On a good day...

Even on a good day I have a hard time planning for the future. My future, any future. I've never been especially convinced that me, the country, the planet is going to last much longer, so I have, for....let's call it 50 years at this point, not really done much in the way of increasing my longevity or security. Kids, let this GenX poster child show you how to live life by the seat of your pants, and for a little bit, it's fun and exciting. Then is excruciating and confusing, and now? Now it's just day after day of WHY? Why bother? Why this? Why now? My mom would have been 81 today, and in the last months of her life she made it crystal clear she did not want to be around post-80 years old. Physically, I totally get it - having your skin suit just deteriorate in real time is a bummer. That said, I do have such a morbid curiosity about how terrible things are gonna get, and also how much longer these moron Americans who were born post cell-phones continue to ignore the WEALTH of historical evidence around them and just wander mindlessly into the AI void as the planet gets hotter while the servers clunk away sucking resources (water, primarily) that humans need. I am kind of obssessed with the amount of footage that is available from 100 years ago now. We are the first generations to be able to know what people looked and sounded like in real time. It seems to just have launched us in to a loop, and I find it fascinating. For thousands of years, people went about their lives never having their likeness really out in the world. Sure, if you were super wealthy, or a notable figure of some sort (your Mozarts, your Lois the VIII, that sort of thing) there would be paintings. Or random sculptures of people, wall paintings of general life - but did Steve from 1482 ever have a clutch of drawings on parchment of his wife and kids and what they did on that picnic in June? They did not. Even just 200 years ago, it was linoprint and handbills to communicate. News in newspapers was at least a day old, if not longer. Now, we are assaulted with constant information, constant reminders of all the lives that are going on around us, and this inordinate pressure to post our representation too, or be lost in the mix. I spend a lot of time now walking the dog in the nearby cemetary, and I think a lot about what happens there. Already, I can track the people who visit immediately after a burial; but there is one older Asian woman in a white SUV who parks almost every weekday at what appears to be her son's grave - she's almost always there when we typically walk at 4pm. I visited his headstone on the weekend when she was not there and he was interred last year. There are graves that are 75 years old that appear to never have flowers. Graves that are 15, 20 years old that get fresh flowers periodically through the year (holidays, obviously). It makes me wonder what the point of the markers is, really? Because, sure, 100 years later, someone could be walking their dog and look down and say "Huh, wonder what ol' Rolf did for a living?" and then moves on. Not many people will be in a cemetary regularly like me (or maybe, in this new reality people will look to these places as safe spaces away from traffic and random chaos). So you would be recognized as being someone who did exist, for a minute, by someone who had no idea who you were. I like to imagine a scenario like in Ricky Gervais' show After Life, where his daily visitation of his wife's recent grave leads him to a friendship with an older woman who also does a daily visit with her husband who had passed years before, and yet she still stopped by to say hi, but had also had moved on and found a new partner to share her current life happens in the real world as well. Is that important? Have we ever shared with our family stories about other people's names and existance, if we never met them, or experienced them? That is what history is made of, after all, and it almost feels like no one is interested in history any longer. My mom will vanish from memory when we are gone - I guess my nephews (at least 2 of them, who were lucky enough to spend 5+ formative years with her) may occasionally reference her, and probably in much more favorable light than I referenced her parents. Ok, that's not entirely true, I generally have good thnings to say about my Gramps, but Grams? Yeah, oddly not so cheerful. I remember her though, and can still tell stories and remember her voice (sort of). It's weird though, because we didn't own any footage (or at least any I've been able to see, the old tapes my mom held on to wouldn't play in her VCR) of them, so all of the experiences we shared are all just memories in our heads. Dreams, really. Did those things happen? I read old journals and sometimes I can remember the events, but not always, and recently, names of people do not ring bells. Things you think you'll remember forever fall away, but some stuff sticks forever, and it's not the stuff you expect. I wish to hell I could remember details of being on Serbian TV, you think that would have stuck, would have been a big deal. Of drinking beer under the Eiffel Tower, of what the Norwegian Ferries felt like. What the streets of Arhus were like. Oslo. More of France. I am thankful I have the photos I do, and that my eye was drawn to ephemera, but I also wish I had more of a journalistic eye and had taken more photos of places and people. Anyway. My head lately feels like it's going to explode, and that's not just figuratively; the Afrikkaner refugees being greeted by the Deputy Sectratary of State? Relocated to IDAHO? So now we are just recruiting Nazis because they are trying to cleanse this country? Fucking terrible humans. Clearly this administration is trying to use every hour of the next year convincing all of us who value kindness and creativity and diversity (yep, I said it) out of the country on our own dime. If that doesn't work, of course they will eventually come for us too. I mean me, thanks to the Student Loan takeback, I'm back on the precipice of not having social security, and being garnished for my last 5 years of working. Classic American Republican bullshit. I just do not, and will not ever understand the fear of people who vote for this oppressive control in their lives. I've never understood it, this need to be told a story to explain why bad shit happens - it seems crystal clear to me that most bad shit happens because of human greed. Greed for power, greed for money, just greed to be the person who has all the toys. The one who always wants the ball. It always comes down to that shit.

suburbia

Having made the great escape (pilgrammage? exodus?) to the wilds of Everett to live cheaper and easier is, as expected weird. It's nice in that a lot of the things that were starting to grate on me downtown are now gone. With that thosugh is also so many of the daily routine interactions with people that I had grown used to and often looked forward to. I mean there are always pros and cons to any move - no one knows that better than me. This time though, it's been 12+ years since I last pulled up stakes, and I'd be lying if I said this time wasn't especially odd. For so many reasons, really - mostly because I moved in to mom's old place and while my brothers and I did initially remove a lot of the obvious stuff that wouldn't be needed (her clothes, furniture, loads of duplicate tools and stuff she had acquired) as soon as I flipped and decided it was in my best financial (and if we're being honest, emotional) interest to do so, they tapped out on the overall removal place to give me time to "sort throught" stuff. I had a million dollar view, but you can't eat a view, and the building was shit. Water randomly not working at least once a month (or at least losing hot water),the potential for the roaches to return at any moment, elevators being down (not to mention constantly defiled in such a wide variety of ways, every weekend, it made your head spin) and having to hike 12 floors....it was all just getting tiresome. The junkies outside (though that may change with Yarn Dragon going in and being a presence, but still - PSQ gonna PSQ) especially were just a daily reminder of the Fall of America. Living through late-stage capitalism (defunding forests, educational grants hotlines for LGBT youth testing of food safety; ( this isn't even adressing the wholesale disappearing of people off the streets) has kind of forced me to hunker down, and I guess I'm glad I have a relatively cheap place to hunker down. That said, it also induges my biggest weakness: drinking alone. Especially with a nice big kitchen to cook in, and handy stores within a mile? My love for a glass of red wine (or three) with food is a sticky situation that I'm gonna have to be careful with. Having a brother whose most serious hobby is collecting whiskeies (so, cruising liquor stores) also isn't a great thing if I can't rein in my "just do it" attitude, because I now have found a taste for tequila, which doesn't hit like wine or whiskey. Anyway, we'll see how it goes. How much of a serious hermit I become. That said - sleeping a whole night with no sirens is AMAZING. No random shouting throughout the night, no gunshots, cars racing around, all of it. Which leads me to a lot of dreaming - which was rare in the last 2 years downtown, unless I was heavily sedated with edibles. But up here, I'm dreaming like I am making up for lost time and my brain is hilariously inventive, and then sometimes steadily on-brand. I'm considering taking up a dream hournal. Here? On paper? Not sure yet. But everything from driving boats with Green Day to last night fighting forest fires with Brad - endlessly entertaining dreams, I just wish they'd last longer. Maybe, as my sleep pattern adjuststs they will.

