CommuniKate

The Inauguration of Barack Obama was the first presidential inauguration I ever attended. Without protesting. On our inaugural pilgrimage to DC our train from NYC was on the track behind then President-elect Barack Obama’s train making whistle stops from Philadelphia through Wilmington and Baltimore, so we were delayed by “presidential activities on the route” by three hours. The conductor said, “Complain to the White House,” and usually grumpy commuters laughed.

Already with the no-drama Obama!

We stayed in Adams Morgan with our gracious hosts, Nancy Polikoff and Cheryl Swannack. They had been studying inaugural road maps in the Washington Post for weeks and were our unerring GPS advisors. In addition to the thrill of the inauguration, the big DC topic was logistics - surface roads, alternate routes, estimated travel time, metro closings, car pooling, taxi hopping. Our hosts were so expert, I am confident they could handle the logistics of getting us out of Iraq.

On Sunday we attended the MCC DC church for a Martin Luther King Day concert with their Gospel Choir. Founded in 1992, the choir is composed of people of varied religious experiences who love to sing and share God’s love through song. And can they sing! Choir Director Shirli Hughes, in her selection of songs and soloists, completely captured the full circle joy of the life of Martin Luther King and the inauguration of Barack Obama. In their gorgeously simple church, Michele Lanchester ripped through We Shall Not Be Moved. After the service she agreed to sing it at our saging ceremony the next night at Dupont Circle. “If it’s not too cold,” she added. Her pipes are a gift, so I understood.

The brilliant community organizer Jose Rodriguez had the foresight to get a park permit for an inaugural week of actions in Dupont Circle. At one entrance he and his cohorts had installed a giant blowup of George Bush and provided shoes for people to toss. Shoe Bush was a huge cathartic hit. Jose let us use the stage for an hour and at 6 pm Dupont Circle began to fill. Park police estimated 2,000. We kept the crowd warm with some world dance music, playlisted by my in-house deejay and girlfriend.

At 6:15, we welcomed everyone to the saging and Rabbi Sharon Kleinbaum, of NY’s Congregation Beth Simchat Torah, gave an invocation. PS - if HBO had filmed the saging, we would definitely have included the Rabbi. Then with hundreds of sage sticks smudging the dusky air, shaman Mamma Donna led us in the saging ritual. The wind was just right and carried all the smoke down to the White House. It was below freezing cold, but Michelle Lanchester’s pipes were hot and she lead us out with a rousing reprise of We Shall Not be Moved. Then my girl ramped up Sylvester doing “You make me feel mighty real” and the crowd danced until the police shut us down at exactly 7.

On President Obama’s first day in office, he announced he would suspend military trials at Guantanamo and order it’s closing. That’s some powerful saging mojo. Thanks to all our Sagers!

At our joyful spectacle, a friend gave us two purple section, standing room only tickets to the inauguration the next day. We spent the night with our logistics advisors and left early next morning for the Capitol. On the way, we heard that the Mall had been full for hours. I’m not a crowd girl, so when the purple security gates did not open and we were herded into a side street, I told my galpal who is five feet two, that we had to get out, get a taxi and get home. It was starting to feel like Altamont. I said, “Hot stuff coming through,” and pushed our way out. We had had our people experience and watched the ceremony with snacks, heat and no guilt.

When the offstage announcer stentored, please rise, we did. And hugging each other, we watched as Supreme Court Chief Justice cocky no-text John Roberts botched the oath for posterity’s footage. We agreed it was intentional, no matter how much we are not supposed to be doing that old Bush think any more. Rick Warren giving himself goose bumps, Cheney slumping in the wheelchair, the heli finally lifting George and Rove out of DC – okay, we were not so well-behaved. But we were very happy.

That night we attended the sold-out Peace Ball at the old Post Office Building near Union Station, produced by long time DC organizer and restaurateur Andy Shallal. We had to go through Tacoma Park and I think Richmond to get there. Andy’s café, Bus Boys and Poets has been the DC hub of peace activism since the first invasion of Iraq so the gala was a joyful celebration for peace activists. Spoken word, speeches and rocking bands kept the party going until 2 am.

The next morning we took a 7:30 train back to NYC and made it in three hours. It was the quietest train ride I’ve ever been on. The only sound was light snoring and the rustling of newspapers as some of us pored over every picture, detail and fashion of the previous day. I love reading, hearing and saying, “President Barack Obama” and find myself fighting my disbelief that so far he is doing what he said he would do.

Black History Month has begun early this year.

