Maybe it’s like when you get a new car. All of a sudden you start noticing your make and model on the roads everywhere you go. On one hand, you might feel some comfort knowing that lots of other people have made the same choice. Yet another part of you might say, dang, I wanted to be special, unique, impressive! Regardless, you’re stuck with it, just like you are stuck with whatever age you are at in the river of time, as well as all the rest who are still swimming.

I swear we are everywhere. Gray hair, dyed hair, fake hair or no hair, we are increasingly conspicuous. As we go forth into the public arena, we might try to appear sporty, or carefree, or contemplative. We might try to subtly disguise our limps and other parts that are in need of repair. Or we might put a little drama on it, soldiering on despite our battle scars.

There’s one over there, casually crossing Applebee’s parking lot. Another at Walmart, boldly pushing a cart with the air of a kid riding a bike with one hand, ready to wave (or gesticulate some other message) with the other. And another is sauntering down the street surveying the neighborhood properties and making silent judgements.

As an old white guy, I have the right to be critical of old white guys. And especially of old white Presidents. For the last nine years we’ve been exposed to two old men day in and day out trying to make us believe what they say is right.

The since-retired President – the one with hair like wisps of windswept snow over a spotted sand dune – used to make us worry that we were going to witness some public calamity at any moment. As he descended from Air Force One, would he, in his attempt to wave at the welcomers below, miss a step and come tumbling down?

During a speech, would he pause for a sip of water, only to freeze in the moment, thus making time stand still across America as we wondered if he had left his body for a vacation from which he might never return. Or, as he walked across the White House Lawn with a little extra pep in his step, would the wind catch his frail body up like a tumbleweed, sending him head over heels into the Potomac?

The other President is the larger guy with the Midas touch pompadour. This fellow, whose gait is something of a cross between a strut and a lumber, can’t go an hour without using the phrase “make a deal.” For him, the world is like a giant used car lot, and he is the sole proprietor.

But he is not your average 80-year-old white guy. He is young at heart, and in terms of his temperament and rhetorical skillset, he stands about middle school age. He fights! If someone accuses him of something or calls him a name, he might come back with something to the effect of “I’m rubber, your glue, what you say bounces from me and sticks to you.” But more likely, he’ll engage in some fierce name calling, like “Little Marco” or “Crooked Hilary” or “pencil neck Shiff.” (I wonder if he’ll ever get to creating epithets for Vladimir or Kim Yong Un, maybe something like “My Pal Putin” or “Nukey Kim”)

Certainly this President is out to shake things up in the world car lot as he plots his course from his high place. It’s kind of like a billion dollar tree house, a club whose members sign an oath of allegiance. No girls are allowed unless they are kind of hot (at least from an old white man’s perspective).

It seems to me things have not gone well for America in recent years. Therefore I state firmly that there should be no more old white guys for President! No more boys’ clubs, no more Viagra, and no more bad hairdos in the White House. I’ve come to believe that the only thing that can save America is a woman President.

I’ll state my case through an analogy. The head of the house has traditionally been a male – the husband, father, main bread winner. Now this house has many problems. It turns out that the man is no good at fixing things, isn’t bringing home enough money to pay for repairs, his kids are getting in trouble at school, and he’s in a bad mood most of the time. Now what is the woman of the house supposed to do?

Well, it’s time for him to step aside, to take his ego and shove it where the sun don’t shine. So I say, let’s get a woman in the White House before it’s too late!

Writer/musician Pete Howard lives in Dunkirk. Send comments to odyssmusic20@gmail.com