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Showing posts with label Washington. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Washington. Show all posts

Wednesday, 22 April 2020





Spanish Flu 1918
ARLINGTON'S FIRST 'MASKED BALL'



   By Justin T. Carreño



Justin T. Carreño
Firehouse Emerges Through a Pandemic:  The Cherrydale Volunteer Fire Department (CVFD) dates back to 1898 where it operated out of strategically stationed sheds containing firefighting equipment. It wasn't until in 1915 that a plot of land in the Cherrydale neighborhood of  Washington, DC, suburb of Arlington County (then Alexandria County), VA, was identified to build a proper central firehouse. Three years later, in 1918, preparations were completed to break ground to start building the fire station.However, little did anyone know that 1918 would also bring with it the most severe influenza pandemic in recent history. What became known as the "Spanish Flu" lasted through 1919 resulting in the deaths of at least an estimated 50 million worldwide (more deaths than in WWI), including an estimated 675,000 deaths in the United States.

Friday, 1 May 2015

Pols Yuck it Up

A Good Time Was Had by All
AND MEDIA TAKES A SHINE TO LUMINARIES 
By Richard Meyer
WASHINGTON [WC News Service] -- Politicians in this country are entitled to a bit of levity. But the spectacle of the Red Carpeted, forced smiles commingling of public servants (so to speak) and "celebrities" at fancy dinner, in a time when middle class families struggle to stay afloat and the income inequality gap is at record levels is a poor spectacle to present to the country at large. 
 
By the way, I do not mean this in any way as a partisan comment, as these spectacles go on during the Administrations of both parties.

The blurring of the lines between entertainment and politics, as reflected daily in the so-called "News" programs, especially in the morning hours, is a pestilence in our times of serious domestic and foreign issues alike.

Monday, 15 December 2014

And Now the 'Women's' Page....

Judith Martin 
Richard Carreno
CAROLYN FOISY AND STYLE
Judith Martin's memory of 'For and About Women,' published in last week in The Washington Post Magazine, reminds me of my stint, in the early-to-mid-1970s, as a staff reporter and fashion columnist (the first of my gender) on 'Women,' the so-called society page at the Worcester Telegram and its sister weekend paper, the Sunday Telegram in Worcester, Massachusetts. Like Martin, I was young, but my background was somewhat different. I had been a political reporter. Thanks to The Post's 'Style' section, and seeing a kind of interpretative writing I wanted to adopt (difficult under the strictures imposed on 'straight' reporting at the time), I was able to build up the nerve to jump from 'hard' news to 'soft.'

Wednesday, 12 February 2014

Barry Fêtes Hollande at State Dinner: A Votre Santé

President Hollande Eats the Whole Thing at State Dinner
Pick Your Favourite One Percenter
David Cohen Was There.
So Was Stephen Colbert
and Bradley Cooper.
You Weren't.
(Don't Feel Bad. Neither was Pussy Riot).
Why was John Kerry's Wife Not There?
 
THE PRESIDENT and MRS. OBAMA
 
HIS EXCELLENCY FRANÇOIS HOLLANDE, PRESIDENT OF THE FRENCH REPUBLIC
 
Mr. J.J. Abrams, Pacific Palisades, CA
Ms. Katie McGrath
 The Honorable Stacey Abrams, United States Representative (Georgia)
Mr. Ben Jealous
Ms. Jill Abramson, The New York Times, New York, NY
Mr. William Woodson
 Mr. Charles Adams, Jr., Washington, DC
General Keith Alexander, Director of NSA and Cybercom
Mrs. Debbie Alexander
 Mr. Peter G. Angelos, Baltimore, MD
Mrs. Georgia Angelos
Mr. Kader Arif, Minister Delegate for Veterans Affairs, French Republic
The Honorable Caroline Atkinson, Deputy Assistant to the President & Deputy National Security Advisor for International Economics
Mr. Geoffrey Boyd Lamb
 Ms. Jennifer Bado-Aleman, Gaithersburg, MD
Mr. Frank Skinner
 Mr. Caleb Ballew, Huntsville, AL
Mrs. Kourtney Ballew, Huntsville, AL
 Mr. Dan Barber, New York, NY
Mr. David Barber
 The Honorable Karen Bass, United States Representative (California)
Ms. Barbara Jordan
 Mr. Terrence Bean, Portland, OR
Mr. Robert Iwasaki

