When a song captures you and demands ransom.

I've been getting more into hockey lately. Seattle is due to get a National Hockey League team in 2020, which is pretty exciting, and currently we're in the midst of a riveting Stanley Cup series between the Boston Bruins and St. Louis Blues.

By the way, did you know that the 1917 Seattle Metropolitans are the first U.S.-based hockey squad to win Lord Stanley's silver chalice? It's true—they defeated the Montreal Canadians 3-1. It all went down in an era prior to air travel or antibiotics, yet only three short years prior to the birth of America's premier cannabis-inspired confection: the Hostess Ho-Ho.

The Blues are the sentimental favorite to take home the cup. It's their first trip to the finals since 1970, and they're the longest-living NHL franchise to have never won it. Just to cement this year's team even further into its underdog legend, St. Louis was dead last in early January. And I don't mean dead last in their division, I'm talking a basement residence in the entire 31-team league!

During those dark winter days, a small group of Blues players discovered over beers their mutual adoration for a song that went platinum in 1982 and stayed in the Billboard Top 100 for 36 weeks: "Gloria" by Laura Branigan. Familiar with it? If not, here it is in all its lip-synced gloria:



After a come-from-behind win over the Florida Panthers, one of the boys decided to blast the hyper-catchy tune in the Blues locker room and the team went crazy. After that, it could be heard following wins in Tampa Bay and Nashville, and before you could say "towel snap," a tradition was born. Now, with every victory that propels the team closer to the holy grail, you can count on the catchy number being belted out everywhere from the club locker room to the Angry Beaver sports bar at Gratiot and South Broadway.

Okay, I love "Gloria," I really do. In fact, I dug that song so much in college that I bought her whole cassette. Must have cost at least eight bucks.

But holy shit, during my half-century plus on the big blue marble, no greater melody exists that can establish residence in my posterior grey matter and take out a 30-year fixed. It's consumed entire fortnights in my brain. Sweet lord, how many mornings have I awakened only to find Gloria still lying beside me, telling me she'll be happy to serenade me while I get up and pee.

Before you continue with this list of my top ten song-worm-inducing ditties, I must warn you, any one of these may trigger hours-long loops in your own mind. Please read with caution. I would encourage you to follow up with a cleansing rendition of "Happy Birthday," then proceed with your day, tune-tumor-free.

10) "Afternoon Delight":



Whether performed by Will Ferrell or Starland Vocal Band, good luck purging this little nasty from your constitution.

9) "Wheels on the Bus": I don't think we need a video for this, do we? I can remember coming up with so many ludicrous contents on that GD bus just trying to keep my toddler from falling asleep in the car so she could take a proper nap at home. I'm not aware of any official lyrics past the first verse.

8) "Living on a Prayer":



Sure, it's a good song, and gee whiz, isn't that JBJ just the cutest little wookie you've ever seen? For Pete's sake, don't you just want to tuck them all in and tweak their shiny little noses? Yeah, I don't after spending a good long weekend living and living and living on a prayer.

7) "Lightning Crashes":



This is the lone song that I don't grow tired of, just because it brings back such powerful memories of when my first daughter was born. It was on the radio and MTV constantly during that spring of 1995, and it became the soundtrack of the most profound life-change I'd ever experienced.

6) "My Mommy's Coming Back (She Always Comes Back)": And so did this evil song. Chances are that you haven't heard it, so count yourself lucky. It's the demonic polar opposite of of "Lightning Crashes," encouraging small children not to despair when they're hastily dumped off at daycare. It'll stick with you like a dynamically-fed programmatic online ad.

5) "Umbrella":



Hella, hella, hella, hella, annoying!

4) "Don't Stop Believin'": Streetlights, people, oh noooooooo!

3) "Time to Change":



Okay, this was most definitely a wonderful way to make a pubescent Peter feel included, but no amount of go-go boots and hippie fringe can compensate for this rhythmically-deficient gaggle of honky tots.

2) "It's a Small World After All": Wait, never mind, this is just too cruel to even mention by name. Oh, too late? Sorry.

1) "Total Eclipse of the Heart":



Turn around, bright eyes. Every now and then I want to gouge my eyes out with a Craftsman® brand screwdriver. Nothing I can do.

Wow, congratulations! You made it through this ten-part minefield of musical torment. If I were you, I'd read a magazine or something.

