Seven Dog Years In.

It's been a year now, a year since I started working from home for two weeks. 

You could say it's been roller coaster, but as my astute bride pointed out, even a roller coaster is supposed to stay on the track. To her point, the whole thing has seemed a little like hurling down that ancient, wooden thrill ride at the fair. This time, though, you enter the bottom turn way too hot and the entire train catapults into the purple Puyallup evening, its passengers set on a perfect collision course with the baby pig trailer. 

Worse, you'd decided to wait until afterwards to get a corndog.

A year ago now, things were moving fast. Remember? The term "pandemic" was a real thing, yet its implications were completely unfathomable to most of us during the early times. They'd get a handle on it and we'd be working from home for six weeks, tops. Dr. Fauci? Hadn't heard of him, but the more he spoke, the more obvious it became that he was an essential information source. Given the virus' severity and the ongoing stonewalling by the administration, I was amazed and grateful he'd been allowed a forum. 

A year ago, did I cringe a little when thinking of hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. On the other hand, did I have any idea how much I'd miss hanging out in large, maskless groups of people, drinking fizzy drinks and glottally spritzing particulates with reckless abandon? Not at all. 

In fact, I have this frequently-recurring dream of being in a huge, sunny field, running into old friends, smiling, laughing and just feeling euphoric. Its meaning is hardly hidden; it even sounds like a dream a dog might have, but hey, there's no shame when it comes to our internal quest for connection, be it Spot's or Tim's.

In other developments, here are some areas where I've improved during the pandemic:

• Watching TV: As skilled as I'd previously considered myself, I've gotten even better at watching TV. In October, I reached the 10,000-hour mark with my Apple remote, thereby making me an expert with it. Also, we've acquired a blanket that feels like a hundred fake minks were clubbed just to make this one blanket. It's the closest I can imagine to being in the womb and I just grossed myself out there.

• Riding my bike: I try to do it every morning, but not before this happens:

Me #1: Finish your coffee. It's 7:15, the agreed-upon time.

Me #2: Don't tell me what to do. I'm reading an important article about pizza.

Me #1: Nothing about pizza is important. Let's go.

Me #2: Did you really just say that?

Ultimately, we agree that pizza is indeed important, but we don't get out the door until 7:27.

• Knowing all the streets of my neighborhood: I'm not alone, here. Since the lockdown's inception, people are out and about, mornish, noonish and nightish, switching up routes or just taking that "favorite" way. We're everywhere, allowing plenty of space as we pass each other and do a quick WFH (wave from here). Seriously, the walk/podcast tandem gets my Oscar vote for Outstanding Actor in a Daily COVID Routine.

We keep getting closer. Maybe you've even already received your first or second dose. Or you're still waiting. My family is split, with my wife (a teacher) one shot in and my older daughter (a nursing school employee) fully vaccinated and ready to go. My younger daughter and I aren't there yet, but it doesn't seem long now. 

Sometimes it feels like any progress toward ending this scourge has happened at a snail's pace. But let's step back for a second; people are getting vaccinated, and in increasing numbers to match the ever-growing supply of vaccine. The United States has now immunized more people than have been infected, and our elderly are safe, a remarkable turn of events considering the conditions inside long-term care facilities less than a year ago. 

It's happening, so please, take care of yourself. I can't wait to see you.

And, exhale.

Why am I so happy? Oh, come on now, I think you know.

After a rough evening, Mom and Dad are finally home. And that crazy babysitter—she's gone.

You remember her, right? She spent all night on your couch, watching roller derby and talking on the phone with her 27-year-old boyfriend. Then, when you tried getting her attention, she rolled her eyes, glared at you and fumed that "any four-year-old with half a brain can learn to use an oven. Make your own goddamn pizza rolls, you little snot cookie." 

That's how I remember it, anyway. Then she'd say something like, "and save at least six of 'em for me. And don't burn 'em, either, you little shit sickle. Now leave me alone and go figure out where your sister went with that lawn dart." 

Dad's driving her home right now. After that she's moving to Florida and you'll never have to see her again.

