Logic in the Time of COVID.

Who doesn't love a good conspiracy theory? I know I do.

Or did, anyway. The JFK assassination has to be one of the classics. It alone has more angles than a presidential comb-over: the CIA did it, the mob, LBJ— even Woody Harrelson's dad's been thrown into the mix.

Historically, conspiracy theories have covered the spectrum of deceit and collusion, from simple, self-serving schemes (Jim Morrison faked his death) to intricately-planned, elaborate capers encompassing the deepest corners of government and society (Lou Reed was killed by Lady Gaga).

There's Area 51, quirky and benign member of the Conspiracy All-Star Squad since the mid-20th Century. Or the Illuminati, with its ancient and über-secretive roster of influence, currently boasting such A-listers as Beyoncé, Jay Z, Madonna and Lindsay Lohan (Wait, how is Lohan still a member? Freaky Friday was her last good movie, and it was far before her Botox and Four Loko era.).

With the new millennium arose a docket of fresh, even more sinister theories. The 9-11 Truth movement claimed that the September 11 attacks were actually a controlled demolition orchestrated by the U.S. government, meant to incite war in the Middle East and seize control of the petroleum industry.

In short order, with the election of our first non-white president, came the "birther" movement, where a healthy smattering of Americans maintained that Barack Obama was born in Kenya. According to their purview, only a deviously well-oiled plot could secure his ascension to commander-in-chief, and that's precisely what went down.

Oh, and remember who really latched onto that one? A quick hint—his name rhymes with his daily activity between 2:00 and 2:17—that's right, a McDonalds Dump. Yeah, him. And he's taken the whole conspiracy playbook to a level not seen since Milli met Vanilli. The difference is, this time people are dying.

Why do we gravitate toward conspiracies? And how have some of us devolved into these people who view even the most basic truths through a lens of skepticism and distrust? Surely, a single man can't be responsible for this, right? Well, as the guy himself has been known to bark: "Wronnnng!"

In my opinion, the only way a leader can convince his followers to dispute science is to take a sharp right and go after the scientists themselves. If a mask of conspiracy can be strapped to Dr. Fauci's substantial, yet handsome, ears, then all bets are off. What if he truly is a Deep State operative who's been embedded to sabotage the president's chances for re-election?

That's exactly what's going on, according to Alex Jones, a cuddly right-wing conspiracy theorist and YouTube deity, who's also puked out that no one died at Sandy Hook and students who survived the Stoneman Douglas shooting were paid "crisis actors." Crisis actors? I wonder where that would fall on the pay scale in relation to porn acting. Bet some of the lucky ones do both porn and crises.

I just find it really arrogant for someone to claim that they and a few other enlightened souls have the goods, that all this overwhelming scientific evidence is bullshit and they're going to go ahead and opt for the opinion of the social media douchebag who talks like a pro wrestler. How miserable it must be to believe the stuff this guy's schtick, to wake up every morning convinced that faceless zombies in black SWAT gear could bust down the door at any moment.

Let's be real; have high-level conspiracies transpired throughout our history? Of course; look no further than Watergate, Iran Contra or Apollo 11 (Watch the movie Capricorn One and it'll all make sense).

This isn't one of them. We're all doing the best we can right now, and that includes our doctors, scientists, governors and mayors. It sucks when a plague becomes political.

Can't Wait to Hug You.

Well, hello. How are you holding up?

From where I sit here in this makeshift office, converted from a dining room that was previously converted from an office, we're about halfway into week six of, well, take your pick:

•  The 2020 Feel Sort of Cold All Day Festival, sponsored by the Lack of Movement movement.

•  A Vicious, Vegetative, Viral Vacation of Vain, brought to you by the AWSTDSICBTSTSIC (Assholes Who Said They Didn't See It Coming But Then Said They Saw It Coming) Foundation.

•  The First Annual Stop It, You Damn Fool. There's Not a Chance in Hell That You're Hungry Because Twelve Minutes Ago You Ate a Small Ham with Half a Box of Chicken in a Biskit and a Coffee Mug Full of Sweet Baby Ray's Marathon.

•  The Eczema Project. To prove they never really went away, the Beatles have again burst onto the scene with the unofficial theme song of this under-hydrated season: I Want to Hold Your Hand (Sanitizer). Makes my old heart crack and bleed, harkening back to times both simpler and moister.

Since this all started, it seems we've been living through a bizarre confluence of eerie, bored calmness and a gut-churning, sleep-thwarting anxiety about our future. For the first time that I can remember during my 57 years, never has such uncertainty hovered over tomorrow, let alone next week or next month. Only September 11 seems an example of a new reality capable of sinking its talons into us, virtually overnight.

