Thank You, President Bush is a collection of essays from leaders such as James Dobson, George Shultz, Phyllis Schlafy and others, on how Bush has excelled in the areas of foreign policy, tax cuts, family values, the Patriot Act and, of course, his brilliance and military expertise in boldly leading the nation in our conflict with Iraq.
I provided the publishers with a piece about the Bush I knew -- the man behind the image, the guy I called "buddy" long before anyone called him "Guv" or "Prez." For reasons I cannot fathom, my piece was rejected for publication for the book, although they were quite polite about it.
With no publication pending, as far as I know, I have opted to share my experience with George W. Bush with you. I hope it sheds some light on, and indeed supplies some honesty and humanity to, a man so few of us know beyond the image.
Here, then, friends, is my would-have-been chapter about the Bush I knew in the 1970s:
-------------------------------------------
"Duuude, Do You Remember What You Did Last Night?" Me, George, and the '70s: Sunshine Supermen
By Paul Shrug
Our boys might have had problems finding Charlie in the Viet Cong in the summer of '73, but I knew where Charlie was: on one of the two snow-covered mountains on my coffee table.
"Holy cow," George screamed when he came into my apartment. "Where in the name of David Crosby did you score all that talcom, man?? Sweet, dude! Get out Dark Side of the Moon and let's get to partyin'! Which of these piles is mine?"
"Hold it, hold it, dude..." I held up my hand to stop him. "Don't get these two piles mixed up."
George swigged from his flask and looked curious. "Wha...?" he mumbled.
"This pile is snowflakes," I said, pointing to the left pile. "The other one is... um, kinda like, MPPP, dude."
Abbreviations confused him. "What?"
"You... you know," I stammered. "Sorta like... fentanyl."
Chemical names confused him. "What?"
"Oh, come on, George, do I have to spell it out? China White, man!"
Asian countries confused him. So did the concept of "white," but not as much.
"For God's sake, George -- opiates!"
George was slackjawed. "Ohhhhh," he said. "Wow. How'd you score so much of it?"
"Man, you're denser than Calcutta at rush hour. Who do you think doctored your flight training records?"
George was astonished for a second. "You?"
"Yeah, that's right, me. I have been known to be extremely handy with white-out, you know."
"Woooh... you got white-out too? Do I need a mirror to..."
"George, George... forget it. Never mind. Let's just say your dad was awfully thankful to me, I'm glad he's in Beijing, and I'm glad he knows quote-unquote messenger services in Hong Kong. But I don't suggest you touch the China White, it might scare you a little."
George looked insulted. "What do you mean, 'scare me'? Nothing scares a National Guardsman!"
I looked at him disbelievingly. He looked back at me in that little doe-eyed way. A couple of seconds of silence passed between us, and then we both cracked up at the same moment.
"Good one, George," I said.
"Heh... heh... that was one of my little ex-ag-ger-a-tions! Now where do you keep that whiskey?"
------------------------------------
George and I were at The Bacon Strip, a "gentlemen's club" outside Fort Worth, sometime later that summer. A red-haired dancer named Lil' Onan Annie was dancing on the stage to the tune "Gimme Three Steps." We were seated right at the edge of the stage, of course.
I was incoherent on Tanqueray. George was as skittish as a kitten, but had a demonic grin a mile wide. From time to time during Annie's act he would roll off a 20 and beckon Annie over. She would lean down and give George a full French on the mouth, which he got the hang of after quite a few miscues.
"Ah-ha!" he exclaimed after untying his tongue from Annie's. "I got her good this time!"
I was pretty gone, but I tried my best to encourage him. "That's nice, George."
"Did you see that? D-d-d... d-... did you... I mean, did you see that?"
"See what?"
"I... she... our tongues touched!"
I was, admittedly, nonplussed. "Very good, stallion."
George staggered while rising to his feet. Using a process that looked more like osmosis than any kind of voluntary physical act, he gathered himself up and mounted the seat of his chair. He then slowly stood upright, and spread his arms out, crucifixion-style.
"George," I said with some irritation, "what the hell are you doing?"
"I am a STALLION!" he bellowed.
"George..."
"I am irresistible! I am the bronze cast of masculinity! At the tops of the mountains of the gods, I am a shining ivory totem! I am hastily arranged by pure, undiluted, undeniable carnality!"
"Shit... George, your coat..."
"I just French-kissed a girl!"
"Oh, come off it, George," I implored. "She only kissed you because you have all that white powder on your upper lip!"
