Inaugural Events Washed Over by Feelings of Unease
By Marc Fisher
Saturday, January 20, 2001 ; Page B01
Damp: A sodden pile of about two dozen bouquets of flowers dumped outside the vice president's mansion are the only sign of a fizzled protest called Flowers for Tipper. The idea was for Americans who wanted her to be first lady to shower Mrs. Gore with support as she departs what shouting crowds last month kept calling "Dick Cheney's house." In the end, hardly anyone cared enough to send their very best.
Damper: Even before he was sworn in, George W. Bush went out of his way to show that reports of his disdain for this city were right true. Yesterday, he said that the Taxation Without Representation license plates that Bill Clinton ordered onto the presidential limousine would be removed, pronto.
Dampest: On this cold, cold, wet day, it was too wet to go out and too cold to play the exciting Sixties Nostalgia Game, so the protesters sat in the house and did nothing at all. Not even the Cat in the Hat, Jesse Jackson, who always knew a lot of good tricks, came out to play. Maybe he heard the Fish say: "He should not be here. He should not be about. He should not be here when your mother is out."
(In January 1999, Jackson wrote a column attacking Clinton's impeachment. It concluded, "We reap what we sow. The seeds planted in the past year -- both the fruitful and the poisonous -- we will reap in the years to come -- for better and for worse.")
Dampened: Dubya -- who even before the autumnal cascade of chad seemed diminished by television, his father and his own dissolute youth -- looked itchy as he hurried through the pre-inaugural rituals. He danced a step with Ricky Martin, then wandered aimlessly around the Lincoln Memorial steps, not certain what to do.
This quadrennial burst of hype and hoopla usually serves to rev up optimism for a new president, to paper over differences and give the new guy a fighting chance. But it all requires a willful suspension of disbelief, and this year, many people just aren't willing. The events of these days, the forced bonhomie of parties where no one parties, the balls where the rush to the exits begins eight seconds after the new president leaves the building, the phony respect of TV reporters who you know are making silly faces the second the red light flicks off -- the inaugural spectacle is always artificial.
For it to work, you need a smidgen of faith. You need to believe that the president can't get enough of this stuff. Reagan and Clinton carried that off supremely, Nixon and Father Bush passingly well. This Bush appears just to want to get it over with.
At the Concert Celebrating America's Youth at the half-empty MCI Center last night, almost everyone over the age of 15 wanted it all to end. The ladies in fur coats who stuck their fingers in their ears rather than listen to Destiny's Child, the big donor guys in $400 eyeglasses and scowls, the 11 Texans who asked me some form of the question, "How can you stand living in a big city like this?" -- they all wanted it to be over. Bush, too.
Part of the unease Bush exudes stems from his infelicitous relationship with the spoken word, his "heh-heh" nervous laugh as he searches for the right response. Part simply reflects his view of public appearances as a chore.
One Bush does relish the limelight: Billy Bush, first cousin to Dubya, covets any chance to parade his naughty side. This Bush was leader not of the free world, but of the
Z world, as in Z-104, the Arlington top 40 radio station where he was morning deejay.
But just as his cousin arrives, Billy, 29, departs -- sacked last week. No recount necessary. Billy, who emceed last night's concert, hopes to serve as his cousin's occasional pop culture adviser, but he knows he won't change the Bombastic Bushkin -- Dubya's nickname in his wilder days.
"G.W. and I are very similar: We're both late bloomers," Billy says. "We're both garrulous, gregarious. He's not overly hip musically. He's got his James Taylor kind of thing; he's a Van Morrison guy."
That's fine. He is what he is, even if the trumpets don't sound. Dampened is just right for this inauguration. The sun never quite made it to Washington yesterday; the son has, but so far, he is barely peeking through the clouds.
Join me today at 1:30 p.m. and 4 p.m. for inaugural editions of "Potomac Confidential" at www.washingtonpost.com/liveonline
