You Say You Want a Revolution



Everywhere I hear the sound of marching, charging feet. . .  (boy)







Cause summer’s here and the time is right . . .



. . . for fighting in the streets (boy)


Hey —  think the time is right for a palace revolution



But where I live the game to play is compromise solution. . .


While in DC, viewing the Mideast uprisings from the safety of CNN,
the strains of “Street Fighting Man” echoed over and over in me head . . .


On the hotel’s shared laptop, a guest had been
anxiously checking for updates from the Mideast and North Africa


while the rest of the world holds its breath, waiting and watching



What else can a poor civil servant girl do . . .
(before she gets furloughed)
Except to selfishly avail herself of all available national treasures


Like in the National Portrait Gallery,
where Michelle “Good luck on that healthier kids initiative” Obama
is captured in a Warhol-inspired portrait.


And Sequoyah, who developed a remarkable system of writing for his Cherokee people.




And just cause I love renditions of the Headless Horseman


And where an inscrutable Pocahontas in Elizabethan strait jacket stares cryptically into history


And where Clement C. Moore’s Saint Nick seems sneaky, if not downright criminal . . .



And where the famed Black Hawk observed, “How smooth must be the language of the whites,
when they can make right look like wrong, and wrong look like right.”



And where JFK once confided, “The pay is good and I can walk to work.”


While Eric and Burt brood over JFK’s musing,
“Let us never negotiate out of fear.  But let us never fear to negotiate,”


. . . all the political outrages perpetrated by anti-union legislators lead them to drink. . .



Speaking of more positive perpetrations . . . way to go Pret A Manger. . .


Looking up Connecticut Avenue


Martina Lopez collaged images of anonymous figures from second-hand stores,
mirroring the unknowable mysteries of our own families



Second Story Books spill onto the sidewalk



Bo’s distant cousin scans the competition at Eastern Market




Sorry – didn’t catch the name?




A clementine offers up refreshing spritz


Mugsy’s unrestrained affection . . .


. . . leads to Mugsy in restraints   < sigh >











Not that I’m a fan of the bloomin’ shrooms


But considering their dubious little names,
i.e., pointy, spooky, stinky, gloomy black, false morel, Dead Man’s fingers,
well, safe to say it’s best to avoid ’em all . . .


Gusty winds of 50-plus miles an hour. . .


. . . buffeted citizens all day Saturday. . .


. . . particularly threatening the lightweights. . .



A bold, yet familiar, fashion statement in the Market



The Treat-that-Must-be-Rationed for Grandma . . .






Sadie at Eastern Market




Known as The Picasso of the Southwest



Often imitated


Usually exploitatively so





Pennsylvania Avenue




Which way to In-N-Out Burger?


No, seriously?


West Coast only?




Still smilin’




Moose came by . . .


for a look-see . . .





The (official) fish taco from Tacqueria Nacionale



Capitol Hill K-9   –  It’s been a hard day’s night . . .




. . . and I’ve been workin’ like a, well, you know. . .





Dupont’s Farmers Market pet tolerance level








Funky store-front


Room with a view


In a thriving neighborhood,



just steps from city life



The proverbial Tea-smoked salmon with cilantro scrambled eggs




Hair-on-your-chest Dragon Well tea



Outside the Natural History Museum…


Give or take a few years,
a 200 million year-old tree stump.




A glimpse of one of the museum’s secret night roamers


In the Sculpture Garden the Stainless Steel Tree gleams



Eastern Market




“Wicked” the Aussie Shepherd, looking anything but . . .






“This is to inform you that your United flight has been canceled for tomorrow evening. . .”


An unexpected sleepover at Washington’s National Airport.
Thank you non-stop Muzak, for making sure I don’t drift off to possible sleep. . .
And thank you Mr. Floor-Buffer, traveling .05-miles an hour with your incessant warning beeps. . .


Which noises apparently didn’t affect everyone. . .



Before crawling to the gate for my red-eye flight. . .


For my unsuspecting (and deep-sleeping) model,
I left a couple of chocolates in penance.


Back in Minneapolis, and back to all that slushy heavy white stuff




Sure, rub in the purple bruises Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome. . .


Thank you, Old Man Winter, for blasting the Midwest one more time
just to prove you can. . .


*       *       *



And thanks Tasha, for just being you





Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s