Oh, and speaking of "virtually," this also marks my sixth week of working from home. In the midst of America's economic collapse, I count myself so lucky to still have gainful employment. Furloughs and layoffs rampant as they are, so many surviving occupations have become either monumentally challenging (i.e. teaching small children) or of profound peril to life and limb (healthcare and essential service workers). History will mark these ordinary groups of people as the heart that sustained and delivered us during the age of COVID-19.

Okay, enough of that hero stuff, right? Let's give you a little snapshot of a typical day for Joe Ordinary, low-impact corporate employee. I know you're more motivated than a Trump with the new May Hustler to learn about my WFH routine, so here's a little time-lapse exposition of an average morning, complete with numeric descriptions:

Figure 1) As I sit down to begin my day, I smile at the thought of working for a first-class company. I also say a little prayer asking God to plant little clothes-buying seeds in America's collective consciousness, at least those who have the privilege of caring about buying clothes right now.

Figure 2) Forgot to take a second pee before settling in! Curses!

Figure 3) Ahhh, peed.

Figure 4) Nothing jumpstarts my morning like a hot cup of my friend Larry's Kabaty Coffee. One sip and you'll tell the green mermaid to put down her damn tail and get off your property.

Figure 5) Hmm, what's going on in the news?

Figure 6) I can't believe how rude those reporters are! Why the hell should a president of the United States be challenged on his lies! At length, my anger subsides, and I again petition my maker, thanking him for creating Fox News—last bastion of druther-based factualism.

And that's just my morning.

I probably shouldn't say this, especially considering my standing as a representative of the fashion industry, but not all of those pictures were taken on the same day. And since we're on the subject of wardrobe, I recently ran into this lonely figure in the spare bedroom:

I'm told it was referred to as a belt, meant for holding up non-elastic-based trousers.

Hmm, doesn't ring a bell.

All this frivolity aside, I truly hope you're feeling decent and dealing with the anxiety in a healthy way. I speak from experience when I say that alcohol, during times like these, tends to treat us like that time when we were little and went to the Puyallup Fair with our parents. We spent all our money on rides during the first fifteen rapturous minutes and then endured the next three hours in the pavilion, regretful and sad as we got dragged through the quilts and jam.

Can't wait to hug you.

Weird Times. Take Care of Yourself.

How are you holding up? For lack of a better word, these times are interesting, aren't they?

Especially up here in the Seattle area. On Wednesday, to curb the spread of coronavirus COVID-19, the King County Department of Health advised businesses to allow "nonessential" employees to work from home. My company, based in the heart of Seattle's steadily-shrinking retail core, displayed a prudent abundance of caution, took the county's advice and told us not to grind our cootie-blooming carcasses against its freshly-disinfected door knobs until at least March 20.

Okay, sure, good call, but still I'm a feeling a little salty that creating cutting-edge digital advertising wouldn't be considered essential. There is such a thing as a fashion emergency, after all; it's freaking documented:

So here I am, working from home, aka WFH. Other commonly kicked-around corporatisms for this arrangement include IHD (It's Haircut Day), Riding Dirty (Remaining un-showered until... a little bit later) and SBCTLT (Shit, better check the laptop).

Just kidding, you all know my work ethic.

During times like these, I find that my fear of uncertainty can overwhelm the uncertainty itself, if that makes sense. My mind concocts scenarios far uglier than the actual events that eventually transpire.

Back around the time the hippie picture above was taken, I remember experiencing a sleepless night on the eve of a home inspection. Our house had been sold, and prior to closing they wanted this small window issue fixed. I took care of it myself, which of course immediately worried the shit out of me.

All night I churned out mental screenplays where the inspector berated me for the job I'd done, told me that now the house could never be sold and we'd all have to stay in that house and be miserable because we're having another baby in a few months and we'll all be crammed so close together that we'll hate each other and at least two of us will become homicidal and we'll never become a real family. Oh, and he was laughing.

It didn't quite turn out that way. The real inspector showed up holding a small dog, looked at the window for about five seconds and signed off on it without even putting down his Chihuahua. He wasn't laughing and he definitely had pants on. Sorry, that happened in one of the screenplays.

I'm trying to keep that mindset from seeping into my thoughts right now. Just because we don't know the true scale of events to come, it doesn't mean we should envision Armageddon as a given. Should we prepare ourselves? Of course.

Last Saturday, my wife and I assessed our current provisions. Living where we do, it doesn't hurt to have a small stockpile of canned and dried foods in the unfortunate event of an earthquake. Who wants to struggle a week without food, then desperately gnaw at the lifeless cadaver of Frank, your elderly next door neighbor who goes door to door during the holidays to dole out his world-famous mountain goat muffins? Wouldn't you just rather pop open a can of satisfying Chef Boyardee Beef-a-Roni and ignore Frank's body altogether?

