And I apologize. Every year about this time, the Australian Open completely discombobulates what passes for my schedule. Sleep deprivation leads to forgetfulness.
I had promised to check in on Donald Trump’s inaugural music. Of course, the way it turned out, he wasn’t able to get the Stones for the gala itself and, like any other Republican candidate, had to settle for boring old Toby Keith and Lee Greenwood. It will be better next time though, and, yes, there will be a next time. I’ve seen his opposition. The Democrats have the emptiest bench in the history of the republic. If the CIA can’t pay back their Liberal base for the Kennedy thing and take Trump out between now and then, via bullet, scandal, or sabotaged military adventure, 2020 will be a walkover.
I have it on good authority, though, from my friends at Too Secret for Wikileaks, that when the lights went down in the White House, after the last version of “My Way” was sung and the last dance was danced, there was a finger-snap, and, by prearranged code, the right song for the occasion finally played, right on cue, while the Trumpster nodded to himself in the dark and muttered, “Next time, boys. Next time. I’ll have things in hand by then.” throughout.
And, surprise, surprise, it was one of the ones I thought it would be! Sometimes I amaze myself.