DC Reflections

George Washington and Michael Jackson: What a strange Fourth of July

When "George Washington" refused to shake my hand today, I could only shake my head: It had already been a very peculiar Fourth of July -- and it would get more bizarre before it was over. After studying and admiring the man for many years, I naturally leaped at the propitious moment to greet the general as he stood not far from the entrance of his Mount Vernon home.

"A gentleman from Virginia does not take the hand," he explained when I asked for the honor. "It is only from approximately Pennsylvania north where men engage in such a greeting. Where are you from?" 

"Georgia," I said. "I guess I should know better. So ... how do I greet you?"

"We bow," the courageous and patient commander said.

I immediately turned my head down and bent forward but saw out of the corners of my eyes he hadn't moved.

"But we are not monarchs," he said, gently. "There is no need for you to avert your eyes. Let us try this once more."

Feeling slightly ill at ease because of my thought that I was not worthy of the general's gaze but appreciating the lesson in equality he was trying to teach me, I maintained eye contact and bowed -- though the striking difference in our heights still made it difficult to keep him in my sight.

He nodded his head affirmatively and gave me a quick smile.

"Thank you, " I said.

Moments later, Washington's troops along with modern-day security forces jumped onto a new mission: A panicked father was screaming at the top of his lungs for his son, Teddy, last seen wearing a yellow shirt with "Nantucket" on it. The troops began their search.

Ten minutes passed, no Teddy.

Everyone on the front lawn repeated to each other the description of the boy we were looking for to make sure we had it right. Our stomachs tightening, we put down their slices of America's birthday cake as we all joined the search.

Five more minutes, no Teddy.

The father walked by, muttering to himself, "I've got to call my wife. I've got to call my wife."

Fearful tears broke out like the plague, jumping from one person to the next as the hunt continued. A voice from nowhere screamed, "We've got him! We've got Teddy!" Mount Vernon staff grabbed the father and told him they would take him to his son. He was safe.

We all breathed a hugh sigh of relief. I then went to do what I had come for -- paying my respects to the real George Washington at his tomb. I visit his home and his grave often; America would not exist today without him. As a student of the American Revolution and as a patriot, the Fourth of July means more to me than any other holiday. I well know what that whole generation endured to give us the country we have today.

My Independence Day got off to a strange start, though. First I opened The Washington Post and saw that it had published a letter I wrote last week in response to its absurd, sycophantic and worshipful coverage of the death of pop star-turned-freakish-pedophile Michael Jackson. Though I do media outreach for a living, I don't think I had ever written a letter to the editor for myself. Considering all I could say about the Fourth of July, I wasn't quite sure what to make of the fact my letter appeared today but was on the subject of the vile media and public praise of the once-talented entertainer who should have died in prison rather than in his mansion. A man does not pay $17 million to the family of a child he "allegedly" molested if he is innocent.

The Post also contained the story about Alaska governor Sarah Palin stepping down a year and a half early for no apparent reason. The Post reporters could make no more sense of the incoherent non-press conference than I could when I saw it last night. In typical Palin fashion, she took no questions -- choosing instead to ramble in so many directions with mal-formed thoughts that the viewer was left with as much clear information as before the event started.

The hormones inside me want me to like Palin because she is a very pretty woman. My conscience outweighs my porcine predisposition, though, and I just can't embrace the bubbly circumnavigator. I don't know that her departure from office, like Jackson's from the Earth, leaves any real void in our society, but I am at least happy for the wolves Palin is fond of allowing cowardly men with big guns to slaughter from airplanes. Maybe the Canis lupus will catch a break.

Paper perusing done, I hopped on my bike and headed to my first stop at the National Archives for what I thought was going to be a deeply moving ceremony that climaxed with a public reading of the Declaration of Independence. I stood ready for the air on my arms to stand up readers hit my favorite line about how "we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

Instead of an uplifting moment, the National Archives started well with music from Revolutionary War soldier re-enactors but dropped the ball with too much speech making. Adding insult to injury, the National Archives selected three children to do the reading. There is nothing more cloying than having children read a document that surpasses their understanding and that was written by grown men of great intelligence. I gagged when the first child approached the podium looking like he had just left an event at a private golf club. I left before the kid could even get to "laws of nature", giving the National Archives an "F" for its effort. Probably an F minus considering the poor quality of the sound system.

