Insert Foot visits Washington, D.C.

WASHINGTON, D.C. — I just wanted one photo. In our capture-the-moment culture (whether the moments are real or not) it was asking for a small crumb in a giant bread factory. I was denied with extreme prejudice.

Rendering: Adam Pardee/STAFF.

“Sir? …. SIR?” the guard said, twice banging a heavy hand on the “No Photography” sign, the sound echoing through the cavernous marble space, as he shot me a menacing look.

People abruptly stared. I meekly lowered my phone, which didn’t take much, since I was trying to shoot from the hip as to not be seen in the first place. The coast looked clear the previous second; that guard moved fast for someone so large.

I wasn’t about to argue with someone who guards the Declaration of Independence for a living.

I wasn’t setting off flash photography in front of sacred scrolls. I just wanted a quick pic of the entire space – the darkened and solemn marble rotunda at the National Archives.

I (kind of) wasn’t planning on breaking the rules, but my God, what a room.

I’m not religious and I severely dislike the idea of “patriotism” as twisted by people easily equating the word with fascism, violence and not questioning the motives of people wearing uniforms. Ironically, but encouragingly, it’s an idea challenged nearly every step through the National Archives.

The rotunda is perhaps the closest thing to hallowed ground onto which I’ve stepped. For a couple minutes, through a fortunate break in the line, I had the Declaration of Independence all to myself (if you don’t count the guard standing between the case and the ones holding the Constitution. That Constitution, just a few feet away, next to the ones displaying the Bill of Rights.

That’s a pretty good room.

All three are barely readable, but I saw enough to read the preamble to the Constitution. And, with my extensive background in 1970s television, I felt obligated to sing the words to myself in a low voice without even thinking.

I was pleased to note “Schoolhouse Rock” got it right. Every word. I felt like I was reading a celebrity I’d waited all my life to read.

I was in our nation’s capital for a National Press Foundation fellowship on the new age of aging, which, according to a dire display I saw at the Smithsonian’s Museum of Natural History (try the mummies), means the world is going to be serving a ton of early bird specials the next few decades.

Human population doubled between 1959 (3 billion) and 1999 (6 billion) and will jump another 50 percent by 2042 (9 billion). So the NPF is trying to get journalists ready to cover the onslaught of new pickleball court construction on the way.

My brush with scholarly celebrity came on my second attempt. I aborted the first, thanks to the worst stereotypical excuse of a gabby helicopter mom ahead of me, browbeating her three children under 10 to somehow comprehend every display explaining historical writings upon which a superpower is based.

I agree that children need to learn about documents adults wearing robes have argued about for more than two centuries. But did she have to read every word out loud, like the room was collectively hard of hearing? Can we get a little dignity in the hallowed chamber?

Once she threatened to march one back downstairs for another reading of the Magna Carta, I needed to let them finish and vacate. So I found an off-ramp to another room to read about the much more pleasant execution of the Rosenbergs.

Even if you’re a history nerd (yes), or think you know enough about the United States of America (I did), it’s very necessary to go see for yourself.

I was so excited. I packed a big suitcase full of everything I needed … except underwear. None. Turns out you can buy that there, too.

The city radiates power and intent, with massive Greek architecture taking up entire city blocks, (which was weird at Chipotle). Skyscrapers are for showoff cites. D.C. is built for functional power, like a middle linebacker. A certain solemn seriousness takes the place of fancy.

That isn’t to say it’s not beautiful (and clean, which was a little odd). I saw as much as I could, taking a couple extra days after the fellowship activities to see the Lincoln and Jefferson memorials, World War II Memorial (I’m not crying. You’re crying), the Washington Monument (the paint guy wasn’t me, though we were there the same day), Ford’s Theatre, and the Smithsonian’s castle.

I also logged eight wonderful hours in the Museum of Natural History, where I got lost, had IKEA flashbacks when my internal compass blew out and still didn’t see the whole thing.

I went to a semi-briefing on Capitol Hill with my fellow fellows, then walked back twice the next few days so I could sit on the steps and sing about how bills become laws (until a guard stared at me and I stopped, because those people have suffered enough). I also walked around the outside of the Supreme Court, trying to spot a judge looking out their office widow because they might need my opinion.

It was a fantastic trip. The onslaught of history and knowledge was overwhelming, especially at the archives, where no punches are pulled when discussing how human rights have fared in our country. There’s much of which to be proud and not proud—a complicated story, to be sure.

By the way, I did get the photo I wanted … for $3 in the gift shop.

Follow music critic Tony Hicks at Twitter.com/TonyBaloney1967.