Experiencing the World Through the Eyes of Your Dad, the Teenager

The kid you see here is my dad, Lionel Haywood. In this photo he was fifteen, maybe sixteen. This one was taken some time during the late 1940s, and oh, by the way, he bought that sweater with money he earned working in the bulb fields. It makes me wish there was a color version of this picture just to see what kind of RBG values are going on with that pullover.

Dad was born in Aberdeen, Washington in the waning days of spring, 1933. His parents had welcomed his sister and only sibling, Lila, nine years earlier, and he entered the scene a true baby of the Great Depression. Dad's early years were marked with upheaval and transition, his parents planting shallow stakes anywhere electrician work was available. To say things were tough would be a significant understatement, and while Dad claims he never went hungry, imagine hearing as a six-year-old that tonight you have two choices for dinner: rutabagas or nothing.

As the Thirties came to an end, America's burgeoning war effort provided its workers with plentiful economic opportunities and the family settled in Sumner, a picturesque community nestled in the lush Puyallup Valley—think soda fountains, matinees, Floyd the barber—you know the place. 

Dad's parents created a comfortable yet hard-working existence in Sumner, purchasing this house on Zehnder Street. 

His first job was thinning out carrot patches in the nearby fields. He was eight. Seems a little on the young side, even for the 1940s, but I just realized I had not one, but two jobs at age eight: 1) watching as much TV as possible and 2) asking one question too many. 

Sometime along the way, Dad managed to get his hands on a Kodak Baby Brownie Special...

...and his lifelong passion for photography was kindled. He estimates that the photos you're seeing here were taken between 1945 and 1948, all with his Baby Brownie, and a few of them developed in his makeshift home darkroom. 

To a lot of us, a house isn't a home until it's filled with the clickety-clackety cadence of a four-legged creature. Enter Bingo, a caffeinated mixture of Spitz and Pomeranian, and my dad's first creative muse:

Bingo was a free spirit, a bohemian if you will. His favorite pastime was to magically appear, smiling and wagging his tail, at unexpected locations. It might be outside the school or in the post office parking lot, but wherever it was, he'd appear convinced that you were elated to have run into him. Get out the special coffee cake, honey, we've got company. Bingo's here!

Due to the dog's outgoing sensibilities, the town police chief, a man named Nort Winn, had grown to know Bingo on a first-name basis (Okay, I understand that all Bingo had was a first name, but you get what I mean.). Despite my dad's best efforts to keep Bingo tied up in the yard, the mutt would invariably escape, popping up to taunt Chief Winn in parts of Sumner both near and far. He'd engage the cranky cop in his own version of whack-a-mole until Nort would grow tired of the chase and drive off, vanquished again by this lovable scoundrel.

All the while, Dad continued to explore the world with his camera. His other subjects were typically family members like Grandpa Purl:

Dad said that in this shot, Grandpa Purl was messing around with a cousin. I don't know, though, it kind of looks like a post-Sunday-supper exorcism. I'm thinking this little exercise might've taken place somewhere between the after-dinner Lucky Strike and double scoop of Neapolitan ice cream, hold the strawberry. 

I'll just remind you that these photos were snapped by an adolescent male. Hence, this ill-advised shot Dad took of his mom working in the kitchen.

He might happen upon Uncle Jack preening from the business end of a dairy cow:

Or compose the scene of a just-completed model airplane poised for takeoff from the picnic table:

Overwhelmingly, though, my dad's focus returned to his best buddy, Bingo. Here again is the pooch, mugging with the omnipresent Grandpa Purl:

Bingo was like that guy who's up for a good time 24/7. Because of this, Dad thought it might be a good idea to bring him along for an overnight trip to Scout Island on Lake Tapps. Since the scouts were a high-energy lot, it seemed as good a pairing as Chips Ahoy and V8 juice. I mean, come on, don't these guys look like they'd love to have a canine mascot to frolic with?

And things did go well—the first day, anyway. But the following morning, a dark shadow of contempt would soon envelope Dad's trusty companion. As the boys rolled up their sleeping bags and prepared for breakfast, one of the scouts uttered a simple, three-word query that would change everything: 

"Where's the bacon?"