Pathetic.

This country is an embarrassment to itself. Honestly only 3 days in and I'm already at code-red disgusted and angry, and to be honest do not have the bandwidth to watch this bullshit take hold, again. If it's going to be anarchy, then fine: gut all the stuff, and tax the fuck out of the rich. But this bullshit where the offensively wealthy jet-set are going to exploit a system they are bent on taking apart? No. Nope. Not into it. I have been skeptical of this governemnt and racist excuse for a country all my life, and periodically think (in those brief moments where Mandela became president of SA or a woman under 40 became President of New Zealand, etc) that maybe there was hope for us. But then, social media rotted America's brains and now everyone thinks they are smarter than they really are, and that they all will be rich and famous one day. I hate this place, and to be honest don't even really know where to go, because it appears to be happening everywhere. Brand new passport in hand, and all I wanna do is vanish into the Italian countryside.

Brief respite.

 Why J Robbins' voice and demeanor has such a soothing effect on me is a mystery, but having found a new podcast interview with him yesterday (two hours worth!) right when I was really in a bit of a downturn in the last few weeks was a genuine treat. 

He reminds me so much of how it felt to be part of something that absolutely changed, or better, formed the way I navigate the world. Certainly, since I didn't stay part of the scene or active as a musician and neglected to carve myself a niche as a promoter or producer of a zine, website, podcast or other tangible thing my path has been different, and yet when I listen to him, the same.

Similarly, or maybe coincidentally, K Harrop posted a quick story about K Cobain, wondering what he might have been like if he had lived, it was her phrasing about how weird or hard it is to believe that any of that happened, 30 years ago. She and I should have been better friends, to be honest. We still have occasional positive interactions online and the few times over the years that we had been in contact was always far more positive than anything that happened in high school. We are weirdos - two different flavors, but weirdos nonetheless. Remembering a time when that was who punk rockers were: weirdos. its not too common these days.

good medicine

http://www.colbertnation.com/full-episodes/thu-september-26-2013-chris-fischer why i'm happy to be as old as i am.

Letters I never sent.

Hey Mike, You know, I used to send so many letters. Remember all the pen pals I had when we met in college? Maybe you didn't notice - but I'm pretty sure you knew about a few of them, and there were a couple, like d. who I probably didn't mention much. I was thinking about you this weekend, in a way I hadn't in a long time, or maybe, conciously, ever. Oddly, I was watching a clip of Taylor Swift and Ed Sheeran playing acoustically together in London on the weekend. They have been friends for a long time - I'm not an expert on the fandom, but from what I can gleen it seems like they go back a bit. Certainly, they are the same age and seem to both be products of the same giant ass viral bubble that made rockstars about a decade ago. Anyway, watching them play, doing acoustic versions of songs they'd both written, watching them interact - it made me nostalgic for being onstage with you.
I assume, whereever you are now, you may already know that while I think about you often, it isn't always about us as a couple. It is usually, about the intensity of life in general, or places we traveled, or people we knew together. This was different, in a way that I haven't felt in a really long time. My brain was immediately filled with memories of you writing songs in our apartments or rooms. The way you sat, cross-legged, but not lotus; it was a weird thing you did specifically on the floor. Your SG tucked against your tummy, your head bent so it was parallel to the floor - your hair (when it was long enough) flopping in your face (I have one photo from Serbia when your hair had gotten crazy long and you were also smoking and coughing that is burned into my memory, but so many more, like when we were stuck at the garage in the field in France, or in our apartment in DC, or the room in Silver Spring, or jeez - even the bedroom in Eugene!) and you'd strum, then be reaching over to write the notation down with the lyrics. I loved you so much in such specific moments, you literally created a formative way of looking at a partner - for good and for not so good, obviously. What's weird for me is how warm the memory felt, how comforting and the longing I had to just have that feeling again. While it was sort of expanding, I remembered how it felt to sing backing vocals with you, and the occasional times we would be looking at each other onstage (it didn't happen much, you were the focal point and me and whatever drummer didn't have much to offer the crowds) or the occasions when you would tell me it was a good gig. Remember that show in Belguim when the kids sang with us completely out of the blue? Oh, it also happened the other day when a clip of Neil Young doing Keep On Rockin' on SNL in '89 showed up in my feed - goddamn that song was fun to play. You had such a good sense for so long about music and punk rock. It's sad it kind of morphed into a weird paranoia and desperation. You would have been stoked that you got a mention in the LV music rag though after you died. People were really kind on your FB too - until the new whip got into a fistfight with the baby momma. Ah well. Anyway, thanks for being part of my life Mike, I wish I had tried harder to be me, instead of being so fucking scared all the time about how ugly I was.