"I am Jughead! I AM THE JUGHEAD EXPERIENCE!"
"George, please... this is... so... undignified..."
"Say it!" He jumped off the chair, seized my tab collar, and yanked my head so my eyes were peering directly into his bloodshot gaze. "Say it!"
"Say what?" I was a little terrified.
"Say I'm Jughead!"
"No, George."
"SAY IT, YANKEE! 'You are Jughead! You are Jughead!"
"George, the bouncer..."
"I'm Jughead! I am Jughead, and you are my slavish minion! And Annie's actually Veronica! Yes! Annie's Veronica, I am Jughead, you are the walrus, and soon we will spawn to form a master race that will correct the genetic impurities that were forced on our bastard generation when we mixed with the Nova Scotians!"
The bouncer arrived and picked us both up by the back of our collars. "That's enough, both of you. Get the fuck out and drive safely... the blood alcohol limit is 24.5%, so be extra careful tonight..."
He then threw George and me outside the door, and we landed head-first onto the hood of my red Mustang. We slithered to our car doors, opened them, slumped in the seats, and plunked across the headrests.
I believe we were there for another 36 hours. When I came to, George was rustling through my glove box.
"Whoa, dude... that was some blackout! Now where do you keep that vodka?"
-------------------------------------
We were visiting Hunter S. Thompson in Aspen.
I had just gotten out of the shower, where I'd given my scalp a very satisfying balsam treatment, and was lounging in the living room in my bathrobe.
All of a sudden Hunter burst into the room, a state of shock evident across his face. He appeared stricken by some unmentionable terror. I knew something was really wrong when I realized he wasn't smoking.
"Hunter..." I asked. "What is it?"
Hunter turned slowly over to me. "It's your friend, George," he said in horrified, low tones. "I... I can't deal with him."
"What are you talking about?"
"He's... he's obviously done... waaaay too many drugs."
"Hunter... what are you talking about?"
"He's... he's gone. Forget it. He's got to get out of here. He's done too much."
"For God's sake, Hunter, you're... fuck, you're Hunter S. Thompson, man! You're telling me George has done too much?"
Hunter turned slowly around and regarded the sliding glass door. His arm pointed weakly out the pane. "Look..."
"Look at what?"
"Get up... just... look at... at that."
I stood up slowly, very unsure at this point, and saw that Hunter was pointing out to the landscape of snow-covered Rocky Mountains.
I shook my head quickly, thinking that if I was hallucinating, I could recalibrate that way. It didn't work -- this was really happening.
Across the plain of the particular mountain Hunter was pointing at, I saw a message written in bright yellow letters against the snow. The letters were so fluorescent, they practically radiated in the mist.
JUGHEAD WUZ HERRRRE, the message read.
"Oh, Christ," I exclaimed.
Right at that moment, George walked in. "Uh... Hunter... might wanna change the water in the jacuzzi... heh, sorry. Lucky for me it's a pretty big tank. Say, where do you keep the bourbon?"
---------------------------------
George and I were entangled in the mesh of dented steel that used to be his automobile, on a lonely stretch of highway somewhere in Texas. George was behind the wheel. I was crumpled in the passenger seat.
"Geez..." George said.
"What... what the fuck happened George?"
He was immediately defensive and hostile. "You mean you didn't see that?"
"See what?"
"That thing in the road!"
"What thing in the road?"
George gasped in disgusted disbelief. "Olivia Newton-John, you idiot!"
I paused. Really, I don't think speaking would have served any purpose.
"You're telling me you didn't see Olivia Newton-John in that referee uniform? You're saying you didn't hear her order me to run into that redwood tree at the side of the road?"
Sensing that I, at least, could restore my sense of presence through speaking, I decided to speak.
"George... we're in Texas."
"So?"
I realized this wouldn't be as easy to debunk as I thought, but I tried anyway.
"George... this is desert."
"What do I look, stupid?"
At that point, I realized I was in a pickle. I reasoned that if I thought out loud about how to explain myself, George would follow my mental process and pick up the hint.
"Well, let's think about this, George. What approach do I take to tell you about this? There's the scientific way, for one. I could talk about basic geological tenets which inform the give-and-take nature of our environment. But I'm not much of a scientist, certainly not enough to serve as an apologist for fundamental biology.
