“Do you understand that the world does not revolve around you and your do whatever it takes, ruin as many people's lives, so long as you can make a name for yourself as an investigatory journalist, no matter how many friends you lose or people you leave dead and bloodied along the way, just so long so you can make a name for yourself as an investigatory journalist, no matter how many friends you lose or people you leave dead and bloodied and dying along the way?”
— Derek Zoolander

WASHINGTON — Ah, the National Mall. The Nation’s Fare way (“It’s a long par five to the nation’s capital,” intoned one Crow T. Robot). One point nine miles of monuments, museums and memorials teeming with open space full of softball teams, kite flyers and tourists, tourists, tourists. One can walk those 1.9 miles without having to pay a cent for day’s worth of exciting, stimulating activities of deep, civic worth.

And mock your fellow Americans. That’s priceless.

Perhaps “mock” is too strong, suggesting a deep anger or contempt (I’m staring at you, Democratic Underground douche bags). I love Americans. My family is American. My fiancée is American. I’m an American. My world would be pretty empty (and boring) if those drunken Massachusetts merchants and Virginia planters didn’t get pissed off at the King ’O England in the 18th century and said “Fuck you, we want to invent baseball!”

Of course, we tease what and who we love. How many jokes have you told about Dad? Or little sister and big brother? Americans have many superior qualities (heartbreaking bravery and boundless generosity almost to a fault) and many poor qualities (a strong lack of personal discipline and unawareness of their county and the world around them). On one very hot and sunny July Sunday I traveled to the Mall, which celebrates the former qualities, to see how much of the latter qualities I’d encounter. Join me for the tour, won’t you?

Starting from the George Washington University, I walked south on 23rd Street right into the heart of the Mall. First stop on our tour — the memorial to America’s most calamitous (or is it now second most calamitous?) foreign war, Vietnam.

For those unfamiliar with the Vietnam Memorial’s black wall that names all 58,000 American combat deaths, visitors walk down into a gradual trench and walk back up. Visitors walking into the trench are told no food and drink is allowed. This is ignored as a matter of course.

Also ignored is any sense of respect or reverence. It’s clear that Fodor’s Washington D.C. overseas edition lists the Memorial as a must see worthy of the same consideration as Chinatown’s International Spy Museum and Fairfax County’s International House of Pancakes. It’s a little galling to watch foreign tourists yammer and jibber jabber walking through the memorial like they’re debating whether or not to throw tomatoes at the White House.

American visitors segregate themselves into two categories — people for whom the war meant something and everybody else. Middle aged folk (think your parents) walk through quietly, their faces full of reflection and penance. Younger folk (like Zubazpants.com readers) pretend to walk through with reflection and penance.

Volunteers (in the yellow hat) stand ready to answer visitor questions like, “Where is the closest bathroom?” and “Who do I contact to correct an error on the Wall? I’m not dead.”

Paper and crayons are provided so visitors can create rubbings of family and friends’ names on the wall. Since none of my family or friends died in the war, I sought out the casualty that resonates most with a Western New York ex-pat — James Robert Kalsu. The only professional athlete killed during the war, Kalsu was an Oklahoma City native who played his 1968 NFL rookie season at guard with the Buffalo Bills. Voted the team’s rookie of the year, he started his tour of duty with the Army in 1969 and was killed the next year. He was 25.

A short five-minute walk away is the Lincoln Memorial. This is at the core of my interest in exploring the Mall. Every time I’ve visited — and especially at night — there was always a horde of 14 and 15 year olds playing grab ass and games of “Guess whose boobs are really socks?” Probably no other location provides an accurate cross-section of Washington tourist.

Washington, D.C. meets the Grand Canyons.

Walking up the steps to the Lincoln Memorial earned me a burning sensation in my legs. Some tubby bastard did the steps Rocky-style with enough sweat streaming down his shirt to flood the Nats out of RFK. Halfway up the steps is a stone marking the spot where Martin Luther King gave his “I Have A Dream” speech in 1963. The 19-foot statue of Lincoln sits in the middle of memorial. His closed left hand represents the part of Lincoln determined to resist secession. His open right hand represents his willing to embrace peace. Engraved on the wall to Lincoln’s left is his second inaugural address (The “speech after he, like, got reelected,” said one OC-type kid). On the wall to his right is the Gettysburg Address.

Giant Lincoln awaits his next victim. “Fee Fi Fo Fum I smell the blood of Confederate scum!”

First impression of the crowds at the Memorial — way too many women try to play tourist while dressed like Eva Longoria and in a city of 300,000 black people, only three were present. The echoes in the high-ceilinged structure made it difficult to listen in on conversations. Difficult, but not impossible.

One father sat on the floor and read the Gettysburg Address to his young son. Four score and seven years ago … . “How many is a score? Twenty.” Dad asked and answered his own question. Our fathers brought forth on this continent a new nation. That dates back to 1776 and he talked about founding fathers like George Washington. “He was president in 1776,” Dad said. Uhh, not quite, but good try (the Washington Administration occupied office from 1789 to 1797). Grandpa came along asked if they wanted to ride the elevator. The boy quickly jumped off his father’s lap and followed grandpa.

That was a pretty consistent theme — older visitors attempting to educate the young wards in their charge. And in every case, it’s involved men and boys. The women and girls in attendance apparently only cared about seeing if they were cuter than each other. Yet more evidence why the 19th Amendment was a bad idea.

Children listen with rapt attention to the tour guide. They’re very interested in hearing how many states Vice President John Breckinridge won in the 1860 election.