As of yesterday, this:

has replaced this:

It's been a long, long, long four years since the last inauguration. On that chilly Friday morning in 2017, this shot of Kellyanne Conway and Steve Bannon was snapped just after the pair had taken bong hits in Bannon's van. Thank God there was an amazing buffet a little later.

I joke, but good Lord, what an excruciating one thousand, four hundred and sixty days we've endured. That guy really sucked. But even though making fun of him and his cronies was easier than finding a new skin tag, nothing could eradicate the musty, menacing cloud that had engulfed DC, our country—the world—while that guy was still perched behind the Resolute Desk.

I won't dwell on what was. We've all lived through it. In fact, I think I'll take a cue from a couple of friends who refuse to let Orange Dye # 45's actual name pass their lips, a la Harry Potter's cruel nemesis, He Who Shall Not Be Named. There's no need to subject ourselves any further to a moniker that's grown synonymous with misery, right?

Witnessing the inaugurations of Joe Biden and Kamala Harris along with the other festivities, was just so, I don't know, cleansing, ecstatic, beautiful—pick your adjective. It was the celebration we've been dreaming of. I watched it for hours and hours, even the part where the Clintons, Bushes and Obamas stood at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, silently waiting for the presidential motorcade to arrive. 

Although nothing was going on, I couldn't help but stare at these three couples, six people who uniquely understand the gravity and responsibility of the presidency. I despised George W. Bush as a president, but at least he follows the program. And he paints puppies now.

From VP Harris' historic swearing-in to Lady Gaga's triumphant, old school rendition of "The Star-Spangled Banner," I was tearier than a four-eyed Billy goat in a patch of Walla Walla Sweets. Then, when Amanda Gorman took the stage, it wasn't until she'd finished that I realized my jaws had been stuck in the fully open position the whole time. I've never seen anything like it.

So crazy to realize that a mere two weeks ago, a flag-waving horde of cultists, racists and clueless looky loos, at our president's behest, decided that storming the U.S. Capitol was a good idea. Because, you know, our flight doesn't leave until 5:30, so why not we commit three or four quick federal offenses, go back to the Days Inn, order Dominos and rest up until it's time to call a Lyft? Hopefully, the partial Nancy Pelosi placard fits in the big suitcase. 

We have so much to look forward to in 2021: 

1) An administration whose agenda names criminal justice reform, climate and green technology investment, immigration reform, voting rights legislation and infrastructure renovation to its list of priorities for the first hundred days.

2) A comprehensive national COVID-19 strategy, along with a vaccination blitz that finally curbs the spread and slowly returns us to our wonderfully huggy selves. 

3) An economy that explodes like never before (Sorry, that kind of sounded like him, didn't it?). So many folks lucky enough to have remained employed these past months may have accumulated substantial funds that otherwise would've been spent on travel, dining, maybe fantasy bowling camp. I predict a turbo-charged economic cash infusion as we enter the second half of 2021.

4) The improved COVID situation will allow for The Handmaid's Tale, season 4 to finally happen, because dystopia is so much more fun when it's fictional.

So truly, congratulations to all of us. While I understand that 74 million Americans don't share my enthusiasm, maybe some will when they see a little real-life benefit, such as the end of this God-awful pandemic. As it is, most of us take up residence far inland of the left and right extremes, and those are the people I'm resolved to have some good, tough conversations with, assuming they're up for it.*

*This will not be happening on Facebook, where civil discourse experiences an average shelf life of 4.73 comments.

As far as the QAnon conspiracy followers, White nationalists, Proud Boys and other racist douchebags, we have nothing to say to each other until you get some counseling. 

Here's to a great 2021 and that somehow, some way we'll be able to clink glasses before the year's out. Thanks for keeping me company in 2020.

We're Almost There.

Hey! So nice to see you again—in a figurative sense, anyway. Why is my face petrified into a semi-congenial grimace here? Two reasons, really: 

a) I've just wrapped up a week of freezing morning bike rides and am relieved that marginal sensation has begun seeping into ancillary flesh bits.

b) I'm remembering that we're another day closer to cleansing an ugly, orange splotch from our collective fabric. Cold cycle, please. Yeah, go ahead and throw in another Tide Pod, but first, hit it a couple of times with that stain pen.

