. I wonder how they can live with themselves and what are they thinking about right now. Do they actually believe what they say or is it an act?  I conclude that Ted does believe it because he's a narcissistic douchebag with no conscience. Now it's anger's turn, time for dark sentiments to bury the fear. 

Finally, all that's left is the shame. We're all pretty good at that one, right? It's something we bestow on ourselves and each other with such regularity. In this case, we will share it, again.