"So I enjoy every day, every moment and I thank the god of doggies for the chance to see your little face turn white." -French Beagle-owning Insta influencer on the absolute joy one should gain from having an older dog; especially if your dog has gone through health scares, or dangerous situations.

out of the dark caves of time

Am I the only person who looks at old photos (I mean, proper old, like 50 years or more) and tries to imagine what that person in the photo's life was like, or even what they were thinking in that captured moment. I'm not sure if it's because I looked through a lens for so long, or what my weird obsession with people is but I'm always inordinately curious about what people are thinking, why they do what they do. My biggest regret is not having more time to pursue this, but that being said, maybe I'll just fuck off and go back to school. In the meantime, I will just, I guess, continue to ruminate. Literally, and figuratively, as once again, the Spring Crud has infiltrated my lungs and I am coughing, have a ridiculously itchy throat and just wanna go to sleep. Ideally for like 10 years, and just wake up, none the wiser, none the older, just well-rested and ready to do battle. No such luck though. Instead, I am chewing on old personal bullshit.Yep, Daddy Issues. They are a mountain I climb, and then get to a ledge and feel like it's futile at best to continue. At any rate: here I am again. This time, courtesy the TV show in it's final season, Succession.
Now, this show ostensibly has nothing to do with me, or my life experience. It's all about a super-wealthy family who control a media empire.
However, what all the siblings share is a debilitating (in various ways) level of need for their father's approval. That part has always resonated, but the most recent episode, where they kill off the old man really struck me in an odd way that actually took about a day to come to the surface (so to speak).
My father keeled over during his second heart attack while working his post-retirement hobby/job at a classic car lot. I was at the family house (which was the largest in the neighborhood, and looking back, I often wonder if people assumed we had more money than we really did - which was my father's goal, I think: to appear wealthy and successful as quickly and easily as possible) with my mom, it was a Saturday. My younger brother swears he was there as well, and perhaps he was (downstairs maybe?) but I can't for the life of me remember much other than being in the kitchen when my mom answered the phone and my dad's coworker explaining that he had collapsed and they had called the ambulance.
I can't remember either if they told her then that he was dead, but I remember that she got directions to a hospital in Edmonds, and I drove there. I remember (distantly) being confused and panicky, but also, much like the Roy siblings in the show, oddly concerned about what we were really being told.
Being told your dad is dead by a third party is disorienting, to be sure. To travel to the hospital and find him cold on a gurney is a sudden shock that I have never really processed. Watching a somewhat similar scene unfold on TV to some really terrible characters who, much like my own family (though for somewhat different reasons) are wholly unable to physically express emotion or comfort, really hit a damn nerve.
It's just picking at a scab, essentially, and I am nothing if not a mental scab-picker. It's weird when your family just wasn't all that close. We didn't do a lot of things together, as a unit, especially once we moved to Seattle from Southern California.

Leaves are falling.

While it's not as melodramatic as sawing off my own thrumb, or having a brain too big for my skull, over the weekend the gel in my eyeball has lost viscosity, and now it is a veritable snowglobe in my right eyeball. I've always had floaters, but this is something else: it's layered and makes for some horrible headaches given that I spend a major portion of my days typing into the big shiny screen all day, much less trying to read an actual page. Unfortunate. Not as bad as it could be, and apparently, according to the opthamologist "just part of the aging process - though it is a little early for you to be experiencing this much flux" apparently nothing I can fix, or stop doing to make it better. I blame the mainlining of certain powdery drugs for all physical maladies, and this is no different. Addnedum: It turned out, 5 days later, to be a detached retina, and only a quick detour on the way to work to the opthomologist followed by emergency surgery kept sight in my right eye. It's wonky, and having to keep your head parallel to the earth for 72 hours is not as easy as it might sound - and having a weird gas bubble in the eyeball as it refills with fluid is about as distracting as it sounds. It is a hell of a way to get 2 weeks away from work (though one week was me working from home, because I am nothing if not a masochist).

Found it.

You know, sometimes I do ridiculous things when I have spare time on my hands - today, because I have been just bingeing the shit out of De La Soul and when I see video of them, Plug2 always reminds me of Jon Loggins - the whole band does, of course. They just immediately send me back to DC in 1989/90 and being at Common Concerns with Jon doing the security and just generally doing his cool fishboney thing. So I tried a couple searches, but as per usual, like so many of our generation, we are vanished unless we reached legendary status. Anyway, FB brought me to once again read the chats we had been having those last couple years and I found the quote that I keep telling people about that really made me feel genuinely sorry for you, and also crystalized the understanding that there was no way you'd ever come back to where I knew you had once been. Do you remember writing this: If I'm responsible for my own happiness, then I'd rather die. Because what's weird - it's exactly what you did, I guess? I mean, I'm still not super clear about the crazy bitch you had managed to wrangle in that final round, but damnit. It really is the most accurate thing you've never meant to say. You said the inside part out loud, and it is exactly the battle that is the hardest. What even is the point of this?

Leaving breadcrumbs for myself....