Monday, 7 June 2010

In the Jumpseat

Commanded and Uncontrolled

By Justin T. Carreño,
Junto Staff Writer Bio
For a period of time, while living in Arlington, Virginia, my work was located across the street from my apartment. Living in northern Virginia, or NOVA, an outlying base of official Washington, it's common to run across people who are gun-ho military. Arlington, specifically, is crawling with military personnel, as well as government-employed civilians, many of whom are government contractors, known as "govies."  It wasn't strange then that I met plenty of them in my apartment building.

Working across the street, I commonly would go home for lunch. During one of these lunch-breaks, I noticed, as I walked out of my building, a blacked out, new, shiny SUV parked in driveway. I didn't think much of it. NOVA is loaded with government cars.

This was different. As I passed the car, red and blue lights began flashing and a voice over an amplifier said ominously, "You, come here. Get in!" This command obviously caught my attention. I was wondering what the police wanted with me. I kept walking past the vehicle, and then turned around to see what this was all about. And a familiar face, a friend, was sticking his head outside the driver-side window. I just looked in wonderment and shook my head.

"For real?" I thought. He said, "Just get in. It's my boss's car."

 "Right. OK,"  I thought. I'll go along with it. I wasn't in a rush to get back to work. I hopped into the luxurious vehicle. It was decked out like a stretch limousine -- plush leather seats, lighting, a glass automated divider between the front driver section and the back passenger section. A heavy armored doors.

My friend said, "Watch this." We raced around Arlington dashing in and out of traffic, going down one-way streets the wrong way, feeling the power. Traffic and red lights were no match for this vehicle. If vehicles or traffic lights blocked our way, our flashing lights and sirens came on. If these didn't work, my friend announced menancingly, "Move out of the way!" on the loud speaker. Vehicle and pedestrian traffic alike were quick to clear the path.

I said, "This is pretty wild, but uh…."

He responded with,  "Training."

Then he received what sounded like an important call:  "Yes, sir. Roger that."

He had to get going. We raced up to my work. I noticed some people looking, realizing they couldn't see through the tinted windows. He stopped the black beast abruptly. I suppose the spectators were wondering who the VIP was about to exit the vehicle. I slowly opened the door, trying to create suspense, and stepped out.

I'm not sure if they thought I was a boldface name. But I'm sure they were disappointed by not having a clue who I was.

My friend didn't have to time to stick around.  "It's a critical mission; have to get my boss to Starbucks,"  he said.

Tuesday, 23 February 2010

At the National Portrait Gallery

Dreams of My Grandfather
By David Houston
Junto Staff Writer Bio
Now treading the last waters of consciousness, the figures from
Dreamland poised around me like players in a game of Red light Green
light, ready to resume, waiting for my attention to shift a little more.


On a silent cue, we all exhale and take up the Play again. I am in a
theatre, or club. It looks  like  a fancy house from the 1840's that has
seen better days, slightly frayed red damask walls, gas light fixtures.


Upstairs everything is smaller, the ceiling only as high as a man can
reach, like in early times. I am expected somewhere downstairs, but I'm
not sure where, I am not familiar with this place, still discovering it.


There is a sense of foreboding, anticipation. I go out onto a balcony
that wraps around three stories of the lobby. There is light, activity,
I hears voices. I go down. There, around a long table sits my Grandfather
and, on his right, Ben Franklin, and then James Madison, and perhaps eight
or nine others.


I'm so distracted trying to keep acting normally and process "Ben Franklin"?  "People from a different centuries?"  I don't register who the rest are. My Grandfather welcomes me very warmly
like a much favored grandchild. I feel about eight years old in his company. I am a little taken back because I never knew him in this life; he died before I was born.