That's what we figured back in 2012 when we took the girls to the grocery store to stock our emergency preparedness kid. In hindsight, it's creepy that we did that. What did we say to them? "Hey, kids, guess what? We're taking a trip to Safeway to buy stuff in case our house falls into the earth. Who wants Spaghetti-Os?"

Last weekend, after going online and discovering that even the most robust of canned food (low-acid products, such as meats and vegetables) can only hold out three to five years, I'd felt like I'd dodged a gastrointestinal grenade in not cluelessly devouring some honey baked beans from Obama's first term.

So we emptied out the old stuff:

Beautiful, yes? It has the makings of a hot dish to end all hot dishes. And while I don't specifically remember, if I were (pot)lucky at some point in the late '60s or early '70s, I scooped something similar to this ambrosia from a random slow cooker in the Messiah Lutheran Church fellowship hall.

Here's the replacement load, or part of it, anyway:

Since we were buying for a different demographic, the Boyardee factor gave way to slightly healthier choices. Still, canned food tends not to get that fancy; lots of salt and sugar, pretty much regardless of what you buy. And seriously, if things get that rough, I'll be breaking into the other shopping cart: the one filled with nothing but vodka and thoughts of happier times.

Please stay safe during this flu thing. We're all going to have to break some unhealthy habits in order to get a handle on this. I, for one, am willing to sacrifice, even if it means not kissing people good morning on the bus for a while.

Oh, and please stop buying toilet paper, because I'm sure you already have enough.

Take care of yourself.

Go Big! Go Austin!

I think this is my first empty-nest-themed travel post. Back in the old days, I attempted to diarize (I promise I won't use that word ever again) our family trips. There was Vegas, San Diego and camping on the Green River, to list a fistful of the chronicling exploits when our kids were the ages of unruly urchins who possessed magnetically-opposed fashion sensibilities.

And while a positive experience overall, traveling with tots will most assuredly involve heated disagreements, constant compromise, complaints of crippling hunger and periodic physical assaults among our young. At that point, the spousal eye contact is established and the nonverbal question is asked: was this worth it?

Oh, of course it was. But when you realize that that period of your life (bless its heart) has rapidly faded in the rear view, it takes a second to remember how care-free a two-person vacation can be. It's just two of you and by golly, you're both adults! You can have rational conversations and adjust on the fly, thereby exponentially increasing your average-enjoyment-per-minute ratio.

With that in mind, I have to tell you about our trip to Austin, Texas. I want to say it's the mecca of adult entertainment, but that's actually a strip of hotels in the San Fernando Valley. You know what I mean—if you're over twenty-one and love food, history, art and music, Austin has it all.

Here are some highlights:

Austin is home to the University of Texas as well as a rapidly-expanding tech sector, which helps explain its young demographic (Median age is 31.5). At the west edge of campus is the UT Tower, built in 1937 and still an imposing symbol of both the college and city.

The Texas Longhorn gridiron squad, as luck would have it, was playing at home that sunny Saturday afternoon of our visit, so after securing a couple of game tickets online (my awesome wife's idea!), we headed for campus.

While my bride thought a tour of the Tower and its panoramic view was a great idea on its surface, my thoughts naturally veered onto a more sinister path. Viewing the world through my invisible true-crime lenses at all times, I knew that the Tower was the scene of a horrific massacre over 50 years ago. 

On August 1, 1966, after stabbing his mother and his wife to death the night before, former Marine Charles Whitman took rifles and other weapons to the observation deck atop the Main Building. He opened fire indiscriminately on the surrounding campus and streets, and over the ensuing 96 minutes, he shot and killed 14 people and injured 31 others. The incident ended when a policeman and a civilian reached Whitman and shot him dead. 

Brutal. Gave me a chill to be up there even on a 75-degree day, and made me realize that mass shootings are nothing new in the U.S. Still a fascinating experience though, given the Tower's historical significance outside both prior to and since the tragedy.

From there, it was on to the football game! The photo above shows the stadium in the near distance. The majority of the crowd was primed for a day of fun and football; for some, though, it was business time:

I could feel the intensity of the day as these UT band members crossed our paths. Made me remember putting my game face on back in high school for a big parade or performance. Seriously, nothing is hotter than a marching band uniform on a sunny fall day. We may not have looked like athletes, but by God, our inner thigh meats chafed like them.

The band was wonderful, forming an eagle, the phrase "Thanks Vets," and "Go Horns" during halftime. And if that wasn't hard enough, everything they drew was upside down! Always going big, that Texas.

Inside the stadium, a blanket of pukey Texas burnt orange made my eye sockets sizzle, but holy shit, what an atmosphere. As you can see, that lonely guy sitting in front of me had tragically given up on reconnecting with his oblivious cohorts:

Not to be outdone, I had wisely chosen to wear my most relevant clothing article, a University of Washington basketball sweatshirt. People looked at me like I was some daft Yank who'd taken a wrong turn at the Red River Cutoff (not a thing).