The Top 11 Podcasts of All Time... ish

I got hooked on audio stories back in the '70s. During summer family road trips down I-90 to visit my grandma in Yakima, my dad would pop old 1940s radio serials into the post-production cassette player of our '76 Ford Granada.

Throughout these three-hour odysseys into the moonscape of eastern Washington, they were the only distraction from the triple-digit heat inside our un-air-conditioned, V-8 Family Truckster. While rolling down the windows may have seemed sensible, each broiling gust of desert fury only leeched the moisture more quickly from my concave, blistering nooks. Before long, hallucinations would ensue—maybe an overturned Mr. Pibb truck would materialize on the horizon, perhaps my brother would suddenly leap from the car and leave his stack of MAD magazines, thereby fulfilling my most scandalous of childhood wishes.

My dad had, and still has, a massive collection of old radio shows, so there was always an episode of The Shadow or Green Hornet or The Inner Sanctum to while away the time on any car trip longer than twelve minutes. They served as my first foray into the theater of the mind, engaging my brain at a deeper level and forcing me to paint the scenery internally.

It was a novel approach since, as a child of the TV generation, I already had a solid visual of what a superhero looked like:



As well as an arch villain:



But it was on these marathon car drives that I came to realize—audio storytelling could manufacture worlds that television and movies never could. Listening to an episode of Suspense, I'd find myself in a pitch-dark room as my pursuer's footsteps grew louder. I could smell his presence, could feel the clammy blasts of his maniacal panting.

Or, I could flip on our 19-inch, black and white Zenith and convince myself that Captain Kirk wasn't actually just fighting some dude wearing nothing but an athletic supporter and sixteen pounds of paper-mâché. Hello, Starship Enterprise? Barney called and said his grandpa wandered off again.



Due to the inherent 2D nature of TV, it's no surprise that audio storytelling has never completely disappeared since television invaded the scene 60 years ago. And now, with the proliferation of the podcasting platform, the demand for audible yarn spinnin' is healthier than ever. Over 700,000 podcast titles exist today, featuring more than 29 million episodes.

By the way, how long are we going to keep calling them "podcasts"? Does anyone actually still own an iPod? I guess we can add it to the growing list of antiquated terms. In other words, I don't want to sound like a broken record, so stay tuned.

A few popular NPR offerings predate podcasting by almost a decade, such as This American Life and StoryCorps. These broadcasts greased the skids for modern podcasting, proving that good storytelling isn't just about entertainment, it's about the human connection that occurs as a result. They helped illustrate that we don't want stories, we actually need them.

Anyway, after having resided nearly full-time in in Podlandia for the past couple of years, I'm excited to share some of my discoveries with you. You'll notice a decisive true-crime bent to this list, so if you're looking for gardening ideas or advice on how to hem your chihuahua's True Religion jorts, you may need to perpetrate your quest elsewhere. Without further blathering, here are my top ten podcasts:



11) The Dropout Elizabeth Holmes was the wiz kid founder of biotech company known as Theranos. She was the youngest self-made female billionaire in history and appeared to be on her way to revolutionizing the healthcare industry with one incredible invention. All of the necessary elements for a bestselling novel are front and center in this six-part series: money, lies, tragedy and a really strange thing that happened to Holmes' voice during her ascent, as told by people who'd known her before.



10) Over My Dead Body, Season 1 This nine-episode offering frustratingly illustrates how power and privilege can completely unhinge a murder investigation. You'll want to dislike the state of Florida more than you already do, which I know is impossible.



9) Slow Burn: Season 2: The Impeachment of Bill Clinton You may think you know the entire arc of the Clinton/Lewinski scandal of the mid-1990s, and I don't want to say you'd be wrong. You just wouldn't be right. In an era when relentless victim-shaming was overlooked in the face of national prosperity, even the most ardent of Clinton supporters may finally notice the big, ropy stain on his presidency.



8) WTF with Marc Maron: Episode 613: Barack Obama Marc Maron is one of the O.G. podcast pioneers. Since 2009, the stand-up comedian has hosted a cavalcade of celebrities in his makeshift Los Angeles garage studio. Episode 613 takes place during the middle of Obama's second term, when POTUS decides to drop by while in town. The interview provides a bittersweet time capsule of a far more serene period when the grown-ups were in charge.



7) Monster: Season 2: The Zodiac Killer One of our country's most notorious sprees of unsolved murders, the Zodiac killings proved supremely aggravating due to the criminal's mysterious cyphers and coded letters with which he taunted newspapers and law enforcement. I mean, not only was he a bad guy, he was also kind of a dick. Plus, the show is narrated by a guy named Payne Lindsey, which sounds like either a law firm or a promising WWE nemesis.