There is a large document on the table, parchment, they are planning something. There is one of those moments where it is silently and quickly translated from unknown to known, but only the vague outlines. I'm asked what I think.

"Yes, yes" I silently ascent, although I have no clear idea to what. Inside I am busy on two
tracks. One, that we might still be involved with this world, even planning new things for this world after we die  It hardly seems worth it, to call it dying, that I am so warmly favoured by my Grandfather, really that he even knows me.


He was always reported to be formidable, distant from my Father, who in turn was reserved, distant from me. I just assumed that I would never be accepted into the fold on that side of the family.

This dream, this encounter really, was a right of passage for me, a rite of acceptance. Rather shaky ground to base this on I know but my only other contact was putting a cotton beard
on his portrait at Christmastime.

                                                                  
When we went to see the painting on a trip back to Washington with the family, something told me it was venturing too far into the past, or was untoward to move the memory of his painting to such a public place. I couldn't really tell, and anyway couldn't see the harm. We finally located where the painting was hung, it was in the National Portrait Gallery. It was done when he was Secretary of Agriculture in President Wilson's Cabinet.


Anyway when we located the gallery and turned the corner, there we were met by an entire blank wall of milky plastic taped off all around, floor walls and ceiling. The gallery  was undergoing
renovation. In the Art of Memory, the technique for remembering things by placing them in a familiar place or temple, it is perhaps untoward or at least disruptive to go back and see that the skeleton of your memories is completely reordered.


I had the same feeling when I went back near my college, and was opening lots of old doors. Well, again, what's the harm, when was I going to be back again anyway now that I live in California? I headed over. Half way there the road was completely blocked by a pile of dirt ten feet high. I think they must have taken out the bridge, or something to go to such measures. I turned
back, I didn't go around the other way.

Washington is great for places that stay the same year in and year out. The National Gallery, where it is always the same temperature and humidity as well, hit me full force, seeming to neatly
gather up all the visits going back to when I was 12, and in such a way that I was re-seeing everything with eyes of a now 40-year-old.


At 12, it was "my" collection and I took it for granted that like the movies that came to town two months after they opened in New York, a little behind. Now there were Masterpieces looming from every wall. I got Stendhal Syndrome. Embarrassing, I thought it was fictive, an
affectation or an artifact from a more refined time of fainting couches and smelling salts.


Stendhal Syndrome, overcome by an excess of beauty, turns out to be about as much fun as car sickness. Like a carnival ride going too fast my stomach got queasy and the power started to drain from every limb. I had to get out of there, fast. Literally shielding my eyes from an entire roomful  of Velasquez on the way, I found my way to a side door and sat down. There beside me was the date the building was erected. MCMXL, 1940, only seven years older than I.

Monday, 1 February 2010

Other Wedgwood Show in Washington

Hamilton Krater Tops
Art Exhibit Here
Hamilton Krater, below
Donna Corbin,  further below
Junto Photos/Richard Carreno
By Richard Carreño
Junto Staff Writer Bio
I'm fond of the 18th century English sporting artist George Stubbs, and I'm equally fond of a ceramic compotier I own that dipicts, in raised, diminutive form, one of Stubbs' horse portraits. The small cake dish is in pristine condition, and it bears the inscription, in black ink, 'Wedgwood.' A couple of years ago, the current Lord Wedgwood, Piers Wedgwood, was good enough to scrawl his name on it. 'Ah, a Stubbs!' he declared as he acceded to my request.

My piece of Wedgwood jasperware, in the familiar, iconic blue and white, is also of museum quality.

Like most people, owning a Stubbs oil (several are in the Philadelphia Museum of Art) would involve an impossible financial stretch. Yet, in a way, I do own a Stubbs, thanks to Wedgwood. And, yes, it would do nicely in the Art Museum, as well.

That's the thing about Wedgwood. It's accessible art -- real art -- for the masses.

