Wednesday, January 21, 2009
Barackin' the suburbs
Yesterday, Dave and I joined 1.8 million of our closest friends on the National Mall to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama. (And by "witness," I mean "watch the exact same footage the rest of you did, only on a Jumbotron while standing in the freezing cold, but occasionally catching glimpses of the Capitol building way off in the distance to remind ourselves that everything we were watching was happening right over there.")
We left my apartment before dawn to join the rest of the Obama-clad throngs in making our way via Metro and foot to the Mall. Once there, we spent the next five hours or so watching taped footage from Sunday's concert, and then the main event itself, on the aforementioned Jumbotron. Afterward, we waded along with the rest of our 1.8 million friends in attempting to squeeze out of two tiny openings in the security barrier, a situation that only caused a slight amount of panic in the crowd and yours truly. We finally managed to trek into Arlington, where we ate lunch at an Irish pub (hey, if U2 can be the centerpiece of the inaugural concert, we can certainly celebrate the event by eating Irish food) while watching CNN footage of the parade.
Throughout the 10-hour day, we were surrounded by Obama. Obama buttons, Obama stickers, Obama flags, Obama scarves, sparkly Obama ski caps, and even a souvenir $9 bill featuring Obama's picture (a real bargain at two for $5!). And, of course, the man himself. So is it any wonder that, when I finally laid my weary head down last night for some much-needed slumber, I should have a dream about our new president?
Somehow, I had been selected to help the Obamas move their stuff into the White House. I was standing in this huge warehouse that they were using as a storage area, and Barack walked up to me wearing a tattered purple rugby shirt, jeans, and white Jerry Seinfeld sneakers. (I hope, for the future of our country, that he actually wears cooler sneakers than that in real life.) "Clare," he said, as my inner monologue squealed, He knows my name! Barack Obama knows my name!, "downstairs, there's a table with a bunch of photo albums and other mementos on it. Can you pack that stuff up for us?" Thrilled that he was trusting me to handle his family's most precious items (and also totally excited to look through all the photos while I was packing them—I mean, come on, wouldn't you?), I said sure. "Thanks," he said, gripping me on the shoulder and flashing me that winning smile.
Unfortunately, I soon woke up and realized it was just a dream. But I did get to watch him become president from just a few (okay, several) hundred yards away. That was totally real. And totally awesome.
Yesterday, Dave and I joined 1.8 million of our closest friends on the National Mall to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama. (And by "witness," I mean "watch the exact same footage the rest of you did, only on a Jumbotron while standing in the freezing cold, but occasionally catching glimpses of the Capitol building way off in the distance to remind ourselves that everything we were watching was happening right over there.")
We left my apartment before dawn to join the rest of the Obama-clad throngs in making our way via Metro and foot to the Mall. Once there, we spent the next five hours or so watching taped footage from Sunday's concert, and then the main event itself, on the aforementioned Jumbotron. Afterward, we waded along with the rest of our 1.8 million friends in attempting to squeeze out of two tiny openings in the security barrier, a situation that only caused a slight amount of panic in the crowd and yours truly. We finally managed to trek into Arlington, where we ate lunch at an Irish pub (hey, if U2 can be the centerpiece of the inaugural concert, we can certainly celebrate the event by eating Irish food) while watching CNN footage of the parade.
Throughout the 10-hour day, we were surrounded by Obama. Obama buttons, Obama stickers, Obama flags, Obama scarves, sparkly Obama ski caps, and even a souvenir $9 bill featuring Obama's picture (a real bargain at two for $5!). And, of course, the man himself. So is it any wonder that, when I finally laid my weary head down last night for some much-needed slumber, I should have a dream about our new president?
Somehow, I had been selected to help the Obamas move their stuff into the White House. I was standing in this huge warehouse that they were using as a storage area, and Barack walked up to me wearing a tattered purple rugby shirt, jeans, and white Jerry Seinfeld sneakers. (I hope, for the future of our country, that he actually wears cooler sneakers than that in real life.) "Clare," he said, as my inner monologue squealed, He knows my name! Barack Obama knows my name!, "downstairs, there's a table with a bunch of photo albums and other mementos on it. Can you pack that stuff up for us?" Thrilled that he was trusting me to handle his family's most precious items (and also totally excited to look through all the photos while I was packing them—I mean, come on, wouldn't you?), I said sure. "Thanks," he said, gripping me on the shoulder and flashing me that winning smile.
Unfortunately, I soon woke up and realized it was just a dream. But I did get to watch him become president from just a few (okay, several) hundred yards away. That was totally real. And totally awesome.
Monday, January 12, 2009
They're baa-aack!
Forget the Super Bowl—you guys all know what my favorite Sunday in January is, and it happened last night. That's right: After an extremely painful (at least for me) writer's-strike hiatus last year, the Golden Globes are back, and in fine form, I might add. No one had to be rushed from the bathroom to make an acceptance speech, and Angelina Jolie didn't make out with her brother, but there were at least two cocaine references, plus Darren Aronofsky flipping off Mickey Rourke, and Ricky Gervais totally presented his film while drinking a beer onstage (awesome). The Golden Globes are BACK, baby! Now, on with the observations:
-Do you think it's just a coincidence that J.Lo returned to her plunging-neckline roots at an event she knew P. Diddy would be attending, at a time when rumors that her marriage is kaput are swirling? Because I'm not so sure it is...
