“Hurry up, will ya,” Jeff barked as I lumbered out the front door onto High Street. “We’re running late you slow poke.”
I admit to being the cause of his concern. Slow to answer the morning bell, my head fuzzy from last evening’s indulgences of an alcoholic nature.
A take away extra large white coffee got me revved up and I, in turn, got that Audi revved up. I love the sound of a turbo in the morning.
We had plenty of time to change shoes and check-in at Nairn Dunbar for our morning round. Jeff was still annoyed at me- not for being late but driving too fast. He’ll get over it.
A fine course and fair weather, once again, should make for a memorable day but it all passed in a bit of a fog. Likewise our tour and turn at barrel making at the Speyside Cooperage. Although this stop proved extremely memorable in it’s own right, it’s telling must be deferred.
Our last night in town, so of course, we were again at the Mash Tun. Fine food and whisky as expected.
Then the earth opened up and swallowed me whole.
As Jeff so ably describes in his telling- I’d gone viral!
I’d caught the attention of the world. I’d have rather caught the corona virus.
In the midst of our group sing-a-long-demanding an inglorious end to the president, my phone went berserk.
I wasn’t answering any of these until a call rang through from my lovely wife.
“Are you alright? What have you done?” She asked. “You won’t believe the scene outside our house.”
A bit breathless, she recounted the goings on in our quiet community.
Two Jacksonville news stations had mobile broadcast units parked in the street, their reporters angling for an interview with my better half. The St. John’s County Sherrif’s Department was on site and had erected a perimeter protecting our property.
Across the way, in the field and oak grove fronting our home, dozens of protesters voiced rage and retribution aimed at me. MAGA hat wearing folks, many with rifles and semi-automatic weapons slung over their shoulders were walking a loop, waving confederate flags and carrying signs depicting various methods of my intended demise.
My world had gone mad. What was I to do?
As we rolled out of the Mash Tun after last call, I began to sift through the dozens of messages, e-mails and voice messages I’d received.
My favorite of these came from my 17 year old granddaughter, Lily. It read “ You are so chill,Pop. Love ya.”
I wondered aloud how all these folks and entities had gotten hold of my mobile number and e-mail address. Jeff reminded me that in our world today nothing is really private.
Here was a message from Rachel Maddow offering a week long slot as co-host on her prime time cable show.
MoveOn.Org wished me to take a seat on their board.
MSNBC and CNN both had openings in their panels of political talking heads for the coming campaign coverage.
Axios, Politico, The Huffington Post and even The Drudge Report wanted sit down interviews
To top it all, The Democratic National Committee had opened up a slot in the Wednesday airing of their virtual convention. They pressed me to meet their technical crew at noon Wednesday at Edinburgh’s Balmoral Hotel. Time was short, a decision required urgently so they could make the necessary changes and communicate the same. If I was in, Hilary would get bumped, quite an incentive, I must say.
This was all too much. And the terrible irony, as Jeff well knew, was my total disdain and enmity for social media. I believe that the Facebook and it’s ilk are tools engaged in the destruction of truth and civility in our world.
I’d been thrown into a mosh pit of lemons. Should I, Could I make lemonade?
It occurred to me that there were many non-entity, empty heads pulling down mega bucks while pushing a false narrative in our political and civic life.
The Fox cast of talking heads ran the gamut of lying vitriol intended to polarize our citizenry, divide our nation, and support the oligarchs and their orange hued dictator wanna be.
An empty head and lack of scruples didn’t prevent droves of folks from rising to national prominence while raking in riches.
Why not try my hand at the game but for the other side?
I had feet of clay, I knew, but that had not deterred many men with similar qualifications, throughout history, from trampling on the institutions of society for their own personal gain. The current occupant of 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue is a striking example of this public malfeasance.
This was heady stuff, my mind swirled with visions of a profoundly different future. Sleep was hard to come by but eventually took hold.
Dreams plagued and teased me.
I saw myself in a golden chariot drawn by a team of perfectly white horses. Dressed in battle armor, I was a conquering hero, feted to a triumphal procession through the Roman Forum. Upon my head lay a crown of laurel leaves. Behind me stood a servant who whispered, continually, in my ear “ All Glory is Fleeting.”
This scene dissolved, replaced by a calm, sonorous, familiar voice. My Dad, in his inimitable manner, posing his proverbial question “ Are you going to be a Jackass your whole life?”
Well, that remains to be seen.
Related Articles
