Good morning Mate

I did a thing last week. 

I put on some nice clothes. Trimmed my beard. Brushed my teeth for the compulsory 90 seconds and ventured cross town to Hancock Park. I hadn't been to this neighborhood for a long, long time, since I worked in the trenches at the esteemed offices of J. Walter Thompson Recruitment Advertising, where I "wrote" no-award winning Help Wanted ads for our nation's Military Industrial Complex.

Good times.

The purpose of this visit was of a decidedly different nature. It was here, amongst these tony mansions and circular driveways and mammoth horse head iron sculptures, that I found myself entering the hallowed and royal-ish halls of the United Kingdom British Consulate.

As I told my Facebook friends, I was there to receive my certificate of British citizenship, making my status as a member of the commonwealth in very legally binding manner, if I may nick a phrase from Monty Python and the Holy Grail.

"But father, I want to sing."

If I'm being completely honest, I also wanted to pinch the Union Jack that adorned the guest bathroom in the pool house of this beautiful manor. But thought better of it and didn't want to go down as the man with the shortest lived British citizenship in the history of the Empire where the sun never sat.

If I may indulge in some more honesty, this whole adventure started as a lark. A way to leverage my deep anti-Trump and anti-America (2016-2026 version) sentiments. In short, another manifestation of my curiosity. I discovered that I had eligibility because my mother was born in Glasgow, Scotland.

Moreover, as any blog writer will tell you, there is a constant unrelenting need to keep adding fuel to the fire that keeps these worthless posts going.

But now that I am on the other side of this 18 month journey and within grasp of an official British passport, this light-hearted quest has taken on some unexpected gravitas. 

One evening I lay my head on the pillow as a life long American citizen. One who saw this country as an everlasting beacon of hope and enlightenment -- at least until the recent darkness. And the next night I find myself to have allegiance to two nations. 

I was not prepared for the impact. It kind of messes with a 7 decades long sense of identity.

Nor, I might add was the consulate prepared for such a large gathering. As our posh host noted, "We never have this many people at one ceremony. But welcome to the United Kingdom, where we cherish the ideals of democracy."

That line drew an audible and unmistakable snicker, from people just like me who wanted to have a Get Out of Jail Free Card, should this country continue it's tragic descent into a dictatorial cesspool of fascism and Trumpfuckerry™.

Also, in case you're wondering, the 14 foot high equine sculpture on the front lawn of the Walter Neff residence, is named The Rook -- which appeals to my love of chess. And was done by Andy Scott, a prominent Scottish Sculptor, which will never dissuade me from my distaste for haggis.