-Has Kate Winslet ever not looked absolutely radiant at an awards show? If so, I can't recall it. Also, I think it's so cute that she and Leo are totally BFF!
-Speaking of British actresses looking radiant, Emma Thompson looked pretty awesome herself. I'm starting to think that living in Britain must do wonders for the complexion (let us not forget Helen Mirren as well), in which case I need to move back there immediately. Although I wonder if you actually have to be British to benefit from the radiance, which means I only have a quarter of a chance of achieving a Kate-and-Emma-like glow.
-Apparently Sigourney Weaver is a big Beyoncé fan. Who knew?
-Praise the Lord, Evan Rachel Wood looks normal again! Too bad most of her crazy seems to have rubbed off on her Wrestler co-stars. Did Marisa Tomei stop off at the awards on her way back to 1885? And what was up with Mickey Rourke's sequined scarf? (I do have to admit, though, that Mickey Rourke was pretty much the only man in that room who could even think about rocking a sequined scarf.)
-Ralph Fiennes just keeps getting skeezier and skeezier. Is this really the same guy I swooned over a decade ago in The English Patient?
-Wow, Hayden Panetierre's boobs looked really uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as she and Zac Efron did accepting Gabriel Byrne's award for him. (Ten bucks says neither Hayden Panetierre nor Zac Efron has any idea who Gabriel Byrne is.)
-Poor Neil Patrick Harris. He is so brilliant on How I Met Your Mother, yet because of the Hollywood Foreign Press's insistence on mashing together so many genres in the Best Supporting Actor TV category (I appreciate that they're trying to cut down on the number of awards, but that category is just way too broad), he had to go up against Tom freaking Wilkinson. Dude didn't stand a chance.
-Drew Barrymore's filmy ice-blue gown + cherry-red clutch + tousled Marilyn Monroe hair = awesome. She's come a long way since the uniboob incident of 2006.
-I'll admit it: I got a little misty when Heath Ledger got a standing ovation after snagging a posthumous Best Supporting Actor award. And, having just watched The Dark Knight that morning (better late than never, right?), I can say without reservation that he deserved it.
Forget the Super Bowl—you guys all know what my favorite Sunday in January is, and it happened last night. That's right: After an extremely painful (at least for me) writer's-strike hiatus last year, the Golden Globes are back, and in fine form, I might add. No one had to be rushed from the bathroom to make an acceptance speech, and Angelina Jolie didn't make out with her brother, but there were at least two cocaine references, plus Darren Aronofsky flipping off Mickey Rourke, and Ricky Gervais totally presented his film while drinking a beer onstage (awesome). The Golden Globes are BACK, baby! Now, on with the observations:
-Do you think it's just a coincidence that J.Lo returned to her plunging-neckline roots at an event she knew P. Diddy would be attending, at a time when rumors that her marriage is kaput are swirling? Because I'm not so sure it is...
-Has Kate Winslet ever not looked absolutely radiant at an awards show? If so, I can't recall it. Also, I think it's so cute that she and Leo are totally BFF!
-Speaking of British actresses looking radiant, Emma Thompson looked pretty awesome herself. I'm starting to think that living in Britain must do wonders for the complexion (let us not forget Helen Mirren as well), in which case I need to move back there immediately. Although I wonder if you actually have to be British to benefit from the radiance, which means I only have a quarter of a chance of achieving a Kate-and-Emma-like glow.
-Apparently Sigourney Weaver is a big Beyoncé fan. Who knew?
-Praise the Lord, Evan Rachel Wood looks normal again! Too bad most of her crazy seems to have rubbed off on her Wrestler co-stars. Did Marisa Tomei stop off at the awards on her way back to 1885? And what was up with Mickey Rourke's sequined scarf? (I do have to admit, though, that Mickey Rourke was pretty much the only man in that room who could even think about rocking a sequined scarf.)
-Ralph Fiennes just keeps getting skeezier and skeezier. Is this really the same guy I swooned over a decade ago in The English Patient?
-Wow, Hayden Panetierre's boobs looked really uncomfortable. Almost as uncomfortable as she and Zac Efron did accepting Gabriel Byrne's award for him. (Ten bucks says neither Hayden Panetierre nor Zac Efron has any idea who Gabriel Byrne is.)
-Poor Neil Patrick Harris. He is so brilliant on How I Met Your Mother, yet because of the Hollywood Foreign Press's insistence on mashing together so many genres in the Best Supporting Actor TV category (I appreciate that they're trying to cut down on the number of awards, but that category is just way too broad), he had to go up against Tom freaking Wilkinson. Dude didn't stand a chance.
-Drew Barrymore's filmy ice-blue gown + cherry-red clutch + tousled Marilyn Monroe hair = awesome. She's come a long way since the uniboob incident of 2006.
-I'll admit it: I got a little misty when Heath Ledger got a standing ovation after snagging a posthumous Best Supporting Actor award. And, having just watched The Dark Knight that morning (better late than never, right?), I can say without reservation that he deserved it.
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