Inauguration Day

Today started like every other one...oversleeping running late chaos, absent maniacal silent debate with Doug Turnbull about just how late I might be 'if I were to leave right now' (even though I'm still in bed), resolving internally (triumphantly) and exclaiming aloud to no one in particular that I won't be late and that even if I am, it will not define my day! (even though I know it will because I am who I am) ... downloading Velvet Underground songs for the evening home ride as Joe Scarborough tells the empty living room what I need to know about whatever nonsense happened in D.C. last night before The Mother Hips ease me into semi-conscious lucidity adrift in a caffeine fueled cloud of predawn cigarette smoke on the front stoop foggy morning.

The most logical next step I could possibly take (and I thought about this for a lot longer than a few beats) was to lock my distracted brain into a distracting new song.  I think I like to believe that noodling around on the ukelele and on that cigar box guitar I impulsively bought a summer or two back at a rando ATL festival has made me a better guitar player and by extension (it should go without saying) a better human person.  I'll never be very good at my chosen 'what if' and I'm cool with that.  Whatever adolescent (way too far into adulthood) dreams I had (have)      of rock stardom are a distant (if [still!] oft revisited) memory.  I do however in fact, find myself 'learning' songs with chords with which I'm not familiar...no realistic expectation of successful execution, but always with the same prideful arrogance with which I pursue all meaningful (pointless) endeavors.  I'm okay with that...I'm actually proud of that as it turns out.

For years I thought there was some magical chord progression I would have to hit before I could allow myself to consider myself or expect anyone else to see me as a 'good' guitarist....it's finally dawned on me that I'll never hit those changes.  That's just not me...I wasn't born to be a guitar player in the classic sense - in any conventional sense if I'm honest.  Truth is, I don't love it enough to dedicate the time it would take to be considered a 'good' guitar player.  It's a time killer and I DO love killing time so I'm cool with whatever that says about me.  The benchmark, for the record, for me at least is "Tunnel of Love" by Dire Straits.  Mark Knopfler is an unequaled freak in my estimation and it's borderline obscene to think that I could ever match the natural talent of a certified virtuoso but everybody has to have a dream, right?   

Whatever.  

It had occurred to me midstream of the aforementioned stoop ride that today, in spite of popular evidence to the contrary as well as the infallible prognostication of one Kirk Mellish that this might actually be a 'flannel shirt Friday'.  Not one to overtly contradict my own unvalidated belief in premonition, I dutifully selected and ironed my most garish red flannel shirt (yes, I iron.  yes, I iron flannel because I iron    everything that I wear M-F as a representative of my firm.  yes, I chose red as a diversion...because I maybe didn't want my work peeps to (even though they'd have to be blind AND mentally unstable to not) know that I was a 'crip' at heart).  Blue - through and through. 

I maintain a solid belief that a man who's worth his salt cannot wear a flannel shirt and not also wear boots and jeans.  Further I believe it an unconscionable condescension to all things real for a man to don said attire and then settle into a Mercedes for his work ride.  As I had previously chosen to go all '1995'' on a Friday, I had no other option than to park my ass in my old ass perfect truck before facing the standard ATL traffic gauntlet.

Pops Staples steered me out of my neighborhood and onto the freeway.  Jason Isbell and Taj Mahal guided me through my unscripted diversion through Sweet Auburn and the Old 4th until I passed that perfect MLK iron hand perpetually reaching toward the future on the corner of Boulevard and Freedom Parkway.  Damian Marley, Badfinger, The Shins and Graham Parker serenaded me through downtown and into the burbs.  I have a perfect unexplainable peace when I'm driving...my mind goes to the places it's supposed to, my heart to its very home.

As I crossed 285 my "check engine" light came on.  I ignored it (freaked out inside) and went into the office, still buoyed by my self-inflicted confidence.  An early lunch for 'short steve' to pull the codes so he could tell me it was an EVAP code meaning I was 'Kool and the Gang' aside from the fact that I wouldn't pass my emissions test come Spring.  "It's a second car", said I to myself as I realized I was about to run out of not only fuel, but also acceptable time for lunch.  As I pumped gas into and thought about the Three Dollar Cafe meatball sandwich I was about to destroy and the best way to frame the wording of the proposal I had to write before the bell, I googled what the hell an EVAP code was - the gasoline running across my boots from under my old ass perfect truck answered my question so I decided to have a more time-sensitive Arby's instead.

It's been a shitty week through no fault of its own and for reasons that have no relevant bearing on this conversation.  That said,  Beer Friday at the layout table was a sublime impeccable.  

After the requisite time had passed, I checked the lot under my truck - no gas stains.  Traffic was down by then so off to home I went.  At the red-light...some dude and his old lady pulled out in front of me just before this barbecue joint at the corner of some street and another one.  I stood on my horn as is my right, expecting them to speed out of the intersection and wave a sheepish apology same as every other.  They didn't.  The first thing I saw was his girl flipping me off from the passenger seat and I was like hell naw.  I felt it happening inside of me, but I couldn't stop it.  I rolled down the window and very fervently explained to him why he was a dick - he pulled out in front of me!  He challenged, 'you wanna go?' And I already had my door opened because fuck him, right?  My patience was gone...had been most of the day and I was deep in a dangerous adrenaline moment.  I heard his girl say, "kill his bitch ass" as I bounced to his shitty van door.  He was trying to open it as I slammed it shut on him and proceeded to not so politely explain traffic rules such as right of way.  We are IN the intersection mind you and the demure Roswell populace are beginning to take timid notice that something isn't quite right in their perfect pathetic utopia.  Realizing I was about to end him, I banged my fist on his hood and pogoed quickly back to my truck.  I didn't realize until mental replay that Al Green was still blaring from my open window as I did.  

Still shaken and honestly a little embarrassed about how primal I had allowed myself to get, I threw it down in drive and got the hell out of there.  As I did, I heard the not so distant yell of my newfound mortal enemy screaming "FUCK TRUMP"!!

Really?  It was only then that I internalized that it was Inauguration Day.  The most gangster thing I could think to shout in retaliation was, "I didn't vote for him either!!

I could write for centuries about my belief in this thing or that.  I've never been so rigid in my belief however of any one thing to not be open to an honest explanation of the other side's opinion and belief.  I want that dialogue.  I crave that dialouge.  Honestly, I want ANY intelligent dialogue. 

As I said earlier today in the most ineffective manner possible to a semi-curious traffic crowd who seemingly weren't capable of or in all fairness prepared for hearing it in the manner in which it was delivered, I didn't vote for Trump.  In spite of the immutable fact that there is no evidence that he is even an actual human being, I maintain the same blind trust in him as I have in all of the other American presidents in my lifetime.  That I didn't vote for him, doesn't make him less my president - it makes me more 'me'.  My unshakeable belief in history and the inescapable common good of Americans forces me to believe that 'this' will work out even though I have no idea how.  

I'm not so naive or arrogant to think that I have any better solution or proposed course of action than saying exactly this:  Congratulations Mr. President.  I'll support you when I can, disparage you when I don't agree, mock you every chance I get but I will never devalue the office of the Presidency.  In spite of what I believe to be true, I will approach and engage your presidency with the same guarded optimism with which I've approached and engaged all presidents but with the quick American judgement trigger that is my birthright to weild.  

So yeah.  The song I played on my shitty ukelele this morning was Israel Kamakawiwoʻole's version of "Somewhere Over The Rainbow".  In the grand scheme of things, it doesn't make a damn bit of difference.  In my world, on this our country's Inauguration Day...it means everything.