Just gonna take a minute and post this missive I posted on my birthday 19 years ago, because the thing I often forget is that as bleak as shit seems (yep, I'm in the weeds again, and this time, being this old, the weeds are more physically intimidating than emotionally, plus I've left myself a few markers, a few breadcrumbs, a few reminders to keep fighting) it can get so much better, and you don't want to miss it, right? I mean the thing of it all seems to be that you just keep playing until the lights go out. Anyway, from the banner year of 2004: chefguy And yesterday? Yesterday made every moment of the last 6 monthes worth it. Not that all those moments have been horrible, but some of them have been pretty bleak, at least emotionally. But yesterday, it came together. I met the Arlie of local cooking...and we had lots in common - from a background in music, to the passion for food. It rocked my world so hard and so fast that i'm going to do what i haven't done since i was in college and approached my TA - i'm gonna seek this guy out, because he's got experience and understanding and talent, and i want that. how, when where, all of it. what an amazing, gratifiying thing to have happen. and even if it doesn't all come together, it was that same intense feeling of interacting with someone who's following their passion, who follows their heart, who's sensitive (which he even mentioned, along with the fact that he was single, not that he's advertising, mind you) and not afraid to put it out there. Yeah, that was good. Also, there's A, who made me a cd of SRV which was a sweet and thoughtful gesture. It's funny, because he makes me feel all mushy inside, like i'm 16 again - which is weird, but in the best weird way there is...anyway. that's a whole other thing, what with schedules, and work and...well you just don't know. But today - today i'm calling that restaraunt, and seeing if i can't get more time to pick ChefGuy's brain. b-day wish comes true! So then, imagine calling the Arlie of local cooking, and asking him if he'd be interested, in just, you know, hanging out and letting you pick his brain about Life, the Universe and Culinary stuff, and he says yes. Yes. BEST BIRTHDAY EVER! Seriously - i was walking way, way up in the air yesterday, as he is someone i can learn from who's been where i am, who's at a place i want to be. who's accepted he's sensitive, driven and yes - weird. He apologized for being a bit out of it ("I don't get out much"), but thanked me for calling. The idea of talking about food and cooking with someone who'd DOING it...man. I can barely contain myself and am trying to keep an even keel (i.e. not blow off A At Work (ooh, let's go with AAW), because friends are good. fun is good. life is....good. School is good, and i'm dying to get into the baking mod - it's going to be a long 2 weeks, this last bit in the classroom with management and budgeting, but all worth it. all of it. also, birthday wishes from Smitty (as always) and Mike (ditto) - funny the people who stay in your world. and the people who you think will be there forever, and vanish. nothing from the ex-smrge, which is to be expected, i suppose...but sad. he can't handle staying friends, which is a shame. i would have liked for it to be like MIke and i, but no. wish he'd just come out and say why. for real. instead of useless smack. but oh well. y'know? gonna go on, gonna make music in the kitchen baby... i wanna be like CG Pardon me while i gush (and yeah, i know the presidential election is near, and i should be railing, and the olympics are now, and it's good fodder for international amusement vs. the US, and i've discovered the crazy beauty of dave frigging matthews ((gawd, i'm old)) and the 'Nats are going on tour, but right now all i got is culinary stuff on the brain, so there you go): Chef Guy called, as promised - later than he'd planned, but it was because they had a late rush, and man, i could feel the adrenaline over the phone and it took my breath away - he even mentioned how amazing it was that he didn't forget, as usually when he gets going like that, it all falls away. That's a good thing, right? Yeah, I think so. Best part II: when he said that he'd cleared all of Monday for me - woohoo! and that right at that moment, he'd say yes to anything i'd ask (so i asked for a job, he chuckled, which is good - want to make sure that he knows i'm task-oriented, y'know? :)...man, subtle? riiiight. and did he need to bring anything other than himself? oh, HELL no. so we're meeting monday for coffee - tragically, it looked like it would be an all-evening affair (what with him clearing the day for me, and me wanting to spend as many minutes as possible basking in his presence), but then i remembered (thanks to K&K) that i have the ACF meeting, my first, at 6pm that night, and if i don't show, it wouldn't go well for me. Plus, CG totally understood ("You gotta do that, I did") so it'll be abbreviated (the meetup), but with luck it will go well enough that he'll want to meet up again. Yeah. Of course, my wheels are turning, and that's probably nuts, but what the hell, yeah? I feel like i'm meeting up with...well, yeah, someone who plays in a band i totally dig. Like the KevSecs(nee Arlie) of food. Or something. But that's the only way I can describe it at this point - and hell, i've never even heard his music (uh, eaten his food) but you can feel the passion in him (from him?) agh. ok, now i'm drooling. gonna let it go. but man, this sort of inspiration is just what i needed. also, therapist read me the riot act about "shoulds". You'd think, at this point, i'd let the shoulds go, but it's still hard for me to quell the critical guilt-driven voice that has held court in my squirrelly brain for so long. Anyway, i'm glad i'm working sunday, or the day would never pass. also, more fun with AAW, though last night he seemed quite upset that i hadn't clued him in to my birthday, and yet...no call. so i dunno where the hell that's at, but y'know, we'll see. school on monday is gonna FLY by, i'm sure. i hope. maybe CG would go to the ACF meeting...riiiight. he was great about that over the phone too - "it's...ok." heh. dig. dig. dig him.

Post-Doc/pre-birthday bullshit.

Documentary, that is. Post viewing "Don't Break Down" which is probably the second most watchable movie about a band I've ever seen, after "YHF" with Wilco. It made me feel again, which I have been having a really hard time doing lately. Everything seems like it's coming to an end - and watching those guys doing that thing I have such a sappy attachment to made me feel human for a few minutes. It reminded me how good that music used to make me feel. Because I seriously do not feel that way much anymore. Don't misunderstand, I love my puggle, and she brings me joy everyday, and our trips to the park and our adventures around the city are fantastic, lovely even. But. There's nothing creative about it. I'm so bored. (that part was writen 3 years ago) Bored with work, bored with family, bored with most friends, to be honest. Just cannot for the life of me pull my head out from under this water. Not sure if it is because I've spent most of the last year knee-deep in 1D and HS nonsense and trying to convince myself it's some sort of anthropological cultural examination in reali time when what it really is is living in a delusional state where literally even my body is shutting down. Honestly do not know what could possibly pull me out of this nosedive at this point. Eveyone is dying, life is all struggle, and even fun seems performative at best. I jsut want to sit on the porch of a tiny cabin (nee, shack) stare at the trees, mountains, dirt road, whatever and just not do anything but observe nature and grow vegetables. I'm fucking sick to death of this bullshit rat race and ready to go full Walt Whitman. That's the plan I guess, die in the woods alone and hope my dog finds her way to civilization without me.

older, wiser, but what does it matter when the world is imploding around me?

Seattle had a mass shooting downtown last night a half an hour after I left 3rd & pine. Literally exactly where I was. Luckily, my compulsive desire to get home to my dog saved me from potential bullet holes. whee. The tide has not just turned but has washed a ton of shells away too. President is still not removed. Impeached means nothing. Who cares if you have an asterisk next to your name. The bastard and his thugs are still continually tearing apart what little democracy exists, so who cares what history will say? Small comfort for those of us who are living through this fucking class war. Not sure if I'm gonna make rent this month, again. At work was my first full day of being a union shop steward and it was ok. By turns entertaining and irritating, but I definitely can cultivate some of the hellos I've been delivering since day one. Maybe. The new pastry exec, Sara, appears to be like me without the narcissist tendencies, so that's awesome. She's also maybe 45? So that's also helpful. My entire physical being is a mess of pain though, and sleep has become problematic. Except for when I take a Benedryl, which allows me to double my sleep state to a whopping 4 hours, and only wake up with a mild headache. I suspect that my sleep apnea is slowly killing me every night. With any luck instead of Dad-style heart attack, I will just suffocate in bed one night. However - I had a rare dream last night that wrapped up (don't ever remember how these things start) with KC and I having a super long walk along a fremont/ballard -ish canal needing to meet up with Karen and some other people. We were running late and saw a boat with a woman who was showing kids along the canal via the boat and when I walked by and just jumped in, they were so stoked with the dog (so typical) that we were allowed to stay in the boat. When the boatride ended we jumped out and met up with Karen and some other peeps, and began to walk in a Frelard sort of quasi-light industrial area (shades of doorknocking, to be honest) and then KC became a goat (and not by magic, she was just suddenly a goat, but still somehow KC? Too much Milk Barn Farm Insta ((and cbd)) before bed) who had eaten something bad from the side of the road (which I am constantly telling her not to do IRL) and she started puking and swelling up, so I looked around to find her water, and there was a porch of a hippy house that had pots and a faucet, so I jumped up on the porch grabbing a pot to get KC the goat water, while the others stood by and watched. A dude came from out of the house (hot, but not specifically - just a hirsute manly Jason Mamoa sort of guy; and there was a woman still in the house too, maybe? He said it was ok, put his hands on my shoulders and told me to relax and then got behind me so my head was cradled in his crouching lap and he gave me this bong (oh shit, a chillum?) to smoke - saying I needed to come in and relax after we get the goat out of trouble(I kept telling him she was my goat). He put some sort of scarf over my head, but I could hear Karen & the others getting worried, and one of the guys with her leaned in my ear and said "You don't have to do this" and then I realized (decided?) I didn't want to get that high, and told the guy no thanks. I hugged my goat, started to stand up from the guy's lap (which was warm, and supporting) and then I woke up. My subconscious is NOT SUBTLE. Momma needs to get fucking laid. But momma has no desire to get involved with anyone. Ah well. Also, Karen and Ken are going to Cracked Pepper's debut brunch and I am very jealous.

feliz cumpleanos.

