The night before President Obama's symbolic inaugural ceremony, I am on the third floor of a hip-hop club in D.C. about 20 feet away from Jaime Foxx. I'm drenched in liquor after a woman I had enraged "thanked" me for accidentally bumping into her.
My friends are tied up in traffic, so I do what any sensible liquor-soaked white girl flying solo at a hip-hop club does: I try my hardest to avoid embarrassing myself. That means fighting the urge to: nod my head to the music like a Brady Bunch kid, purse my lips and throw one hand in the air, "raise the roof" or say, "What's up, man!?" The girls look like models, and I'm in a frumpy sweater and jeans. In fact, I'm probably the most under-dressed person in all of D.C.
Had I known the inauguration was basically Celebrity Mardi Gras, I would have come a little more prepared.
Unless you consider "Bro, Obamacare's the shit, am I right? *burp*" a meaningful observation, nobody in D.C. this past weekend cared about politics or policy. Mostly everyone was in town to party, drink or catch a glimpse of Katy Perry. Bars prepared accordingly, staying open till 4 a.m. (two hours later than usual).
Even at the inaugural ceremony, an otherwise very historic moment, all people could talk about was Michelle Obama's bangs. A high school kid announced, "John Kerry's my man!" when the Massachusetts senator made his way to his seat. Journalists squirmed in their chairs with excitement when the jumbotron flashed a glimpse of Beyonce arriving at the Capitol. (By the way, she got more applause than Obama's cabinet and the House of Representatives combined.)
I'm hardly innocent. Standing in that crowded club, I eventually threw my hands in the air and "woooed" along with everyone else when Jaime got on stage and started singing "Unpredictable." So what if I was covered in vodka? I was this close to Django.
Delette Nycum was my great-grandmother.
Goddamn this town is a drag.
His voice just creeps me out. That is all.