I have never been able to stomach, let alone enjoy, watching or listening to our great leader . . . until Wednesday. Until then, whenever he came on the radio, I almost frantically jumped to change the station (I do the same with Garrison Keillor, but that’s for another post.). I find GWB dumber than Dan Quayle and more arrogant, utterly unfathomable as an American president unless our country is bankrupt and corrupt in every way imaginable – just the sound of his voice, even when he’s being pilloried by John Stewart, causes me ten kinds of pain.
Wednesday, though, was altogether different. I sat in my car in a parking lot and listened to as much of his press conference as I could before I had to go, at that point ten minutes late, to a meeting. Stripped of his bluster, his perceived mandate, W. was humbled and scared, dare I say, emasculated (not that there’s anything wrong with that), he was sucking up to, obviously petrified of . . . Nancy Pelosi!!!, which, while I’m not a Pelosi fan, per se, is just awfully sweet to me as a former San Franciscan. I remember Pelosi as the very junior Rep., practically a local pol, from a city that represents every single solitary thing that Republicans hate. GWB also seemed just so, what?– disillusioned and genuinely hurt, as if, cuckolded, he was saying to America, "I thought you loved me, I thought marriage meant forever." And like a little kid who’s been misled by Dickie and Donny, older delinquents, (Picture if you will, Bush as Millhouse, Cheney and Rummy as the Simpsons bully kids) he wanted to impress – You guys promised those security cameras in 7-11 didn’t work – and now Apu, the sheriff and Mayor Quimby have got him in the back room and he’s taking the fall. Come to think of it, he really is taking the fall pretty much by himself – have you seen Cheney on TV this week? Rove? Anyone? (W, perhaps finally tiring of being Cheney’s puppet, just hired one of Daddy’s boys to fix things, a tad too late, I’d say.) Oh God it all feels so damn good – but I digress. Point is, I actually felt for the guy, a little, a very little, but I did.
In much the same way that Al Gore and Bob Dole before him are much more likable (and capable) when not competing in manly contests, there was something in a castrated King George that inspired a hint of pathos. But just a hint, and I’ll get over it right quick, I’m guessing.
