On the Altar of Democracy


Other than a little scuffle (Capitol Police threw J-Heard up against the wall) the day went off without a hitch. We bird-dogged the naughty senators and high-fived (“good-dogged”) the good ones. And other than Jason Heard’s little pas de deux with the cops I can say that there were no casualties other than my suit pants. And this suit isn’t that old at all. And it wasn’t that cheap. It does, I’ll admit, have, despite its relative newness, three month holes. I count them each time when I take it out to wear it, “one-two-three”, and then congratulate myself on not letting the problem get any worse. The day before I left New Orleans I had a meltdown on Facebook Live about the cost of the dry cleaning. I thought I’d save some money by buying corn starch and boiling it and pressing my shirt myself. It ended up taking a couple of days and in terms of hassle it probably would have been worth whatever three or four dollars they’d’ve charged me but the act of doing it was important as it gave me time to reflect what I would be seeking to accomplish while wearing it. It took me to back in the day when I spent a hundred hours over ironing boards starching and pressing my cammies (back when we did such things) and spit-shining our boots. Ask an older Marine what either of these things were and they’ll explain it to you. When I ironed my cammies or spit-shined my boots, I meditated on what I might be asked to do while wearing them.
My blue suit pants seemed to be the only real casualties of today, other than perhaps some Republican egos. These white boys see their “me-always-win” system,  carefully constructed over several hundred, crumbling around them and they are scared shitless.

At the debrief, post-mort, exhale at Hamilton’s Bar and Grill, J-Heard regaled us of the story of what happened with the cops. He’s a badass in my book and we both agreed that in this case it was probably good that I was not there.

We all got up to leave for an Abigale Spanberger fundraiser a half hour away when someone said, “Hey Jeff, you know your pants—

Do you know Abigale Spanberger? She’s the Representative from Virginia’s 7th District who flipped that seat after it had been held by Republicans for fifty years. She gave a speech at the fundraiser and then talked with our group of veterans activists until her handlers had to come and drag her away to speak with other supporters and constituents. She seemed content to talk to us all night.
So someone says, “Hey Jeff, you know you split your pants?”

“Huh? no!”
I try to use my cellphone camera as a “rear view mirror.”
“Here let me take the picture, I’ll show you.”

The good news is, the squats are working. The bad news is I busted out the ass of my relatively new one-of-two-suits suit. You got that America? I sacrificed for you today. I sacrificed my suit pants on the altar of Democracy. I hope you’re grateful.

I have much more to tell you but it will have to wait until the flight home tomorrow. It’s 01:27 and I’m so tired I can’t see. I’m headed back to Capitol Hill in the morning but I have to fly out at 1:30 to get home in time to lead Warrior Writers tomorrow night. I ain’t missing that. I got shit to write about.

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