Now that we're into December, the monsoon that was Election 2020 has dwindled into a single, toxic layer of bronze vapor that lingers over our nation's capital. Meteorologists are theorizing, however, that the disturbance could abruptly change course during the next few weeks and disintegrate somewhere over south Florida, never to return. If only.

I'm not going to lie, I've still got a spring in my step, and it's been almost a month since this thing was called for Joe and Kamala. Admittedly, I didn't behave all that well in the immediate aftermath, gloating on Facebook and prodding a handful of my fellow Caucasian fifty-something-ers to meme the shit out of my feed and flood it with their "it-was-rigged-and-by-the-way-COVID-is fake-too" counterpoints. 

Of course, things devolved rapidly, which they always do. Even so, all I cared about at that moment was spiking that goddamned pigskin as hard as I possibly could. To put it another way, if schadenfreude were a cat, I felt like a freaking Tigon:

But that's enough of that, you know? As with past dustups, I ultimately discovered that spite is petty, hollow and mean when it spills over into social media. It never amounts to anything but a prolonged pillow fight, and as much as I'd like to persuade these people, it's never going to happen calling Loren Culp (Washington State Republican gubernatorial candidate) an ass clown on Facebook.

In light of the presidential victory, and with the promise of a vaccine in the next few months, I've already been feeling reflective of the past nine months. So much has happened and so much has changed, some of it maybe forever. 

Then the other day. I got an email, from Spotify of all people. As you may know, they like to accumulate playlists and they provided me with my most listened-to songs of 2020. Talk about an accurate snapshot of the year we've had. Turns out my number ten most played song for 2020 is Linger, by the Cranberries (Well, so far, anyway. I could still binge on Time to Change by the Brady Bunch and propel it to the top spot by year-end.). But wow, so accurate. This damn year has lingered like leftover mustard packets. 

But you be the judge. Tell me if my subconscious wasn't somehow trying to make sense of the year through selective listening. Here are the rest:

9) Goodbye, Yellow Brick Road, by Elton John: This one's a little spooky, because I do live in Seattle, aka the Emerald City. And, all you have to do is replace the words "Yellow Brick Road" with "West Seattle Bridge," and it's like Sir Elton is suddenly Nostradamus, only with hair plugs that came from his bottom.

8) Edge of Seventeen, by Stevie Nicks: Totally makes sense that this was one of my top songs of 2020. In fact, during last Saturday's Husky game, I was on the edge of 17 Oreos by the end of the first quarter.

7) Don't Stop Believin', by Journey: Remember, ain't no "g" on the end of "believin'". If you pronounce it with a "g" on the end, you'll sound like Siri. 

I knew you'd try it. 

Anyway, Don't Stop Believin' is kind of the comfort food of pop songs, right? It's loaded with good intentions and gives us a nice warm, cheesy feeling inside, sticking to our ribs (and in our heads) for a long, long, long time.

6) True, by Spandau Ballet: I've always really liked this song, so sue me. This is the sound of my soul.

By the way, who's the old man at the club today? For God's sakes. So far, every song on this list was performed by someone who's slated to get the vaccine right after the health care workers.

5) Don't You Forget About Me, by Simple Minds: An old favorite that has inspired me to "reply all" to every company-wide email. Feeling a little isolated, is all.

4) One, by U2: I must have been drawn to this song since it's the number of different hoodies I wear per week. 

3) Don't Dream It's Over, by Crowded House. Obviously, this is the ironic pick of the pandemic, since I DREAM IT'S OVER EVERY F*CKING NIGHT! Whoa, geez, sorry about that. Might be time to stock up on some more of that special toaster strudel from Uncle Ike's.

2) Nothing Compares 2 U, by Sinead O'Connor: What started as reflection on alienation and despair has morphed into my personal ode to the Nineties, a decade of amazing music and hassle-free airports, an era when half of America didn't think Bill Gates was a mind-harvesting antichrist, or if they did, it was because of Windows 95.

1) Jolene, by Dolly Parton: I just straight-up love this one, 2020 or no 2020.

