Ambivalent morning. Lot of people getting up in crowded houses. Orion had parked his belt in the sky just over the summit of the west wing at Big Pink. The Beaver Moon was gone, finally, and the first question was whether those three bright orbs had familiar names, like Sirius. Or something different. These three tell us the time, in a way, like Orion heads west before the east starts getting serious about morning light. He follows RT 50.

We have always just called it The Belt, looking up over the first mug of Chock Full O’ Nuts. But there are other names for them that shout identity. Like the “Three Kings” or “The Sisters.” We were surprised to meet them by name this morning, since Kristina looked up the night sky on her tablet to keep the Boomers off balance. She looked across the table and slowly said “Alnitak,” gesturing across the roof summit with an freshly painted. “Then, Alnilam and Mintaka. They will light the dark on the way to day.”

Having made her statement, she slumped back to let the old fellows attempt to find something to fill the morning slot at The Daily on a holiday that isn’t exactly a holiday but a day spent on the road to get back from one. this morning as we attempt to unscramble a Dim Sum Holiday.

The reservations over at The Duck House were at mid-day, so the confusion attendant to getting seven of us into a single vehicle was a challenge not dissimilar to the 21 righteous folks who attempted to stop the Macy’s day parade. Similar motion to both events, the one in NYC being billed as the first one of the second century. We didn’t recall the Ronald McDonald balloon they stopped briefly, but apparently this is his second appearance without feathers or pilgrim hat.

Apparently they did this last year and the police were ready, so interruption in the parade of thanks for hamburgers passed without much disruption. It did work up an appetite for a festive lunch, and we were whizzing west on Route 50, the six lanes of concrete evoking the big highway movement in America about as old as the parade Mr. Macy decided to put on.

We are proud of our part of the concrete. Running coast-to-coast through the heart of America on an odyssey of more than 3,000 miles from sea to shining sea, US-50 passes through a dozen different states and four state capitals, as well as past the front of Big Pink.

We are proud of our Boulevard. It is sort of scenic in a curious way. It originates in our Fifteen Minute County over in Rosslyn where the bridge crosses from the District proper and the Big River. Then it pours west, rising through the Old Dominion and on through the Appalachians, Rockies and the Sierra Nevada range before winding up at I-80 in West Sacramento, CA. It used to go all the way across the Golden Gate Bridge to the Pacific, all the way from Ocean City, Maryland, but the interstate system RT 50 was supposed to demonstrate was cut off the ends that touched saltwater on both ends.

We like it because the broad six pale lanes of concrete out in front are what a superhighway was supposed to look like only with stop signs. DeMille had made a note about that for Eddie and Vince, who were supposed to collect the noise about the sitting President asking the new one about what he intends to do in eight weeks and what sort of Executive Orders will show commitment to new initiatives that were thrown out four years ago.

It is a new way of doing things, so we decided to just have some dynamite Chinese for the holiday meal in a place where most of us have been dining since the early 1990s. It is on the north side of 50 at Seven Corners, across from the Home Depot the Chairman used to do the work on the little efficiency unit on the ground floor over by the pool entrance used for summer entertaining and spare lodging in the off months.

That enables use of the large patio about the same size as the single room inside, kitchen adjoining, with a roomy bathroom. The bed had been a single along the wall he replaced with a Murphy arrangement that folds down when the bookcases are slid open. With the futon and the flatscreen it provides a place with some privacy for the Girls, who can switch out if they have anyone special over for the evening.

So, that is where some of us are. The Conference Room used to be the living space in the two-bedroom unit on the ground floor of the East Wing, looking west across the black asphalt of the inner parking lot. That serves as a sort of communal space during the day with a couple racks in the two bedrooms. The Patio is considered a certain open territory, and the Chairman has the three-bedroom unit up on the 8th floor, the one that started things when the Speaker of the House of Representatives lived here. It was still fancy then, and that office was 3rd or 4th highest official in town.

So, that was how the Socotra organization is strewn through this building. Young staff to the west, older staff to the east, and ownership up there someplace looking back across Arlington National Cemetery toward the River and those white marble structures on the Mall.

Riannah is on the 4th floor in a sensible one-bedroom unit that allows her a 35-second commute down to the reception desk in the Lobby where she keeps an eye on management and attempts to manage the package delivery. Joan and Luisa are the other regular desk ladies, and they are the public face of the building.

Cassius- “Caz” and his assistant “Nick “ manage the books and building staff from their office by the back door, but they attempt to keep their distance. When the building was still al political destination, there was a network of greeting card functionaries that gave the place a sort of Hallmark Flavor, but two trade groups balanced the sweetness with some International Iron Workers leadership and their associates.

Caz replaced a retired police chief as the building manager in the new century, so we have noticed a general change in style over the last decade or so. In college, we read a book called “Blue Highways, written by a guy named William Least Heat-Moon, which is a little like the one that just faded, almost the last of the year. He wrote about US-50 which we took out in Utah along with the more famous Route-66. He said: “for the unhurried, this little-known highway is the best national road across the middle of the United States.” Time Magazine, which actually was a magazine, called it the “Backbone of America.”

The concrete part out front is where we jumped on the backbone to get to the Duck House. We went right onto the three west bound concrete lanes which marked the demonstration area that started over on Glebe at the east end of the building next to the former Lutheran Church that is representing some other sect now. It was all fresh and wide and solid concrete, intended to show the promise of the future.

Which it did. It got us the two miles west and into the lot with a handicapped space not far from the door. It is a sort of Hong Kong flavor- there is a take-out area in the front, roasted ducks hanging darkly on steel hooks behind a glass panel, and patient people waiting to make some selections and dash back outside.

Beyond the service area is the restaurant for sit downs, tables jammed together to permit the aluminum carts filled with an amazing variety of steaming hot foods, shrimp and beef and pork in savory sauces and platters of duck hoisted up to be placed on large circular rotating trays in the middle of the tables.

That meant the party was organized generally in a sort of oval, strung irregularly along the main transit areas for the appetizer cart, the main entrees and the duck.

It was a well-organized and happy sort of chaos since there was motion in delivery and self-serving as the circular platter topped with dishes rotated merrily.

There was no alcohol, just steel jugs of tea moving clockwise around the table. With the food also in motion with earnest servers, waving hands and steaming food.

We figured we could deal with some margaritas on the Patio when we got back to the HQ. We figured the Parade would have got started again, Ronald would be standing tall and reminding us of the benefits of the Big Mac.

We ordered up some more shrimp dumplings to ensure we were prepared. There was talk the Chairman and his companion might come down to wish everyone a happy holiday, but the games were on when we drove back, looking down from 50 at the reflection of Four Mile Run as we came east.

And thinking about the three thousand miles west on Route 50 from the Duck House, and whether a ride out to Sacramento might be fun.

We were going to talk about the top four executive actions we are supposed to expect in January, but we decided the margaritas was a more pressing issue since the ice might melt and the official part of the holiday was still in progress.

Vic was wearing the Santa Claus cardigan and Rocket had that one with the bright unicorn straddled by the jolly elf under three stars. Forward!

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