You know what’s funny? DC.
Actually, no, DC is NOT funny. It’s possibly the most serious city in the world, wallowing in its power and its reach and wearing wool suits and nylons when it’s 105ºF outside.
And DC is not funny because it’s covered from river to stinking river with can-doers and do-gooders and all manner of Boy Scouts and other figures who were the kids who loved making the rest of us uncomfortable as they ran for student body officers and learned how to comb their hair across well and smoothly and all-American and with that soupçon of false that kicks you in the gut.
But likable, you see: likable is why this is still the (MOST SERIOUS) power seat. IN THE WORLD*
But then there is the DC that lives every day here, in the present of the District, where the streets are so straightforward they apparently confuse everybody. The one that points and giggles at the vanity of aging Senators on a regular basis. The one that curses the Motorcade without giving much of a thought –okay, maybe perhaps just a tiny amount of thought– to the occupant. The one with the comically-corrupt government. The one that gets the not-a-state-not-yet-a-home-rule treatment and gets shafted mercilessly from all sides.
The one that gets to put up with heat wave season and Snowmaggeddon season and tourist season and election season and still manages to be the best city in the world.**
And the one where you can snap this picture of a big, fancy and bloated tour bus, empty and waiting for nothing in particular, with all its lights on; and know that when/if people see it, they can see the essence of America reflected there.
*This is a claim I fully expect having mocked by out-a-towners and out-a-countriers.
** Spare me the NYC-is-better bs please. I’m confident I’ve heard most of it before, and while it’s possibly true, this is still my city and NYC is not. I get to be biased and blinded by love.