My compotier was crafted about the time the legendary English pottery firm, founded by Piers Wedgwood's ancestor, Josiah Wedgwood, had been in business for about 200 years. Last year, more than fifty years later, a more modern Wedgwood firm, now part of a vast publicly-traded conglomerate known as WWRD Holdings Ltd. that also flogs Waterford crystal, Royal Doulton, and Minton china celebrated its 250th year.

It was a milestone not to be missed, most of all by Lord Wedgwood, who, known as the 'brand ambassador,' has become something of a jet-setting pitchman for the company.

Nor was it missed by two notable institutions, the Art Museum in Philadelphia and the Daughters of the American Revolution in Washington, both of which have used the occasion to mount ongoing Wedgwood installations. Of the two shows, the Washington exhibit, running at the DAR until February 27, is most expansive, with hundreds of antique and modern pieces. The Art Museum show, extended to March 14, presents just about 20 works.

But Art Museum's theme, how Josiah Wedgwood created, commercialized, and marketed, more than two centuries ago, patterns and shapes morphed from the earthenware designs of ancient Greece and Italy, is more tightly and richly focused. And, moreover, with a surprisingly, piquant relevancy to our brand-conscious times.

Though never stated by Donna Corbin, the Art Museum's associate curator of European decorative arts and the show's curator -- at least, in the installation itself -- it's hard not to walk away from the exhibit -- all beautifully preserved works from the 18th and 19th centuries -- without the notion that Josiah was something of a brand image-maker. In this case, the antique style that found quick favor with the aristocracy of the time, including George III.

Wedgwood still likes to rattle its royal associations. (Like its chief competitor Spode, Wedgwood parades its Warrant from the Queen).

Was Josiah Wedgwood, then, an ur Martha Stewart?

Ask Martha. Wedgwood Ltd. recently introduced her collection to its starting line-up.

***
That the Philadelphia Museum is taking a lead in recognizing Wedgwood's key artistic and commercial achievements in American and English decorative arts isn't surprising.

Philadelphia, Piers Wedgwood said during a recent lunch gathering at the Philadelphia Club, is 'Wedgwood country.' Actually, with four or five of the 'best' private collections in the country, he added.

Minus one.

At this point, it gets a bit complicated.

In fact, for more than 50 years, Philadelphia was not only 'Wedgwood country,' it was the Mecca of Wedgwood, boasting the world's largest collection, about 8,000 items, in private hands.

The collection had been amassed, starting in the 1930s, by Harry M. Buten of suburban Merion, and later his son, David Buten. Over time, Harry Buten became an expert in ceramics, particularly English ceramics, and most specifically Wedgwood ceramics, and, subsequently, he created in Merion the Buten Museum of Wedgwood, a one-off showcase. (In other words, Merion was home to two world-class museums, including the nearby Barnes Foundation).

Harry Buten was also the author Wedgwood ABC but not middle E, the most comprehensive primer of its kind and a volume I've consulted for this article.

Years ago, I encountered another Wedgwood collection, at the Birmingham Museum of Art in Alabama. I didn't know it at the time, but this Beeson Collection, at about 1,400 items, had been a distant second in size to the Philadelphia stash.

Interestingly, it was said there was 'little overlap' between the two collections. Furthermore, at the time of my visit to Birmingham, in 2005, the Buten Collection had already been mothballed, after David Buten closed the family museum in 1988 and loaned the works -- no one seemed to be know exactly why -- to the Nassau County Division of Museums, on Long Island, New York.

All that changed, after some legal wrangling, when the Buten Collection -- valued to at least $4 million -- was wrested away last year from the Long Island museum and donated to the Birmingham Museum. Together, with the existing Beeson Collection, the museum's Wedgwood holdings rival the inclusive Wedgwood Museum in the company town, Stoke-on-Trent.

The missing piece? Why -- what with the Buten connection to Philadelphia -- did all family Wedgwood not go the Philadelphia Museum.

'It was before my time. Water under the bridge,' Donna Corbin told me, gently closing the door on the subject.