The ride out to Mount Vernon, though, was beautiful. I gave a triple thump on my heart (my own non-military version of a salute to something worth honoring) to the men buried in Arlington National Cemetery. I took in the view of the monuments sitting across the Potomac. I appreciated more than even usual the freedom to ride my bike anywhere my legs are willing to take me.

Despite the crowds, though, more odd things kept happening. Families walking on the trail kept themselves to just the right lane. Joggers only ran two to a side instead of in formation blocking the whole trail. Packs of bikers even rode single file. Weird.

On my return trip from Washington's home, I went back through security and, unlike during Inauguration Week, found LOCAL, courteous policemen and other security officers who were able to tell me how to get around security fencing to streets I needed to take. One even offered to inspect my water backpack while it was on my back so I didn't have to spend five minutes taking everything out.

With 50-plus miles under my belt on the day, I hit my own neighborhood and passed under the tracks that are but a few stone throws from where nine people died on the Metro crash last month.

Not long afterward, I saw an old man who had apparently collapsed on his driveway next to a cheap bike. He was motionless and I thought for a moment he might have had a heart attack. He sat up as I approached, and I opted not to mention the advice that a better bike would put less of a strain on him. Especially at his age.

I got home and replayed the beauty off the strange ride in my head. I thought of all the people I saw out having fun ... families of all races and melting pot mixes making all kinds of things on their grills, women jogging with their dogs, boaters cruising along the Potomac, men fishing on its banks. Friends throwing footballs and kicking soccer balls. A father pitching a Wiffle ball to his son. 

I sometimes get upset on the Fourth of July because I don't think people pay it or the generation of men and women that first gave us our freedom enough reverence. I do realize my own favorite founding father John Adams wrote that he expected this day to be commemorated with "Bonfires and Illuminations from one End of this Continent to the other".

Though I take my history pretty seriously about every day of the year, maybe I should lighten up a little on this one. Maybe I should give my fellow Americans more credit. After all, it's almost time to watch the District's fireworks on TV while getting ready to walk over to Takoma Park's rendition.

Wait, no ... ABC News is STILL talking about Michael Jackson and bragging about the live coverage it will provide of his funeral. It's also "reporting" that staggering numbers of people are registering to obtain free tickets to his funeral service.

I sense Washington himself rolling over in his sarcophagus.

Nearly put out of "circulation": bus nearly bad news for me and bike

Became an official "DC biker" today by having my first brush with death. Wasn't even my fault. I'm not one of those crazy bikers who deserves to be hit. In about seven or so of the longest seconds of my life, I got sideswiped by a Circulator bus today as I rode alongside the Mall. I had a row of parked buses on my right and I was keeping on my eye on them in case any of them started up. All of a sudden, I feel a wall moving me over to the right and I hear the sound of my elbow and forearm squeaking against this big red blur that I now see out out of the corner of my eyes. The red blur is pushing me.
 
In that frozen moment, instead of panic setting in, everything oddly seemed to slow down. It was like I had an hour and a half to read the situation and react. Strangest moment I've ever experienced. I very calmly realized that a bus had somehow had come up behind me but not seen me and was just about one or two seconds from sandwiching me between it and the parked row of buses. I knew the wreck could be fatal if I got smashed into the parked buses or if the moving bus knocked me off the bike and to God knows where, possibly ending up under the moving bus.

 

As the eternity ticked by, I realized I could not look left because that would force the bike left, and I couldn't stop as the bus was somehow stuck to me. I recognized all I could do was keep my head straight, the bike straight, and use my left hand to bang on the bus so that the driver would either hear me or that sure-to-be-screaming passengers would tell him to stop. 
 
So, while the bus is brushing me to the right and I'm inches away from getting flattened, I keep my right hand on the bike and start banging on the bus with my left. The bus was speeding up and still stuck to me. I banged three times and then attempted to use my left hand to push myself off the bus. I had to free myself from it and take my chances with smashing into the buses on the right. Just in that split second in which I thought the driver was going to remain oblivious and some really bad stuff was about to go down, the bus stopped and my push off hurled me forward -- still somehow in the straightest line I've ever ridden, and I clear of the moving bus.
 