Aren't selfies just the best ever? 

Without boring you too much longer, here are a couple of other super fun things about Austin:

It's the capital of Texas! The majestic rotunda and its surrounding buildings are home to such historically illiterate governors as Rick Perry and George W. Bush!

Terry Black's Barbecue. Seriously, everything was so delicious I had to call an Uber because my hand couldn't stop rubbing my belly. Truly ambrosia for the PNW barbecue-challenged.

The UT Mexic-Arte Museum. Phenomenal sculpture, paintings and exhibits, including the video account of a child separated from her parents at the border. Powerful stuff.

The Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library. If you're like me and don't know a heck of a lot about LBJ, I think you'll be amazed when you learn how much he accomplished during his five years as Commander-in-Chief. In the end, Vietnam ultimately broke him, but only because the term "presidential conscience" wasn't an oxymoron in his world.

I had to dig this picture out of a musty basement box. On the back, it says it was taken during my family's trip to DC in the summer of '67. While I don't remember it, I know the president was a master of the knock-knock joke, and little 5-year-old Timmy couldn't have been more tickled.

The Congress Avenue bridge bats. Every night, starting in late March and continuing through early fall, North America's largest urban bat population rules the dusk. The bats begin to wake up around sunset, and soon hundreds to thousands of them are streaming out and flip-flapping east over Lady Bird Lake. The people in the above image had a great view— perhaps too good. They may have been unaware that the world is your comfort station when you're a Mexican Free-Tailed Bat. 

Have I convinced you to experience Austin yet? Okay, then, how about this: in one 24-hour period during our stay, the temperature plummeted from 77 degrees to 31! That's a bigger drop than George W's horseshoe skills after he quit drinking.

Please, visit Austin soon. You never know when it could be swallowed up by the rest of the state.

For Leo, the Best Cat Ever.

My buddy Leo died a couple of weeks ago. He was 15.

As anyone knows who's lost a pet, those first few days afterward can be pretty tough. When you get home, no one is there staring back at you from the front window, waiting to say, "Hi, it's great to see you. You've been gone a really, really long time. Where the hell is my food? I'm soooo hungry! But it's so good to see you. But where's my GD food? I'm literally starving. Stop tripping over me and get me some food, Tim!"

This is Leo shortly before he passed away. Poor dude started looking a little like a kitten again. He'd developed a tumor inside his right sinus cavity and it steadily grew to the point where, although his energy and appetite were normal, he'd rest with his head down to take the pressure off the lump in his face.  Here is is on the fridge, his favorite perch during those final days.

Periodically, he opted for a human skull to replicate the effect:

Leo joined our home when he was three. He and his sister had previously lived with another family who decided to return the two of them to the adoption agency, as the siblings had some congenital health issues. Leo's sister (let's call her Leah) was born without a tail and had difficulty controlling her bladder and bowels. Leo (aka Lee, Leroy, and the Toothless Bastard Cat), had only three or four teeth and a stubby, crooked tail that resembled a furry, leopard-print rabbit’s foot.

Could he be a douche bag? Oh, hell, yeah. He peed on a surge protector behind the TV, causing it to emit a toxic, gag-inducing cat smog throughout the house. It was apparently to protest the extended vacation from which we'd just returned.

On more than one occasion, he pooped in my wife's shoes in an effort to display his displeasure at his exclusion from social events. And if you turned your back for a split second, you'd find the little urchin raking his sandpapery tongue over a freshly baked loaf of banana bread, a black bean soup ladle or a tuna casserole left uncovered.

Leo's bodily fluids reached far and wide, especially for such a petite mammal. Due to his toothless condition, he was a big drooler, often depositing ropey trails of slobber onto his preferred sleeping spots. And combined with his hoggish dining habits, Lee's dental condition elicited voluminous, barely-digested chow regurgitations on nearly every conceivable household surface.

But any annoying behavior, any amount of cleaning up after him or tripping over him or running into him, was profoundly overshadowed by his loving, yet quirky personality.

He liked to sleep in strange, often precarious positions:

He enjoyed watching me watch Husky games on TV:

And he'd frequently belly up to the bar while I prepared dinner, as if patiently waiting for me to mix him a Manhattan.

In the event that someone in the family was upset, our sweet guy would hop up on their lap and tuck his head under their chin as if to soak up the negative emotion. He'd often lie on me with his fuzzy cat arm draped across my chest like we were going steady.

Leo lived a fairly pampered life, especially during his final days. His palliative care often included supervised visits to the backyard:

And just a lot of daily TLC:

Sometimes, I still think I can hear his claws clicking on the hardwood floor in the next room or sense him looking at me from the dark hallway. I can still feel his damp nose lightly touching mine as if to say, "I'm here to hang out with you."

It was Leo's time to go, but I miss him so much. We all do.

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!