***
The DAR installation in Washington, which I visited recently, draws heavily on pieces from Birmingham, the Smithsonian Museum of American History, and Colonial Williamsburg, and includes the Fairyland Lustre vase, circa 1920, whose owner is Whoopi Goldberg. Martha Stewart -- not only a Wedgwood designer, but also a collector, it turns out -- also helped out.

So did brand ambassador Piers Wedgwood, who, in October, presided over the exhibit's vernissage and accompanying tea. As in Washington and Philadelphia, Lord Wedgwood has become something of a fixture at company-related events. In addition, he seems to be a favorite with Wedgwood enthusiasts (major clubs are based in New York and Washington), who seemingly always get a kick from meeting a peer of the realm, all way from London and House of Lords. (Well, not exactly. Wedgwood gave up his seat in the Lords in 1999 and he actually lives in Philadelphia).

While not as expansive as the Washington show, the Philadelphia Museum's installation is remarkable for the little-known narrative it relates, how the British diplomat Sir William Hamilton popularized neo-classical design in 18th century Society.

Hamilton, of course, is best known as the cuckholded husband of Emma Hamilton, the mistress of Lord Nelson.

Less known -- while his wife was canoodling with Nelson -- was that Hamilton, then British ambassador to the Kingdom of Naples, was collecting vast quantities of antique ceramics, discovered in new excavations at Pompeii and Herculaneum. Hamilton fit the bill as a scholarly amateur, part connoisseur, antiquarian, vulcanologist -- and cataloger. Hamilton's meticulous accounting of his growing collection was published as Collection of Etruscan, Greek and Roman Antiquities from the Cabinet of the Hon. W. Hamilton. (A copy, on loan from the Rare Book Department of the Philadelphia Free Library, is displayed).

Proofs of Hamilton's catalog fell into Josiah Wedgwood's hands, and from these drawings Wedgwood recreated copies of what is now one of the most significant pieces inspired by the original Hamilton collection, now known as the Hamilton Krater Vase. The monumental krater, part of the Art Museum permanent collection, imitates the red figure painting of the ancient Greeks and Romans.

Not surprisingly, the wine vessel, manufactured in about 1790, holds a place of pride in the museum's exhibit. It, like another at Victoria and Albert Museum in London, is an 'almost exact copy' of the original, now housed at the British Museum. 'There are very few exact copies,' Donna Corbin said.

Friday, 15 January 2010

Architecture


White House Groupie

By Richard Carreno
Junto Staff Writer

Washington.
Thanks to my congressman, Chaka Fattah, I got to see the inside the White House this week.

It wasn't easy.

I called Fattah's office in October, requesting a public tour. You know, the one for tourists with checked shorts, baseball caps, and white sneakers. I understood that there could be up to a six-month waiting period, what with new screening and security procedures put in place after 9/11. No problem. What I didn't expect was the 'And how many in your group?'question I got from the Fattah aide in charge of tours.

Three, I said.

Not good enough, I was told. Had to be at least 10.

Huh?

'Is it all right, then, if I bring my Boy Scout troop?'

No, the aide said earnestly, her humor switch apparently powered off. I had to be a member of a 10-member group, or one that was even larger, she went on, without pause. 

The aide surely wasn't making this easy.

Well, she said finally -- though she could have said this initially, as well -- ''We can assign you to an already pre-existing group.' Sounded to me like a medical condition.

***

Fattah's office called me last week.

'How's Tuesday?' this very same aide asked.

'Tuesday is good.'

By e-mail, I received instructions.

I need to meet my group a half-hour before the start of our tour at 11 AM. I can't carry an electric stun gun. Nor a pen. (Honest, this stuff is on the White House's list of proscribed items). And if I have any medications, they need to remain in the custody of a chaperone. Chaperone. I guess they're won't be any hand-holding on this tour.

I showed up at 10:30 AM at the 15th Street gate (the same one that the Salahis crashed through, incidentally) with my photo ID, whilst stowing my electric stun gun, knitting needles, fireworks, martial arts devices, and hair brush (yes, among other listed items) safely back in the car. Oops! I was carrying a pen.