I know we've got a dark winter ahead of us and it's probably going to suck and we're probably going to get really tired of our surroundings and hear a lot of bad news. But please, we're almost there! Stay safe.

Right now, we all deserve a little hope.

Hello again! How are you feeling these days? 

As you can see, I'm wound pretty tightly. I've been busy trying to prevent acid reflux from shrinking up my viscera and causing it to irreversibly coil itself around my rather rustic skeletal architecture. Think third-grade tetherball game where the pole is my spine and the rope my lower intestines. 

I been trying the conventional coping tools, with spotty success:

Take a walk. Take a ride. Take a break. 

Take a Headspace down there by the lake.

Take a breath. Take a cry. Take a beer. 

Take a pill so I'll sleep for a year.

Thanks for the tips there, Dr. Seuss. That last tactic is more of a Covid-themed sci-fi fantasy, but hey, imagine if tomorrow, some V.I.P. from Moderna said, "Hey, listen, we felt like, rather than just sitting on all that cash that's been flowing like fake movie butter, we're also going to deliver a little Scoobie Snack for the emotionally overwhelmed. We're calling it a 'durable therapeutic.' Just pop one of these into the old gob and you'll wake up around the time the Kraken take the ice next fall. Who's in, America?"

I say, diaper me up, Scottie. 

Actually, no, no way. We've all waited this long, so I'll be doggoned if I'm going to stop paying attention at the most pivotal social and political moment of our lifetimes.

Originally, I was going to wait to post something until after next Tuesday's election. That way, I could:

A) Gloat about Joe Biden's victory and the ensuing blue wave that knocked Lindsay "I-Sold-My-Soul-to-a-Hair-Brained-Hog-Goblin" Graham and Mitch "If-I-Lose-I'll-Have-to-Go-Back-to-the-Sea" McConnell.

B) Whine about Drumpf's, victory. I'm not sure how that would even look because my mind immediately thrusts up large concrete barriers to block the way down that route every time I try. I say to myself, "Dude, just imagine the worst-case scenario and plan on what it would be like to live under those conditions for at least another four years."

Two points here. Number one, no matter how bad we imagine things can get, this man has proven they can get even worse. The second point is that I never call myself Dude while engaging in internal dialogue, nor should I. And if you hear it happening out loud, definitely point it out.

We're three days out right now. What are you doing to keep yourself sane, or at least less insane? I've developed such a love/hate relationship with the news. My thirst for new information is insatiable, but it's become a slippery slope, and I'm wearing Crisco-slathered flip flops. Headlines must be vigilantly scoured for potentially triggering content. 

Do I really want to read about the latest polls in Pennsylvania? Probably not. Should I click on the link to an exposé that chronicles the Trump family's history with Russia? Not if I want that stubborn vein to recede back into my forehead. 

To illustrate, let's do a little exercise. I'll list a few headlines from the Associated Press (considered the most unbiased source of information in a Gallup/Knight Foundation survey) and we'll consider whether or not to click on in:

• Road to 270: Biden has options, Trump walks narrow path—Nope, not going to read this one. I'll get all excited and hopeful, plus this has been the case forever.

• After year of disruption, America set to choose a path ahead—This is no different than a headline that reads, After sleeping for 7.5 hours, man wakes up, checks Frosted Mini-Wheat supply. No shit, AP people. This is where you imagine Dana Carvey's George Bush I voice proclaiming, "Not gaaa read it."

• Sean Connery, the 'original' James Bond, dies at 90—Definitely reading this. I feel like he would've threatened to kick my ass if I didn't ("Read the fuckin' tribute or I'll knock ya shenshless, ya litt'l pishant.").

 • Who is voting? Who is winning? Early vote only offers clues—Such click bait, isn't it? I want answers to all these questions, plus I'd love to analyze the clues like a real detective! Wait, nope. After 2016, I think we've learned that political prognostication is about as dependable as an N95 mask with teriyaki stains.

Based on this small sample, I'd say a conclusion can be drawn. Now comes the hard part, the challenge of avoiding online political content for the next three days. 

I also just wanted to say, all the best to all of us, regardless of how we vote(d). And while my beliefs clash so starkly with those of the other side, I think we would all agree that this year hasn't been kind to any of us.