6) Sword and Scale While this show doesn't completely cross the line, it straddles it hard. And unless you're prepared to listen to the details of some of the most horrific crimes ever committed (and as luck would have it, I am), you'll want to give this one a high five and move on. If you dare linger, however, I would recommend Episode 33: Luka Magnotta, the tale of a man whose quest for social media celebrity turned him into one sick puppy. Oh, and a quick tip—make sure you haven't eaten any type of food for an hour or so prior to listening. Also, you probably won't want to eat for a while afterwards or visualize food or food substitutes.

A close second is Episode 79: The Craigslist Killer, where the de facto crime takes a backseat to the profound incompetence of a perpetrator who thought he was smarter than the cops. Most of the episode is filled with actual police interrogations where you bear witness to the step-by-step dismantling of a killer and his alibi. You won't be disappointed.



5) KNKX Sound Effect Okay, sure. I've told stories twice on Sound Effect (How A Dreaded Swimming Class Changed A 10 Year Old Boy's Life and How A Horrific Accident Tested A Young Man’s Resilience), but shameless plugs aside, it's a fascinating forum for showcasing local Seattle stories.



4) I, Survivor, Season 1 Co-hosted by two survivors of sexual assault, Jenna Brister and Wagatwe Wanjuki, each installment tells the story of someone who suffered severe trauma and how they dealt with it, both during and after the event. My favorite episode is Episode 3, entitled, Not today, møtherfucker, where a female jogger faces her worst nightmare at a seemingly innocuous public restroom. Please listen to this one.

3) True Crime All the Time: This one is a guilty pleasure. It's hosted by two guys in Ohio named Mike and Gibby. Their chemistry is something you can only experience listening two best friends talk about horrific crimes while intermittently slamming each other and making up stories about past youthful glory.  In my opinion, the gold standard is Episodes 100, 101: Ed Kemper. Again, it's probably not a good idea to heat up a double-pepperoni Hot Pocket prior to listening to it. Your delicious, savory pastry would be forever tattooed by a serial killer's twisted approach to mother/son relationships.

If you have a little spare time, listen to Episode 97, Drew Peterson. Sure, he was a total asshole/killer, but more importantly, at the end of the show, Mike and Gibby play a voicemail I left about growing up in Seattle during the Ted Bundy and Green River Killer rampages. Attention whooer am I? perhaps.



2) Armchair Expert with Dax Shepard Many of us recognize Shepard from shows such as Punk'd and Parenthood. Based on the roles he plays, he may seem like sort of a shallow, redneck lunkhead, but you'd be doing yourself a disservice not listening to the podcast he runs out of his garage attic. He touches on his struggles with addiction, self-esteem and dyslexia in such a candid way and with such great humor, it's impossible to not like the guy.

Notable episodes include Episode 1: Kirsten Bell (also his wife), Episode 12: Katie Couric (I didn't think I could love her any more than I already did, but as it turns out, I could), and Episode 57: Conan O'Brien (another dude whose amazing wit and personality came at a cost).

1) Heavyweight This one is my favorite. Jonathan Goldstein, formerly of This American Life, connects with people who have unresolved issues in their lives. Usually it's nothing huge, just a misunderstanding that happened in high school or a friend who suddenly dropped off the face of the earth. Goldstein finds a way to provide closure to these situations by bringing people together, often with hilarious, heart wrenching results. They're all really good, but the cream of the crop is Episode 16: Rob and Episode 21: Rachel.

If you've never listened to a podcast, they're usually the perfect duration a morning/evening commute, a robust dose of yard work or any 47-minute span you'd otherwise spend staring at your cat. Also, keep in mind that there are some pretty bad ones—either they've got poor audio quality or are just downright boring—so it feels great to run across one that really hits home. Hope you enjoy this list, and please send along your recommendations!

Who's Ready For Some Good News?

It's usually difficult for me to pinpoint where my nightmares begin. They tend to creep up slowly, sprouting from an innocuous, pastoral plot and slowly morphing into a sweaty, cortisol-soaked paralysis. Eventually, the horror overtakes me, and I jerk awake, terrified yet grateful that some faceless phantasm hasn't successfully pursued me into the world of the living.