For my birthday this year, I got myself a new job. I hadn't planned to get myself anything (hours have been minimal in the last few months, so just getting the power bill paid would be gift enough), but an opportunity presented itself, and so I went for it. Generally, when I take a broad look at my working life - me just jumping into stuff rarely works out, and sometimes (say in the rotisserie chicken-related scenarios) they lead to nervous breakdowns and panic attacks. This year though, on the completion of my 53rd trip around the sun I was moved to say "fuck this boring, tedious life I have allowed myself to settle into, and let's spin the dial again" and accepted an offer to become a paid political operative. Ok, actually I'm going to be a canvasser for the city council race in my home district. I am going to get involved on the ground. Something I should have done 30 years ago, like most politically-minded college kids, but the punk-rock band got in the way, then the debauchery, and then the grief and depression that comes from unexpected loss. Much like my foray into cooking professionally, I want to give being part of a campaign a try. I want to see how it works. Most of all, I want to see if I mesh into the world, see if its something I might be good at. If I can find another opportunity to follow this one, I will be fine ending my time in the kitchen. I have done what I wanted to really do, to feel, to understand about that world and that life. To be completely honest - its time to move on to a new sort of compulsive world. We'll see if I sink or swim. The best news is that my old job will remain for me (I am officially taking a leave of absence) should I decide to go back.

On and On.

"What a bunch of shit." - Jesse, former babysittee, bartender, and one of my oldest friends from Seattle.

That could have easily been the title for this entry, to be honest. It could well be the title for the next one if I decide to delve into the insanity that has become urban growth in Seattle currently (though, that being said, while I'm fond of many of the changes happening, it is in direct proportion to the destruction of Seattle's unique character that breaks my heart). Today though completes the first entire week of the post-Briggs/Agent86 world we now live in. I say that knowing that for the vast majority of people this is not an issue. For me though, it is a much bigger deal than I expected. Not only because it eliminates an ongoing feature in my strange excuse for a life, but it also removes a real-life talisman from the world at large. While I need to promise myself right now that I won't continue to count the days, there is grief, and if I know anything it is that the grief needs to be processed. Even if it is finally me growing the fuck up and out of my tortured memory of a life once lived. So a couple things that I also want to remind myself happened in the deluge of this nonsense. I watched my ex-husband launch himself into Mike's personal life online, and it was in equal measure excruciating, hilarious, and vindicating. The self-righteous nature in the guise of compassion and intelligence that so effectively pulled the rug out from under me TWICE led him to pontificate, and step in a big, stupid, slutty mess of shit. Which in turn allowed me to commiserate with my favorite DC drummer who immediately had reached out to me when he watched the shitshow unfold on the social media of choice. Beyond that, (as he often did with both Mike and I) he appropriated my words, specifically the remembrance I posted. Oh? You can't imagine a world without Mike? Really? Seems to me you can not only imagine a world without anyone you choose, you manifest it on a constant basis. Further, because I know he's a lurker: having the unbelievable nerve to message ME and ask if he's gone, and then fucking say "Sorry"? Oh, you're sorry for THAT? Let me be clear, jackass: you have a lot of things to say sorry to me for, but the loss of one of the most influential people in my life? Fuck right off. You don't know what you are talking about, even though I'm quite sure you THINK you do. The fact that you reached out was bad enough, but to try and equate MY loss to anything you might feel about Mike's passing? Flat out garbage. This constant and apparently ongoing appropriation of MY life experiences is very possibly the most regrettable part of ever sharing anything with him. Fucking bloodsucking ghoul. I will not make that mistake a third time. The good news is it was fodder for some belly laughs in telling the story to the some of the people I spoke with over the weekend (which has been really nice, even given the circumstances), and culminating yesterday speaking to the mother of Mike's kid. I never met her in person, though we had exchanged texts and spoken on the phone a couple times over the decade plus she was with him. Because the divorce situation with Mike had been bitter and the new "wife" was clearly some sort of vulture/attention whore, I did feel some compassion for her, a kinship to anyone who puts in that kind of time with Mike even after their relationship blew up like a bomb. I guess I always feel compassion for those that followed me into the Agent86 abyss (except for my ex-husband, because he manipulated me out of the band and then went back to claim it as his own. Horseshit of the highest order). The kid is 12, and that is a hell of an age to lose a parent, especially one who had been as sick as he was in the last couple of years. I had been sitting on a batch of photos from when he and I were in college, and in DC for a while, and so finally I sent a package Tuesday and it arrived on Thursday and the Mom called to thank me - and to be honest, I wasn't sure if I'd ever hear from either of them. But she was nice, and even mentioned the photos from our Jamaican trip - apparently, he had never mentioned that to her (I am surprised that he didn't to be honest, seems like bragging about going to Montego Bay would have been something he would have shared all the time) so even she learned something new about him, and saw sides she had never seen. It was a great chat, and while we won't ever be pals, it was really nice closure. I'm glad I put it together and sent it. I wish I had done it sooner so he could have told his daughter some of the stories behind the pictures himself, but at least she has something of her dad's earlier days. In more woo-woo sort of stuff, on Sunday night I had an experience I have only had one other time. My delightful, super-snuggly dog was on pins and needles all into the night. Nothing weird was going on in the neighborhood, or next door. But she would not relax, and when I finally climbed into bed, she sat, stock-still, at the foot of the bed, staring past the sliding doors into the hall, as if someone was standing there speaking to her. The last time this happened, was 25 years ago, the first night I moved into Mia's old room at the Hiawatha House. My heeler, Hopey, spent our first night staring into the closet where Mia had kept her bed, and it was that same look, the intense stare of a dog trying to understand what was being asked of it. I told KC, my current pup, that if the ghost was Mike, it was cool. He would definitely watch over us, and was probably just checking to see if I was shitfaced yet. Also, had a weird interaction with a guy in Occidental Park while walking the puggle - he was live FBing, something about "Do People from Seattle Even Like Grunge?" and he asked if he could talk to me. The pup was taking her time finding a spot to do business so I chatted with him, and he asked me "So, do you like grunge?" And I replied that I did, as a matter of fact. However, I told him I was a biased sample, as I had been an active musician at the time. He lit up like a Christmas tree and started peppering me with questions, and babbling about how I was "legendary". Dude, I am not joking when I say it was a lot of the stuff Mike used to say to me about how proud I should be of that time and what we did. The timing though - it was like Mike was standing right there, just giving me a shit-eating grin. Ultimately the guy wanted me to jam with him, so I had to break it to him that I didn't play anymore, and that I am a much better pastry chef than I was a bass player. But, for a hot minute, it was a trip, and I can't help but think it was a little pat on the head from Mike. I don't feel like I have a tangible tie to any of it - and yet I do. I talked to so many people who reached out and asked me if there would be services, about how sick he'd been, about who the crazy bitch who took over his page referring to herself as his "wife" was. They still came to me for info about him. He had made an impact on a lot of people, and interestingly, you can tell by the language they all used who really knew him, and when. The pseudo-anthropologist in me is loving this aspect of the whole experience, as I haven't had anyone in this sort of relation to me die before. Definitely learning a lot in just one week. All of it actually very good, and super useful.