That's why it's time for Joe and Kamala to provide us the hope we deserve.

Two Mental Health Tips to Help You Through the Covidemic

Hi! Don't be shy—come on in! 

Welcome back to Disaster Burger! Yeah, sorry about that, door's a little sticky.

Belly up to the counter! Okay, that's a little too close, huggy boy? Take a couple baby steps back and adjust that sporty gaiter you've got going on. Yep, you're gonna want to tuck the old schnoz in there, too. Oh, hey, here's a little rhyme to help you remember: 

My mask is like undies, 

That go on my snout. 

I'll look like a flasher, 

If something sticks out.

Cool, thanks for hiding the hambone. there. Anyway, let me tell you about our new specials; the menu's expanded quite a bit since the last time you came in. 

First of all, we've got a Western Wildfire Smoke Burger—It's a half-pound of extra-porous ground chuck meat. We left a tubful of it out on the sidewalk last week for an hour or so, giving it a nice gravelly crunch that exfoliates the uvula when swallowed. Served with filthy fries or grits with grainy, green gravy.

There's the Vaccine-by-Novemburger—Our slogan for this masterpiece is, you might get a little hot and plaguey, but he promised it would be readily maybe. Whatever that means, it comes with Mitch McNuggets, specially sourced from chinless chickens.

We've got the Double Deck DeVoswich, made only by people off the street with zero cooking experience. Served with Ben Carsunchips (I know, that one's a reach).

And finally, there's the Supreme Court Burger—Actually, you know what? Forget this one. Why order something that's missing its best ingredient? 

Okay, enough of the parodies, even though humor does tend to serve as one of my go-to coping mechanisms. 

The reality is, there's no making light of the most turbulent era I can remember, this indefinitely prolonged moment of suffering and uncertainty. While the pandemic and social unrest alone have caused tectonic societal shifts, so much other stuff is piling on top of it—the upcoming election, the real, undeniable consequences of climate change—okay, just say it with me: "This suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuucks!" 

It just does. And it's not going away, not tomorrow, not next week or even next month. 

How many mornings have I awoken 17 to 23 minutes prior to my alarm going off and begun ticking off one reason after another as to why I shouldn't get up that day? More than a few. Hell, that's why they call it a laptop, right? My employers wouldn't have lent me one had they not expected the computer to perform its intended duty all propped up in my bed.

I've mentioned before that I'm prone to depression, that it's as big an ingredient of my genetic recipe as high arches and meatless Irish lips. Fortunately, thanks to a generous dose of counseling, I've come to understand that wallowing the day away in a dark room is worse than fruitless, it's harmful. 

Self-talk is crucial, and it can determine the course of a day. Let's say that, in the midst of one of my early-morning mental roundtables, I decide to take an approach of gratitude, to examine the big picture and my place of relative comfort in relation to those who've come before me.

I could think no further than my own grandfather, who immigrated from Ireland as a young man. He quickly found work but lost a leg in a wagon accident. Even so, he and met and married my grandma, uprooting them both to set up a homestead in a remote area of North Dakota (actually, isn't the whole state kind of remote?). They went on to have seven children, enduring the deaths of two. He labored tirelessly on their arid strip of land, supplementing his hardscrabble farm bounty by working as a janitor in the tiny town where they'd settled.

How inspirational can one guy's story be, right? Shouldn't my inner self be saying, "Wow, I've never dealt with a single one of those challenges, let alone all of them. I'm going to get my ass out of bed, go for a bike ride and rejoice in my overabundance of good fortune"? 

Yes, absolutely I should. Unfortunately, my inner roundtable host (let's call him Merv) is more likely to proclaim, "Oh, no, you're not going anywhere, Sparky. Instead, you're going to lie in bed for another couple of hours and flog yourself for being a mollycoddled cheese curd of a man who couldn't hold your grandfather's goat milk bucket. Now go get yourself some Ben and Jerry's Chunky Monkey and come back to bed." 

Appreciating one's station in life should exclude self-degradation and shaming, which is why I'm currently in the process of interviewing new roundtable hosts. 