Those looking for education and information at the Memorial are in the distinct minority. Like the foreign tourists at the Vietnam Memorial, those visiting the memorial did so because they’re supposed to. Tourists visit tourist destinations. Therefore, they visit the Lincoln Memorial. Most of them clothed.

Lincoln didn’t fight in no war so hippies could walk around his house shirtless.

One bouncy little blonde bounced over the foot-high chain keeping people away from Lincoln’s throne. She drew the attention of the rent-an-hour security guard ubiquitous around Washington and notorious for only intimidating 90-year old women who dropped their colostomy bag. The blonde bounced off Mr. Lincoln’s dais with a smile on her face.

The most ignored sign in Washington, D.C. after “No right turn on red.”

(One of my personal favorite “South Park” moments: The Super Best Friends episode when David Blaine animates the Lincoln statue and it attacks the city. Jesus radios back to headquarters for help. “We need to know how to kill a giant, stone Abraham Lincoln,” he shouts. The supercomputer responds, “Ummm, errr, uhhh, a giant, stone John Wilkes Booth?”)

Who comes to D.C. hoping to see their senator? I come to see the pale-as-milk goth 13-year old dressed in black sneakers, black jeans and black sweat shirt in 90 degree heat. Sorry kid, they already cast Christopher Walken’s moody, gay son in Wedding Crashers. I think I’m done here. Onward east! Towards the halls of Congress!

Seriously kid, don’t let your bisexual buddies cut your hair with a weed wacker.

“I love Washington,” a passing woman said to her companion. “It’s just so beautiful. And it’s free!” I agree. As somebody who pays $650 a month (plus utilities) to live with three other guys, the lack of coin demanded to visit America’s cultural treasures is greatly appreciated. (For comparison’s sake, my brother just moved to a St. Louis suburb. He pays around $600 for a two-bedroom apartment. I blame George W. Bush.)

On the opposite end of the reflecting pool from the Lincoln Memorial (also east of where Tom Hanks hugged that hippie Jenny) is the World War II Memorial. Wrangled over for years and finally dedicated in 2004, the memorial finally gives just due to America’s humble generation of ignored heroes never given their just due. A very similar situation to the Founding Fathers.

“It kinda has a Nazi theme, but it’s nice,” one tourist told his companions. I thought I saw a Kerry-Edwards ’04 button on his backpack. Just kidding.

On the north and south side of the memorial are two large pillars marking the Atlantic and Pacific theaters of the war. The smaller pillars represent each state and territory in the Union during the war that are placed on either side of the bowl based on their entrance into the Union. On the west side is a field of 4,000 gold stars, each one representing 100 American dead. The above photograph demonstrates the biggest design flaw of the memorial — no shade in the middle of the memorial.

Remember that scene from Independence Day with Will Smith dragging the alien’s body through the desert in his parachute? Smith later said it was so hot and the terrain so reflective he received sunburns inside his shorts. That’s the center of the WWII Memorial on a sunny summer day. Any aliens are of the Mexican variety.

U.S. Park Service employees must fish nickels out of the memorial’s fountain to make ends meet. I blame George W. Bush.

The wide open space, roaring water and punishing sun does not create an easy environment for snooping around conversations. I was very disappointed to not hear anybody ask what day the Germans bombed Pearl Harbor. Aside from the random WWII veteran visiting with his kids/grandkids and a girl photographing a squirrel on a bench, the sparse crowd was bland and uninteresting. It’s was like visiting Iowa on the east coast.

Watch out for those boys from Lake Placid. They fight dirty.

Finishing up with happy war nostalgia, I pushed east. Looming on the horizon was the monument to George’s Washington giant, lethal penis. The obelisk design to honor the first president was an interesting choice considering Washington had no children and was almost certainly sterile.

What a man.

Tickets to travel to the top of the monument are quickly snapped up each morning by tourists. Of course the line to get in was long and directly in the sun. As I walked by, one group that included someone in a wheelchair was allowed to go to the head of the line. This did not sit well with a family of four waiting in line to ascend.

They stomped over to the rent-an-hour security guard. “How long you been watching?” Dad asked with a little incredulity. I could not hear the guard’s impotent and likely monosyllabic response. They spent a few more minutes grumbling before walking towards 15th Street. Crisis averted.

We have an Asshole Suburban Dad sighting. Alert DHS.

Like a dradle winding down on it’s last few spins because the kid’s aunt bought him a copy of Halo 3, the Mall drains it’s visitors of energy during days of relentless sun and high temperatures. Visitors like me. Tired, thirsty and holding two now ink-less pens, I made a beeline for the relative comfort of the D.C. subway system and headed back to Northern Virginia. I happened upon a group walking towards me clustered together for a quick picture. Somehow, the decision of a gentleman in the back of the group to flip the bird in defiance of the tranquility of the moment did not seem wholly out of place.

All in all, it was a fun and informative day. I found the visitors interested in what they saw, but not terribly engaged. It’s like explaining hockey rules to your girlfriend while watching a game — it’s important at the moment, but forgotten at the first opportunity. And maybe, that’s the best one can hope for. How does knowing Lincoln signed the landmark Homestead Act into law help with little Suzie’s math homework or purchasing car insurance?

Before I leave, one last poignant image from our nation’s capital.

Questions? Comments? Hard money contribution? E-mail me at mlucinski@yahoo.com

Michael Lucinski lives, loves and works in the Washington, D.C. area. He graduated from the University at Buffalo and the George Washington University. Two days after this adventure, I asked my girlfriend to marry me in front of the Lincoln Memorial. She said yes. She has no idea what she’s getting into.