There's one nightmare, though—a waking one—whose genesis is embedded with certainty in the forefront of my memory. It was around midnight, November 8, 2016, when reality materialized and the first projections rolled in. And with them entered the incubus whose face we knew all too well.

For a lot of us, it's been a rough two-plus years since the election. And good news has been as scarce as a cat in a bubble bath since that somber January day when a self-indulgent ass bastard planted his chafing woolen rump behind the Resolute Desk. Never in my life have I felt so sorry for a chair.

There have been a few bright spots—John McCain's dramatic, eleventh-hour thumbs-down that preserved the Affordable Care Act, a landslide congressional referendum for women and non-white candidates in 2018—but overall...meh. It's been too much like the '88 Orioles who started out 0-21 or any TV show with Billy Ray Cyrus: just way too much shitiness.

So real quick, here's a nice picture of a puppy:



And a joke I made up on the bus this morning:

Q: What's the difference between Trump and a huge mountain of shit?
A: The huge mountain of shit can grow unlimited toadstools.

Okay, sorry, but back to reality. We witness time and again that hope is the single, most powerful human quality. It allows us to survive against seemingly insurmountable odds (Well, hope and duct tape—see Apollo 13). But this week, with the release of the Mueller report and its inconclusive conclusions, my hope-o-meter is as f*cked up as that contraption the Scientologists use.

It was like coming into the living room on Christmas morning, seeing all the beautifully-wrapped presents under the tree and opening them to reveal the socks you wore last Tuesday and your basketball that's finally back in the house after being on the roof since August. Just a big old goose egg.

But before going further down the abyss, it's time for another made-up joke:

Q: What do you get when you cross Donny Trump, Jr. with Betsy DeVos?
 A: An evil dumb-ass who tried to use his school voucher to get out of third-period long division class.

From what I understand, according to Mueller, Trump attempted to obstruct justice but since no one carried out his orders, no crime occurred. On its face, this makes no sense. If you hire an undercover cop posing as a hitman to kill your sister's brother, that's a felonious solicitation even though the act is never carried out. What's the freaking difference between that and what the orange butt smudge tried to do?

I know that more can come from Mueller's findings, like lots and lots of congressional hearings and even more tantalizing headlines, but really, the simplest way to end this colossal shitshow is at the ballots. Even if we could somehow manage to sever the Trump arm from this diabolic starfish, a new Pence appendage would just spring from its rotting stump.

Oh, and speaking of Pence, how about one last joke?

Q: Why does Pence call his wife "Mother"?
A: Because she is.

It's not good form to live in the past, and even worse to dwell in the future, but in this case, 2020 can't get here soon enough.

Self-esteem is not for losers.

I've been a graphic designer for nearly thirty years now. And while this work can be extremely satisfying, it's an arena where my personal decisions about font size, color and design are critiqued incessantly and the absence of feedback can be interpreted as a gleaming endorsement. Not a lot of rosy talk in this business.

The thing is, having grown up a portly, buck-toothed child of the Seventies, creative pursuits wouldn't seem to be a smart career choice given the fact that self-confidence didn't exactly ooze from my pores. In fact, I can remember giving myself two options for this second-grade head shot: either apply a thick coat of pancake makeup to mute the blinding shimmer of my elephantine incisors or stretch my top lip down over them and risk future profound nasolabial integrity. I apparently chose the latter:

So, yeah, the foundations of my self-esteem weren't quite anchored in the sturdiest of compost. 

Why then, after finally finding peace with the give and take of the creative process, would I pursue yet another endeavor prone to minimal success rates and chronic disappointment? Why in the name of Bonnie Tyler would I hazard a total eclipse of the heart by taking up middle grade novel writing?

F#ck if I know. 

They say it's about the journey anyway, yes? Writing should be enjoyable whether I reach my destination of a published novel, or not. The process is fun for sure, but after receiving my ninth full manuscript rejection this morning, I've circled back to the simple, four-word answer in the previous paragraph to explain why I'm subjecting myself to this nonsense.

My emotions and self-talk upon receiving rejections have become comfortably predictable: I'm not good enough. I'm not talented enough. I don't work hard enough. The subject matter and plot arc aren't compelling enough. Then comes the name calling: I'm a hack, a failure, a waster of the most important of human assets—time.