Oh, and in other news: I am still rehoming my LP collection and last month saw me say goodbye to two gems: the vinyl versions of both Juno albums, and they fetched HUGE prices. I still adore the music, but I have toted them around far too long, and they should be being played by some cool girls with banging stereos, and that is exactly where they went. I could not be prouder to be able to enable some more Juno enjoyment. I still have the cds, and since those are primarily how I listened to the music anyway, it will be fine going forward.

The Era to End All Eras.

It has been five days since Mike died, and I have been in direct touch with four of our drummers, the mother of his child, and his last and current psychotic wife. There hasn't been anything to prepare me for Mike's departure from Life, at all. It's only in the last couple days that I can admit it's a bigger deal than it probably should be for me, and that is my own damn fault. There are people who told me to just cut him off years ago. I couldn't do it. To me he was always that amazing guy who just careening downhill, at sometimes breakneck speed. Yet, in many ways, to many people, he didn't. The outpouring of emotion online (for whatever that's worth, and we probably won't know until I'm long past dead how little the internet and social media will actually mean when all is said and done) has been interesting to me. The perception of him as a social justice fighter, of being true hardcore punk, is really something to behold. I've got plenty of skeletons in my closet, and he was really the only one that lived a life that I would view from afar and think "Wow, I'm glad I don't have to deal with that anymore" but then inside my heart wonder would it be different if I had stayed the course, could I have fixed it? Now, I'm well aware, that is my damage, my "bag of rocks" as Chris mentioned last night on the phone. It's hard though not to think of all the crazy fucked up shit that we did, all the love we had for each other, all the fights we had, and just the plain truth that we stayed in touch. I continued to help when I could and when I felt like it wouldn't damage me or would, in fact, be in my interest (when I would retrieve shit from storage spaces for him - Chris reminded me that I did that for him, too. I don't remember that, but it also doesn't surprise me. My daddy issues are clear now, and my need to be the person my mom was is also apparent). Recently, as more people keep dying, and others I know have kids that are getting older, and my not having children brings into focus that I have a ton of keepsakes that will mean nothing to anyone but me when I'm gone. I've started to try and get photos to people, to give them bits of memories that I have been sitting on like a fucking broody hen for well over 20 years now. Creating a package for Mike's daughter was way more disappointing than I thought it would be. I thought I had more stuff. She's only 12, so there are still things I can't give her until she asks for them (because...well...her mom might not appreciate it). I still wish I could talk to my father's first wife, or people he was in the police force with, or people he worked with at IBM in the late 60's with, just to get a sense of who he was, because I never knew much about what made my dad tick except on the most superficial level. I wonder if Mike's daughter will wonder about what Young Mike was about. Additionally, trying to decide which photos I wanted to keep has been something I've been avoiding for more than a couple years now. I have for years had this series I took while I was deep in photojournalism mode, all in b&w, of young, vital Mike when I first fell for him. They are now on their way to his daughter - and I am faced with not having that touchstone for the rest of (spoiler: I suspect I am going to be part of the Orgill curse, so if I make it past 57, huzzah. I honestly don't think I will) my life. It's good though right? I mean, as much adventure and fun that we had: he hurt me a lot. He was tough to live with, a lot. I was the peacekeeper in the band A LOT. He couldn't/wouldn't climb out of his bong after 1993, and he was so fixated on the band and his legacy that it became almost comical (then tragic, as it does in Shakespeare). It became an ongoing thing like the swallows coming back to Capistrano: when would I get the call to re-join Agent86 again because he'd found a new drummer and had some shows booked. The Saturday I found out he'd died, via Facebook, not only was I bummed that his run was over, but it hit me that probably the only way I would know is because there is a Facebook to tell me. He had divorced the mother of the child and it wasn't amicable, so she wasn't around when it happened, and he had a new girlfriend that had clearly signed on as a vulture, who I didn't know. If there were no social media, neither of them would have called me, surely. Would they have even have had a number to call? I could have gone for years not knowing he was dead. Instead, I knew almost immediately. People were very kind, especially those who knew him when we were together, and not ever after. I'm still grasping at how to feel though. All I know is: this is now a world where I will never, ever get a call, text, message, postcard, letter, anything from Mike Briggs ever again. And, after almost 35 years, that is crazy to imagine. I have fallen hard for a few other people since him, but never in the way I did when I was 19 and everything was possible. He made me a better consumer of media, a better defender of opinion, a better lover, a better person even when he showed me what I didn't want to be. When I left him in Eugene in 1993, I remember feeling so unhappy, so deeply sad that the relationship and the band just hadn't become what I'd hoped it would. It pushed me to venture out on my own. Until then I hadn't lived alone before. It was a battle to establish my personality outside the construct of Being in The Band with Mike. I did it but slid back a few times. Even when my marriage caved in years later, I bounced back and set new goals for myself much easier than I ever would have if I hadn't had to grow so much after leaving Mike and then being able to remain friends with him and play in the band for another almost ten years, plus go on to stay in contact when I jettisoned music altogether and moved into cooking professionally. This week has had me feeling the same weird waves of "who am I?" that I had then, in an oddly similar way I felt after putting my dog Hopey down and suddenly was faced after sixteen years with the question: who am I if I am not Hopey's person anymore? This is all to say that I am still struggling. Struggling with who I am, what I want. I recognize that we all have choices to make, and that the choices I made led here. Here, five days out from Mike's death, realizing that the band is finally done. He can rest now, and maybe now so can I. "

