And this, too

Writing about the guy at NKDPizza reminded me of the many men who showed up to march on Saturday. Yes—the event was styled the Women’s March on Washington, and the preponderance of those present appeared to have the XX chromosome configuration.

But there were many, many males there of their own volition, ranging from teens like this one:

To guys getting on in years:

And not just your metrosexuals, either (which is what the Alt-Reich has been assuring itself was the case, alongside their claim that only lesbians showed up at any of these marches, which were over-reported anyhow, if not altogether made up by the lying media…).

Basically—the men who showed up were the ones who are not afraid of smart, loud, confident and funny women.

I noticed it beginning with the Metro ride in from Bridge and Tunnel Land. Couple of guys in the car wearing those caps with Gulf War Veteran logos. They were not out for a trip to the Smithsonian; they’d come to defend their country once more.

Here’s another one—stating the blindingly obvious on the one hand, but on the other…the guy was just bloody magnificent.

And a lot of fathers there—grandfathers, too—including this absolutely enchanting pair:

The little girl seemed a little droopy when I first noticed her, but her dad was not flagging. You can’t see it from these shots, but her pink skirt has Superman symbols in the pleats. I wanted to kiss them both—she’s the future of us all, and he’s there to see her on her way.

A little bit later on, this fellow was rocking out to some mariachi music on his boombox—he’s got skin in this game, as well.

So—the XY chromosome set was well represented on Saturday. Because—as we who marched know (even if they who sat on their sofas don’t):

And this...

Let’s have a few more photos from Saturday’s Women’s March on Washington. Because some of these signs—and all of these men and women—are just da bomb.

Once more—the scene on Seventh Street:

Some of the observers around the National Archives:

(Focus in on that sign in the center.)

Representatives of Alexandria, Virginia:

One of the many shout-outs to the Ladies of SCOTUS:

And a lady of a different sort:

And a few more:

Sunday, on my way back from an appointment I stopped off at NKD Pizza in Arlington to get lunch/dinner (pizza goes a long way in my house). I was trawling through SoMe accounts of the march and didn’t hear when the pizza-maker with a possibly Israeli accent called me (I was one of three people in the place). When I finally woke up and took the box, he asked me if I’d been at the march.

I don’t think he could have seen what I was looking at on my 5” smartphone screen, so maybe it was the Women in Military Service Memorial shirt I was wearing. Or possibly it was just a shot in the dark. But I said I had indeed marched. So had he.

“People think it was only for women,” he said. “But I marched, too.”

“Good for you. Women’s rights are everyone’s rights,” I replied. I did not add, “Power to the people.” But I may begin to add that to my conversations.

Because that is what this is about: who's going to hold the power in this form of government.

Gratitude Monday: This is what democracy looks like

This Monday I’m thinking that my gratitude will be filling the entire week, because I spent Saturday in downtown DC at the #WomensMarchonWashington, and I have way too many pix that remind me of how proud and grateful I am to have been one of the half a million there to serve up in a single post.

So—yes, I joined 499,999 men, women and children of every visible color, structural makeup, most economic brackets, white-collar/blue-collar/no-collar employment status, probably most belief systems, a range of physical capabilities, and all ages, marching in our nation’s capital to register our intent to resist the clearly stated plans of the Kleptocrat and his kakistocracy to give away our national and natural resources to their corporate cronies, to dismantle all social supports for the most vulnerable among us, to let loose the dogs of corruption and to turn back the clock to a time when white males ruled freely, and women and non-whites hopped to when commanded.

I did not choose this lightly, because I don’t do well in crowds and I’m not especially brave. But the closer it came to the day, the more I thought to myself, “Self—you walk for MS. You have to march for the world. When they train those satellites on Independence Avenue, they need to find your head there.” I have friends who could not be there; I needed to represent them—to literally stand up for them because they cannot.

In fact, when I considered what I might be facing, I recalled one of the hand-made signs at a Walk MS in the Valley They Call Silicon, and I screwed my courage to the sticking place.

So I tied on my walking shoes, stuffed my ID and some money (in case of bail) in my pocket and headed out.

And I am deeply thankful that I did, that I was a part of this splendid crowd, this amazing day.

From the parking lot at Pentagon City’s Fashion Centre, it started: two young women with pussy hats weren’t clear on where the Metro station was. I showed them the way. And we joined scores of pink-clad people carrying clear backpacks and signs, in the atmosphere of folks attending a music festival.

(A friend of mine described the Reston station as looking like Lilith Fair.)

We piled onto Metro cars that were already chockers—and those SRO trains kept coming basically throughout the day. But no one shoved or bitched, not even when we sat parked for some minutes outside of L’Enfant Plaza (Ground Zero for the opening rally) before the driver announced that they’d closed that station and Archives due to too many people crowding the platform, unable to get out because of crowds outside.

So we got out at Gallery Place and just started marching.

Here’s what it looked like on Seventh Street:

I was getting oriented when a rolling roar completely filled the street. And here’s what caused it:

Yes, I forgot to mention in the second graf: there were also a few dogs in the March. And a former Secretary of State.