On Monday I thought I had completed one of my last official duties as Designated Bush Watcher, a public service I have provided the last eight years for friends and family who were constitutionally incapable of watching or listening to George Bush. I watched his last press conference. You’re welcome.

At the press conference, George was as giddy as any middle schooler about to be sprung for the summer, ignoring the fact that he had failed his grade but prepared to blame it on the teacher. He snarkily thanked the press. He coolly ignored Helen Thomas. He petulantly pounded the podium. He did imitations of a pathetic person, made jokes. He joshed with glum reporters. They asked questions about the Mideast, the economy, the future of the Republican Party. No follow-up questions, please. There were not enough shoes at all the Payless Shoe Stores worldwide to throw. He is clueless, guiltless and defiant until the end.

But it wasn’t the end. Moments after his exit, Bush’s press office announced that he would give a farewell address to the nation on Thursday night. Make it stop! I think I will have a sweater soaking or I might be cleaning my perm rods that night and be unable to watch. Don’t make me. You do it. You can still catch Celebrity Rehab and Kitchen Nightmares. The schaden is off my freude.

Enough.

With the Inauguration of Barack Obama, help may be near, but remedy is far. Church and state are one. Democracy is capitalism. War is peace. Memory is shredder. Our national adrenal glands are beyond fatigued from the shock of the Bush Doctrine.

I will speak for myself. After eight years of Bushwatching my habit of mind is to wait for the other shoe to be dropped, not thrown; to expect any good bit of news to be followed by a firestorm of animosity; to expect that an arm reached across the aisle will be bitten off up to the elbow; to greet every new program with acid skepticism; to suspect that beneath the veneer of altruism is rank greed; to suspect under every christian overture an unchristian motive. And to have my suspicions confirmed.

This toxic thinking permeates the most ordinary of quotidian exchanges. My girlfriend is just saying she likes my hair. The plumber will never come when he said he would. He will overcharge. What was that singer thinking of when she wore that outfit? Yeah right my donation is going directly to running programs. I’m listening to what you say, but I’m making up what you mean. I don’t trust my GPS. And on and exhausting on.

In addition to resolving in the new year to do everything I can to help get Dick Cheney before an International War Crimes Tribunal and convicted of torture - I want him to spend time making amends in jail not fly-fishing in Wyoming – I am resolved to unsubscribe from bilious bush think and give peace and my old optimism a chance. Wish me luck.

The Provincetown holiday break was lovely. Especially since after initial losses, I won our in-house vacation Scrabble tourney in a close final day best-of smackdown. The whole town is still agog over the transformation of our former soviet era Grand Union into the modern, spic and span Stop and Shop. There’s a cold cuts concierge in the deli! I have always thought that in the dead of winter there should be afternoon tea dances in the produce department. They’ve got an intercom. The S&S management might be amenable.

And as if that were not enough mind-blowing news, there is new dog park just past the Temple of Cumberland Farms. Shankpainter Road is where it’s happening! The recently completed Bark Park is a new gathering spot where even in the teeth of a New Year’s gale dogs were seen romping while owners huddled kvelling about the S&S. It’s so much fun, non-dog owners have brought toy stuffed dog animals, set them down and tried to pass. The dog park has cut down on the numbers of dogs off the leash out on town trails. No more “He won’t hurt you!” shouts as a chocolate lab does a wild card tackle.

We took great walks, despite my Indian girlfriend’s grousing, “Winter is not part of my culture.” We had great dinners with hardy year-rounder friends and holiday visitors. Every dinner conversation featured the inevitable dissection of the Rick “the P is silent” Warren inaugural invite and biotch slap. That topic followed the how-did-we-lose-Prop-Eight discussion. I would point out that CA is on the verge of bankruptcy. My message is more cautionary than causal: mess with the gays and your economy could suffer.

Despite Melissa Etheridge’s best Bono for the Homos effort, gay people and our straight friends and families are still not hopping on the Saddleback. We will not be appeased, not even if Rick Warren officiated at the wedding of Oprah and Gayle in the Oval Office. That might do it for me. Nah. Not even that.

Due to forty mile an hour winds and drifting snow we had to cancel our annual New Year’s beach fire. Each new year at sunset we have a beach fire and anyone can write down things they want to get rid of from the old year and toss them in the fire. For the first time this year we had even added an internet component to our ritual. Out of town friends emailed me their lists of disposables and, without looking at them shooting out of the printer, swear, I quickly origamied them into fire balls.

On a calm January 2, Urvashi and I took all the lists out on the jetty and burned them up. Black ash filigree danced and sizzled on the white snow. It’s back to work and school! Happy New Year.