I drink coffee in the car while Hubby Chauffeur dodges roadblocks, limos, and cops on Massachusetts Avenue. Time to bolt the car and be like Marion. Marion Jones, that is. Soon, Kevin Conner, the master of ceremonies, begins the rally and introduces me as a famous columnist. Acknowledging that I'm from the People's Republic of Massachusetts, I rail against Saint Ted Kennedy and his unfair treatment of John Ashcroft, while indifferent strangers pass by and sirens blare in the background.
Political agitation is harder than it looks.
Fortunately, I am rescued by a friendly face from the Bay State. After chatting with this articulate young hombre, I decide to return to Rayburn for another attempt to get our tickets to the ceremony. I do, and encounter the mother of all lines. I end up watching the inauguration festivities on television in our warm lodgings. It's a prophetically named ball.