This pity party for one lasted a good half an hour this morning, until I berated myself with another colorful moniker and forced my brain to break free of this familiar, toxic cycle. Googling the simple phrase, how to improve self-esteem, I landed on a post written by a guy in Sweden named Henrik Edberg on his Positivity Blog, entitled, "How to improve your self-esteem: 12 powerful tips". I know there's no God in Google, but, hell, almost.

This guy Henrik doesn't know how much he helped a dude half a world away. Following are a few of his tips for taking your inner self-worth demons by the short hairs and tossing them to the wind like a freeway Marlboro butt. He lists twelve, but I'm only including my favorites.

Say stop to your inner critic. Literally, you should say the word "stop" to yourself and think of something else, like how many more days until the next season of A Handmaid's Tale.

Take a two-minute self-appreciation break. Hard not to think of Stuart Smalley from SNL here ("I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me."), but listing a few of your best qualities does fend off those beasts of doubt.

Do the right thing. It can be something small, like going to the gym or not judging people. I'll start with the gym; the other one is a bit unreasonable.

Handle mistakes and failures in a more positive way. Wait, what? I'd always thought that duct taping two Olde English 40s to my wrists and draining them before allowing myself the use of my hands seemed like a sensible option.

Be kinder towards other people. That's cool. Just depends on which people.

Stop falling into the comparison trap. As Stuart Smalley once said, "You're should-ing all over yourself." Seriously, with the prevalence of idyllic lifestyles and personal branding in today's social media, comparing myself to that dude from junior with a jet ski and sweet place on Lake Tapps is just plain unhealthy. I'll never be him or own his ferret pelt collection, so why try.

Spend more time with supportive people (and less time with destructive people). Got it. No more hanging out with my kids. JK. 

As I said earlier, there's a lot more to Mr. Edberg's advice, so I would definitely recommend his blog if you struggle like I do with self-esteem issues. And while those are some great tips, what's even nicer is having a place to talk about this stuff, so thanks.

A Message to Twenty White Guys.

I'm back. Apparently, in July of 2017, after I'd posted an essay about depression, I made the unconscious decision to peace-out for a year and a half. Go figure.

I suppose I could make excuses for not writing in so long, and so I will:

1) I'd run out of stories. The daughters are grown up. No more,"Oops, my butt crack was showing while hanging the Christmas lights in front of the kids" moments.

2) Podcasts and Netflix have made me into their bitch and I'm on their schedule.

3) Having Trump and all his peripheral punks in power has been a nightmare and I didn't possess the gumption to comment on him. After all, he's hard to even think about. One thing I've learned from researching true crime during this 18-month hiatus, is that most psychopaths are either highly intelligent or thicker than a mud pie blizzard. Small hands down, Donald's the latter.

And even when Bush was president, I knew that those he surrounded himself with, while evil, were at least intelligent and capable of keeping the federal government functioning at a C-/D+ level. At least the wars we fought were for corporate greed and neo-colonialism, not naming rights.

To me, it's just so sad that people like this guy, because painfully, a lot of those people are guys my age and my ethnicity. Okay, let's face it, I know a lot of these guys. Some I grew up with, a lot I went to high school and college with. Others are relatives, old teachers, childhood neighbors.

A couple of years ago, I swore off writing about politics on Facebook. My last post was pretty inflammatory; I suggested that those who support Trump should just stop and think of their children. Naturally, people weighed in, but then it just kept going, and going, and soon, a woman from my work was arguing with a guy from my high school. The whole stream didn't trickle away until three weeks later, and at that point I resolved to only post to stuff like #throwbackthursday or #chillymoobsmonday.

But even now, the political modus operandi thrives on the FB. Today as I scroll down the first ten posts of my newsfeed, five are personal photos, two are liberal bromides, one is a relatable statement about getting old, one's a conservative meme with Trump dropping some knowledge on Obama, and number ten is an anti-vax message. Wow, that's a Facebook diet of forty percent provocaburgers with cheese.

I decided to delve a little further into the habits of my neighbors in the quasi-anonymous village of Zuckerburgh. I wanted to learn who pipes up most, and about what. You probably won't be surprised to learn that the outspeakers make up a fairly small group.

First some numbers. Out of my 425 Facebook friends:

1) 260 are women, 165 are men.

2) 155 are people with whom I attended high school or earlier. 25 I met in college and 112 are folks I came to know in the employment world.

3) Over the past week, I tabulated which friends posted images or statements that were political in nature. Six women imparted lefty wisdom while six women spouted things extolling President Hairhat. That's a wash, but here's where the scales tipped—20 different men posted conservative or right-leaning messages, compared to only five guys from the liberal side.