stuff and things

What to do? Give up following any sort of news? The world is upside down and backward. Even I, the closet anarchist (sometimes not-so-closeted) am losing my tenacious grip on how this world works. This Trump bullshit has taken on a level of idiocy that is hard to deal with, even on the quiet days (wait, are there "quiet" days anymore?). Add to that, favorite public figures deciding to check out, literally one after another (for me, Robin Williams giving up was the canary in the coalmine) with Bourdain leaving us last weekend has me more than bummed. On my best days I have never been one to plan ahead. I do not save money, I do not plan vacations, I do not have a "5 Year Plan" for my career. I have been somewhat jokingly anticipating the decline of the USA for most of my life (that 8-year Obama hiatus was merely a drunken binge wherein I had to put my canine pal down and have my heart stomped a couple more times in order to make sure I don't make the mistake of trusting anyone on a romantic level ever again) but to watch it ACTUALLY FALL TO SHIT is not as satisfying as 24-year-old me dreamed of. It is heartbreaking to watch it unravel. To watch the rich become richer, the poor become desperate, the sick die, the wise defeated. How do you fight this? I had a hard time thinking the average American was not a tv-addicted zombie. Now, the ignorance, even among our "leaders" is rampant. I can't vote nearly enough, and even if I could - who controls that shit now? How do you trust elections? Ugh, even writing about it aches - it used to be a venting mechanism, but now it just feels like listing the things that I see wrong just makes it that much harder to understand. However, walking the dog still provides some solace. A couple days ago on the bus, while wearing my PSA shirt (which I had forgotten I was sporting) a girl walked past and looked me in the eye and said "Friend of the Pod?" with a smile, and at first I said "Wha?" and she smiled more and said "Your shirt! I'm a friend too" it seriously made my day. I told her "Right on" and returned the smile. She moved on to find a seat. It has come to that point - it used to be seeing a fellow punk rocker, and now, it's about coded t-shirts. Also, the Bourdain thing. I don't mention how much influence his book had on me, how much I enjoyed his journey, how inspiring someone finding success so late in life meant to me when I started so late in the kitchen, because, well, everyone seems to have felt that way. But I followed him. I wondered. I was not a fan of his immediate adoration of his new girlfriend. It seemed so much like that blind worship and dedication that so many of us fall into around people, and now, as more information comes to light, his depression may have been feeding on that. Pisses me off in so many ways. But mostly - a man who travelled so often and clearly saw the devolution of things - for him to check out (I used to say it was giving up, but now, in my 51st year on this rock hurtling through space, I'm not so sure it's giving up as just making a choice not to be a part of it anymore) after people like Robin Williams, Chris Cornell, and even Prince (accidental overdose my ass) - what is the point? Why ARE we here? People have posted mostly the same quotes from him, and sure, they all resonate. The one that speaks to me though, the one that speaks truth to me and how I have lived is this one: "Anyone who's a chef, who loves food, ultimately knows that all that matters is: 'Is it good? Does it give pleasure?' Beyond that I'm not sure what else there is to give. Maybe it is about realizing so many dreams that there is nothing left to aspire to? I have always been one to remind myself that while the bulk of life is tedious and painful; every now and then a moment, a day, an hour happens that is so exhilerating, so pleasurable, so lovely that you thank yourself for participating. Being grateful to be around, to experience that feeling. It is heartbreaking to think that people who give so much inspiration and pleasure cannot see past the pain anymore.

walking

Today we walked on the waterfront, ostensibly to check out the Norwegian Bliss, the biggest, dumbest cruise ship yet. It has a two-level go-kart track! An outdoor laser tag course! Pools, and waterslides off the side of the ship! Ugh. But I still wanted to lay eyes on this man-made fiasco on the sea, but alas, it has already set out for Alaska. We'll catchit on the way back, if it makes it back. Those boats look so damn top heavy, it is a wonder they sail at all. Anyway, the highlight of the day was passing by a guy who was standing on the street taking a selfie in front of traffic holding his newly-purchased weed in his hand. I couldn't tell at first, but as we got closer and he saw me smiling, he grinned and told me "I had to do it, I'm from Connecticut, and here I am out here on the street with it in broad daylight!!" He was so tickled with himself. I told him to have fun and we continued on our way up to the Market.

Post walk bits.

Today, taking the puggle for a run to the park because we hadn't been to a real offleash (that shitty Belltown concrete jungle gym will do in a soggy pinch, but she really needs the big parks with dirt and space to chase the ball) in a week (I am a bad mom who has been both full-on ill for a couple weeks and then the beginning and ending couple of cruddy weeks tacked to the ends) we ran into an old pal of mine. We were catching the bus on the UW campus (puggle was saying the second hello to a couple of girls who she had charmed in the light rail tunnel) and I hear a guy next to me ask "Is your name Michelle?" and son of a monkey's uncle if it wasn't Justin, one of my favorite food runners/busboy of all time from Branzino. Of course I could not remember his name (all I could think of was the other major J name I'd been involved within the last few years, though he and I did go on a sorta awkward date once)...though I did remember his sister's name. We chatted (and he hugged me like a fucking stuffed animal he had as a kid - it was super warm and genuine, two things he pretty much embodies) until our bus came and then it was over. This city is definitely my favorite place. I love the fact that I run into people I know from all different places I've been in my life all the time. Last week, we were headed home from the stadium on a walk and this girl runs across the street up to me and it was Whitney, who worked at Market Hall with me and who I loved to work with, just a super quirky girl, funny & sweet. She was with someone else who she didn't introduce and I was just over the flu, so we just said hi & bye, but again, it was so nice to see her. It is nice to randomly be reminded of good feelings and experiences. Having the puggle, and getting out every day around the city has been really helpful in keeping the horrible black cloud of doom at bay as the US continues to disgust and depress me. As I have always said though: you can't give up, because you never know what is going to happen next and it is worth finding out what that thing is going to be.