Another area of self-care I'm employing is to curtail my participation in social media. How healthy can it really be to linger on Facebook for half an hour just to stalk an argument between two politically polarized "friends." I can still taste the lemony vitriol coursing through my gullet with each tone-deaf comment spewed by the fascist, then regaling in the righteous, yet predictable, talking points rattled off by his commie adversary. 

Things usually get personal in no time, with the leftie exploiting the rightie's spelling and grammar errors. Stating that he'd seized the their-there-they're gauntlet by third grade, the pinko continues to lambast the nazi's habit of capitalizing every third word. Inevitably, the never-masker feels his back against the wall and responds with offensive slurs uttered in judgment of the socialist's sexual orientation or undiagnosed mental disability. 

Social media still has its place for me now, but it's on a lighter footing; posts to this blog will still run through my Facebook group. I love the brilliant photos of Instagram and pithy snippets of Twitter. But ruminating all day on some anti-vaxxer meme that I stumbled across is not good for me. These sites are minefields of toxic, non-productive debates, and while the participants might switch up, the fight never ends. And because of that, I'll be happily, healthily walking away from that lifestyle.

Oh, by the way, before you go, I need to remind you to come by Disaster Burger in six weeks, right around the first week of November. We're hoping to add a new special called the Trump Loses in a Fucking Landslide Burger. 

Stay safe.

How to look better than ever while working from home.

How are you? Since we're now nearly six months into this lousy scourge, I thought I'd check in again. Hope you and yours are doing okay. 

We're often told how important it is for our overall well-being to stay positive, to find rays of light that pierce the darkness. And I really do try. It's just that, things are so tough for so many people and for so many different reasons, even a brilliant Pacific Northwest summer day can periodically seem engulfed in a carrot-hued haze of anxiety. 

I feel incredibly lucky to have a job right now (insert sound of knuckles raking against splintered mahogany). In addition to its being a reliable source of income, mine is an occupation that doesn't require me to place my health on the line, every single GD day. While I work in close proximity to PSDs, JPEGs and HTML files, none have coughed or sneezed in my face, even once. It's a setting that stands in stark contrast to my wife's line of work. She's an elementary school teacher, a vocation that's experienced more shape shifts than a gob of yellow hair in the prop wash of Marine One.

Education has found itself perched squarely between the stoniest of rocks and hardest of hard places. At the risk of draping myself in a Captain Obvious cape, teaching kids, especially the little guys, is difficult under the most favorable of conditions. Then, when we plaster tiny masks to their mini mugs and order them to stay six feet from that kid with the cool fidget spinner, doesn't that just seem like a bridge too far? For God's sakes, between the ages of five and eight, I can count the number of times I effectively washed myself, and that would be zero, point zero zero four.

On the flip side, keeping our rug rats at home also causes extreme hardships, both to their social and emotional development and their parents' abilities to earn a living. If there were ever to be a flawless, real-world example of the term "clusterf#ck," educating our children during the age of COVID-19 comes closer than anything since, "Houston, we have a problem."

Like a lot of us, I miss going to work. I miss the morning commute, a daily ritual where I could watch through a scratched bus window as my beautiful city's silhouette came to life against the brightening sky. Ultimately, I'd disappear inside its grey canyons, adding my pulse to the energy from a million other hearts already inside. 

I miss the after-work happy hours where I'd undoubtedly laugh my midriff into a knotted, pre-hernial outgrowth. 

I miss the donuts, but not the donut knife which always ended up inside the pink box next to half a glazed and .173 of a bear claw, it's handle crusty with frosting and coconut shavings.

Okay, that's enough of that. We can't spend our time lamenting the old normal, right? After all, if wishes were fishes, Trump would get a red cod (Little shout out to pun-loving soccer fans from New England!). 

My intent here is not to magnify your angst, oh, goodness, no. It's just that, unless I'm absolutely mindful of it, I trend toward the half-empty side of life's ledger. So, rather than dwelling on  the negatives regarding all the sucky things about working from home, here's one overwhelming positive:

Every day—whether it's today, tomorrow, a week from Thursday or seven fortnights previous to last Tuesday—is t-shirt day! And for that, I say woo to the freaking hoo. 