I started looking for my chaperone. And my group. Something like a church knitting soldality, I figured. Without their knitting needles, of course.

Presently, I offered my ID to the gate guard, a uniformed Secret Service officer, and he ushered me onto the grounds, leading to an additional checkpoint and, finally, to an East Wing entrance that faces the west side of Treasury and, as I saw out a door window, another of those fake Liberty Bells that dot the country.

'I'm awaiting my group,' I told another uniformed guard as I planted myself on a bench nearby the door. Five minutes. I gazed desultorily at huge photographs of President Obama, looking presidential, that hung on nearby walls. Fifteen minutes. Other tourists. Some couples. Some singles. Some trios. And I noticed they're already starting their tours. 

It's already well past 11, and it became clear. Of course, there was no group.

***

There was also no rush. The tour was leisurely self-guided, and relatively short, confined mostly to ceremonial rooms on a lower level and on the first floor. I helped myself in recognizing the art on the walls. For the most part, they're paintings of dead presidents, the portraits (some reproductions, in fact) that we see regularly on our paper money. As in Gilbert Stuart.

I was thinking two thoughts, as well.

First, the place was a lot smaller than I had reckoned. Not as grand as other national residences I've toured. Buckingham Palace and Versailles, for instance. Even some Robber Barons, in Newport and on Fifth Avenue, had some more glam cribs.

Who shrunk the State Dining Room? Maximum seating, 142. If you use round tables.

'Everyone thinks the same thing,' another Secret Service guard, stationed in the dining room, told me. 'Everything seems larger on TV.'

Still, I was impressed. Size isn't everything. For starters, try even getting into No. 10 Downing Street, or the Eylsee Palace.

Built in the late 1790s, burned by the Brits in 1814, reconstructed during the Truman Administration, the White House remains the oldest public building in Washington and home to every President since Adams. And as for cachet, what could be a grander address in America than 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue?

My second thought? What happens if they catch me carrying a pen?

And, yes, thanks Chaka. Really. 

Wednesday, 13 January 2010

Liberty Bell

If You've Seen One,
You've Seen Them All

Washington.
Never in the course of human events -- or iconic worship --have so many come to see so little. The Liberty Bell, of course. 


I've seen replicas in Cheyenne, Wyoming; Montgomery, Alabama; Denver, Colorado; and, now, on the west side of the Department of Treasury (along East Executive Avenue), viewed from the East Wing of the White House.

Thankfully, it's a bell. Today, it might be cell phone, set to wake-up call. Of course, with a crack.
---RDC


Security

Full-Foot Scan?


By
Richard Carreno
Junto Staff Writer
Washington.
If we get a full-body scan, does that include feet?

Will this new technology eliminate the need for airline passengers to remove their shoes in the name of travel security?

Interestingly, I haven't heard anything about this. Odd this, in that shoe removal has to be the biggest complaint passengers lodge as they line up, for the most part, compliantly in areoport security queues.

Everyone believes in airline security -- and is willing support most measures, as long as they're necessary, appropriate, and undertaken respectfully. The Transportation Security Administration (TSA) has gone a long way in accomplishing this mission. With the exception of the shoe sham, that is. Security stagecraft at its worst.

Visiting the White House yesterday, I got the full monty. No gate-crashing this.

My name was on the list, and they were checking it twice. I got ticked at the 15th Street gate, and then again as I entered the East Wing. I emptied my pockets, went through a metal detector and, as is the case at aeroports, my artificial left knee set off the alarm, necessitating a wanding.

The process was respectful, efficient, and thorough. In fact, I was told by a person who knows about these things that anyone that is, anyone, who enters the White gets a security check that amounts to a 'Secret' clearance. That's why you need to submit your personal details before showing up.

(Does this mean I can now get fast-tracked at areoports? I don't think so).

