It’s when something resonates for no known reason, hits a target it could never have been aiming at, from a source you couldn’t have begun to see coming, that we make late-night joinings in our jerry-rigged wiring and we want to say, “See? That’s what I mean. Why didn’t I say that?”
It happens, sometimes, when you’re driving home from stringing a high school football game in rain that has to be pushing the modern-day record for inches in a single day in the sodden region where resides Grey Goatee Global HQ. The wipers dearly need replacement and the defogger, because it’s broken, only knows one speed — full on — and you crack a window to cool off and therefore decide you might as well light a cigar and the left leg of your jeans gets soaked because it’s fucking pouring on northbound Interstate 5 and it will never stop.
There is music, and really (am I right?) it’s the best way short of alcohol to get your shoulders down when they’re hunched and clenched because until you click “send” you’re on the clock and very probably late and you know they’ll never hire you again because you’re a hack and always will be.
The music, at that moment, could have been Van Morrison with Them singing “Baby Please Don’t Go” or Bob Dylan the Nobel laureate and what do you know about that (!) but in fact it was Jesse Sykes and the Sweet Hereafter and if you don’t know that band you should check them out today or as soon as the floodwaters recede.
The song was, well, I don’t know because it’s stuck in iPod World with no identifying markings save for Jesse’s unmistakable voice, but the lyric is this: “If it’s my job to hate you, it’s your job to pretend to be kind” … and for some reason it made me think of Trump and how he’s the most unhappy man in the world and what he has to do to get his shoulders down when they’re clenched so tight around his ears that he doesn’t get enough blood to his brain and does things that just aren’t normal. He doesn’t even pretend to be kind or rational or show any qualities that would help him live among humans much less be elected to anything.
It’s hard to hate a sad old man with an ugly mouth and stupid hair so it’s more like pity, and not for him, for us — because one (out of only two) of our major political parties can’t do any better. My shoulders start hunching up just thinking about it, and it’s still raining and it will only get worse.