We're All In This Together

As I write this, it's already more than an hour into Inauguration Day in Washington, D.C. Or at least I assume it probably is. To say I haven't been as keyed in as I could be would be something of an understatement. I recognize that I'm in such a delicate state of politico-emotional equilibrium that the slightest twitch in either direction will upend the balance, sending the whole thing crashing down. So I'm not watching the Trump pre-inaugural concert, but to be fair, neither is anyone else, so that feels more like plugged-in collective action than anything else, if only by majority default.

I'm also not watching any of the Obama victory lap events, like his speeches or final press conference, and certainly not any of the sappy retrospectives by Oprah or Ellen or whatever. That shit is designed to hit you in the feels and I told you already, my feels are already that raw, oozy, sticky pink like when you fall and slide across asphalt and rub the top couple of layers of skin off your forearm. If this has ever happened to you, then you know all of your immediate future is consumed with making sure you don't bump that exposed area against a door jamb or a coworker or the dog or whatever. I'll be fucked if I'm going to knowingly put myself in front of some of the most famous wound-pokers in modern popular entertainment.

Suffice it to say I'm not terribly interested in listening to Trump deliver the inauguration speech he alone is hard at work crafting, himself, without help, or in other words, help-less. I sort of wish he was writing it himself instead of the laughably obvious lie his camp is trying foment. If he did, it would be about 750 words, 650 of which would be some combination of "so very, very..." Then at least I'd be intrigued about the result, but no, it's going to be some shit crafted by people I have no intellectual respect for, delivered haltingly and nasally before being hailed as a triumph of modern rhetoric, by him, on twitter like forty minutes later. But look, this is the type of person who lives in a gilded penthouse at the top of a giant building emblazoned with his name. There's no room in his life for anything that isn't desperate compensation.

I'm not really sure what to do going forward. I feel like I'm cresting the hill of a roller coaster I was badgered into riding by sadists I thought were my friends, only to realize as we start to descend and accelerate that the tracks end at a giant pile of burning shit. And probably a nuclear war.

This is the kind of thing that should inspire active resistance. I'm hesitant to make any kind of commitments in this space for fear of lapsing into easy, reflex slacktivism. As a middle aged person I'm not sure I 100% comprehend the term, but as I understand it I think it means vomiting out online thoughts best spoken outloud to one's therapist and then convincing yourself that anyone else--particularly those who would disagree with you--could possibly give the first shit.

No, I'm saving myself for some kind of tangible action; something that can produce a tactile, tangible result that will make a visible difference in the world. In fact, I've already achieved my first goal. I've grown a beard.

Yep, 2017 is all of 20 days old and I've already got something to show for it. What does this have to do with Trump and the inauguration and resistance etc.? Well, all action is political. Even if that action is the action of not shaving for awhile. I guess we'll piece together exactly how my beard is political at a later date, probably in a seminar attended by many other people with beards, some ironic, some aggressive, some (like mine) a result of a couple weeks off work over the holidays. If I had to kick off the debate, I guess I'd say... razors are really expensive? So I've struck a blow against the military-razor-industrial triumvirate? Except, shit, I guess I'm still buying razors to shave my neck and... other situationally presentational areas...

Great, now I've been prodded by culture to confess my embarrassing transgressions against taste and the taboos of public etiquette. Now the state will use my difference to single me out and either "reform" me according to their repressive, inescapable "norms" or identify me as unsalvagably "perverse" and lock me away. Thanks for exposing the invisible levers of power Foucault, you dick. It's hard to be indifferent when all relationships are expressions of power. I'd suspect a sneaky Trump understands this, but he also knows the words to that fucking Lee Greenwood song. I find Foucault and Greenwood to be mutually exclusive in my experience.

I guess in the end, there's no escaping it. Skipping the televised speeches and conferences and the inevitable, exhaustive, exhausting analysis is no boon, let alone panacea. I mean, I'm still not going to watch the inauguration, but at least now I'm clear that it's not to passively escape anything, but because fuck that guy.