I Had a Golden Ticket

Most of my trips to the mailbox are less than memorable. The ritual usually coughs up little more than a bill, an appointment reminder from the dentist, coupon for something like rug cleaning or a Chinese restaurant, the occasional Have-You-Seen-This-Child. Another bill. But last week I had some excitement. Not to give away the ending, but it was short-lived. It arrived in a large manila envelope, with a Presidential insignia.

I've gotten a few letters from the White House over the years, mainly boiler plate responses to my fruitless rabble rousing. Dear Sir, thank you for your letter regarding issue X, we hope that some day in the future you will see that our efforts at allowing market forces to reduce the demand for, blah blah blah. This was different. On heavy card stock, in flowing calligraphy below a handsome and expensive looking gold embossed seal, was an invitation to the Inauguration.

At first confusion reined. Then some gears, some smoke, and wide eyes. A scene from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory played out, with me playing the part of Grandpa Joe jumping and hooting like an old man transformed into a little boy. Somehow, I was in. But how? A selected random donor? Maybe someone got a kick out of my randomobamalie.com site? Who cares, I'm somebody now! How would I get there with just two weeks notice? Surely flights were gone by this time. Or as pricey as the last Huey out of Saigon. A lot can go through your head in a matter of seconds. These were but minor details. I would make it happen.

By the time I got back to the front door I noticed something else inside the envelope. Two other somethings. The first was a letter from the Presidential Inaugural Committee. I carefully parsed the letter. One phrase stuck out like a teasing child's tongue:

“This commemorative invitation invites your presence at any of the public events in what will be the most open and accessible Inauguration in American history.”

An invitation to all public events, an oxymoron if I'd ever heard one. Cue the sound of a deflating balloon. I was nobody once more. A quick spin with Mr Google confirmed my fears. I had basically been spammed. ABC news even had a video. One million of the buggers had been printed up. So yes, Team Change may have penned this scroll, but in essence I had just received a high quality wall hanging.

The second item went in for the kill, pouring salt into my wounded pride. It was a small sales flier for all things Prez, hawking everything but boxer shorts. Some huckster trying to cash in on the Obama Brand before the big day came. Because after that he would be just another bigwig on the shiny hill, hogtied by cold, hard realities. At that strike of noon Tuesday, the Cinderella story would end. The dance would be over, transforming him from a prince back to a pumpkin. Time to scrub the floors and clean out the fireplaces. So yes, it makes perfect sense for some shyster to try to sell as many baubles and trinkets he can while the getting is good.

I feel for someone with less discerning logic toting this document all the way to the main event, only to be told they'd have a better view from their Zenith as it wasn't getting them closer than any other Tom, Dick, and Harry standing out there in the January wind. Apart from not having any identifying numbers or codes like an actual ticket, the thing looks damned official. No, this thing was official. Still just a collector's item mind you, granting no privilege. Nothing of true worth, just something for the zealous to mount in the den. It was a commemorative freebie printed up like its predecessors had been since way back when.

But somewhere along the line a decision had been made to include a catalog for pillows and champagne glasses emblazoned with an Inaugural seal. That's just bad pool in my book.

This brought a more fiendish possibility to mind. Was the pimping of the President to never stop? Would it now be policy? CNN posting snapshots of cabinet members wearing “Change” t-shirts to their softball games. I imagined years of press conferences in which Barack knick-knacks were subtlety plugged. A Barack-licensed Nike or Lexus couldn't be far behind. The Nobama crowd which poo-pooed the star treatment were seeming to have a point. On the other hand, maybe the proceeds could be used to offset the deficit. In the end, all I could do in protest was to purchase my commemorative Obama speedos elsewhere. Hopefully they arrive in time.

Best of luck to our new Commander, God knows he can use it. And to our departing George, best of luck with the whole "history will judge me" thing. Believe me, it will.