"Maybe I should try the patient approach. I could speak in calming, very slow explanatory phrases that use a lot of basic, one- or two-syllable words, that would be useful for even the greenest of young minds about to set course on the wonders and thrills of learning. But I find that approach condescending, and not emphatic or persuasive enough to guarantee your comprehension.
"There is also the harsh, hostile, stupefied and direct approach, George, in which I use agitated vocal tones to express my incredulity at your synaptic lapses, and my amazement at your inability to ascertain facts which spring forth from common sense. This might work, for two very significant reasons, and I admit one of them is selfish. (A), it would allow me a chance to express my anger, which most psychologists agree is a good thing to do, if it can be done in a non-destructive way, so as to limit casualties. (B), given the immense amounts of liquor and other substances you have ingested over the course of this evening, perhaps blunt and over-the-top hostility is the only way to impart my message to your almost tragically impaired mind.
"As a matter of fact, I think the third option would be the best course of action here. Yes. In fact, I'm quite certain of it. So that shall be the tack I take in my forthcoming statement -- indignant, judgemental, in awe of your mental disability.
"So the blueprints are now complete, and the manner of my communication to you has been decided upon. Therefore, I now issue my statement to you:
"George, there are no fucking redwood trees in the Texas desert!"
Like a brick wall. Just like a brick wall. That's how it was.
"Whoooaaaa, there," George warned, "hold off a minute, padre -- are you callin' me a liar?"
"George, exactly how many Lone Stars did you have at that beer garden?"
"You're calling me a liar???"
"No, no, George, I'm saying that there's no way redwood trees -- hell, deciduous trees in general -- can ever grow in the fucking Texas desert!"
George turned away from me and stared out the cracked windshield, quizzical and dumb.
"Well..." he said, ".... it's not like it can never happen..."
"Oh, fuck it, man..."
"It can happen! Who's to say it's an impossibility? There are no such things as impossibilities, Shrug! There are extreme improbabilities, but no total impossibilities! Huh? Huh?"
I reached into the back seat, towards the ice chest. "George, where do you keep the morphine?"
-----------------
Right then, I knew that would be the last I would see of George for a very long time.
-----------------
And that time ended in 2001, when I was at George's inaugural ball. I had just come back from an extended working holiday in West Palm Beach, and decided to accept George's invitation to the gala. I figured we could drink a toast to his success.
I ran into him outside the entrance to the main hall, entertaining a few well-wishers and media types. Our eyes met quickly, and we exchanged pleasantries.
"Shrug! Great to see ya! How ya been?"
"Pretty good, George. Congratulations."
"Thank you!"
"Hey, I was wondering if we could catch a drink at the hosted bar later... you know, just a toast to old times and the future..."
"Can't do that, Shrug."
I was a bit surprised. "Really?"
"Nope. I'm a Christian now."
I was a bit more surprised. "Wow, you're the last person I'd call a Christian... I mean, all that cocaine we used to..."
"Shhhh!" George said briskly. "I never did cocaine with you."
"What are you talking about, George? We did it all the..."
"No we didn't. We never did. My sins have been washed away by the blood of our savior, Jesus Christ. And as such, all my past indiscretions have been wiped clean. No more shall I want."
"So... you don't have any obligation to... talk about our drug days..."
"What drug days! They didn't happen! Blood of the lamb! Wiped clean... you know... I..."
George knew I wasn't buying it, so he excused himself to the Iraqi ambassador, grabbed me, and pulled me around to a quiet corner in a hidden hallway.
"Look, Paul," he said, more patiently. "I can't tell anyone what we did. What does it say to the youth of America if the Commander in Chief were to admit that he'd done drugs?"
"Well," I reasoned, "I mean... if you want people to trust you, you might as well be honest, not try to pretend to be something you're not. I'm sure people would understand if you said, 'Look, I had a couple snowblind nights with some Eric Clapton albums and blow-up dolls, but I changed. And you can too.' It'd be an inspiration, you know? Look at how disastrous Clinton's lies turned out..."
"What are you talkin' about? His fatal flaw was admitting he had sex with someone! If only he'd kept his mouth shut, he could have run for a third Presidential term last year!"
You know, for some reason, I just didn't think I had to explain how term limits worked to George. I guess I thought it was futile.
"Well, George," I said, making to leave, "I'll be in the bunker if you need me."
"Knew I could count on you!" George said as he dropped my hand and moved back into the main auditorium. "God bless the United States of America. And..." he pointed at me, his eyes twinkling, "God bless you too!"
------------------------------
My only regret was that I never asked him where he kept the anti-depressants.