I looked over my shoulder and realized I was clear. My first thought, and I'll never forget this, was not that I just survived a damn frightening deal -- I never even felt my heart rate increase; it honest to God seemed to slow down -- but that the driver was probably horrified and thinking his career was about over as surely I was about to stop, raise hell, and call the police. (The bus driver had a whole other lane he could have moved over to.) Instead, I just put in a few strong strokes, accelerated away from the bus, and kept on cruising as if nothing happened -- adrenalin racing through my veins and me feeling like Evel Knievel after getting up from something he had no business walking away from.

 

No blood, no foul, just like the way I used to play basketball as a teenager.
 
Craziest moment of my life. It was a rush, actually. Twenty seconds later, my mind still didn't dwell on what could have just happened. I was feeling a great sense of pride: "Wow, I just stayed unbelievably calm and made some pretty slick moves there. I really know what I'm doing on this bike. I'm a pro!"
 
I turned my attention back to the cherry blossom trees, the deep blue sky, the sun warming my skin, the architecture of all the Smithsonian museums and the monuments -- not a thought in my conscious mind at that point. I guess it was just too beautiful a day to die.

 

I know the economy is bad but ...

How desperate do you have to be to apply for this job?

Saw this on the Metro. It's real.

A beautiful woman's stop on the blue line

I hopped on the blue line to make my way back from a President's Day parade in Alexandria. A beautiful woman with long, dark hair and dark eyes had her arms wrapped around her children: The black-eyed boy was about five, the brown-eyed girl about three. 

The woman wasn't wearing a wedding ring, nor did her finger show the tanless indention indicating one had been there recently. I smiled. She smiled back. I made small talk for a second about her kids, who had tired of sitting and -- despite their mom's wishes -- were exploring the Metro train. We traded smiles again when she blew bangs away from her eyes and pulled the kids back to her.

The woman was so gentle with her energetic children. So loving. She wrapped her daughter's blond hair into a ponytail -- something the girl was quite fond of. She tucked in her boy's shirt. She explained with each passing station that no, it wasn't their stop. It was still time to sit there with her.

I was, to be honest, transfixed. Enamored.

The train chugged along for a few stops and I got lost in my people-watching ruminations. I wondered what might have caused her apparent divorce. I wondered where she was going. I was looking a little disheveled after traipsing around Alexandria but I wondered if I should strike up a conversation. Perhaps we'll get off at the same stop, I hoped.

The train came to a grinding halt at the next stop. The beautiful woman took a deep breath, grabbed her children by their hands, and was gone from my view and my life in a flash.

I looked up, saw where we were, and wretched.

Then the blue line pulled away from Arlington National Cemetery.

What Michael Jackson said

A co-worker and I hopped in a taxi heading down Rhode Island Avenue en route to a meeting with a reporter at the Watergate building.       

"I've got some questions for you gentlemen," the long-time D.C. driver said, pausing only for a second. "What did Michael Jackson say to the priest?"

We knew we were in for a good ride. "What did he say?," I asked.

"I saw him first."

In rapid fire mode, the driver continued. "What do Michael Jackson and J.C. Penny stores have in common?"

"No idea," I said.

"They both have boys pants half off."

Ouch.

"What did Michael Jackson say about why he loves this country?"

"Tell us."

"He said it's the only country in the world where a poor black boy can grow up to be a rich white woman."

He rattled off a few more then switched targets. "Did you hear the story about the man who told his wife they should make love like animals that night?"

"I don't think we did."

"His wife said, 'OK, I'm going to be a possum and play dead.'"

Hospitals caught his attention next. "Did you hear about that dumb nurse?"

"Nope."

"She was carrying a pot of boiling water and chasing a patient around telling him to take his pants off. A supervisor finally stopped her before she caught the man. 'What are you doing?', she screamed. 'I told you to prick his boil.'"

The punchline hit just as we reached the curb of the Watergate. We owed him $12 for the ride but left a larger than usual tip.