Wow, that's four angry, conservative, white males for every angry, liberal male in my Facebook friendiverse. That's a little scary, and pretty darn ironic since they're currently enjoying an unprecedented spike in male empowerment during this administration.

Even so, here's a sample of what my Euro-American brethren put up on the old town bulletin board over this past week:

She's obviously the most powerful politician in the history of America. Looking forward to the next six weeks!

True. Congressional hearings are such a distraction. I'm still pissed that I couldn't watch All My Children because of all that Watergate bullshit.

And let's not diminish the racist angle that my dudes seem to enthusiastically promote:

Awesome, guys. So well executed in terms of slurs per pixel.

I also never realized that the scientific method can be tainted by leftist doctrine:

I remember when my kids were born, we made sure there weren't any climate scientists in the room to tell us our babies' genders. Dudes are worthless.

There were so many more of these from the past four or five days; the folder I started contains 32. 32! And that doesn't include the vast number of likes that these 20 white guys sprinkled on other postings for which they felt a spirit of simpatico. 

Here's the thing: this is a group of men I like, a lot. I really do. I love the common threads we have, especially as I sit here staring down my 57th birthday. Our technological sensibilities tend to match; we're not Snapchatters or Tweeters, we grew up with rotary phones, drank out of the garden hose...

I'll skip the rest, just look up the meme. I guess my message to these twenty American men is this: First, don't be racist. You might think it's funny, but it isn't. Second, you'll never convert anyone, not a soul, so why try? And third, post more pictures of yourself, your families, funny stories from days of yore. 

Oh, and fourth, for God's sake, no one is coming to take your goddamned guns.

Depression isn't logical, but it's real.

I haven't posted anything for a while. Today, though, in the wake of yet another notable suicide, I feel compelled to share something that's... well... about as personal as it gets.

I didn't know Chester Bennington. I didn't know Chris Cornell or Kurt Cobain either, so I can't fathom the anguish their deaths inflicted on family and friends who did know and love them. Even so, their music provided such joy for so many, including this random fan in the upper left corner of the country, each of their losses packed quite a wallop. It's a sensation that approximates the dull ache of a gut punch, one that diminishes over time but never completely dissipates.

On the surface it's puzzling, bordering even on the absurd, that these gifted artists in their creative primes would choose to end their lives at their own hands. Such acts of self-destruction, to the outside observer, defy logic. These men seemingly had it all: loving families, adoring fans, wealth, fame and unfathomable talent. Further, we're taught that our very existence has always hinged on the strongest of human instincts—survival.

Yet still it happens time and again, to rich and poor, to famous and anonymous.

I suffer from depression. I'm sure I've had it my whole life, but I really wasn't conscious of it until my twenties, when I finally was able to label my emotions with a modicum of maturity. The thing is, it really does fly in the face of reason for those who haven't experienced it, so it's very difficult to convey in words. But I'll give it a try.

Depression comes on slowly, like a thick, damp fog rolling in from the horizon. Once it hits shore, you're enveloped in it. The world transforms to tinted shades of dull brown sepia. Ordinary tasks seem insurmountable, especially when the alarm clock signals the promise of a day filled with them. You tell yourself to snap out of it, but you know that's foolish. Minutes, sometimes hours, creep along on the brink of tears. Respites of emotional optimism surface in uneven intervals, yet the certainty of despair is never far away. In simpler terms, depression is toxic combination of helplessness and hopelessness.

Have I ever considered suicide? No, but that doesn't mean that at various times I didn't believe life was pointless. I'd try to count my blessings—my wife and daughters, a comfortable life in a beautiful part of the world, a career I loved—but the fog wasn't about to lift by sheer force of will.

Finally, I got help. Depression isn't curable, but it is manageable. It's not a weakness or a character flaw, but it's a condition that requires continued care and vigilance, and it only took me 55 years to begin figuring out how to deal with it:

1) Don't ignore it. Healthy distractions can be useful short-term tools, but try hard to not gloss it over. You might not like how it manifests itself due to your inattention.

2) Don't self-medicate. You might alter your consciousness after four IPAs, but trust me, things will be that much worse in the morning, when you wake up depressed, dehydrated and craving three breakfast burritos.

3) Talk to someone, anyone. It's so much better than keeping it bottled up, and when another person is aware of your situation, you're more likely to seek professional help. It's like having a workout partner.

