All of the bridges that connect DC to Virginia will close 36 hours in advance of the ceremony. Most of the Metro stations surrounding the National Mall will be blocked, sentries stationed at every post. Many residential areas will have limited or no street parking, so those of us living in less-than-choice neighborhoods (mine, por ejemplo) are expecting all the overflow DC-resident refugee vehicles to take up our precious few parking spots near our own homes. The Secret Service has demanded reinforcement.
We're all descending upon the grocery stores today and tomorrow, like we would when ice storms were predicted when I was a kid in Nashville. We're parking our cars tonight and not planning on giving up our spots until after this plague of tourism thins and wanes. We're stocking up on toilet paper, kerosene, canned goods. Flashlight batteries. Bottled Water. Mitten warmers. Obama paraphernalia. As our city reinforces its seams against the bursting hordes of locust-like visitors, we residents feel we must maintain our vigilance-- finding that middle ground between welcoming all festive comers and protecting our little city of khaki-panted lobbyists and hoary-headed politicians. We tremble with anticipation. And we are not just a little bit trepidatious.
Some of my friends have committed to holing up for the next 7 days. Wanting no part of the sardine-can Metro cars, nor the no-place-to-pee National Mall, nor the 21 Jumbo-trons placed strategically therein, they are probably the
Others of us, however, have committed to being part of the action. My friend Jen and her fiance Charlie have won the bidding war over the prime bit of real estate that is my pull-out sofa for the weekend. With these two stalwart comrades to tow, I plan to be one of the stupid ones.
Tonight, I buy provisions. There will be root vegetables and hearty grains. I will have stores of vegan chili and saffron risotto on hand to staunch our appetites, though we plan on minimizing liquid consumption for the duration of our actual expedition. On the Inaugural Eve, though, there will be beer and wine. There will be coffee and tea. There will be adequate toilet paper. And, of course, tomatoes.
Jen, Charlie and I have already forsaken any attempt to actually see the parade or the real live ceremony. We have charted our course-- roughly 4.4 miles from my doorstep to the Lincoln Memorial Jumbo-tron. Gloved, hatted, scarved, long-underweared, earmuffed, cameraed and empty-bladdered, we will venture forth at dawn on I-Day. Braving the trains will be dependant on our spirit of adventure; if we are timid, yet strong-of-constitution, we'll be hoofing it. Don't doubt how mournful Jen and I will doubtlessly feel as we part with our respective fuck-me shoes for the duration of our trek. But it's true: there is no room for such indulgent excesses in masochism in this venture.
Once we set out, we have no idea where we'll pee. We have no idea how we'll procure sustenance and libations. We have no idea how long we'll be standing, nor how long we'll be cold. We don't even know if we'll make it home by nightfall.
But we are a brave band, and true, my fair readers. And true. We will make our pilgrimage and we will survive it and, at the end, we will have seen the first non-white person ascend to this nation's highest office. And we will have celebrated the long-awaited termination of this land's era of the shit-for-brains Prince of the Malapropism, the age of the empire-thirsty Czar of Preemptive Warfare, the time of the Natural Resource Wastrel.
Blessed be.
Keep us in your thoughts and hearts, my friends. Buoy us with your well-wishing.
We will attempt to send you dispatches from the field. However, as resources and wireless service are limited, we can make no promises.
Over and out.
8 comments:
I would love to be there with you. But I have decided not to join the masses. I will be watching on my lunch hour and the extra hour NYU has granted us to watch.
I'd love to hear your stories when it's over!
Keep warm and I wish you privately placed bushes.
Thanks, Somm!
Believe it or not, some of my friends in this city work for companies that aren't closing that day. This is crazy to me as anyone who lives in Virginia will be physically barred from entering the district every way except on foot. And no one's THAT dedicated to their job. But most DC industry is run by Fascists anyway. (We all already knew that, right?)
The city's already a madhouse. We've got 5 days to go and I've never seen the Metro so blitzed. Or so stinky. And I saw a very polluted dude puke up at least 4 days worth of stomach contents right in front of me on the metro once-- even THAT didn't smell quite so bad as today's mysterious funk.
But I will do my best to post pictures. Of the Jumbo-tron. Or, you know, a whole lotta people indistinguishable from their downy coverings.
But I don't know about your bushes plan. I can't imagine that it would be a good idea to expose the tender flesh of my buttocks to this icy blast we seem to be experiencing at the moment. Better to wish me strong bladder control instead.
Unless, by bushes, you are suggesting that I attempt to urinate on the outgoing president or one of the members of his family. That, my friend, is not such a bad idea.
I can only imagine the shoes you might be wearing on our trek... I, however, will be boring, predictable (and comfy!) and wear my running shoes!
I just hope the city doesn't close before we get there Sunday night. Or implode, for that matter.
At least Charlie can make use of the well-placed bushes. Not so sure about us gals!
I'll have you know that I have a pair of very comfy shearling-lines riding boots that I intend to wear. They are both warm and flat-heeled (sigh). Not sexy, but they definitely get the job done. And as this excursion is bound to entail some amount of discomfort, I'm forsaking as much self-inflicted distress as possible.
And therefore, I applaud your tennis shoes. And Charlie's affinity for bushes.
EEEK! This is gonna be fun. Right? Right?
Please, please wear your teletubby hat and get pictures, too! :) cmr
ha! why is it that my friends take such glee in seeing me stripped of my carefully cultivated sartorial aplomb? It's not even fair -- and it should be noted that I am actually less comfortable in so-called "comfortable" clothes because such things make me stupidly and self-indulgently self-conscious about my dorkiness/frumpiness.
Still, for you, C, I will try to find someone to take a picture of me in an earflap hat. That's how much I love you.
"sartorial aplomb" blah blah blah. I just knitted earflaps onto my burgundy cap, so now we can be frump twins. Luv ya, too! :) cmr.
HOT!
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