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Number_ten

1. Star Trek: The Future Begins (“Star Trek”, Malaysian Release)

2. Terminator Salvation: The Future Begins (“Terminator Salvation”, Working Title)

3. Batman: Intimidation (“Batman Begins”, Original Script Title)

4. Spider-Man: No More (“Spider-man 2, Working Title)

5. Not Another Scary Epic Teen Date Movie (“Meet the Spartans”, Working Title)

6. Scream Again (“Scream 2”, Working Title)

7. Scream Louder (“Scream 2”, Working Title)

8. Scream 3: Ghostface Killer (“Scream 3”, Working Title)

9. The Adventures of Luke Starkiller as Taken from the “Journal of the Whills”: Saga I – Star Wars (“Star Wars”, Working Title)

10. Transformers the Movie: Apocalypse! Matrix Forever (“The Transformers: The Movie” [1986], Japanese Working Title)



Walking down 11th Street, all the way from T to the mall, it all began to come together. The closer we came to the Mall that bitterly cold morning, the more people there were. It was if the entire district, the entire region, had been tipped into a funnel, and once we got to 3rd and Louisiana, where the first entrance for Silver Ticket holders (that oh so elite group of scores of thousands), it became clear that that funnel had a very small spout, indeed.
We circumnavigated the Capital, making a second approach from the South—but again, the crowd could not be escaped. One line we walked past was over 7 blocks long, wrapping and writhing around buildings and blocks. Absurd, yes, but better then the unorganized masses that were seen elsewhere.
Once we finally broke through, we were rewarded with the opportunity to wait in the cold (and goddamn, was it ever cold) for two hours before the ceremony started. The weather wasn’t so bad when you moved, when you had to push through crowds. But just standing there, waiting, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot, it began to take it’s toll. Later, once it was time to disperse, I could barely walk. My feet were frozen stiff, and the joints in my hips stiffer, and I got a pretty good idea of what arthritis is like—or, at least, close enough for me to not want anything to do with it.
So we stood, and watched the jumbo-tron, with the Capital dome poking tentatively over the screen. There were celebrity sightings (Jay-Z! Beyonce! P Diddy! Dustin Hoffman?) to precede the politician sightings, and the crowd passed the time watching them, floating larger then life—as always—above us. A few dignitaries drew catcalls and boos: Lieberman, Cheney, Bush—sad, I thought. This should be a day of pomp and circumstance, dignity and respect, not bitterness and resentment.
Yes, I don’t like Bush, and I never did. He ignored real threats to send us to war on a personal vendetta, he abused the Constitution, the bill of rights, he told my friends and relations that they couldn’t marry the people that they love and he did it all in blissful ignorance of a financial system with roots rotting in un-fecund soil. But he’s gone now.
Inauguration Day is a new beginning, a new awakening. A chance to turn away from the past if we like and look out at the future and say, “Yes, we will do better, we must do better!” What, I wonder, is gained by hating a waning man, to focusing on the things that have gone wrong and not on what can go right?
But of course, all of that stopped once the man himself came on stage: B-Rock, Barry O’Bomber, the Obamanator. But he was not jubilant, not full of levity and elation. No, he was respectful, dignified—proud. So proud. One wonders what he thought, looking out from that podium, on millions of people.
It is enough to frighten most, just the prospect of a crowd. But he was strong, noble. And when he spoke, the mood changed, the tone shifted, and everything was different. He was not there to celebrate (not yet), not there to pat himself on the back, or his supporters. No. He was there to tell us the truth, that things were bad, perhaps getting worse. That the challenges we face in the next few years are serious, more so perhaps then any time before.
But he was there to meet them. To stare them in the eye, and krinkle his forehead and send them back the way they came. To climb atop them and use them as a stepping stone to—Well. No one knows. But a step up, not a push, or a slide, or a fall. He was there to say that America may have lost it’s way, but that was no excuse to keep wandering in the woods, there to say that though things have been bad, that they will be better, they must be better.
And I blinked my eyes, and everything was solid again.

Later on, after a long afternoons rest, recovering from the bacchanalian celebrations and the crush of humanity, we found ourselves at a concert. The Dresden Dolls, Talib Kweli, Michael Franti—an inauguration party. Not a ball, no, nothing so fine, but a celebration none the less.
And a celebration it was. It has been a long time since I can say that I’ve been in a space, and looked around, and not seen a single unhappy face. There was happiness, and light, and laughter, and thought, and most of all there was hope. Written on shirts and toilet stalls, spoken aloud and whispered in ears. Hope.
Not just the campaign slogan either. Yes, hope, we’ve heard. Or maybe it was a little bit of that. But even so, this was the hope fulfilled, invigorated, realized.
My cousin asked me, while we were there, if it was worth it. The expense of flying down, the uncomfortable closeness of the masses, the bitterness of the cold. I could barely reply.
Was this worth it? How can that even be a question?
Michael Franti was talking about the Inauguration, about why he was there, why he couldn’t just watch it on tv. And he said: “I don’t know why I came, I didn’t know what I was going to do—but I knew I had to be here”.

I had to be here. I had to be here. I had to.

Was there ever any doubt?

Today, as well, began with travel. We drove from outside Philly to the Maryland Transit Authority train’s terminus, and took it all the way into Union Station. Of course, it started out with just a few families, but as we went through Baltimore, BWI, the suburbs, the number of passengers kept growing. By the time we pulled in, the train was full, and it was through no small effort that we squeezed ourselves into the District.

The first sight at Union Station was a sight that would be repeated throughout the day: the crowd. People from all over this country standing in front of Metro machines, befuddledly figuring out the payment system, while at the same time orienting themselves in a city many had never seen before. And this was the morning.

As the day wore on, ore and more people flowed into the city, joining the hundreds of thousands who already live here or came early. Every street corner in the Federal Triangle was packed, every line wrapped along the block (most notably, the lines to get into the offices of Congresspeople and Senators both, as new arrivals frantically scrambled to get their hands on a precious few “silver” tickets– I, luckily enough, managed to come into some tickets from Senator Bingaman’s office that had not yet been claimed).

After lunch, we made the foolish choice of taking the Metro back up to DuPont Circle, and as soon as we descended into the South Capital station we were sucked into a morass of penguin-stepping humanity. We had been joking all day about how every media outlet had spent the past week talking about how awful and crowded the Metro was going to be, and how we couldn’t imagine who would actually dare brave it. The answer to that question, was a whole shit load of people.

Even walking back to my cousins house, off of U Street, from DuPont, I was struck by just how many people there were. These were quiet, residential neighborhoods we were walking through, but still a constant stream up and down every street.

And the best part about it, is just how ecstatic everyone is.

All day long, it’s been nothing but smiles and sunshine to counteract the gloomy weather and shadow of the past. Everyone is holding doors for each other, dropping into conversations like it’s a family reunion– black or white, doesn’t really matter (and yes, the crowd is predominantly black [at least so far], 60-70% at least. But then again, it is D.C., and then again, this is the moment of redemption– or at least something like it, from an outsiders view).

The District has grown jubilant, ebullient, it’s difficult to aside from to say that something warm has taken root in the gut of every person here, and that thing will flower come noon on the 20th. It is expectant, it is victorious, it is pacific and plantive, and it is, above all, an excuse for a party.

And so the time is drawing near. Change, then– the metamorphosis, even– is waiting to take hold of us, and flourish an unparalleled abundance. But goddamn is there a lot that needs to get done before we find that place.