Okay, granted, it's not like I wore American Gigolo-level duds to work when I was going in on the daily:

American Gigolo-level duds, as worn by Richard Gere in American Gigolo

But I am employed by a fashion retailer, so I couldn't walk through the doors in the morning looking like a total schmendrick. It's why now, during this horrible age of Covid, I can at least finally express my dynamic, sometimes disturbing, inner inklings when the mood strikes. I can now be helplessly nostalgic:

Nerdishly belligerent:

Oozing with dad-quality content:

For Pete's sake, you crazy baboon! Seattle U doesn't, nor have they ever, had a football team!

Incurably provincial:

Playfully fickle with overt notes of shameless dishonesty:

Sociopathically jumbled:

Or just downright inspired:

In this new world, one where we've all been living one week, one day—one health-conscious decision at a time—maybe our work-from-home clothing choices are more telling than I'd ever imagined. Be well.

I'm Racist, and I'd Like to Talk About It.

Are you a racist? 

Such an ugly, incendiary word, isn't it? I mean come on, unless you're a cross-burning, tattoo-misspelling, Clorox guzzling Proud Boy, who among us, whether liberal or conservative, wants to include RACIST in our personal rubric, nestled right there between Eagle Scout and Competent Toastmaster? And as a middle-aged white man, just hearing the word makes me want to pull out my imaginary wallet and proudly show you the small, laminated list of all the reasons why I'm not a racist:

a) I haven't voted Republican since 1988, and even then, I was really just voting for Dana Carvey's version of Bush.

b) I have black friends—I can name at least four off the top of my head, but I know I could come up with more if I really tried. Also, there's a black family on my street, whom I cheerfully greet whenever I see them on one of my COVID exercise walks. Like the Toyota commercial for zero percent financing says, "We're all in this together."

c) I voted for Obama. Oh, yeah, twice!

d) If there's still any doubt that I'm not a racist, check out my Facebook and Instagram posts from last Tuesday. See? Nothing but a black rectangle. Quite a statement in my opinion, when I obviously could've been posting cool and compelling pictures of myself.

Here's the definition of racism, according to Webster's Dictionary:

1: a belief that race is the primary determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

2a: a doctrine or political program based on the assumption of racism and designed to execute its principles

2b: a political or social system founded on racism
3: racial prejudice or discrimination

What do you think? Do any of these apply to you? 

Definition Number 1 seems pretty hardcore; like, you'd have to have some really archaic misconceptions about human anatomy and genetics to really get behind it. Still, some do:

Seems like a strange time to brag about your pants, moron. 

To give the majority of us caucasians the benefit of the doubt (hey, why stop now?), let's allow ourselves a "no" for criterion 1 and a "not applicable" for 2a and 2b, which address institutions rather than individuals.

Now let's talk about the third characterization of racism as defined above: racial prejudice or discrimination.

Sorry, can't clear that hurdle; guilty as charged. I do possess conditioned prejudices based on race. I do see color. And so do you, and every other white person in America. We're all racist, and we need to freaking own up to it if things are going to improve. 

Still with me? Great, because I swear I could hear the mouse clicks of countless friends and acquaintances who chose a quick detour to the friendlier confines of TikTok and fuzzy puppy subreddits. Some uncomfortable shit, for sure, to be labeled a racist by some sanctimonious blogger.

Whatever. Find yourself another blog if you're offended by this assertion. The fact is, labeling myself a racist doesn't make me a bad person; quite the opposite, really. According to anti-racist educator Robin DiAngelo, author of the best selling White Fragility: Why It's So Hard for White People to Talk About Racism, admitting to our own racial biases is the first step toward changing a system about which we claim to be outraged. 

The longer we defend the status quo through our silence and lack of dialogue, the more we deny the existence of racism in ourselves, the more we doom our society to an endless cycle of racial unrest. George Floyd, Philando Castile, Breanna Taylor, Trayvon Martin, Freddie Gray and an endless stream of injustices will continue, for the rest of our lives and beyond.

Am I a racist? I suppose that's in the eye of the beholder, but I'm going forward believing that I am.