Update/state of disunion

Hi. So, last Saturday marked me being on this planet for 51 years. It also marked the day I found out an old friend from DC was stabbed to death in a small park in San Fernando, Ca. (RIP Fred.) It was also a day protesting Nazis inspired a member of their ranks to drive his car into counter protesters, killing a person. Killing a person. Killing a person for demonstrating how she feels. As with most terrorist killings, like so many before, people died doing simply what they believed they were allowed to do without fearing death: fly home from a city, go to school, go to church, go to a nightclub, go to work, go to a demonstration. I have reached my limit with this bullshit, and honestly, am paralyzed by what to do about it. I live paycheck-to-paycheck in a world I care less and less about. My great fear is that the terrorists (all of them) are winning. I find myself among humans who I care less and less about (which in and of itself is terrifying), even in this "liberal bubble" of Seattle. It's liberal if you work at a technology firm. Or provide professional service to technology firms. But you are out of luck if you are a craftsperson, a tradesperson, or, heaven forbid; a service worker. The evil work of dividing us and fomenting hatred is devious and insidious and I feel like it's a toothache of the soul - you keep seeing this crap, hearing the hate. I hate the hate, and all it does is shrink my heart. I feel like the goddamn Grinch, except everyday is Xmas eve now. The inequality has reached a point in this country where clearly something is going to give. Will it be a second civil war? What does civil war look like in 2017? Our first civil war killed more Americans than any other war in our history - how many will die this time? And for what? Plenty of other countries with longer histories than ours, built on much more stringent rules than ours, faced these questions. Now is our time. I can't even motivate myself to do my daily journaling anymore - so many people now are screaming into the internet, that it doesn't feel like my voice makes a dent here. Perhaps that is the point: stop screaming (or rambling on) into the void, and start communicating with people about things you care about. I find that when I do talk to actual humans in my life, the thoughts come tumbling out, sometimes random, sometimes flooding with rage and frustration. I am unsure how to use these emotions - which is depressing, because once upon a time writing gave me solace, and strength. Now, solace comes from hours in the park with my dog. Literally, that is the only time I feel at ease. Even now, writing this I can't even find the words to explain how disgusted I am by the racism displayed by people who call themselves American. It is simply not ok. The Confederacy lost. The Nazis lost. The same people who scream about how the "libtards" need to "shut up and accept that they lost the election" are screaming (and have been for years) about stupid status erected under false pretenses (who fucking builds monuments to failure? those status represent one thing: messaging to people that racists will not go quietly into the void. It's that simple) to begin with. See, I have been uneasy with the confederate flag my entire life, and I was born and raised in California. Lived on the West Coast - except for a brief 5-year stint in WDC; and because of my chosen lifestyle (DIY punk rock, working in kitchens) I have always been surrounded by a melting pot of people; where there were certainly old racist folks (my grandparents were full of slanderous terms for Latinos and Asians) there was still an understanding that America was the Land of the Free, and ultimately, even if you disagree with someone's lifestyle, you let them go ahead and do what they do: AS LONG AS THEY DON'T HURT OR KILL ANYONE WHILE DOING IT. Remember the show "Dukes of Hazard"? God I hated that show. Even at nine years old, I knew to be embarrassed by those stupid backward hicks. Everyone bitches and moans about how "good ol' boys" are a solid piece of our history. Are they? I thought we fought a war about smashing those ass-backward ideas y'all. My parents were blue-collar raised, and though my dad ended up in a white collar job, he loved and cherished the country ranch lifestyle. My mother adored Glen Campbell and John Denver...and somehow I nurtured a seed of distaste for any of that "southern yahoo" bullshit. I believed all the hillbilly archetypes growing up - it wasn't until I moved back East where the Confederacy's legacy was palpable that I realized: the racism isn't in the accent, or the zipcode. It's in the idea that a small clutch of people (mostly White males, but plenty of the white females who mate with them) feel, to paraphrase Jon Stewart a few months ago: that they own America, that they know what's right, that they are the defenders of the country. Why are there Confederate monuments in Washington State? Why are schools named after failed Confederate Generals? The civil war was fought over slavery - it says so in the secession documents. The Union Army won. We are the United States of America. How about this, racists? How about YOU leave the country if you don't like it. Get on a goddamn boat or plane or whatever, just like your religious nutball forefathers did, and go find somewhere else to be - because America is THE melting pot. It's not easy to get along with people you disagree with, but it's part of the agreement you make being an American. I may not like you, but I'm not gonna kill you. I don't care if there is a Washington Monument, or a Lincoln or Jefferson one, to be honest. All I want are museums so that we can warehouse the relics from our past and marvel at how far we've come. Not live today whining about the "good ol' days". I have always been uncomfortable being reminded that White people held Black people as property, that White people killed the Native tribes who lived on this continent long before their pox-ridden ships showed up, that White people abused Chinese people and used them as indentured workers to build the railroad system that built fortunes for the rich White families who began to run this country of ours. White legislators interred Japanese Americans. What is "White" anyway? Italian, German, French, Irish, Scandinavian, Serbian, Spanish? White is a skin tone, it is not a damn heritage. Where you are from, regional differences are important, they are defining of your personality. They do not, however, entitle you to success, or superiority. I have found some rays of hope though. Thanks to the internet, one of my favorite persons is helpfully weaning my intolerance for that shitty southern dialect:

Liberal Redneck - Virginia is for Lovers, Not Nazis#Charlottesville #LoveYall pic.twitter.com/TsNrRVjyS3

— Trae Crowder (@traecrowder) August 13, 2017

(I encourage you to check out all his stuff, he's funny, smart, and a voice you don't hear much in this current state of America.) I will work to stay focused on the difference between political beliefs versus human values/morals. The unfortunate fact is that while both sides are not equal in their tendency to violence (actual statistics prove this to be true - even a quick survey of the POTUS rallies, where people of color were beaten to cheers (from the president elect in most cases); while rallies featuring the "antifa" usually result in property damage and thrown bottles rather than hospital visits. Yes, yes, I know: what about the attack on those poor legislators in DC? It was a poorly planned attack, obviously. And to be blunt, for a change the targets weren't innocent people. They were people who have literally passed (or aided passing) laws that restrict civil rights for certain Americans, but that being said, they should be able to conduct practice for their annual baseball game without fear of gunfire. Though maybe, since the rest of us apparently have to go about our daily lives worrying about being killed by a random angry white guy with a gun ((again more often than not the bad guy is a single, white male)) maybe they should know how that feels as well). Trump is not my president. He is THE president, however, so he is accountable to all of us. He represents all of us. Pence too. The govenrment is made up of three branches for a reason, and we are seeing that reason in full color right now. Participate. Listen to people, think before you type, before you like, before you call names. Then, if you are sure of your beliefs, say it loud, say it proud. Racism is not ok. We are all created equal, the founding fathers had the theory right, even if they hadn't perfected it yet. Let's be the democratic experiment that fucking works. Not another chapter of xenophobic paranoia. Please. I have a puggle to raise in this world, and I want her to keep trusting humans