I’ll be honest with you: I despise louts. I’ve never liked them, period, and I’m suspicious of those who do. Also, I don’t take direction well, especially from loutish “authorities”: my negative model for that was Mr. Harrison, my high school biology teacher–arrogant, smirking, strutting, possessed of no empathy but ironically instantly aggrieved. He helped turned me into an anti-authoritarian, though when I met adepts like Howard South or Kay Lederer, I was all ears. As a professional, most of my “bosses” have been women, none of whom were loutish and all of whom were interested in honest feedback on their performance (props to Mike Jeffers, the one male boss I’ve had who didn’t have a fragile ego). All of this is to say that yesterday I was thrilled that (apparently) I no longer have to be embarrassed to live in country that has been “led” by a lout. Say what you will in contradiction, but, to do so, you will have to do excruciating mental gymnastics to deny it, and even that effort will fail to convince me. I know the difference between piss and rain.
We cranked music, quaffed alcoholic libations, embraced, danced, cranked the music up more, and felt our eyes water, whether from the lifting of strain, the acknowledgement of dissipated despair, or, hey, maybe simple happiness. I was reluctant to think it was the latter, because, again, this is a snatch-away regime, and I didn’t fall off the peach truck yesterday. But, by damn, we deserved some joyous release, and we indulged it.
Shireen, I hope in the future you will remember you spent the night of November 7, 2020 huddled with Nicole and me around our fire pit hashing out the meaning of the day.
Streaming for Survivors:
For joyous indulgence one cannot beat disco.