Butchblog

Yes, it still exists.

As the world appears to around us, and our president drags us closer and closer to the abyss, I find myself  ever more in need of escape. Here are some of the things that I find helpful—or distracting.

Getting out in nature and using your body as more than a container for angst is always in the first spot. But here are some others that work for me. First among them is what I’m doing right now—writing. I’ve been a writer for over 50 years, so it’s part of who I am. It’s both my outlet for all sorts of feelings and my art form (on my better days). I’ve published three books and written a couple more that languished in my file cabinet. Writing is the fun part, publishing is the pain in the butt. But you don’t have to be a published writer or even a serious one to get a benefit from putting pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. Keeping a journal or joining a writing group, or scribbling poetry, are great ways to let your inner-self out for a breath of air. I don’t claim that writing is therapy, but it’s darn close.

Join a gym. I go to the YMCA here in Tillamook. It’s a great facility, with friendly people. (Though I wish they’d change the name. We’re not all young or Christian or men.) I stretch, get on the treadmill, lift weights, talk to gym buddies and never mention politics.

Late night comedy shows help me laugh at the foibles of the world. The Daily Show with Jon Stewart is my favorite. He’s a brilliant guy, who is both insightful and funny. Even though most days the humor is based on the inanities of the political world. We get grimace/laughs. My heart aches as I chuckle. And then there’s Stephen Colbert—also a brilliant, funny, and perceptive guy. And guess what, trump has managed to get him cancelled, by bribing his billionaire friends, the Ellisons who bought up CBS and are in the process of turning it into state-run tv, like in Russia. Colbert’s show will be gone next month. A great loss. But hey, I’m trying to stay positive here. (It’s so hard.)

Here’s a good one, a display of youth and physical prowess and grace. I’m talking about women’s basketball. I love watching any basketball games, from high school to the pros, but until the last few years, I tended to skip over the women’s game. Those players didn’t exhibit the same level of skill or physicality I mistakenly  and foolishly thought, which was extra weird in that I had been a girl’s high school coach for many years, and saw first hand every day how committed those girls were. Anyway, dumb as I am, I have come around to be a full appreciator of women’s b-ball. Yes, they’re not as powerful as the men, dunks are rare, and the players are smaller. But the women compensate by playing a smarter, more nuanced game. Who needs slam dunks anyway. (Though they are exciting.) I’ll be watching the Sweet Sixteen games of both the women and the men. That’s a lot of distraction. Again, I doubt I’ll think about humpty-trumpty during any of that action. Then comes the Portland Fire, our new WNBA team. Before playing a single game, they’ve already sold out all of the season tickets.

Okay, here’s my final and most important good thing: hugging and kissing my wife, and telling her I love her. I know—kinda cringey. Men aren’t supposed to say stuff like that. But, hell with that old model of the strong, silent dude. That was my father’s generation. Bev and I share a hug first thing in the morning, multiple times during the day, and a good-night kiss, usually accompanied by an exchange of “I love you.” That makes everything okay.

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