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?

 

Awwww

 

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

 

 

 

 

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