April 1, 2005

Dispatch from Cedar Rapids


The emotional violence from the latest round of right wing rampaging has left me feeling a little rough this hour.  (By the way, has the soul of Jesse Jackson turned up anywhere?)

So, maybe this is not the best time to bring Dubya back onto the BAG’s radar screen.  Especially since it’s somehow understood that W has no primitive instinct besides aggression.  (As if, as the un-Clinton, Bush has no sexuality.)

…By the way, isn’t that ol’ Charles Grassley back there in that corner booth, doing yet one more boring radio interview?  “Hey Chuck, don’t you want to see a menu!”

Okay, okay.  Back to the BAG. 

In fact, I have a theory about George Bush.  I think he’s basically mailing it in now.  You see, his true character was never really that ambitious.  (Remember, it was Rove who wanted him to be President.  He just wanted to be baseball commissioner.)  Of course, with that ego he’s got, it was easy to stoke him up for the elections.  He saw them like pennant races.  And, of course, he was never going to live with himself if he couldn’t beat the George Jr. thing.  But now?  Well, Dad’s been trumped (and has adopted Clinton).  Saddam’s been fished out of the barrel.  So, what does he do with no spike to the adrenaline? 

That’s easy.  He parties. 

Except, he can’t.  Not yet.  So, what’s the next best thing?  Of course, battin’ practice.  Low level campainin’.  Stayin’ on the road.  Meetin’ folks.  (Any-thang to keep outside o’ that Beltway.)

See, if you combed the latest Elisabeth Bumiller article as if you were sifting Presidential tea leaves, you’d notice that the “frisky” first traveller was out there flirtin’ like crazy and expressin’ to everybody how he’s not ’bout to be wanderin’ lonely through that Oval Office.

What you could also tell was that he wasn’t doin’ much worryin’  ’bout those crazy Euro-peans or them aya-tollahs, neither.  Instead, he was just stayin’ loose and all relaxed-like, ridin’ the heck outta that bike, gettin’ a lot of them massages, and jest runnin’ the tape — and the clock — with plenty of that Social Security blah blah blah.

(image: J. Scott Applewhite/AP in The New York Times)

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Michael Shaw
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