More than 35 words

PETER BUFFA

First, some housekeeping. Due to technical difficulties, the new

photo promised for this week is not, umm, ready for publication.

Actually, the shot I wanted to use was scaring people in the

newsroom, so it’s back to the drawing board. Thank you for your

patience, and we’ll get back to you as soon as we have more

information.

Now, Repeat after me: “I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully

execute the Office of President of the United States and will to the

best of my ability, preserve, protect and defend the Constitution of

the United States.” Congratulations. You’re the president. Those 35

words are all it takes -- in addition, of course, to spending two

years making 3,000 speeches and shaking four million hands, all in

the hope of gathering 270 electoral votes.

Those 35 words have never changed, from the George named

Washington to the two named Bush. The speeches are quite another

story. The shortest by far was Washington’s. At 135 words, it was

just 100 words longer than the oath itself. The longest, and the

winner of the “Presidential Poetic Justice Award,” was William Henry

Harrison’s 8,500-word stemwinder on March 4, 1841, a mind-numbing

diatribe delivered on a bone-chilling winter morning. No one knows

how many people in the crowd were frozen solid by the end of

Harrison’s speech, assuming there were any left, but that brand new

prez died in office exactly 30 days later -- of pneumonia.

One big production

Having been lucky enough to witness a presidential inauguration in

the flesh, at the inauguration of George Bush the Dad, I thought you

might want to hear a little about what goes on behind the scenes. A

presidential inauguration is really a 24-hour affair. There are tons

of events in Washington during inauguration week, but the good stuff

all happens the evening before the inauguration and on Inauguration

Day itself. The big attraction, of course, is just being there.

Washington, D.C., is exciting enough at any time, let alone during an

inauguration. It’s the ultimate power center, with images you’ve seen

all your life at every turn -- the Capitol, the White House, the

Lincoln Memorial, et cetera, et cetera.

During inauguration week, you can crank up the Washington “wow”

factor by a power of 10. The swearing-in itself is the biggest rush,

especially for the history buffs, as you stand there up close -- sort

of -- and personal, witnessing something that has gone on unchanged

for two centuries and will affect the entire world for the next four

years. Exciting? I’ll give you exciting. By the way, could there be a

first lady more impressive and gracious and good looking than Laura

Bush? I think not. Anyway, imagine being in town, whatever the town

is, for the Olympics or the Super Bowl or a papal visit, or if you’re

really lucky, a papal visit during the Super Bowl.

Everybody is in a good mood, except Barbara Boxer, laughing and

chatting with strangers and wanting to know where you’re from and

where you got that great hat. It is definitely a mob scene, with

every hotel and restaurant and shop bursting at the seams. Now, what

do you want to do? You need a ticket for almost everything, and the

tickets for the good stuff are very hard to come by. There is an

amazing correlation between inaugural week tickets and tickets to the

“Big Game.” If you really, really want seats to a World Series game

or the Super Bowl, you’re going to get them one of two ways: Either

you have a connection, or you go to a ticket broker, swallow hard and

plop down your plastic. For this inauguration, brokers were asking

two thousand and up -- and yes that’s dollars -- for spots in the

lower seating area at the swearing-in, and in the bleachers closest

to the White House for the inaugural parade.

Follow the bouncing balls

The biggest shocker for me, by far, was the “inaugural ball.” I

had always imagined an elegant, formal dinner in a sparkling ballroom

-- with the president and first lady at the head table, smiling at

the guests seated at white-linen tables with dazzling centerpieces.

We would sit quietly and soak it all in, leaning forward now and then

to get a glimpse of the first couple. Dream on, bud. Sorry, but there

is no “Inaugural Ball.” There are many “inaugural balls,” and we use

the term loosely, because the balls are really cocktail receptions on

steroids, and the only way you’ll be sitting down is if you bring a

lawn chair with you. This year there were nine “inaugural balls.” To

give you an idea of how intimate they are, five of the “balls” were

in separate halls of the Washington Convention Center -- all at the

same time.

Thousands of people in full-battle-black-tie dress are squashed

into hotel ballrooms or a convention center hall, listening to really

loud music and trying to get to the bar, which can’t be done, or get

to the rest room, which can be done, as long as you don’t mind

standing in a very long line for a very long time. The first couple

race from ball to ball, the prez says a few words from the stage, and

then he and the first lady dance for about 30 seconds. That’s it --

poof -- they’re gone. This year, President and Mrs. Bush made it back

to the barn in record time, visiting eight balls (the legendary Texas

“Black Tie & Boots” ball was the previous night) and still getting

back to the White House by the very impressive time of 10:20 p.m.

In our case, we were at the “California Ball” at the JFK Center --

two well-dressed blips in a crowd of 2,000 well-dressed blips. Things

were intense but manageable, more or less, until someone shouted

“They’re here!” and the crowd surged toward the stage. At that point,

you might as well be a fan at a Brazilian soccer game right after a

disputed call goes Argentina’s way, except you’re in a tux.

Still and all, at the end of the day, none of that matters. Going

to a presidential inaugural is wild and wooly and one of those things

that should be on everyone’s “Do Once Before You Die” list. It’s the

making of a president. It may take only 35 words, but what a rush. I

gotta go.

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

Sundays. He may be reached by e-mail at [email protected].