Bingo continued to live a full life, quickly regaining his self-esteem, and putting the bacon affair behind him for good. Alas, in the end, he died with the same gusto that he'd lived, meeting his demise as a result of his need to ambush moving semi-trucks. Mercifully, Dad was at school at the time, and a kind next-door neighbor named Bill Moon witnessed the accident and buried Bingo in his yard before my dad came home. 

I'll end our show there. Dad took a lot more pictures with that Baby Brownie Special, followed by tens of thousands of photographs, slides, videos and eight-millimeter home movies. He's captured our holidays, birthdays, soccer games, band concerts—even my graduation from Art Institute of Seattle for God's sake, a one-year program I took in the evenings.

Here's he is with his great-granddaughter, Charlotte. 

I'm so grateful for his diligence in documenting so much of our family's lives. On top of that, to see how a teenager from 75 years ago views his world through a camera lens is another incredible gift, especially when that kid is your dad.

Getting Back Out There.

Springtime at last.

After everything that's come to pass, here's hoping that you're feeling well and that things are progressing at a steady rate toward a more December-of-2019 type of lifestyle. Baby steps, is what they're saying, right? And that's fine, except the baby seems to have been shuffling along in size 22 Timberlands. 

Let's face it, COVID just keeps being an asshole. It's hung around longer even than Bruce, that guy from the dorm who never seemed to pick up on when it was time to leave the party. Remember him? He'd start looking wobbly around eleven, eventually stumbling down the hallway to puke with the bathroom door open. He'd pass out on someone's bed for a couple hours, only to freakishly materialize in the living room next to the record player, smoking cigarettes, scraping out the last of the spodie punch and trying to talk to Stacey about UFOs. Ultimately, Stacey's best friend Janis would come over and tell Bruce he needs to run along, usually somewhere around four-thirty.

Is there some Bruce in all of us? Maybe, but the novel coronavirus has proven itself to be a class above. Scourging for over a year now, it's altered our daily mindset and with that, our behavior. We might be the same people that we were fifteen months ago, but we don't behave the same. It's going to take a minute for me to quit:

1) Fist and elbow bumping. Actually, I've never been big on fist bumping and as for elbow bumps, the target is deceptively small. A miscalculation from either party can result in an awkward "tricep rake." And alas, while I'd overwhelmingly prefer co-mingling the antipasto platter of bacteria in the palm of my hand with the microbial casserole in yours, nob thumping may very well be here to stay.

2) Experiencing day terrors when I can't find my go-to mask, the one that fogs up my sunglasses 30% less. Of course, there's a backup lying around somewhere, but when it's been a while, chain of custody can be questionable. Prior to COVID, I never realized how quickly a mask can be rendered icky and require the finger-tonging once reserved only for driveway garbage and third-party athletic supporters.

My wife and I went through our masks this weekend and kept only the best of the best:

The gaiters are convenient but get pretty disgusting less than a minute into a low-impact jog. And the "face" mask at the top left? It's my wife's. For teaching your children. That's all I have to say.

Additional stubborn habits nouveau include daily hoodie wear (including weekends), devouring podcasts like Chex Mix, taking the garbage cans to the curb in socks, borderline unhealthy fascinations with people's Zoom backgrounds, walking aimlessly through the neighborhood, disinfecting my Visa card after trips to Safeway...

In my post from March 6 of 2020, I encouraged you to stay safe during this "flu thing." Yeah, a bit off, there, Nostradamus. If COVID-19 is a "flu thing," the Titanic was a boat accident. No one on the planet has lived the past year-plus unaffected by the pandemic. It's taken a collective effort to curb the spread, and now science has provided us with a weapon to finish it off. 

Please, get yourself vaccinated. I know there are people reading this who are reluctant or even unwilling, and I do understand. Of course there are risks, but holy shit, if you're around my age, you drank from the garden hose, rode in the truck bed and ate the old Ding Dongs—the ones before 1973 with lead in the cream filling. Poor kids these days don't know a real goddamn Ding Dong.

My second Pfizer shot happened a couple of weeks ago. The aftereffects weren't terrible; just a sore arm and a case of acute couchiness for a day. Some aches here and there. Once the swelling subsided, the microchip implant is barely noticeable. And if you still have reservations, please consider that Bill Gates isn't learning anything about you that Facebook and Google don't already know. 

Take care of yourself.

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.