PETER BUFFA -- Comments & Curiosities

Pretty amazing. You raise your right hand, you say a few words, you

become the nation’s president. Democracy’s finest hour takes less than 30

seconds. Only in America.

The official, all-American-certified hubba-hubba surrounding that

incredible moment -- what we call “The Inauguration” -- lasts about three

days, however, and involves a cast of thousands, an audience of millions

and, as always, lots of dough.

I thought you might be interested in my extensive experience with

presidential inaugurations -- one, to be exact -- in terms of perception

versus reality.

Presidential inaugurations can be fun. I recommend them to everyone.

Just be sure you know what you’re getting yourself into.

We were lucky enough to be at the inauguration of George the Elder in

1989. Let’s talk about the good stuff first. Washington is an exciting

place to be any time, for any reason -- the ultimate seat of power,

images you’ve seen all your life, the White House, the Lincoln Memorial,

so forth and so on. Even if you don’t give a gnat’s eyelash (they’re very

small) about politics, if you don’t get a lump in your throat in D.C.,

you need to, I don’t know, get your throat examined.

But during inauguration week, it is one big party. Think Mardi Gras,

New Year’s Eve, Super Bowl, Kentucky Derby, that sort of thing. The

swearing-in itself is the biggest emotional rush, especially for us

history buffs. There you are, watching something up close (kind of) and

personal that has gone on unchanged for two centuries, and will affect

the entire world for the next four years in ways none of us can imagine.

Whew. Lofty stuff. OK, so much for the good stuff.

I have learned little in this life. But I know this much is true: All

big-deal, famous, the-world-is-watching events have a number of things in

common -- crowds, confusion and a coordinated effort to make sure that

you and your money do not leave town the way you came, i.e. together.

First, the Inaugural Ball. Sharyn and I were looking forward to being

there. In my mind’s eye, I saw a grand ballroom in a fine hotel, elegant

tables in white linen with stylish centerpieces. I would be just a quiet

observer, leaning forward occasionally to get a glimpse of the president

and the first lady, who would be at the head table, of course, beneath a

spectacular, golden presidential seal.

In your dreams, bud.

There is no “Inaugural Ball.” But there are about 20 inaugural balls.

Big states have their own balls, little states pitch in together. But

even that’s a bit of a scam. Individual states have very little to do

with each ball. They’re all planned by the Inaugural Committee, which is

why they’re all $125 per person -- and you buy your own drinks at that.

Like presidents, some are better than others. The Prez & Co. race from

one to the next, spending a few minutes at each “ball” -- which are

really cocktail parties on steroids. They might not be gone in 60

seconds, but I can tell you they are definitely gone in five minutes. Of

course, the most devastating, ego-bruising blow inaugural-ites can endure

is to not have the first couple show up at your ball at all. That’s when

you know exactly where you, and your state, stand.

I should have cracked the code when I first saw our tickets. We were

on our way to the “California Ball” at the JFK Center, with which I am

familiar. Hmm, I thought, that’s an odd place for a ball. Other than the

theater itself, the only other space of any size would be the lobby, an

impressive lobby, but a lobby nonetheless. Still hopeful, we worked our

way up and out of the parking structure, along with thousands of other

inaugural-ites. Our destination was, in fact, the lobby. No tables, no

chairs, just lobby.

By the time the escalators stopped disgorging wave after wave of foot

soldiers in full-battle, evening gown, black-tie dress -- it was a

shoulder-to-shoulder, cheek-to-jowl, whatever-to-whatever crush of

humanity.

Wherever your forward progress stopped is exactly where you spent the

rest of your evening -- just you and about two square feet of carpet.

What people were wearing was irrelevant. Frankly, you could have been

naked from the neck down and no one would have known.

We held our ground as best we could, guarding our swatch of carpet

like timber wolves in the north woods. After a series of false alarms,

the buzz that the president had arrived was intense. The chaos was

manageable until someone shouted, “There they are!”

At that point, all 3,000 of us tried to move toward the temporary

stage. It was a bad thing. Your only objective was not to be crushed, and

you were now a fan at a Brazilian soccer game, only in a tux, pressed

against a fence at the base of the stands after a disputed call went

Argentina’s way.

Not pretty. Which brings us to the inaugural parade.

It’s fun. But you definitely want to buy a seat in one of the

grandstands, which range from $15 to $100. The $50 and $100 seats are in the stands within a block or two of the White House, where we were lucky

enough to be. For $15, you’ll be watching from just outside Alexandria.

So pony up.

There are a lot of free events, though, which can be fun, assuming you

can get there, which is never easy. This year, Laura Bush will host

Celebration of American Authors at Constitution Hall, and Dick Cheney

will host a Tribute to America’s Veterans at the Convention Center, both

free. The hot tip at most inaugurals is the Texas State Society’s Black

Tie and Boots Ball, which really is connected to Texas! But this year,

with the Lone Star State reclaiming its presidential standing, it should

be hotter than a branding iron in a blast furnace.

And that’s it, partner. The making of a president and the fleecing of

the tourists -- both great American traditions.

I gotta go.

* PETER BUFFA is a former Costa Mesa mayor. His column runs Fridays.

He may be reached via e-mail at PtrB4@aol.com.