Put Some Gay In Your Day, Dallas!

The Password Is…Inauguration

So here’s the deal. I’m meeting a friend for lunch, and she’s running a little late. The restaurant is not very busy, just a couple of ladies at a nearby table. After ordering a cup of coffee, my ears prick up when the word of the day bangs against my eardrum from one of the ladies. Inauguration.

Now I was brought up right, so I know how to eavesdrop without getting caught. (You really didn’t think I was going to say you shouldn’t eavesdrop, did you?) So I put on an air of affected interest in putting cream and sweetener in my coffee, with slow deliberation given to the stirring, and got down to the business at hand, namely, eavesdropping.

Nothing said was particularly interesting, just two ladies at lunch complaining about protesters and how they are such sore losers. I did flash a bit of side eye (as one does) when I heard the words “they need to get over it” while stirring my coffee. The brunette lady caught my glance, I looked back into my coffee cup, and she moved on to making fun of Trump’s hair. She probably felt a bit more comfortable judging his appearance anyway.

But I must admit, we do seem to be in a New World, but there’s nothing Brave about it. There are those who dog Trump on everything that he does (and he’s doing and has done plenty), while there are those who defend him on every score (not all of whom have the excuse of being Kellyanne Conway). Well, maybe not on his hair, but everything else. But there’s really nothing brave in either of those attitudes, much less strategic. Just distracted on the one hand and willfully blind on the other.

As faithful readers of this column already know, I will be in Washington at the time of the inauguration (not for, just at the time of) under something like false pretenses. Kind of like the guy who all this fuss is about. (Stop that groaning. They can hear you at the next table.) And who knows what is going to happen? Karl and I are just going to wing it.

When it comes to protesting, I’ve only done that once as real protesting involves being in the streets and does not include shouting at the television. My only protest was in 2000, in the midst of the Bush/Gore controversy. It was a cold day, but I bravely faced the elements to send a message to the Supreme Court to move forward with the recount in Florida. The whole protest ended up with Democrats on one side of the street and Republicans on the other side, shouting back and forth, waving quite amateurish signs, with everyone generally having a pretty good time.

Not ever having been much of a cheerleader, I was ready to leave before the crowd started thinning and I got any colder. As I said my goodbyes to the small group with whom I’d gotten friendly over the course of the afternoon, one of them took me aside and said, “For future reference, you probably shouldn’t wear a fur to a protest.” I was like, “Not even beaver?”

So, boys and girls, Karl just got home with my burrito for dinner, and we must pack for our trip tomorrow. By “we” must pack, I mean I’ll determine what I’m wearing, and Karl will pack it. (He likes to pack, God bless him.) I don’t know what will happen while we’re in Washington or what we’re going to do exactly. But I will be very surprised and quite disappointed if I don’t come back with at least one story that ends with, “Honestly, I don’t make this stuff up.”