It was Tuesday afternoon after the inauguration, and I was driving across Arizona, a notoriously conservative part of the country. Radio signals morphed in and out like distant voices heard in a forest. There were many twanging guitars, and mournful male voices singing about lost loves, jobs, trucks, wives, dogs, children. There was an oldie station giving me the best of the Stones, and the Beatles on the hour. At other times the oily tones of radio preachers oozed from the speakers, and told me what Galatians had to say about the state of the world, and how I needed to accept Jesus as my personal savior.
There was also a lot of right wing talk radio. I listened because I wondered how they would be reacting to a day that brought two million people onto the Mall (and not one arrest, by the way), the first African-American president, Senator Kennedy’s collapse.
Clearly these people do not live in a fact based universe. Their interpretations of what they had seen and heard was baffling, often loathsome, and occasionally inadvertently funny. Did you know that white men are the victims of constant racism? It’s so hard to be a white male in America. Nobody loves them anymore. Oh, and Obama isn’t really president because he flubbed the oath of office. No, morons, the Chief Justice flubbed the oath.
I found the Reverand Lowery’s poetic shout out at the end of the benediction to be charming and funny. (Turns out it’s an old, old NAACP rallying cry), but not the white bastion of right wing talk radio. He was a disgusting old racist! Obama needed to apologize. Let this be a warning to America! This is what is coming — the end of white America.
I finally came within range of the NPR station for Flagstaff and got to listen to some coherent analysis. My car’s navigation system took me to the Radisson, and I entered to hear the rocking sounds of a live band. There was an exuberant Obama inauguration party in full swing. I got to spend a few moments in happy converse with fellow Dems. Then I grabbed a quick dinner, and hurried to my room to see Michelle Obama’s dress. It was beautiful, but damn the designer needed to put a train hook on it so she could have picked it up, and avoided having her husband tread on it.
The room was tricked out with one of those Sleep Number beds. I had fun changing the setting from Sinking So Far Into The Mattress That Your Ass Hits The FLoor to the Sleeping On A Concrete Overpass setting. I’m not sure I liked it any better than my Tempurpedic, but it did offer more entertainment.
