It was the Saturday before Inauguration, and we were in the city, attending a combo house-warming / new-dog-welcoming party at the Balboa Street apartment where I lived for three years. My better half Daryn, our friend David, I and a few others were out on the back porch, and naturally the topic of conversation easily had turned to political matters.
We shared our sense of soon-to-be-realized relief at the then-imminent end of the Bush administration, and remarked upon the significance of our having elected an African American president.
David wondered aloud how many years (or, perhaps, decades) it would take before we would elect a gay president; Daryn, in reference to accounts of possible appreciation for the company of men, retorted with: “Well, what about Abe Lincoln?”
This sent David along a path of one of his patented rants. Talk of beards, and such. And how Mary Todd Lincoln was batshit crazy. How no one liked her.
That she was, in essence, like “the dirty girl on the playground” that nobody wanted to go near or talk to or play with.
The rant went on from there without so much as a stitch dropped, but I don’t recall a whit of is as I was convulsing and clutching my sides. Dirty girl on the playground. Good gravy.
Anyhow, it made an impression. Hence the drawing.