The atmosphere was militant and yet playful. There was some street theatre, and signs with rude words (which were the focus of many Kleptocrat supporters who commented on social media), and thousands and thousands of pussy hats. (Also the cause of much pearl clutching—because exposing the children to those hats! Horrors! Ignoring completely who brought the language and image into our national idiom in the first place.)

In fact, pink was a theme—pink hats, pink capes, pink jackets, pink shoes.

There’s been some discussion that the multiple messages carried through the streets of DC (and cities and towns in every state and in countries on every continent, including Antarctica) muddled the message. Not to my way of thinking. Yeah, there were signs for Black Lives Matter, for saving the planet, for immigrants, for education—but the March was never solely about reproductive rights. That was a huge part of it, yes. But women have concerns about all those other issues and more. And as we stated again and again: women’s rights are human rights.

I have to say, this was the most polite and considerate crowd I’ve ever been in (including Easter Mass). Genuine concern for everyone, starting with the Metro ride. Yep—room for more, come on in. Bump into someone, apologies all around. I needed help trying to get across Tenth and over a chain along the curb. Many hands to steady me, and people pausing until I made it.

I’ve heard reports from others, too, about clusters of people stopping to lend first aid to those suffering medical issues, calling the EMTs and directing the flow of marchers around until the ambulances came. 

A US Park Service Police mounted patrol came to the head of my march (listen—there were so many tens of thousands of people more than expected, that rivers of protest flowed on multiple streets and flooded the National Mall; for all I know there were a dozen different "marches" on Saturday) and gave us word on which way we should go to be safe because of crowds already building up.

People walking past them thanked them again and again.

(Also—this addition was made to one of the Park Service vehicles. I’m telling you—it was a droll crowd.)

They also thanked DC cops (who were not in riot gear, and who made no arrests. At all. All day long) for being there. Ditto thanking Metro Police, who at 1530 were still having to regulate the crowds flowing in and out of Metro stations.

It was like we were all channeling our grandmothers. Many of whom were there.

There were chants, most in the higher vocal range representing the preponderance of women:

This is what democracy looks like.

And a call-and-response between men and women that played off the different registers:

Men: When they go low

Women: We go high

There was power in all of them. (Including the one that went: Tiny hands, tiny feet; all he does is tweet, tweet, tweet.)

On my journey home, walking through the Fashion Centre mall, I noticed an addition had been made to the advertisement for the “inaugural store” (actually a kiosk in the food court).

Yes, I’m glad I didn’t let my pettiness keep me away from one of the great events of this decade. And I’m honored and grateful that I walked for hours and miles, for women's rights, for human rights.

Fish out of water

You may recall that the building where I live is renovating the corridors, and that someone with a rather delicious sense of whimsy lives on my floor (and at my end of the building).

Well, alas—this week the aquatic primer on the walls was covered up by two coats of “grown-up” paint, and all the fishies disappeared. That’s progress, I know.

  

But a couple of them made a break for it, ending up on the industrial-strength cardboard floor protectors. One in front of my flat:

And one right by the elevators:

(Sadly, it did not take long for Elevator Fish to be squashed pretty miserably.)

But then I noticed that someone had rescued many of the fishies—although I suppose jamming them in the hinge-space of a door is not a pleasant environment for anyone:

Even so, it means that the painters also have a sense of whimsy, and that makes me feel good today, when I very much need it.

The damned mirror crack'd

Yeah, stuff’s gettin’ real, people.

My place of employment is in the Red Zone; not precisely Ground Zero of the Kakistocalypse, but as close as dammit. Our building garage (and others in the Zone) is closed as of 1000 today, and they may be patting people down as they exit from Metro Center station.

I don’t know, because my manager strongly encouraged me to work from home today, and tomorrow we are thankfully off. But here are a couple of shots from the ‘hood as of yesterday:

Jersey barriers, which I imagine will be moved across the various intersections.

Death to parkers signs.

And, frankly, this is about as close as I want to get to the Kleptocrat and his ilk.

Basically, as close as dammit.

Love in the parking lot

Some time ago I was in the parking lot of the Alexandria Wegmans, an East Coast grocery chain, when I noticed this truck all tricked out:

This Wegmans is near Fort Belvoir; I didn’t see a base sticker on it, but it did have an Oklahoma license plate on the rear, and I just kinda thought…

Anyhow, what caught my attention was this declaration plastered to the front bumper:

Look—anyone driving a $32K Silverado pickup with Oklahoma plates and a piece of a Robert Browning sonnet slapped across the bumper deserves a shout-out. I rifled through my car, but didn’t have any decent-sized pads of paper (since rectified). So I scribbled my good wishes on a business card-sized scrap and stuck it under the windscreen wiper.

May you grow old alongside each other, never run out of gas and always be driving under the speed limit as you pass the cop cars.

And the landlord's a bastard

On my way back to work from a conference a while ago, I noticed this tagged construction site.

Given the events of this week, I thought it was timely.

