Washington, DC's 2009 Cherry Blossom Festival--

A WALK AMONG THE FLOWERING TREES

It only comes once a year to Washington D.C., and with good reason: the cherry trees only bloom once a year. However, this year what caught my attention was not the flowering trees—as beautiful as they were—but the people who came to see them. We made a mad march around the Tidal Basin of the Potomac, and as we pushed our way through the crush of tourists I snapped pictures. This, is that story.

MAN WITH BLUE POPSICLEA man does jumping jacks while another man finds himself engaged in a complex debate on whether a two tone icy delight, with contrasting ingredients in its center, is kosher. His debate lasts for several seconds before the light changes, and he resigns himself to the possibility that this innocuous treat may have lured him to tresspass the myraid prohibitions his belief system promotes.

Woman dressed in red and black is oblivious to the man's deliberation over his consumption of a two-tone temptation, and walks on without giving his descision any thought.

HOW TO TAKE PICTURES OF CHERRY BLOSSOMS

Up...

down...

And over.
(Even George Took a Peek)

As we approached the steps of the massive Jefferson Monument we had to wind our way around a throng of yoga devotees. Their instructor’s voice cracked over the P.A. system calling out the various positions they were to reach for. After a pause her voice rang out again stating that the energy generated by this swath of stretching, multicolored leotard-clad disciples, “could change the direction of the wind.” Evidently, they must have been one tofu shy of full throttle, for the wind was not detoured in the least.

HIGH WIND

The wind was blowing hard and sending cherry petals aloft, so much so that at times it appeared to be snowing (One member of our party opened her mouth at the wrong time, and a petal blew down her throat). Women and men’s hair alike were spotted with the soft whitish/pink petals of the cherry tree. Some people took the time to rake the petals out, only to have another blast of wind dump more in. One fellow, whose hair was closely cropped to his scalp, was particularly bothered by the intruders, and repeatedly dragged a brush over his head to rid it of color. Gusts of wind scoured across the sidewalks, and people would instantly reach for the brim or bill of their hats. It was also impossible to get that perfect hair for that perfect picture on this imperfect day. If their hair was only a inch or two long it stood on end, if it was longer than that it was whipping behind them or lashing to the side. And if they wanted to frame a certain monument behind them, their hair was draped across their face.

PEOPLE ADRIFT IN THOUGHT
U.S. Grant strikes a pose

Striking a match is put on hold while woman in yellow walks by


OUT ON THE POTOMAC

On warm sunny days the Tidal Basin of the Potomac is active with families having fun.

Except for this family; the temptation to roll through pictures on his digital camera (no doubt recalling "funner" times), and the urge to stay in touch with family, friends or the pizza deliver guy, were far too great. Cagey children plan escape.

PEOPLE DOING WHAT PEOPLE DO

Walking Woman Applying Lipstick

Walking Fat Cat on Leash

Man Eating Sandwich in Napkin

Woman Eating Sandwich with Napkin On

Girl Running With Clinched Fists

Portrait of a Woman Taken on a Stump

Pudgy

The Angular Profile

That Perfect Picture with Hair in Place

Man of Interest Observed (T'weren't me)

Homeless Man Shamelessly Picking the Pockets of the Down Trodden

Lost in the Mist of Thought

The Crushing Mass Stops a Car

That Perfect Picture with Unruly Hair


WHAT MAKES US DIFFERENT?

"Hey, lady! Get the Hell out of my picture!"

A SURE SIGN OF GOOD EATS

As we neared a junk-food concession, I watched a middle-aged woman in a tight black sweater hesitate at the sight of her reflection. Her sweater was stretched over a downward progression of rolling indulgences, and when she saw that her bleached-blond, hay-rake bangs were askew, she swept them in place. She gave no attention to the lacquered crown of teased hair that stood guard behind them; they were impervious to the force of the wind. Her form fitting black capri pants tapered down passed her knees, terminating with a two-inch-long slit up the sides. Below the slight bell of fabric was an expanse of white skin tucked into a pair of white socks that were strapped into a pair of white deck shoes. The size of her shoes seemed hardly adequate for the disproportionate dimensions that loomed up top. “This must be a good place to eat,” I remarked. “Don’t you want to do Chinese today?” asked Daisy. “Oh yeah! Let’s do Chinese.”

LET'S DO CHINESE

Hung Po'k, Hung Chick'n, Hung Du'k, Hung Squid, Hung Chow to O'der

For the sake of good journalism, I, Alabaster Hickey, am always willing to adventure into the bowels of another culture’s cuisine. Pooh-poohing my cultural taboos, I, Alabaster the Indulgent, ordered and ate a steaming bowl of Soya Sauce Intestines. My meal also came with an added bonus; below the obvious rings of viscera were strips of a tough muscle meat that I recognized as being that of the rectum. You think that I am kidding? Well, I AIN’T! I have butchered numerous wild and domesticated animals and I know butt meat when I see butt meat.

Prior to my consumption of this pile of chewy gladness, I gave the edge of my bowl a series of light taps, “This symbolic bowl movement will be its last,” said I reverentially.

BOTTOMS UP!

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