DC Dispatch 3: Just Another (National) Mall Rat

PRELUDE: 5 AM
I showed up on the National Mall at four o’clock this morning, which made me one of the first putzes on the scene. The following five italicized paragraphs were written way before the sun appeared; and while this crap is mostly irrelevant at this juncture, I’m leaving them to show how superficially enlightened an exhausted man can become on the heels of history.

I’ll make this quick for a few reasons. The first is that I’m midnight drunk at five in the morning. The second was going to be something else, but now it’s that a guy just told me that I might or might not be in a “ticketed” area that has a good chance of getting “swept” by security. There’s no telling; from the looks of things these festivities are about as organized as John McCain’s last and hopefully final presidential campaign.

Whatever the case is – I’m on the Mall. Not the mall as in Abercrombie and Aeropostale (man I’ve been wanting to use that one), but the Mall with the giant jumbotron that says: “The 56th Presidential Inauguration.” It’s a cold, semi-grassy Mall, but right now I’m loving it; the toilets are available and there’s a hope of public Wi-Fi.

I’ll get more into this later when I’m at a bar with warm, beer-filled hands, but it’s hilarious how this city is divided by the color ticket you hold (or the color ticket you don’t hold). On the walk here, which I kicked off at about three-in-the-morning, my friend and I passed a half-dozen lines that we weren’t welcome on.

First there was the blue line, which I presume is pretty important. I presume that because the people waiting in it were complete cock rockets. Next there was the silver line, which wasn’t for seniors as the name suggested, but which I cut anyway as if the folks in it were senile and paying no attention.

So that brings me to the point where I can no longer write; my paws are frozen, and, if the rumors floating around here have any veracity, I’m about to be bumped like Tony Montana’s keychain. I’m here though, and you can count on me to continue relaying the inaugural experience from the most frigid, uninvited point-of-view out here.

POSTSCRIPT: 3 PM
I did end up getting booted from those semi-prime silver accommodations, but I found my haven a few hundred yards back. No big deal at all – it was brutal from wherever. For the five or six Americans who didn’t join me on the Mall, here’s something to tell your grandchildren: “I was going to attend Barack Obama’s inauguration, but instead of foolishly standing outside like a damn popsicle I watched it at home with a warm cup of tea.”

I can’t say that; instead of tuning in from my crib I came to where the Porta Potties overflowed and frostbite nearly took my toes. I have no regrets though; for those following my Twitter feed I delivered all the dirty details in more than 50 160-characters-or-less gems throughout the morning.

As far as the larger, more philosophical picture is concerned, I was as overwhelmed as I was back in Grant Park on Election Night. Obama’s speech spoke for itself (obviously), but I will note that all the applause you heard on television rang that loudly despite most everybody having gloves on (though I took mine off to clap when he shouted out us “non-believers”). This man is a people’s champ; show me any other cat – whether a politician, musician, actor, priest, or hero – who can turn out that kind of crowd in brick weather.  

I still think it was a bit premature the other day for grandstand champ Eugene Rivers to predict that Obama is certain to be one of the greatest American presidents ever. But when homeboy kicks magnificence like this I’m at least willing to concede that it’s possible. Gotta run now – I’m filing this from the sidewalk outside a Starbucks in the middle of the grandest foot traffic nightmare in United States history. 

-- Chris Faraone