4) If you're uncomfortable talking about it, write down your thoughts and feelings in a journal. You'll be amazed how much it helps.

5) Talk to your doctor. He or she can provide a wealth of options, both pharmaceutical and not.

6) If you aren't prone to depression, pay attention to friends and loved ones who present symptoms of it—lethargy, moodiness, loss of appetite, increase in appetite, sleeplessness, oversleeping—just things that aren't typical of the person you thought you knew so well.

I'm not a psychiatrist, psychologist or social worker, but I know enough about depression to understand that I should withhold judgment about people who take their own lives. Their struggle is real and it defies logic, which is why it's up to all of us to help prevent it.

Thanks for listening.

Johnson and Johnson.

Bless his heart... and... all other organs that aren't clearly visible.

I'll call him Burt. He's an older guy; looks to be in great shape, like he's led an athletic lifestyle since before I was born. The two of us have been cohabiting the Y locker room on an early-morning basis for the past few months.

Up until a couple of weeks ago, Burt had faithfully regaled a different patron of the cramped men's quarters, his raconteuring prowess something I'd passively processed with minimal attention. But when his main listener stopped showing up, Burt's extroverted demeanor required only seconds to view its options and realize I was the only other dude in the locker room for him to talk to. Obviously undeterred, he promptly introduced himself and has been supplying me with his lanky yarns ever since.

As you can imagine, it's not easy to be at your target emotional and physical plane at six in the morning, which is cool since all I usually have to to is listen to him and nod. Speaking with calculated nonchalance about his DEA agent son-in-law or brother with a PhD from MIT or friend who randomly encountered Frank Sinatra in Palm Springs and ended up spending the entire day with him, Burt waxes on the daily abut his life's journey and the many fascinating individuals who've orbited his world. So don't get me wrong—Burt's a treasure, really, and what I'm about to tell you is my problem, not his, so I'll cut to the chase.

He seems to like to talk to me most when we're both naked. I wouldn't say he waits for it, but, well... After having spent my adult life in and out of YMCA locker rooms and getting to nakedly know several fellows, it didn't take long to learn one of the cardinal rules: When having a conversation with someone, all talking ends when your last article of clothing comes off so that you might move unencumbered into the shower. Why? Let's just say that assuming the role of stationery naked man presents profound challenges, where constant motion is as critical to the nude male as swimming is to the shark.

Standing still presents an alarming risk of contracting the scurrilous Italian malady, "Roman eyes." An errant, split-second glance is all it takes to tell the other person, "I'll finish hearing your story, but I'm gonna need to check out Little Anthony and the Imperials real quick. Okay, go ahead, I'm listening now."

In other words, dudes tend to do anything to avoid the dreaded "lookdown," which brings me back to Burt. The other day, just as I stepped past the scale, mere inches from the shower area's relative shelter, he suddenly blurted, "One day I was drying off in the locker room of a Jack LaLane gym in San Jose, I want to say around 1963. Well, wouldn't you know it, a goddamn woman came right in there and started talking to me."

My fears realized, I stood motionless. I had no idea what to do with my hands—no pockets, no towel to hold—all I could think to do was put my hands on my hips like a humbled pink superhero. I felt my peripheral vision surveying naked Burt as he demonstrated how he was standing, one foot on the bench and the other planted on the floor. as the lady entered the room. "It was like we were both at the grocery store or something,. She didn't even blink," he said.

It felt as if my chin had grown two eyeballs that were focused on nothing but Burt's balls and the hanging hypotenuse that bisected his bold stance. Thankfully, the clouds briefly parted and a line came to me straight from the pages of The Towel-Snapper's Guide to Locker Room Clichés.

"Did she laugh and point?" Good one, I thought. Put Burt on the defensive so you can make a quick exit.

It took Burt a second to get it, but when he did, he began laughing so boisterously that his belly shook, which in turn made a few things start rhythmically nodding and bobbing. That's when I'm convinced I lost focus and surrendered my gaze to Burt's single-act puppet show.

Attempting to avoid further embarrassment, I interpreted his prolonged laughter as a signal to continue into the relative haven of the shower area and maybe just hang out until he was dressed and gone.

As I said, Burt is a great guy who tells wonderful stories and obviously doesn't clutter his life with superficial hangups (hangdowns?). as I do. Maybe someday I'll be as comfortable in my air-dried skin as he, but until I arrive there...

... I'll need to keep moving.