Gratitude Monday: Comfort where I find it

On the day we as a nation celebrate the life and work of Martin Luther King, Jr., I’m focusing on some of the remarkable achievements of the United States of America that have occurred in my lifetime. Some of the ones with special meaning for me:

The Space Program. It started out as the Space Race, us against the Soviets, and they won the first few heats. But oh, when we put our minds—our very best minds—to it, we soared. Viz.:

The Mercury Seven—our space pioneers. I’ll give you John Glenn’s first trip, on 20 February 1962, since we so recently lost him:

1969: Apollo II, first landing on the moon. Neil Armstrong took that giant leap on 20 July, followed by Buzz Aldrin. I watched it in Champaign, Ill., with my friend Gretchen Pullen’s family. Look at Armstrong just hopping around like an eight-year-old:

Taking a giant step of a different sort, Richard M. Nixon took a blowtorch to the ice block of our relations with China, and within a few years of entering office, he was entering the People’s Republic. Literally.

But Nixon’s hubris grew as though on steroids, and it was the now-vilified main-stream media, including the New York Times’s disclosure of the Pentagon Papers and the stellar work of the Washington Post, digging into the Watergate scandal. From publisher Katharine Graham down to newbie reporter Bob Woodward, the Post uncovered corruption and crimes on a scale we’d thought could never be replicated. They uncovered it, verified it in accordance with high journalistic standards, and they published it, in the face of intimidation from high-ranking Administration officials. Including Attorney General John Mitchell.

Yes, that’s right: our chief legal officer was not only in on the crimes, he threatened those who brought them to light. Plus ça change…

[From left, Washington Post publisher Katharine Graham, Carl Bernstein, Bob Woodward, managing editor Howard Simons and executive editor Ben Bradlee. Photo by Washington Post]

It gave me hope that, no matter how far off track we got, we could right our course and continue to move forward.

We’ve had some amazing song writers during my lifetime. I’ll just sum them up with Bob Dylan and give you something that was true in 1964 when he wrote it and sure as hell is true again now.

Here’s Tracy Chapman singing it at his 30^th Anniversary Concert:

In the cinematic arts we’ve had a shedload of brilliant filmmakers. These are among my favorites: Coppola, Coppola, Spielberg, Hill, Lucas, Scorsese, De Palma, Howard, Lee.

And we made—for a while—astonishing progress toward equality for all in this shining city upon a hill: striking down the policies of separate-but-equal; don’t ask, don’t tell; and governmental intrusion into the reproductive rights of women.

All of this may have culminated in the election, in 2008, and reelection, in 2012, of the first African-American man to the Presidency.

It’s Martin Luther King Day, of the week that will see the installation of the antithesis of all these achievements—the Kleptocrat and his appointed administration, abetted by Repugnant majorities in both Houses of Congress. So I’m holding on to these things that I witnessed in my lifetime. We were good, once. I hope we can return to goodness once again.

Another country

A week hence, the United States of America will see the inauguration of the Kleptocrat (no, I don’t believe you’re going to see his name on my site; I’m doing my part to not contribute to his web analytics) as President. So I think this story from yesterday’s New York Times is timely. The headline is certainly instructive: “In Iowa, Trump Voters Are Unfazed by Controversies.”

Because remember what I said about magical thinking? When you’ve made up your mind as to the preferred outcome, the facts—not even blizzards of them—do indeed not faze you. This is crystalized in a quote from one of the people the Times reporter interviewed to ask if he had any second thoughts, given the disclosures of questionable dealings with Russia [and a shedload of other high crimes and misdemeanors I’m just too discouraged to enumerate, but which include refusal to divest his business holdings, nominating an entire skulk of corporate foxes to guard the working guy’s henhouse and allegedly engaging Russian prostitutes to pee on a hotel bed once occupied by Michelle and Barack Obama, because he’s that kind of vindictive frat boy].

No, Al Ameling does not. “The way it is nowadays, unless I see positive proof, it’s all a lie.”

(He didn’t specify what constitutes positive proof, but I’m guessing that he would have to see and hear the Kleptocrat in flagrante delicto, in person—because those libtards could fake all kinds of photographs and videos you know—shooting heroin with 12-year-old naked Russian hookers covered in canola oil and glitter in order to even ask himself the question if there might be something—just the very faintest whiff of something—that might be in any way unsavory associated with this guy. But he’d accept any explanation up to and including flat out denial of the whole thing that he was seeing and hearing in person.)

But I didn’t need to read the entire article (although I did) to know what was going on. The photo directly under the headline basically told the story:

And it depresses me no end. I wonder how many of these men are going to like having their Medicare replaced with vouchers? And how they’re going to like the new co-pays on their cholesterol and erectile dysfunction meds?

To counter this oppressively ghastly reality (because—while I do clap for Tinkerbell—I’m not delusional, and this is the world today), I’ll leave you with another photo. It was shot within spitting distance of where the inauguration ceremony will take place (any bets on whether the Kleptocrat whips out a crown—for which he will bill the US taxpayers—and place it on his own head?), but a long, long time ago.

I gotta hold on to something.