Of course, the list of no-nos is hysterical. If you've any doubts how literal Americans are, all you have to do is consult one of the banned-item lists you find here, at the Capitol, at the White House. The White House bans, in its long list, handbags, tabacco, combs, knitting needles, pens (oops, I carried one in), mace, knives, martial arts items, fireworks, guns and ammunition,and, my personal favourite, electric stun guns. Just beautiful! Where else but in America would there be an explicit prohibition against electric stun guns?

The good news, even though somewhat contradictory: We were allowed cell phones, umbrellas (blunt tips?), wallets, and car keys (rubber?)

'Please power off your cell phone,' I was told as I entered by the 15th Street gate.

When I got into the East Wing, the person I was waiting for hadn't arrived yet. I feared that there might have been a mix-up. I asked a guard if I might use my cell.

'Sure,' he said.

I powered on my phone, and made the calls I needed to.

Yet no removal of shoes.

A few years ago, at Hartsfield in Atlanta, I experienced my first body scan. Actually, it was a foot scan. Instead of removing my shoes, I inserted by shod feet in a device that scanned them. An X-ray? Who knows? Maybe it was something like those infernal machines in some shoe stores when I was a kid. They were supposed to size your feet. (Actually, I think they were responsible for the bunions I have now).

Obviously, these Atlanta-based feet machines went nowhere.

Even the White House security official I spoke to yesterday had never heard of the device.

What about feet getting scanned if we submit to body scanning? He was stumped.

'Anyway, don't expect those full-body scanners anytime soon,' he said.  
     

Tuesday, 15 December 2009

Jump into the Pool


Print Pool Report: The Deep End 

From: Anna.Fifield@FT.com <Anna.Fifield@FT.com>
To: Finkenbinder, Benjamin N.; Hogan, Katherine J.
Sent: Tue Dec 15 15:35:32 2009
Subject: Print pool report #4 - Dec 15


The president spoke in the Roosevelt Room at 3:15pm after meeting Senate Democrats on the healthcare reform bill. Standing next to him were senators Tom Harkin, Chris Dodd, Max Baucus, Harry Reid, Dick Durbin, Patty Murray and Chuck Schumer.

The president said they had a "productive" session on healthcare reform bill and that "we are on the precipice" of passing the most wideranging reforms in decades.
Said that "there are still disagreements that have to be ironed out" and work to be done over the next few days. "It is important for every single senator to take a look at what is in this bill," he said. President said he was "absolutely confident" that if the American people and senators knew what was in the bill, they would support it.

Said he was "cautiously optimistic" about the process but did not repeat predictions it would be passed by the senate before Christmas.

Full remarks will be sent by White House.

POTUS did not answer questions on Guantanamo, instead shook the hands of each senator as they filed out the door.


Anna Fifield
US Political Correspondent
Financial Times
T  202.XXX.XXXX  202.XXX.XXXX
M  202.XXX.XXXX  202.XXX.XXXX

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Monday, 13 July 2009

Memo to Septa











Junto Photos: Richard Carreno

DC's 'Smart' Metro is Philly Prototype

Washington
Quiet cars. A station grid that footprints the entire city and suburbs. Clean. Reliable. Passenger (customer, friendly, as they say here). Electronic boards, like ones in London, that announce when a train will arrive. Did I say clean?

And Smart cards that a customer just waves over the turnstile. Again, like the London system. OK, we can quarrel with the payment scheme. Fares are calculated by distance -- like an Amtrak fare. My preference is flat fee, which is less regressive. The poor live on the outskirts of the District. The rich, in Geogetown, or nearby Virginia suburbs. Ditto, re the poor in Philadelphia.
At plumb, Metro, the country's second-largest subway system, is a culture. (It also boasts the world's longest escalator). Unlike Septa ('All the Poor, All the Time'), Metro is used by all social strata -- and races. Everyone appreciates its convenience as a great alternative to abhorrent traffic grid-lock here.

Even DC hip-hoppers and gang-bangers, on the Metro, are a tad more suave. Not as creepy as their like-minded undergrounders in the Quaker City.

And, did I mention clean?
---RDC

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